Page 72 of The Highland Heist
“She went to claim an inheritance—a castle our mother left us in her will. We didn’t know about it until the day you …” Grace trailed off, glancing helplessly at Frederick.
“Died,” Frederick supplied.
“Her mother? But she’s been gone for years.” Tony frowned, confusion giving way to frustration. “She never told me about any will. And what castle? Lillias doesn’t evenlikeScotland.”
“Well,” Frederick interjected, reclining slightly as though preparing for a long evening, “there’s a lot to explain, so I’d suggest you prepare yourself. Because there are far more surprises to this story than your rather theatrical return from the dead.”
It had taken the rest of the day and part of the next morning to finalize everything for travel. Of course they could have left sooner if not for the hours spent with Detective Johnson confirming that Tony Dixon was, indeed, among the living and reviewing every tangled thread of this increasingly bizarre case.
They’d hoped Mr. Barclay might recover in time to join them—after all, the man held the secret of where to find the will inside Mosslea. But poor Mr. Barclay had only stirred once from his coma, babbling incoherently about horses and whisky before slipping back into unconsciousness. Evidently, the kind man had been hit much harder on the head than either Frederick or Mrs. Lindsay. The doctor was optimistic he’d recover his senses … eventually.
Unfortunately, “eventually” wasn’t a schedule they could afford.
Grace sighed as she pinned her hair. Mr. Barclay’s absence would truly put a damper on finding the will in a prompt and direct manner. Her lips spread into a smile. But Mr. Barclay’s delay did provide one tiny opportunity if viewed from the right perspective.
It would give her and Frederick a chance to engage in another treasure hunt, except this time, it wasn’t for actual gold treasure or in an island cave, it was for an inheritance … and in a castle.
Already, Tony seemed to be gathering strength, even as he spouted his dislike of ocean travel. They’d only been aboard ship two days, when he’d shown much more color in his face than any ghost should have, and his sleeping had improved a little. Well, apart from his nightmares.
But Grace understood those.
Hers had grown much less frequent, but she knew the irrational fear of reliving the moment. All the more for dear Tony, who had almost been buried alive. And from Grace’s preliminary research, the possibility of something like that happening wasn’t as remote as she’d imagined.
Was that where Poe got his ideas? She paused mid-pin. Contemplating being buried alive? Or another story where he actually writes about a man burying his arrogant enemy alive. She shuddered and went back to finalizing the packing of her trunk so it would be ready when the ship reached Glasgow and they began to disembark. Perhaps deep thoughts about mortality also led Poe to write his detective stories. Now wasn’t that a clever segue? Perhaps she should renew her Poe reading to assist in sleuthing knowledge, especially if she came upon a murder that happened in a room without an entrance or escape.
She glanced out the porthole at the roiling sea.
Where was her sister?
They were already two days behind her. Who could know for certain how she and Miss Cox had managed their trip across or if Mr. Clark had already caught up with her, held her at knifepoint, and forced her to walk the plank. Perhaps Mr. Clark and Lillias weren’t even on the same ship. That would make her feel so much better.
Grace frowned. Passenger ships didn’t have planks, did they?
“It’s almost time for dinner,” Frederick entered the room, buttoning his shirtsleeves as he approached, his bowtie dangling around his neck. “You look deep in thought. Planning our next move?”
“Not exactly.” Grace turned toward him. “I was contemplating Poe. And murder mysteries. And planks on passenger ships, which I realize now is quite ridiculous.”
Frederick arched a brow, his lips twitching. “A thoroughly practical train of thought. And here I assumed you’d be pondering wills in hidden compartments or how to convince the captain to shave a day off the voyage.”
Grace brushed a stray hair she’d obviously missed away from her face. There was a weariness in Frederick’s posture. Was something wrong? “Well, I wouldn’t mind knowing where and how Lillias is right now, but there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment except pray.”
“And contemplate possibilities, no doubt.” His smile softened, but his gaze held a weight that set her nerves humming. “We will find her, darling.”
“What is it, Frederick?” She stepped closer, searching his face.
He rubbed a thumb over her cheek and released a heavy sigh before taking her hand and leading her to a nearby chaise. Oh, he was settling her in. This couldn’t be good. Hadn’t he just said they would find Lillias?
He sat next to her, his hand never releasing hers. “While you were busy with Poe and planks, I was catching up on the papers. We’ve been so distracted with your sister’s situation and our honeymoon, I hadn’t paid much attention to news.”
“That sounds harmless enough,” she said lightly, hoping to ease whatever burden had him so grim.
He nodded and gave her hand another squeeze as he held her gaze. “Evidently, there’s been an assassination.”
Grace blinked. Well that certainly wasn’t remotely among the list of things she’d expected him to say. “An assassination? Where? Who?”
“Bosnia,” he answered, grimly. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria.Andhis wife.”
Grace pressed her palm to her chest. “And his wife?”
