The juliet code, p.9
The Juliet Code, page 9
“Posso aiutarla, Signora?”
Grace looked up from the bookshelf of a few English titles to find an older woman, gray-and-white hair spun back into a bun. The woman wore a beautifully colored shawl around her simple brown dress, and her weathered face crinkled into a welcome smile.
“Ciao,” Grace offered, trying out her little bit of Italian.
The woman smiled and pointed to the books on the shelf in front of Grace. “Do you need help finding something?”
Grace internally sighed with gratitude at the woman’s quick awareness of Grace’s lack of Italian. Did that show on her face too? “Yes, thank you. I was searching for a book on Venice’s folklore or history.”
“Si.” The woman moved to a nearby shelf and brought back a few offerings, all in English.
“Thank you.” Grace gladly chose the one with some illustrations; then her mind wandered a bit to her previous conversation with Jack. “I was wondering, would you have any books about an artist named Luca Accardi?”
“Luca Accardi?” The woman’s brows rose and her smile faded. “Of The Juliets?”
“Yes, I know he was a native of Venice, and I try to learn about someone from the areas I visit when I travel.” Which wasn’t a lie. She’d attempted research on lots of different people while traveling. It just so happened her interest in this particular artist came with a mystery attached.
“No books, but … how do you say? La giornale?” She walked to a desk nearby and, after a few minutes of rummaging about through various shelves, brought back a few items.
“A newspaper?” Grace pointed to the folded pages in the woman’s hands. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Are they for sale?”
The woman shook her head. “You can read them while here?”
Grace frowned. She couldn’t read Italian, but perhaps Frederick could read them when he returned to collect her.
“Thank you, but I can’t read Italian. My husband can, so if I may hold on to these until he returns, then he’ll interpret them for me.”
“Si.” The woman nodded, her deep brown eyes searching Grace’s face in a rather intense sort of way.
“I knew Luca Accardi,” she offered, gesturing toward the paper in Grace’s hand. “I help you? Answer questions?”
“You’re willing to answer my questions?” Grace’s smile broadened, and she slipped her hand into her bag, her fingers wrapping around her notebook. “Oh, that would be marvelous.”
When Frederick arrived an hour later, Grace had filled out five pages of notes and even joined the lady, Signora Barese, for tea and had shared some of the khak cookies she’d brought with her from Egypt.
Frederick engaged in a few conversations with her in Italian, and even though Grace wasn’t certain what they were saying, she just enjoyed hearing him speak the language with his deep, comforting voice. Perhaps she could get him to whisper romantic endearments in Italian when they were back in their hotel room.
She smiled heavenward. Mystery tingles were almost as delightful as the romantic ones.
Almost.
“Did the newspaper article mention the murder?” Grace asked as soon as they were on their walk back to their room.
“It did.”
“Well, who can blame the man for seeking vengeance?” She frowned at the very dilemma. “If I’d walked into my house and found out that my jealous son-in-law had killed my wife and daughter, I’d likely respond irrationally too.”
“Some could argue his response was quite rational.” Frederick’s voice brewed low, even deeper than usual.
Thankfully, she’d never been on the wrong side of Frederick’s fury. True, they’d had a tiff here and there, but nothing horrible. The way his brow darkened and his voice deepened, she could only imagine how terrifying and powerful his fury would be. She tried very hard not to smile. Why on earth was the image so attractive? Her smile dropped. Well, as long as his fury turned in a direction away from her.
“I suppose he must have been somewhat rational,” Grace continued. “Before he went off after his son-in-law, he must have stashed away the treasure and made arrangements for someone to look after his two grandchildren.”
Frederick shook his head. “One of the articles stated that after Accardi’s death, his property was turned over to the authorities. I can only presume to hold until the grandchildren came of age, but it doesn’t appear that intention came to fruition.”
Signora Barese hadn’t mentioned that part. She’d only shared her concern for the two grandchildren left without mother, father, or grandparents. But to lose a home and financial stability too?
“What happened to the children?”
Frederick slowed his pace and turned toward her. “The children?”
“Yes, the grandchildren of Accardi. Did the article say anything about them?”
He resumed the walk, his profile pensive. “Nothing except the fact that they were the only survivors.”
“But what happened to them?” The idea gnawed an ache in her stomach. Childhood brokenness lasted a long time. She still carried ridiculous fears about her mother’s tragic death, but she’d had a father and grandfather who’d taken care of her. How much worse it must have been for those two children to have lost everyone!
Everything. “Signora Barese mentioned something about their governess taking them out of the country. Perhaps to England or America or France, but no one knows.”
“The governess?” Frederick looked away, his pace slowing. “Was she Italian too? A young woman?”
“I asked those questions.” Grace nodded, quite delighted that she and her darling husband were of one mind. “She was a young French woman who seemed to disappear from Venice as quickly as she’d come.”
“With the two children?” Frederick escorted her through the doors of their hotel and up to their room.
“That is the understanding.” Grace removed her gloves and placed them on the table. “If the murders happened fifteen years ago, then the children would surely be adults by now.”
“They would.” His gaze met hers.
“And how badly do they want their history and inheritance?”
