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  “Shelley Gray writes a well-paced story full of historical detail that will invite you into the romance, the glamour . . . and the mystery surrounding the Chicago World’s Fair.”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF ROSEMARY

  COTTAGE AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “Downton Abbey comes to Chicago in Shelley Gray’s delightful romantic suspense, Secrets of Sloane House. Gray’s novel is rich in description and historical detail while asking thought-provoking questions about faith and one’s place in society.”

  —ELIZABETH MUSSER, NOVELIST,

  THE SWAN HOUSE, THE SWEETEST THING,

  THE SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY

  ZONDERVAN

  Secrets of Sloane House

  Copyright © 2014 by Shelley Gray

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  ePub Edition © May 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-33852-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gray, Shelley Shepard.

  Secrets of Sloane House / Shelly Gray.

  Pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-310-33852-9 (trade paper)

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.R3966S45 2014

  813’.6—dc23

  2014015970

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible. New Living Translation. Copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Gearbox

  Cover photography: Trevillion and Library of Congress

  Interior design: Mallory Perkins

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  AN EXCERPT FROM DECEPTION AT SABLE HILL

  CHAPTER 1

  AUTHOR BIO

  Sometimes the journey to publication is as much a story as the novel itself! This is one of those books for me. I am indebted to two very special people who never gave up on either me or Secrets of Sloane House.

  Thank you to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour, who tirelessly talked to everyone and anyone about this novel. For years. Agents like you are what writers dream about, MSS!

  Thank you, also, to Sue Brower, who made me feel like both me and this novel were worth fighting for. Bless you, Sue! It’s my dream that you will find this book well worth your efforts!

  “Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow. Though they are red like crimson, I will make them as white as wool.”

  —Isaiah 1:18 NLT

  There is the muffled beating of tom-toms, the shuffling of many feet, the popcorn and lemonade, and thousands of dull, dusty, frowzy folks who stare and gape and imbibe ox-like impressions.

  —Frederic Remington, as quoted in Harper’s

  CHAPTER 1

  Chicago, August 1893

  As circumspectly as she could, Rosalind Perry smoothed her dark gray skirts before meeting the wide, assessing gaze of Douglass Sloane, the twenty-four-year-old son and heir of the Sloane estate.

  “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “Rosalind, sir.”

  “I haven’t seen you here before, have I?” His dark eyes scanned her form, her face.

  “No, sir. I’m new.” A prickling ran up the length of her spine. Why was he watching her so closely? Had she done something wrong that she wasn’t aware of?

  Below them, down the stairs, the steady ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock floated upward, echoing the quick beating of her heart. The surrounding walls, with the rose trellis wallpaper and great array of samplers and portraits, seemed to close around her.

  As if he had nowhere else to go, Douglass leaned a shoulder against the wall. The movement nudged the corner of a frame displaying the likeness of one of his dead relatives, showing a patch of dark wallpaper underneath. Rosalind did her best to stand still, though her hands longed to fidget. These questions were out of the ordinary. Never had the other members of his family conversed with her. Never had she expected it.

  Cook had warned her that all four Sloanes were particular about the servants remembering their station in the formidable home. Hired help who spoke too much, didn’t follow directives, or proved slovenly were soon replaced. Rosalind didn’t doubt that to be true.

  As she stood as still as a statue, Douglass Sloane continued to examine her as if she were one of the World Fair’s new inventions.

  “So . . . Rosalind.” A dimple appeared. “Shakespeare, yes?”

  She nodded. The name was from the play As You Like It. Her mother was a great fan of all things literary. Her children’s names had been a reflection of that. And perhaps to show the world that she was more than merely a farmer’s wife.

  Clarifying her mother’s reasons for naming her Rosalind, however, seemed unnecessary. Too personal.

  Not asked.

  His arms crossed. The white linen of his shirt shone against the dark woodwork behind him. “And where might you be from?”

  “Wisconsin, sir.” A small dairy farm near Milwaukee, to be specific.

  “Ah, Wisconsin. That veritable utopia to our west.” Skimming her features again, he almost smiled. “And now here you are. In Chicago. Dusting.”

  “Yes.” Her shoulders began to relax. Obviously, this member of the household meant her no harm. He was just curious about the newest housemaid on staff.

  Perhaps that made sense. During the three weeks she’d worked in the home, the master’s son had been on a buying trip with his father to New York City. She heard they’d returned just two days ago—and the downstairs talk was filled with gossip about his escapades.

