Not by Sight (6 page)

The pig froze for a moment and watched her, the rosebush still clamped in its mouth. Then the animal dashed toward the entrance of an enormous hedge maze several yards away. Grace scrambled from the mud, determined to rescue the plant from the omnivorous thief.

By the time she realized the pig had eluded her, Grace had become completely turned around inside the six-foot-high hedge. Breathless, she stood in her filthy uniform as tears brimmed at her lashes. Now what? She turned around slowly, trying to decide which way to go. She hadn’t even known of the labyrinth’s existence; a row of tall poplars blocked its view from the road and her window at the gatehouse.

She decided to take a left turn, hoping it would bring her back to the entrance. After several minutes and growing more disorientated, her frustration gave way to stirrings of distress. What if she couldn’t get out? She might die of hunger or thirst—

The gurgle of running water caught her attention. Grace walked toward the sound and soon arrived at the center of the maze.

A man in a beige linen suit and wide-brimmed straw hat sat on a stone bench in front of a small fountain. Leaning forward, he cupped his hands beneath the running spout of water.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried. “I was afraid no one would know I was here . . .”

He launched from his seat. “Who’s there?”

Grace backed away—and bit her lip to keep from crying out. He grabbed for the mask still lying on the bench. “Tell me now!” he demanded, knocking away the straw hat in his haste to retie the covering across his face.

The Tin Man. She caught only a glimpse before he donned
the mask, but long enough to observe his scars: a cruel gash along one cheek, and the angry, serrated flesh surrounding his eyes. Eyes that obviously could not see. Deep blue eyes . . .

Recognition made gooseflesh rise along her arms. She took in his substantial height and the broadness of his shoulders, the blond hair curling about his collar. He’d once sported a faux queue tied at his nape. And in those seconds before he hid from her, she’d recognized his handsome features—the strong nose and squared jaw, his sculpted mouth.

“Jack Benningham?” she whispered.

4

“You know me?”

Instantly he was looming over her. He reached out and grabbed hold of her arms while he barked his question through a veil of steel mesh.

Grace tried looking up at him, then glanced away. He was gruesome. The mask covered the upper part of his face much like a domino mask, except the eyeholes had been filled in with narrow metal strips, making it impossible to see him. Even more ghastly, an attached curtain of steel hid his mouth and the rest of his face from view. Why did he wear such an outlandish disguise? She couldn’t help thinking of some eerie, otherworldly being she’d seen in picture books.

“I s-saw you,” she said, frightened by his grip. “I recognized you before . . . before . . .”
Before you put on that
hideous mask
, she didn’t finish.

“Who are you?” His fingers dug into her flesh. “And why did you invade my privacy?”

“A mistake, honestly!” She tried pulling away, but his grip held firm. Her memory of their last encounter returned, and Grace could hardly believe he was the same Casanova who had
enticed her with his devilish smile and penetrating gaze. She recalled how that smile had faded to a look of rage after she handed him the white feather of cowardice, and how he’d left the party without a backward glance.

She didn’t dare reveal her identity to him now. He seemed angry enough to kill. “I . . . it’s the pigs,” she said, thinking to appease him with an explanation. “I work for the Women’s Forage Corps and was taking them to the butcher, but they got loose. One of them ate your roses and then ran into the hedge.”

He must have decided she wasn’t a threat because he released her and stepped back. “Wherever the pig’s gone, likely it’s found a way out by now.” His acerbic tone resonated from beneath the mesh. “Yet another instance in which I find animals more intelligent than humans.”

Grace felt too relieved at having escaped his clutches to respond to his obvious insult.

“This way, girl.” He moved past her, and she followed, her mind still reeling. Jack Benningham was Lord Roxwood, the Tin Man . . .

Not a monster.
At least not outwardly, despite his scars. She stared at the powerfully built figure leading her back to what she hoped was the entrance into the labyrinth. Now that she’d seen the mask with its steel veil, she understood why the locals called him the Tin Man. But the rest—the hunchback, pointed ears, and sharp teeth—was the invention of rural imagination.

