Not by Sight (2 page)

Movement from across the room caught his eye. Chaplin had left his place by the window. Jack straightened, reminding himself he had a job to do. It wouldn’t sit well with his superiors if he failed. Because although he professed to be a conscientious objector, he simply preferred fighting the enemy on his own terms. Unbeknownst to his father, the earl—in fact to anyone but Sir Marcus Weatherford, his friend and a lieutenant at the Admiralty—he was doing his bit for his country without having to set foot on foreign soil.

Jack had become a spy catcher for the Crown.

Espionage, ever present before the war, seemed to have grown to rampant proportions in the past three years. Hundreds of suspected enemy agents were apprehended and tried, with many convicted traitors executed at the Tower. Jack’s social reputation allowed him to infiltrate any arena, from dockside brothels to the finest salons, enabling him to make such arrests.

Marcus once said half jokingly that Jack’s notoriety as a playboy aided the War Office more efficiently in the boudoirs of London than it ever could in the trenches of France.

He watched as Chaplin moved to another empty spot along the opposite wall. No one had yet approached him.

Jack took the assignment because his section of the British Intelligence Agency, MI5, had received a tip. An unknown German agent was to arrive at the ball tonight and meet with a man already under the Admiralty’s watchful eye—the man disguised as Charlie Chaplin. Once an exchange was made, Jack would follow the German from the ball to his lair, where New Scotland Yard could make the arrest.

He lifted his glass to take another sip of champagne. So where was he—?

A shimmer of bright green near the door caught his eye. Jack turned . . . and then forgot everything else.

She was a vision. Jack swallowed as he stared at the exotic beauty only a few yards away. Her cloud of fiery auburn curls looked ready to burst from the green ribbons holding them in place, and her gown, a wispy emerald-green affair, clung to her alluring figure, swaying gently as she turned with a regal air and surveyed the room.

“I say, is that Pandora?”

It took a moment for Lord Chumley’s question to penetrate Jack’s senses. But yes, he’d already glimpsed the small gold box she held against her lovely bosom.

Cleopatra spoke up. “According to myth, the gods made her the most beautiful woman on earth—”

“To ensnare Epimetheus, the brother of Zeus’s enemy, into marriage,” Lady Godiva finished. “She would cause him mischief by opening her box and releasing trouble into the world.”

“I could do with a spot of trouble,” Chumley muttered under his breath.

Jack heard him, and the unexpected rush of anger he felt took him aback. He said nothing, unable to tear his gaze from the auburn-haired beauty near the door.

“Who is she?” Lady Bassett demanded. “I cannot see her clearly from this distance.”

Jack’s pulse quickened as she started in their direction. “Excuse me,” he said, breaking from the women at his side. He ignored Lady Bassett’s frown as he moved apart, waiting to catch Pandora’s attention.

Halfway across the stretch dividing them, she paused. Only half aware, Jack did so too, holding his breath as she lifted her head to scan the room. When she turned back to him, their gazes locked, and he offered his most dazzling smile.

Immediately she straightened and blushed. Then she frowned
at him, and Jack wanted to laugh. Air eased from his lungs when after a moment she flashed a determined look and resumed her trek.

All conversation stopped when she came to stand directly before him. Jack caught the heady, exotic scent of flowers—jasmine?—as they continued staring at each other. He took in her exquisite features, the porcelain skin and dainty nose set beneath wide emerald eyes. Her full lower lip crying out to be kissed . . .

Ever so slowly, the green-eyed beauty held out a gloved hand. Delighted, he smiled and gently grasped her fingers, bringing them to his lips.

Only when she pulled away did he notice the gift she’d given him.

———

Grace watched, breathless, as he looked down at the white feather of cowardice. Uncertainty over his reaction warred with the effect his nearness was having on her senses. She discovered he was even more impressive up close. One could drown in those midnight-blue eyes, and his smile . . . sweet heaven, it made her almost giddy.

She had to remind herself again of his cowardice, and as he looked at her, Grace was satisfied to note his smug expression had turned to a look of pure astonishment . . .

Before he grinned and tucked the feather behind his ear.

She glared at him, her moment of righteousness quashed. When he silently offered her his red rose, she set her jaw. Did he think she played some game? Grace had risked her reputation in order to aid her brother and her country. Did this man now think to turn her serious act into a joke? His arrogance was unbelievable! Jack Benningham wasn’t just a coward; he was a conceited, overbearing, womanizing . . . turncoat.

Abruptly, he shifted his attention past her and let out a snarl.
Grace drew in a breath at his look of fury. Had the meaning of her white feather finally registered with him? She’d never stopped to consider that her actions might cause violence upon her person.

