Aunt Margaret did not.
“So, you want my aunt to rescue your business?” Juliet shoved down a bitter laugh. “This from the man who once threatened to have me arrested—”
“Juliet,” her aunt said gently, patting her sleeve. “Let’s hear him out.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not getting any younger, you know. This might be a wise move.”
Juliet pinched her lips tight, holding in a retort. She hated to admit it, but her aunt had a point. Her days of scrambling through underbrush with a basket and a spade were numbered. Maybe—just maybe—this arrangement had merit.
“Very well.” She adjusted her gloves with deliberate care. “I shall leave the two of you to discuss your business. But mind yourself, Mr. Scather.” She stepped nose to nose with him. “See that you treat my aunt with respect, or you and I shall have words. Words I promise you will not enjoy.”
He gave a small, sheepish nod. “Duly noted.”
She veered around the man, hardly knowing what to think about the whole conversation, and stepped outside to a brisk November breeze. Gunmetal clouds scudded overhead. Winter would call before anyone knew it. She pulled her coat tight at the collar.
Across the green, Miss Potter was about to enter a carriage, her latest millinery marvel a towering swirl of navy silk, cascading peacock feathers, and a delicate birdcage veil dotted with tiny sapphire beads. It was part sculpture, part spectacle—utterly ridiculous and yet somehow … surprisingly magnificent. Honestly, Juliet rather admired it, both the woman and the hat.
“Psst.”
She jerked her head aside, unsure if she’d really heard something. Could be just the wind.
“Psst, Miss Finch!”
Definitely not the wind.
She trotted down the few steps and approached a nearby grouping of boxwoods.
Branches rustled. Several leaves fell to the ground. A breath later, out stepped Mr. Dankworth.
Her brows rose to the sky. “Why are you in the shrubbery, sir?”
“Too many people.” Nonchalantly, he brushed cobwebs off his shoulder. “So, how did it all turn out?”
She clapped a hand to her hat before it flew off in the next gust. “Mr. Woodley is to be transported for seven years, and Miss Whitmore has been committed to the asylum.”
“Did the bracelet help bring about her conviction?”
“Yes. Well—” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not on its own. But it did corroborate the rest. It wasn’t the linchpin, but it helped unravel the lie.”
She bit her lip. “Wait a moment …” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You found it, did you not? You buried it. And you sent me that cryptic note as well. I might have known!”
A sly smile half curved his lips. “Generally, I despise riddles, but sometimes they are the only way to speak the truth without shouting.”
“Why did you not simply go to Mr. Russell?”
“I do not trust men in power, Miss Finch. Nor the law.” He paused, the toe of his boot kicking at the dirt. Then he looked up. “I do not expect you to understand my reluctance.”
There was something familiar in his words, something that resonated deep in her soul. She knew what it was like to have a hefty mistrust of others, especially those in higher society, and how it felt to be overlooked, to be told she did not belong. Perhaps Mr. Dankworth had experienced the same, for reasons she could only guess.
She met his gaze, her voice softening. “And yet, perhaps, I do. At least somewhat. You know what it is to be an outsider, as do I.”
He swiped a podgy hand over his brow, nodding. How a man could sweat on a blustery day like this was beyond her.
“And Miss Russell?” He cocked his head, glancing up at the courtroom entrance, almost as if the mentioning of her name might make her appear. “How does she fare now?”
“Very well. I have no doubt she will soon put all this behind her.”
Mr. Dankworth slowly nodded, saying nothing, his shoulders bowed from some unspoken misery. She had assumed his interest in Charity stemmed from a peculiar quirk of his solitary ways, but maybe it was something that ran deeper.
She stepped closer. “I am curious, sir, why do you take such an interest in her?”