“Or the governess learned of the treasure, and she’s been biding her time to find The Juliets.” Frederick removed his jacket and slid into a nearby chair.
“Oh yes! That is an option.” Grace removed her hat and sat next to him, turning to face him. “Perhaps she’s enlisted the help of her lover, and they’ve been slowly collecting all of the paintings and dispatching anyone who got in their way.”
He looked over at her, his palm coming up to rest on her neck. “The way your eyes light up when you talk about people being dispatched is rather frightening.”
“It’s only the spark to my imagination.” She leaned into his palm. “I don’t really care to dispatch anyone.”
His thumb trailed against her neck as he stared down at her, his brow creasing in thought. “Or it’s someone as simple as an unassociated pair of art collectors or treasure hunters who’d learned of the Accardi treasure and have made designs to find it.”
“Well, if Jack’s information is correct with the mysterious footman and maid, then we’re certainly dealing with a man and woman, whatever the case may be.” Grace rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe the French governess is the mastermind, and she’s enlisted the assistance of two young people to go undercover in service for anyone who has a Juliet.”
Frederick stared into the distance for a second. She imagined Sherlock Holmes having pensive moments where he mentally calculated all the clues and evidence in his mind, piecing it together like a puzzle until the picture emerged. If she stared hard enough at him, would she be able to guess some of his deductions?
Nothing came to mind.
But perhaps they still needed more time together before her clairvoyance rose to his level. She took her time admiring his pensive profile, the sharp angle of his chin, the dark chocolate hue of his eyes. Oh, he was such a handsome man, though she was certain he’d only grown more handsome because he loved her so well.
And perhaps the sleuthing helped matters too.
Her gaze fell to his strong hands, and a memory popped to mind.
“Frederick, I have a small request.”
His attention came to her, expression softening in that endearing look he always bestowed on her.
Well, when he wasn’t staring at her as if she’d grown feathers from her head.
Or as if he was going to lose her forever.
Or as if he was bracing himself for some horrible revelation.
And then there was merely the confused look.
Hmm. What an odd assortment of expressions.
“Yes?”
“I was speaking with Jack yesterday about something in his book.” She squeezed her hands together on her lap, and suddenly her husband’s endearing look took a confused turn. Now, what on earth could have caused such a change?
“There’s a chapter on self-defense that references cane fighting.”
His expression dipped into the “horrible revelation” category. She’d better just rush on ahead to put him at ease. “And I thought that a parasol could be nearly as effective as a cane and wondered if you minded if I asked Jack to teach me how to cane fight.”
His expression moved through various other looks, starting with the feathers growing from her head and ending with him pinching the bridge of his nose and releasing a long sigh.
Ah, she’d forgotten about that one. She called it the “God, help me” look.
“As you’ll recall, my parasol has come in handy quite regularly, and I think that if I just knew a few techniques, I could disarm an assailant from close range and protect myself and others with my refined skills.”
“Cane fighting?” The words scratched from her husband’s throat. His eyes narrowed. “You want Jack to teach you cane fighting?”
“If he put it in the detective book, there must be a good reason for it.” She sat up straighter, feeling more confident in her request now that Frederick was actually responding with words. “And I feel certain he’d be more than willing to show me a few counter moves and perhaps a jab or two.” She moved her hands to simulate some of the illustrations she’d seen in the book.
Both of Frederick’s eyebrows jutted northward, and he blinked a few times in quick succession.
“And if someone grabs me from behind, there were a few moves to free myself.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Humor? Interest? And then he shook his head. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for Jack to teach you something like cane fighting. There is a great deal of physical contact involved.”
“Oh.” She nodded, attempting to understand but not fully succeeding. “Well, I suppose I could try to read up on it myself.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Her gaze connected to his. “What?”
He swallowed, taking his time, and then nodded again, his lips pinching and releasing as if he were trying to work up the words. “I know how to cane fight. In my younger days, I took some training for sport.”
Her bottom lip loosened until her mouth opened, and then her imagination took over. Frederick teaching her cane fighting. Close proximity. Some parrying. Maybe a faux attack or two. Her smile began a slow uptilt. Oh, she couldn’t think of anything quite so … invigorating? Heat climbed up her neck.
He seemed to use his clairvoyance to know exactly where her thoughts went, because he slipped his palm to her waist and drew her close. “Perhaps I’ve been going at this sleuthing and wife training all wrong.”
His low voice murmured close to her ear before he kissed a wonderfully sensitive spot below her ear.
“What … what do you mean?” Her palms slid around his neck, fingers stretched up into his thick, soft hair.
“Instead of fighting against the mysteries.” His kiss slid up her neck. “And the knife throwing.” To her jaw. “The pistol shooting.” Then her chin. “And cane fighting.” He hovered close, his lips almost touching hers. “I think it’s time to forge ahead, arm in arm.”
“I do believe that acceptance will be a much better decision for your peace of mind.” Her palm came to his cheek, smile quivering to release. “And I think we should seal your clever idea with lips to lips. What do you say?”
Words weren’t necessary for a very long time after his thorough affirmation.