  Rumor had it that Douglass had spent every waking hour
in city pubs and gaming halls. Anywhere he liked, actually. With a name like Sloane, a man could do what he liked whenever he chose.

  “Really, Douglass,” Veronica Sloane called out as she entered the hall on the arm of an extremely handsome man. “Leave the girl alone. If you cause her to tarry, she won’t get all her work done.” Somewhat mockingly, she raised a finely curved eyebrow. “And then what will we do?”

  “I’m doing nothing out of the ordinary.” He dared to wink, and his gaze gripped Rosalind again. “Merely getting acquainted. As I’ve done many times before,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  With those words, alarms sounded in Rosalind’s head again. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she was certain his statement was laced with another meaning.

  “There’s little to get acquainted with,” his sister said as she and her companion joined Douglass, their bodies effectively circling Rosalind. Her voice was sharp. “She’s a servant, Douglass. Not a debutante.”

  Rosalind clutched her dust rag more tightly. Yes, in their world she was only a servant. But in her heart, she knew she was more than that. She was a child of God. In his eyes, she counted as much as anyone.

  As much as her sister, Miranda, had . . . before she’d gone missing.

  Douglass stepped forward, bringing with him the faint scent of scotch. “Tell me, Rosalind, are you liking our home?”

  His voice had turned silky. Rosalind’s mouth turned dry. The question felt loaded, but she wasn’t sure what the expected answer was. Her heartbeat quickened.

  Oh, why had she been dusting in this spot at this moment?

  Staring at her intently, Veronica once again raised a brow. “Do you? Are you happy?” Her voice lowered. “Content?”

  Content? “I . . . I—”

  “Rosalind, Miss Sloane is right, you’d best get your chores done,” the handsome stranger interrupted. “Why don’t you run along now?”

  His voice was so commanding, so direct, that she took a step back. Then stopped just as abruptly. She wasn’t supposed to leave until she’d been dismissed.

  Douglass turned to the man and frowned. “Armstrong, are you now giving orders to the servants in my home?”

  “Not at all. I’m merely repeating what Veronica said. She is right. This maid surely has a great many things to do other than stand here with us.”

  Rosalind noticed a slight softening around the corners of Veronica’s lips. “Reid, you actually listened to me.”

  Mr. Armstrong smiled at Veronica, and his voice became warmer. “Of course I listened. I always listen.” There was no such warmth in his eyes when he turned back to Rosalind, however. His gaze was cool and almost piercing. “Miss, you had best go about your business. Now.”

  Staring at him, Rosalind stepped back. Her body was trembling so much that she feared it would be commented upon, giving them yet another opportunity to taunt her.

  But when neither Douglass nor Veronica protested, only chuckled softly, she pivoted on her heel and scurried down the hall.

  Brittle feminine laughter followed her steps. “Oh, Reid, I do think I’ll keep you close to me all day. You’re beyond amusing. Besides, it’s nice having someone nearby who heeds what I say.”

  “Some might have a problem with your heavy-handed ways, though,” Douglass added, his voice carrying a thread of malice. “The way you shooed away our new girl was a bit of a surprise. It almost seemed as if you were worried about her welfare.”

  “Perhaps I am concerned about her. You do have quite the reputation, you know, Sloane,” their guest retorted. “If we’re not careful, you’ll charm the girl, break her heart, and next thing you know? Why, she’ll be leaving. Then who would dust your furniture?”

  The laughter continued as Rosalind turned a corner. But just as she was hurrying down a half flight of stairs, she faintly heard Veronica’s reply. “Don’t be silly, Reid. Servants can be replaced. Always.”

  A jolt of fear shot up Rosalind’s spine. Was that what had happened to her sister? Had she been dismissed for neglecting her chores and then promptly forgotten?

  Or had she been snatched up from the city’s busy streets and simply vanished?

  Quickly, Rosalind turned right, then left. She struggled to recall where she was. The house was so vast, such a jumbled maze of curious rooms and narrow, winding halls, that she was continually getting lost. One wrong turn could lead to her flying down a corridor where she had no business being.

  Which, of course, could lead to her coming into contact with members of the family.

  As she stopped and rested a palm on a wall covered in rich scarlet and burnished gold paisley wallpaper, she let her mind drift, remembering how Miranda had written that she, too, had gotten lost in the mansion more than a time or two. Of course, she’d also confided that some of the people in the house frightened her.

  Remembering that the letters had stopped coming before she’d revealed who had frightened her—and how—Rosalind closed her eyes and tried to fend off a new wash of pain.

  Oh, Miranda! Where are you?

