Grace wrapped her arms around her legs, as though shielding herself from a reality she feared. ‘I need to finish the work I agreed to do. Then we can go our separate ways,’ she insisted. Her words sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
But Heather was no longer listening. She perked up, eyes dancing with renewed excitement. ‘Stop being so pessimistic, Gracy! Now we know he is not likely to be working with Gibbs or Barnes—he is clearly investigating all of this on his own. You can slowly reduce your disguise: wear less cream, then dispense with it altogether. You only needed it to appear unwell. You could have a miraculous recovery in a few days!’ She pressed her palms together, clearly pleased with the idea. ‘And as for the padding, you can remove a bit at a time until you only need shawls,spectacles, and that mobcap—much less cumbersome. This way, your disguise is minimal and easy to explain away.’
Grace stared at her sister, flabbergasted. The plan was more methodical than anything she could have devised on her own. ‘Perhaps...’ she murmured, tension easing just a fraction from her shoulders. ‘At least I will be more comfortable and won’t fear scratching my face anymore.’ However, despite Heather’s exuberance, Grace refused to hope she might actually attract Mr Stone’s romantic interest. She had been shunned before—her attachment to Islam and her mixed heritage was enough to drive suitors away at the best of times. What would Mr Stone do if he learnt of her deceit too? Her chest tightened at the thought. She forced herself to remember it was temporary. No sense in dreaming of happily ever after.
THE NEXT DAY, HIS WARMreception nearly undid her.
‘Miss Skye, I’ve prepared the study for the interviews,’ he said, gesturing for her to follow. A hint of concern in his voice. ‘I noticed you wear several shawls. You still seem under the weather, so I placed your seat near the fireplace to keep you warm.’
Grace’s cheeks heated at his thoughtfulness. She smoothed her skirts before sitting down, as she noticed the amused glint in his eyes. Then it dawned on her—she wore the extra shawls to hide her padding, not out of any real coldness.
They interviewed several male staff first, uncovering little new information about the Manor’s infamous activities. Fortunately, each conversation was brief, which allowed Grace to step away from the fire and cool herself.
In time, they called in Taylor, the butler, whose position gave him closer contact with visiting guests than many of the other servants.
‘Did you know where the... ladies were coming from?’ Grace asked, glancing at Mr Stone before fixing her attention on Taylor.
Taylor swallowed hard, squirming a little in his seat. ‘No, Miss Skye. They weren’t allowed to speak with the staff. They looked of... a certain repute, if you understand. They dressed rather... er... provocatively,’ Taylor finished, flushing red. ‘We all saw different gentlemen come and go, but some arrived more frequently. There was a “no-names” rule, so they used silly code names. Three men came more than the rest and seemed much closer to Mr Gibbs.’
Grace and Mr Stone had already learnt from the previous interviews that the staff had been instructed to keep their distance, ensuring secrecy for the parties’ attendees. Sadly, the rumours were true: Grace’s beloved Manor had been used as an opium den, a gambling house, and a brothel for men from London.
Frustrated by the lack of new information, Grace asked flippantly, ‘What sort of names did these three men use?’
‘Odd ones... Cobra, Fox, and Falcon. They even joked about calling themselves “odd fellows”.’ He gave a weak laugh.
‘Did these three men do anything different from the other... guests? Apart from helping Gibbs collect rent and host these parties?’ Grace asked, grasping at straws.
Taylor rubbed the back of his neck, brows furrowed in thought. ‘Now that you mention it, they often met privately with Mr Gibbs in this study. Sometimes I heard raised voices. Other times, they joined everyone else in the drawing room.’
Mr Stone adjusted his stance, attention focused on Taylor. ‘And what else did Mr Gibbs do with his friends? How did they spend their time?’
‘He slept most of the day and drank rather a lot. As I said, once or twice a week he rode out with those three men, stayingout well past midnight. I do not know what they were doing so late—there is not much going on after dark in these parts—but I never understood city folk. I do recall that, the next morning, when I gathered their laundry, their garments were dishevelled, wet, and sandy from those excursions. Perhaps they took a midnight swim in the ocean,’ he added with a nervous laugh.
Grace met Mr Stone’s gaze, her heart skipped a beat. Clearly there was more to these outings. She leant forward. ‘Did they say where they went?’
Taylor shook his head, but ventured, ‘I suppose they could have been collecting rent, since they would often return with coin bags, but it never made sense why it took all night. Sometimes I stayed up, despite being told not to, and I saw them bringing in supplies for their parties, storing everything in crates in the cellar. At times, their friends took the money bags back to London—I assumed to give to Lord Armitage.’
‘The cellar?’ Grace repeated, voice sharp. ‘What exactly did they store down there?’
‘I’m afraid I do not know, Miss Skye. Mr Gibbs kept the key on him at all times and forbade us from going inside.’
Grace shared a look of understanding with Mr Stone. They would have to explore that cellar soon.
‘Do these... excursions coincide with the missing girls’ disappearances?’ Grace pressed on, forcing herself to remain composed.
Taylor thought for a while before responding, expression grim. ‘Now that you mention it, Miss Skye, yes. They were out on the same evenings those girls went missing.’
A chill ran through Grace, momentarily overpowering the fire’s warmth. It was a start, but not enough for conclusive proof. Those girls disappeared from the beach.
Mr Stone cut in smoothly. ‘Can you recall anything else, Taylor? Perhaps names, places, or something relating to Mr Gibbs’s sudden disappearance?’
Taylor squinted, racking his brain. ‘A week before Mr Gibbs vanished, his three companions were in the drawing room, drunk and loud. I overheard them talking about someone named Averton. They said Averton was unhappy—claimed Mr Gibbs was drawing too much attention with these parties and not holding up his end of the bargain. One of them mentioned Averton would come here in a week, after “dealing with some business in London.” The leader got angry that he used a real name instead of a code. Fortunately, they did not see me listening in the hallway.’
At the mention of “Averton,” Mr Stone visibly tensed, though he tried to mask it with a thoughtful nod. Grace caught it, curiosity sparking in her mind.
‘Did you see this Averton fellow? Did he ever come?’ Grace asked.
‘No, Miss Skye. He never came on the day they mentioned—just the usual guests. I remember because that was the same day Mr Gibbs disappeared.’