His moral character was still in question, however. Grace felt certain Jack Benningham’s soul must be horribly pocked and scarred with the sins of his past exploits. Yet he wasn’t womanizing or gambling now. The sight of him shocked her anew as she recalled the newspaper report of his receiving only minor injuries from the fire. Being blinded was hardly that . . .

“I trust you can find your way back from here?”

Abruptly he’d halted and turned. Grace, nearly colliding with
him, quickly stepped back. They had reached the entrance to the hedge maze. Fleetingly it occurred to her that he’d managed to navigate it without being able to see.

“Yes, thank you . . . Lord Roxwood.” He was surly and rude, and she was eager to leave his presence. “I’m terribly sorry about the damage to your roses.”

She started to walk past him when he reached for her again. She gasped when he latched onto her wrist. “I believe you’ve forgotten a small detail.” His tone held an edge. “You said you recognized me and that you work for the Women’s Forage Corps, yet you haven’t told me
who
you are. Clearly not some farm girl.” His grip intensified. “Too much good breeding in that speech, Miss . . . ?”

He leaned close, the horrid mask inches from her face. Grace thought her heart might stop. She considered lying to him, but to do so would make her as much a coward as he’d been. She wasn’t sorry for handing him a white feather at the ball, for unlike Jack Benningham, she was a true patriot of her country. Straightening her spine, she said, “My name is Grace Mabry.”

He reared back as if she’d struck him. Releasing her wrist, his breath came rapidly behind the mesh. As Grace watched the agitated rise and fall of his chest, real fear began to take hold. Did he mean to do her harm?

Then just as quickly he recomposed himself. He leaned forward again, menace coloring his tone. “Well, Miss
Mabry
”—he spat her name as though ejecting day-old tea—“I think you’ve inflicted more than enough damage for one day. Now, get out!”

Grace choked on a cry as she whirled from him and ran all the way back to the gatehouse. Perhaps she’d been wrong and he did have sharp teeth and howl at the moon.

In her distress she didn’t register right away that the cart was gone and the pigs vanished. She was too thankful having escaped the man in the abominable mask. She had expected his
annoyance, even his anger as he must certainly remember their encounter from the night of the ball. But his loathing, the rage she’d heard in his voice, jarred her.

Shaken, she went inside to change her uniform and wash her face. Afterward she grabbed a bicycle and rode to the barn.

The cart stood out front, the cage empty. Clare must be having a good laugh at her expense, Grace thought bitterly, pulling the daisy pendant she’d found from her uniform pocket. Well, the joke would be on her once Grace offered up proof the woman was responsible.

The barn doors opened and Mrs. Vance stepped outside, hands on hips. Before Grace could utter a word, her supervisor snapped, “Inside.”

Grace’s heart beat faster. Would she even get a fair hearing?

Inside the building’s cool interior, Mr. Tillman stood with the others in a half circle as though waiting for her. The farmer wore a fierce expression and tossed away his crutch as he limped toward her. “You’ve done it now,” he ground out. “The others rounded up the pigs and returned them to the pen, but you . . . you destroyed his lordship’s grounds!” He waved his hands to illustrate the chaos she’d wrought.

“Mabry, Lord Roxwood is furious,” Mrs. Vance said. “He’s already sent word through his steward demanding your immediate removal.” The older woman paused, then added, “It pains me to tell you this, but you’re dismissed from the WFC, as well.”

“The last straw,” growled Mr. Tillman. His suffused features loomed over her. “Exactly why women don’t belong working on a farm. How could you lose an entire truckload of pigs?”

Grace trembled with anger. Lord Roxwood wanted her gone? Fine, but she wasn’t going alone. She glanced at Clare Danner. The woman stood with arms crossed, wearing a smug look. Obviously she had no idea she’d left the pendant behind.

Grace dropped the necklace to dangle by its chain at her side, making sure her nemesis saw it. “It wasn’t me . . .”

She fully intended to exonerate herself and name the true culprit. After all, if Danner hadn’t been so mean-spirited in the first place, none of this would have happened. No runaway pigs, no encountering Jack Benningham, no getting sacked.