Grace’s throat closed around a scream. She dared not take a breath. If she inhaled, the sand would fill her lungs. But she had to breathe. She pushed against the weight of the sand, attempting to fight for the surface, but her palms met an impenetrable wall.
“Grace,” came a voice from somewhere far away.
She tried to listen as it came again. Familiar. Dear. Safe.
Frederick! Would he rescue her in time? She needed to breathe. She beat against the wall.
“Grace, darling. Wake up.”
Wake up? She opened her eyes, her fists pressed not against a wall of sand but against the very sturdy chest of her husband. She raised her gaze to his, his angled features pinched as he searched her face.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “It … it was another nightmare?”
“Yes.” He pushed her hair back from her face, his palms cradling her cheeks. “Only a nightmare.”
“I’m sorry to have awakened you again.”
He gave his head a shake. “Darling, you nearly died in an Egyptian sand trap.” He breathed out a sigh and pulled her against his warm body. “It’s no wonder you would have some side effects from such an ordeal.”
She frowned and buried her nose into his neck. “But I’ve been trapped before and didn’t have nightmares afterward.”
He drew back, looking down at her. “You’ve been trapped before?”
She sniffled and nodded, sliding her palms across the planes of his chest in an almost comforting motion. He was so strong. Warm. Being in his arms was one of the most deliciously safe and comforting places in the world.
“When I was ten, I accidentally locked myself inside an old trunk for several hours. It was rather cozy, and I just imagined I’d become a stowaway on a pirate ship until someone finally found me.” She frowned. “It was usually one of the many governesses.”
His jaw twitched. “Locking oneself in a … trunk isn’t the same as nearly dying in a tomb, darling.”
“Maybe not, but when I was twelve, I fell into an old well. I was there until nightfall and felt certain I may end up becoming a fairy if no one came to rescue me by the time the moon hit me.” She nodded. “That’s when I first thought about how important ropes were.”
His brows pinched together, and he captured her hand with his against his chest, stilling her movements. “Your father and those governesses had a tremendous capacity to lose you.”
“Which makes one wonder if the problem wasn’t so much the governesses or my father.” She sighed, a sudden flutter of fear rising into her chest. “If I keep having these nightmares, do you think I’ll go mad? I’ve read about women going mad from lack of sleep or an overindulgence of nightmares.”
“Grace, I don’t believe these nightmares will lead to—”
“And if I become a mad wife, will you lock me in your attic?” Her gaze wandered over his beloved face, though his jaw stood a bit slack at the moment. “I can’t recall what Havensbrooke’s attic looks like, but I feel certain it would be very gothic and possibly romantic for any madwoman.”
“Darling—”
She cupped his dear face with her hands, attempting to memorize it. Oh, even his confused expressions looked so wonderfully dear. “If you did lock me in your attic, at least I would still be near you, because I’m certain I would be a lot less frightened if I were near you and less mad than if I were away from you and mad.”
“Grace.” He drew her hands away from his face, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles and bringing her focus back to those eyes. His lips twitched ever so slightly. “You are not going mad, but rest assured, should you ever, I would keep you as near to me as possible.”
She closed her eyes with a sigh. “I feel certain that would put any madwoman’s heart at ease.”
“However, darling, when I was in the military, there were times when the men would face a near-death experience or tragedy. Something that inspired a sudden and acute fear. It wasn’t uncommon for them to experience successive nightmares or even panics afterward.”
“Forever?” The word trembled out, but then she drew in a breath. At least if she knew she wasn’t alone in her reaction, she could handle forever, couldn’t she? Especially after Frederick’s rather endearing and calm response about her possible impending madness.
“In many cases, the episodes and nightmares subsided with time.” He offered her a tender smile. “Even now, you’ve not had them every night.”
“It just feels rather cowardly to wake up in tears over a nightmare. And I do so want to be brave.” She searched his serene eyes. “You don’t need a coward for a wife, and panicky women rarely make excellent sleuths. I think it’s because of the constant weeping.”
He brought her knuckles to his lips and looked up at her. Was there a faint hint of humor in his expression? Then he sobered. “Being afraid doesn’t mean you’re not brave, darling.” He tugged her back toward him, his warm skin transferring to her chilled body. “It’s what you do when you are afraid that proves your bravery. And you usually choose brave things to do.”
“Usually?” She nestled into him, her lips finding the spot at the base of his neck. “It is an encouraging thought that bravery is what we do instead of how we feel. I like it. Though I’m certain part of my bravery has something to do with my faith in fiction, I feel certain living through murderous plots and tomb robbers can’t have been solely based on my books.”
“I think a great deal of it has to do with who you trust to your life and soul, Grace.”
His words rumbled deep in his chest, so much so they seemed to transfer over to her heart like the sweetest of heavenly reminders. Yes, she did garner her courage from her faith in God’s loving hand holding her life. She’d always drawn such security from the idea of God having all her days very specifically written in His book. When she first discovered that verse in the Bible, it encouraged her even more that God loved books, since He had at least one where He wrote about His children’s days. Then she’d drawn even more encouragement from the fact that God had written out adventures just for her in His book, which for a young girl who’d always dreamed of adventures, she found quite helpful on dull days in particular.