A scream welled in her throat as he grabbed her by the waist and, with a muttered curse, lifted her easily. Did he intend to toss her across the room?

He set her gently to one side, then strode to the nearest exit.

Dazed, Grace turned to watch him leave. “You!” sputtered the outraged Queen Elizabeth, and then she met with the dowager’s look of shocked recognition. “I shall speak to your father, young woman,” she promised, before raising a hand to signal a servant.

Grace went clammy with fear, and for an instant she thought to escape. Yet she knew there was no turning back—Lady Bassett could hardly forget the incident.

Colin’s image rose in her mind, renewing her determination. Her brother was counting on her! Quickly she sidestepped her hostess and managed to thrust two more white feathers of cowardice into unsuspecting hands before the butler grasped her arm.

Five minutes later, she and Agnes were ejected from the house.

“That was close,” Agnes said in a breathless tone. “I handed out my last feather before the butler got me.” A burst of hyena laughter escaped her.

Grace grinned, her pulse racing. “I handed out just a few, but one which I hope will reap many returns.” She nodded toward Jack Benningham, who was climbing into a cab without a backward glance. “He’s an earl’s son, a public figure. If he enlists in the Army, I feel certain his conchie friends will follow.”

Never would Grace forget the look on his face before he stormed from the ballroom. She’d made her point, and if ruffling the conscience of the arrogant coward might help her brother win the war, she was satisfied.

What she didn’t want to think about was Lady Bassett’s
threat. Grace knew Da would have the whole story before the kettle was on at Swan’s the following morning.

———

Jack drove off in the cab, barking instructions to the driver as he mentally cursed his own lapse. He’d not only let the German agent slip from his grasp, but now he risked losing Chaplin. His only recourse was to follow him back to his den and interrogate him, perhaps salvage the situation.

Leaning back in the seat, he frowned at the white feather
she’d
given him—the mysterious auburn-haired minx who had caused his distraction.

If his current circumstances weren’t so dire, he’d have been more amused
and
thankful for her action. Jack was aware of his enemy’s recent surveillance of him. His cover as a conscientious objector seemed dangerously close to being compromised, a condition that also concerned Marcus.

Pandora’s feather had done much to aid his deception, yet he doubted the knowledge would please her. Who was she? Jack had been sorry to leave, for she was not only beautiful but seemed to have a mind of her own—a novelty among the women he normally associated with.

He smiled, recalling the passion in those angry green eyes. And her lips, so tempting to kiss, particularly when she frowned at him.

Jack looked out at the fading twilight toward the docks ahead. His humor waned. He’d made a mess of things tonight. Only by staying focused could he possibly minimize his losses.

Still, he allowed himself another smile as he raised the white feather to his lips. Whoever she was, he would find her, his Pandora—and get that kiss.

2

T
HREE
M
ONTHS
L
ATER
C
OUNTY
OF
K
ENT
—J
ULY
1917

Surely
being
banished
never
felt
so
good
 . . .

With the smallest twinge of guilt, Grace jotted the words into her journal, then raised her face to the brisk summer breeze blowing in through the open window of the cab. She marveled at the pastoral beauty of the Kent countryside. It seemed unsullied and tranquil compared to town. Thatched-roof cottages and rustic barns lay interspersed among groves of alder and plane trees, the fading white flowers of the rowan in sharp contrast with the bright red berries of the buckthorn.

Relieved at being away from her father’s watchful eye and Lady Bassett’s censure, she couldn’t have asked for a more pleasing exile. It was the perfect setting for her next story.

“We’re almost to Roxwood, miss!”

Grace turned from the window and smiled at her maid’s excitement. “Have you grown tired of all the traveling, then?”

“Not at all,” Agnes said. “Since I came to this country, I’ve never stepped outside of London. In the past two weeks we’ve
been to Norfolk and all the places in between.” Her brown eyes widened. “I didn’t know Britain was so grand.”

“Yes, it has been a whirlwind,” Grace said. “I can hardly believe we left London just this morning.” Now they were traveling the last leg of their journey to Roxwood. The Kent estate apparently encompassed an enormous amount of acreage between Canterbury and the town of Margate and would be their home for the next few weeks as she and Agnes began their service in the Women’s Forage Corps—WFC—harvesting and baling hay for the cavalry horses overseas.

“It was good of your father to hire us a cab.”

“There wasn’t much choice, since the trains don’t run on Sunday. It wouldn’t do for us to be late reporting for our first day of work.” Grace added in a low voice, “Anyway, likely Da paid the driver to report back on my behavior.”