But then she saw Clare’s tight-lipped smirk fade, the mocking gray eyes widen, before her features settled into a look of abject terror.

Grace blinked, certain she’d misread the woman’s reaction. Then Clare moistened her lips and clasped her hands together tightly as though in prayer, and Grace marveled at the woman’s changed demeanor.
“We all
have secrets.”
She remembered Lucy’s words from yesterday.

Did Clare have secrets, too?

Averting her eyes, Grace felt her desire for retribution ebbing. What good would come from demanding Clare’s dismissal from the WFC? The woman might be a thorn in her side, but Clare Danner had skills and performed her duties well—unlike Grace, who had proved quite inept. And in truth, Grace likely would have encountered Jack Benningham at some point during her stay at Roxwood, and his attitude toward her would remain unchanged.

She considered Mr. Tillman’s sprained ankle—her fault. And the bungled sacks someone else had to fix—again her fault. Perhaps Mrs. Vance was right and she was better suited for another purpose.

“It wasn’t my fault. There were unavoidable ruts in the road,” she lied, fixing her attention back on the pale-faced Clare. “The lever on the cage must have jarred loose. When I stopped at the gatehouse to fetch my heavier gloves, I didn’t notice it, even when I let the ramp down to check on the pigs before I went inside. I returned and found them escaped, running across Rox
wood’s grounds. I tried chasing them . . .” Her voice trailed off, knowing the concocted story made her sound like a complete muddlehead.

“Pack your things, Mabry. Even if I could change the rules, it’s out of my hands. His lordship has ordered you gone in the morning.” Mrs. Vance’s look softened. “The nearest train is at Margate. I’ll take you there myself in the cart tomorrow. I’m sorry, Grace.”

Grace glanced at the faces around her, swallowing an urge to cry. Mr. Tillman retrieved his crutch and leaned against it, looking satisfied. Becky and Lucy, along with Mrs. Vance, eyed her with pity. Agnes shook her head and with lips pursed twisted her hands together.

Clare stood near the big double doors, clearly stunned. She spun on her heel and stalked out of the barn.

“It’s done, Edwards?”

“Yes, milord.” Jack’s steward and land agent cleared his throat and added, “I’ve informed Mr. Tillman to make certain Miss Mabry leaves in the morning. I believe she’ll be taking the ten o’clock out of Margate.”

“Good riddance,” Jack growled. “Thank you, Edwards. That will be all.”

“Shall I call for your valet now, milord?”

“No. Townsend can attend me in an hour. I know it’s late, but I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Of course. Good night, milord.”

Hearing the door to the bedroom close behind his steward, Jack Benningham—third Viscount of Walenford, heir to the fifth Earl of Stonebrooke, and for his present convenience, second Baron of Roxwood—walked unerringly past the opened French doors leading out onto his balcony.

The marble felt smooth and unyielding beneath his fingertips as he stood at the rail. He knew beyond the sprawling lawns and breathtaking rose garden, or what remained of it, stood the enormous hedge maze planted by his great-grandfather decades before.

This afternoon had been his first venture outside since the accident. Jack congratulated himself that despite his blindness, he could still navigate the labyrinth’s twists and turns in order to reach the fountain at its center. Roxwood had been in his family for generations, and he found the simple two-story Georgian-style home a sanctuary against the suffocating attentions of his family, the animosity and revulsion of his fiancée, and the prying, pitying eyes of London society. It was the perfect place to hide . . . until today.

He loosened the ties of his mask, allowing the cool night air to soothe the constant burn of his scarred flesh—and his anger. Patrick Mabry’s daughter was here, invading his privacy. Why?

She claimed to be employed by the Women’s Forage Corps, yet she’d destroyed his rose garden and tainted his sanctuary. Had she purposely orchestrated the little disaster in order to seek him out, to spy on him for her father?

For the thousandth time, Jack’s memory conjured the night long ago when he’d nearly lost his life. At Lady Bassett’s costume ball, he had bungled his assignment to shadow the disguised enemy agent when he was pleasantly diverted by a lovely goddess in green, allowing his target to escape.