Grace craned her head around.
“Who is them?”
“The misters who stand outside that building.”
“What building?”
“The one that has the picture of the bunny.”
“Rabbit House?”
The boy nodded as his mother came up, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Heard enough?”
“Yes—”
“Good. Now I hope not to see you for at least a month. Come along, Charlie.”
With that, the woman and her son returned to their room and slammed the door shut, causing Grace to jump. Well, thathad been informative. Except that she had no idea why a toy had anything to do with Rabbit House. Or what James had been intent on discovering.
Leaving the building, Grace lifted her hood and through the rain, she saw one of the two men she had seen the day she saw Mr. Roberts. The bald one. He was leaning against Rabbit House, one foot up on the brick wall, while smoking a long pipe and staring daggers at her as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Glancing down the road, she saw her carriage on the corner and cursed herself for being so careless.
Lifting her chin and staring back, she didn’t let herself cower as she turned left. The bald man kicked off the wall and though she didn’t turn around to see, she knew he was following her. At first she tried to walk at a normal pace, not wishing to appear nervous, but then her body seemed to take over and soon she was hurrying down the muddy streets.
The distinct sound of footsteps splashing in the puddles behind her caused her to grab her skirts and run. Thankfully, her driver was waiting on the side of the carriage, under an umbrella and saw her coming.
“My lady?”
“Hurry!” Grace yelled back and he opened the door as she dove into the vehicle, just as a meaty hand grabbed at her ankle. “Ah!”
She kicked the hand away and witnessed the driver turn his umbrella into a weapon, thrashing the bald man without mercy as she pulled her body inside the carriage and closed the door. Before she could sit up and push back the curtains, the vehicle was off. Gazing out of the back window, she saw the bald man stagger to his feet.
Heart pounding in her ears as she tried to catch her breath, Grace knew what she had to do next.
She needed to speak with James at once.
Chapter Seventeen
The gas lampsthat lined the tidy street that sat behind Grace’s home illuminated the stone path that led out of the kitchens, into the alley, and out onto the road where James’s house stood. It was late in the evening, at least for Aunt Belle, who had fallen asleep in the parlor after dinner, as usual. Arabella sat in the corner, writing frantically to someone, though she wasn’t exactly eager to share who, as Grace had wandered down the hallway, down through the kitchens that had finally emptied out after the kitchen staff had finished cleaning, and out the back door. With Mrs. Stevens mending a gown, Andrews stationed by her aunt, and the cook, maids, and footmen all settling down for the evening, Grace had thought it a perfect time to confront James about the toy top.
It was strange, being out of the house alone at night. She had never actually been by herself on the streets during the dark hours and feeling somewhat daring, she hurried across the street, climbed the two stone steps, and knocked on James’s door.
To her surprise, the door instantly opened to reveal James, staring at her with questioning eyes, as if he had somehow anticipated her arrival.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he asked, gazing past her. “Why are you sneaking out of your house this late at night?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“And it couldn’t wait?”
“No.” He didn’t move, obviously hesitant. “Are you going to let me in or must we discuss this in the middle of the street?”
Faced with such an unappealing offer, James reluctantly stood aside to allow her entry.
Grace removed her shawl and glanced around the foyer. It was a smaller entrance than Aunt Belle’s house, with a black and white checkered floor, dark oak banister, and stairs that were covered in an ornate runner of carpet that curved up to the second floor. The walls were white, but two large paintings hung above a marble-topped hallway table, revealing a sight that stunned Grace.
“This is a portrait of Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, stepping toward the painting. “And Dr. Barkley’s office in Glencoe.”
“Yes.”