Agnes shot her a sympathetic look. “Yes, he’s been very . . . attentive toward you since the costume party.”

“I suppose ‘attentive’ is a nice way of putting it,” Grace said with wry humor. Lady Bassett followed through on her threat, and Da had been furious over Grace’s “white-feather stunt.” He’d railed for days, alternating between threats to bring Aunt Florence from Oxford or marry Grace off to his American protégé, Clarence Fowler. Then he forbade her to attend any more suffragette meetings with those “brazen Pankhurst women.” Finally, heeding the advice of his chief patroness who warned him to “keep an eye on that one,” he’d restricted Grace to the upper offices at Swan’s, preparing tea care packages for the soldiers while he decided what to do.

“I knew the risks of attending the ball that night,” she went on. “And I have no regrets, despite my being confined.” She cast her maid a meaningful glance. “Not while my brother fights in France and others are allowed to shirk their duty.”

Like Jack Benningham.
Grace shifted her gaze toward the
window while again her mind replayed her thrilling encounter with the tall, handsome, blue-eyed Casanova. As always, the memory of his seductive smile, and the way his midnight gaze held hers in those moments they stood facing each other, had the power to make her pulse leap. They hadn’t spoken a word that night, yet she’d sensed a connection between them. It was a feeling she didn’t particularly care for, not only because of his scandalous reputation, but because he
was
a coward. Grace hadn’t seen him again after the ball, but she’d read in the
Times
days later about a fire at his London townhouse. Rumors buzzed through Swan’s of how after a night of substantial gambling losses, a drunken Jack Benningham had accidentally set the place ablaze. Apparently the damage was minimal, with him sustaining minor injuries, but she still hoped the ordeal had changed him enough to quit his squandering and do something useful for his country.

“Anyway, I’m free now,” she said, turning back to her maid. “And we’ll be doing more for the war than simply packaging up tea bags.” She leaned to nudge her maid affectionately. “All thanks to you, dear Agnes.”

Agnes’s face turned pink. “It was luck I found the Women’s Forage Corps leaflet.”

“More like a miracle.” Grace had chafed at being hemmed in at Swan’s, and as more letters arrived from her brother, the desire to hurry up the war and bring him home gnawed at her. “Especially since Da wasn’t keen on me working at a munitions factory or driving an ambulance back and forth from the field hospital.”

“And you do look sharp sitting behind the wheel of a motorcar,” Agnes said. “But I think he worried about the danger. Remember the Silvertown accident?”

Grace nodded. The
Times
had reported the munitions factory explosion killed scores of women workers. “All the more
reason I’m grateful you suggested he let me join the WFC,” she said, then laughed. “Honestly, I’d actually given up hope Da would let me out of his sight, let alone agree to my traveling to Kent, yet here we are.”

“I think it might have to do with the recent bombings,” Agnes said.

Grace shot her a glance, all humor gone. Countless enemy air raids over London during the past three years had resulted in hundreds of innocent deaths. In June, a single bombing by the Germans had killed over 150, and she and Agnes had left on the heels of another, just days before, that struck down dozens. “Da may not be pleased with the idea of my working in the fields and getting dirty, but you’re right, he believes I’ll be safer in the country.”

But would her father be safe? So far there had been no attacks in the area around Swan’s or their home in Knightsbridge, yet the threat was ever present. Another reason the war must end, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she tried to shake off her unease. God had preserved them so far, and she would pray He continued to do so. “You know, Agnes, despite our troubles in the city, Da never would have allowed me this venture if you hadn’t agreed to come along,” she said. “I want you to know I’m grateful.”

“Oh, miss, I am eager to be away from London, as well.” A shadow flitted across her features before she smiled. “And anyway, with my pay from the WFC, I hope to save enough to open the small dress shop I’ve always dreamed of.”

She laid a gloved hand over Grace’s. “Since I’ve met you and learned of the suffrage movement, so much seems possible again.” Her brown eyes misted. “When I think back to the day you found me and came to my aid . . .”

“Forget the past.” Grace squeezed her maid’s hand, hoping Agnes wouldn’t brood again over that cowardly husband of
hers, Edgar Pierpont. “Think instead of your dress shop, or more important, the marvelous experience we shall have safeguarding a vital asset to the war. Cavalry horses are in precious demand, Agnes, like my Nessa.”

Filled with emotion, Grace paused. She’d cried when Da sold her mare and Colin’s bay gelding, Niall, to the Army. But the need for horses was still great. “Keeping them fed is critical,” she continued. “We can be proud in knowing our value to the war effort. ‘For God, King, and Country.’”