  Her sister, older by only eleven months, was the twenty-one-year-old beauty of the family. Blessed with thick, curly auburn hair, set off by bright blue eyes, she was striking. Rosalind’s mahogany hair and faded blue eyes had always paled in comparison.

  As did her personality. Miranda was the more headstrong, the one who was the most self-reliant. Rosalind? Ever the follower.

  Over the years, Miranda’s strong personality had always gotten her what she wanted. So much so that Rosalind had often wished she had even a small portion of her sister’s determination.

  When things had gone from bad to worse at their farm, Miranda had up and left, leaving behind a note saying that she’d gone to Chicago to find work and she’d send money home as soon as she could.

  But Rosalind knew financial concerns weren’t the only reason Miranda had ventured east. No, she’d always been plagued by the need to push limits and boundaries. Even the wide open fields of their farm had seemed far too confining for a woman of her light and exuberance.

  Soon after she left, Miranda wrote that she’d gotten a position as a maid in a grand house. More letters arrived over the next two months, each one with a bit of money.

  But then they heard nothing.

  With a heavy heart, Rosalind was beginning to fear that her earnest prayers for her sister had not only been unanswered, but had also been in vain.

  Either Miranda had decided to move on and forget about them all . . . or something dire had happened to her.

  Sometimes, in the dark of night, Rosalind admitted that she wasn’t sure which scenario would be easier to bear.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mrs. Sloane just changed the numbers for dinner. Now we’re going to have twenty people instead of ten,” Cook announced grumpily when Rosalind arrived in the perpetually steamy kitchens for a bite of lunch. “That means not a one of you is going to be taking a break anytime soon. I need you, Rosalind, to run to the market and pick up another batch of squash for the soup.”

  Still feeling off-kilter after her run-in with Douglass and Veronica, Rosalind blinked. “Do you mean the farmer’s market?”

  Mrs. Martha Russell—“Cook” to everyone in the house—folded her arms over an ample bosom and glared. “None other.”

  Rosalind’s heart dipped. She barely knew her way around the two blocks surrounding the mansion. Chicago streets were crowded and winding, difficult to traverse in the best of circumstances.

  Now, with the World’s Fair in full swing and thousands of visitors swarming along the sidewalks, it was near impossible to navigate the streets with any expediency. She feared that there was a very good chance she’d become lost and ruin Cook’s schedule.

  But that was the least of her worries. Never a moment passed when she wasn’t completely aware of the dangers that lurked in the city and that, somehow, her sister had vanished in them.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I’m not sure if I’m
the right—”

  Cook cut her off with a stern expression brewing in her toffee-colored eyes. “I can’t be sparin’ no one else. I need that squash.” Pulling away the bowl Rosalind had just picked up, she snapped, “You’ve got no time to eat! Go now.”

  Only Cook’s reputation of being all bark and no bite prevented Rosalind from shaking in her shoes. “Yes, ma’am. Um, where is the market?”

  With exaggerated patience, Cook said, “Take a grip car and be quick about it. When you get there, look for Tom. He’s the head grocer, and Sloane House has an account with him.”

  “Tom,” she repeated.

  “He’s youngish. Has a red beard, and he knows all about Mrs. Sloane’s wants and particulars. He’ll help you find what you need.”

  It sounded as if finding Tom might not be too much of a problem, but she dreaded taking the grip car. The only time she’d been on it alone she’d worried she’d miss her stop, get off too early—or worse, too late—far from the neighborhood she was just starting to become accustomed to.

  Traveling in the large city was excruciatingly nerve-racking and scary. Especially after Miranda had mentioned time and time again in her letters how dangerous the streets were. Just the descriptions alone made Rosalind wish for eyes in the back of her head. Yes, there were multiple dangers on the streets of Chicago, and a woman alone was always at risk.

  But perhaps there were dangers most anywhere? Once again, she found her mind drifting back to Douglass and his piercing gaze . . .

  A pair of saucepans clanged together. “Rosalind, what more do you need for me to say? Go on with ya, now.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, yes, I’m off to the market right now.”

  Now that she was getting her way, Cook’s voice gentled. “Take some coins from housekeeping just in case you don’t be seein’ Tom. Go on, now. There’s a good girl.”

  Nanci, her one good friend in the house, smiled sweetly at Rosalind as their paths crossed in the doorway. “You can do it. It’ll be just like the time we took the trolley to the park. Just take it again, but head south, toward the market. If you get lost, ask for help. Most people in Chicago are honest folk. Most will help you.”