“Oh, miss, when you talk that way about your country and patriotism, you sound like Mrs. Pankhurst,” Agnes said.

“Don’t forget Britain is now your country, too.”

Agnes nodded. “I do want to be a loyal citizen.”

Grace eyed her with compassion. “Soon you’ll have the chance—oh, we’re here!”

The cab gave a lurch as it rounded a corner, where a large wych elm spread its leafy green branches over a weathered wooden post that spelled out
ROXWOOD
in white lettering. Passing through an opening in the gray stone, they followed a narrow cobbled road into the heart of the small village.

“What a quaint little place.” Grace noted the various shops shouldering upper apartments along either side of the street. The myriad colors and textures only added to its charm. Tall burnt-brick storefronts squeezed in beside painted gray, blue, or green stuccos. Several had neat, white-framed windows above, displaying bright gingham curtains. As the cab drove along the main thoroughfare, she observed four unpaved side streets, and at the end of the village a church’s spire rose into the sky. The driver pulled alongside what looked like a community hall at the center of town. A few shopkeepers clad in work aprons emerged to gawk at the newcomers.

“There’s someone from the WFC.” Agnes pointed to a matronly woman standing beside a long cart drawn by a pair of
draft horses. She was dressed in the same khaki trench coat, green breeches, and hat that Grace and Agnes would be wearing during their stay.

With the cab’s fare already paid by her father, Grace and Agnes collected their luggage and disembarked. “Miss, you don’t think they’ll have a problem with my . . . being your maid, do you?”

“Don’t fret.” Grace offered a reassuring smile. “We agreed you don’t work for me at all while we’re here, remember? I plan to pull my fair share. And you must call me Grace. Look, here she comes.”

“Welcome, ladies, and right on time,” the round-faced matron called out as she met them halfway. “I’m Mrs. Ida Vance, the gang supervisor at Roxwood.” Mrs. Vance seemed quite a bit older than her and Agnes and offered a pleasant smile as she extended a hand to each of them.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Grace Mabry, and this is my—” Grace paused, glancing at Agnes—“my friend, Agnes Pierpont.”

“We’re pleased to have the extra help.” Mrs. Vance led the way back to the cart. “How was your trip?”

“It’s been a remarkable journey,” Grace said. “Two weeks’ training at a farm in Norfolk, a stop back in London, and now we’re here.”

“Well, since we don’t work on Sundays, you can rest up. Tomorrow, be prepared for hard work. More local boys left for France last week, and there’s much to be done. The estate covers many acres of land.”

“How far is it from here?” Grace asked.

“A couple of miles.” Mrs. Vance climbed nimbly up onto the cart’s bench seat and took the reins. “Set your bags in back and hop on in.”

Once they were under way, she said, “There are six of us altogether, and we billet at the estate’s gatehouse. We’ll stop
there first so you can drop off your luggage, then I’ll take you to meet the others. One of the cats had kittens, and they’re all down at the barn.”

The gatehouse turned out to be a two-story stone building covered in ivy and situated at the entrance of Roxwood Manor. The first floor housed a small parlor and a kitchen with a breakfast nook. Another room off the kitchen contained a laundry area and bathroom. “We’re fortunate Lord Roxwood had ordered the indoor toilet installed.” Mrs. Vance winked at them. “Especially with so many of us.”

“Will Lord Roxwood be overseeing our work?” Grace asked.

“Dear me, no! He’s the ongoing mystery of this place.” Mrs. Vance had removed her hat, revealing pretty chestnut hair cut short in the latest style. Along with the sparkle in her hazel eyes, Ida Vance didn’t look terribly old after all. “No one knows him, because he’s never been seen. Some aren’t even certain he’s in residence.”

“Really?” Grace quelled an impulse to retrieve her journal from her bag and take notes. Could this be her story in the making? “Can you tell me more about him?”

“Later.” Mrs. Vance led the way upstairs. “Right now I’ll show you our sleeping quarters.”

A large room encompassed the entire upper floor, with two rows of three beds each. Four housed an assortment of portmanteaus, haversacks, and hatboxes beneath them.

“We’re only here long enough to harvest the hay, but it’s a place to call home.” Mrs. Vance waved a hand toward two empty beds. “Choose between them and leave your bags. I’ll meet you back downstairs.”

“Well, what do you think, Agnes? Isn’t it grand?” Grace said once Mrs. Vance left. She spun in a circle to take it all in. “And this place even comes with its own mystery, the never-before-seen Lord Roxwood. I’ll have so much to write about.”

“When you’re not baling hay, you mean?” Agnes teased, then in a quiet tone added, “Miss . . . thank you for introducing me as your friend. It means the world to me.”