When she rounded the first bend, she nearly collided with Mr. Dankworth, her aunt’s neighbour.
His podgy fingers grabbed hold of her arm, righting her before she could stumble. The roughness of his grip matched the coarseness of his coat. “Pardon me, Miss Finch. Didn’t mean to scare you. Foxes don’t mean to frighten chickens neither, but it happens all the same.”
“Mr. Dankworth?” The man adhered to a hermetic lifestyle. What was he doing out in public? Unless … Alarm prickled at the back of her neck. “Is my aunt all right?”
“Far as I know. But it’s not her I’ve come to speak about.” He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “It’s you.”
She uncoiled slightly. “Me?”
He leaned in, his voice lowering. “What can be seen but not touched, heard but never caught?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your footsteps, miss.” He curled his fingers around his lapels, proud as a prancing pony. “But I’ve seen them. Heard them in the woods. At night. Might be you chasing after herbs, or might be something’s chasing you.”
Her heart stalled. Sweet blessed mercy! Had he seen her setting snares? Or worse, hauling home a sack of game? She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat. “I do gather ingredients for my aunt. Harmless things. Nothing of note.”
“Harmless as a sleeping bear—until it wakes.” He nodded slowly, one eye twitching with suspicion, the movement dragging his thick eyebrow along in a jerky arc. “I’ve seen you near the manor at odd hours. The woods have long memories and short patience. So do constables.”
Her heart banged against her ribs. Word was out about her nighttime escapades. No wonder since she’d run into the master of the manor himself—and his presence had lingered in her thoughts ever since. The way he moved. How he spoke. The grey-green velvet of his eyes that had, in that brief moment, held hers with an intensity she hadn’t been able to shake. She couldn’t afford to get caught—not by him. Not by anyone.
And yet now Mr. Dankworth knew.
She regarded him warily. “I assure you I only take what I need.”
“Sheep nibble,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “But the fence needs mending all the same. And a sheep like Miss Russell ought to be tended to very carefully.”
She stared, thoroughly confused. “I shall be careful, Mr. Dankworth.”
“See that you are. Once a whisper grows legs, it don’t stop till it trips someone.” He reset his hat with a wag to his head. “Remember, people notice things. It would be a shame for anyone to get the wrong idea about your ramblings.”
He strode off without another word, leaving behind the odour of sweat and the fear that he might know more than he was letting on. Was he truly warning her, or had he meant his words as a veiled accusation? Either way, he’d taken the trouble to seekher out and would no doubt be keeping an eye on her. As would that enigmatic master of Bedford Manor.
She set off briskly down the trail. So be it. She would not shrink from the challenge.
She didn’t have a choice.
Henry stood by the sitting room window, half listening to his sister and Clara’s conversation. Too many choices weighed on his mind to give the ladies his full attention. Should he put out a discreet watch on Edwin Parker or confront the man himself? Yet what did he really have to say to him other than question why he’d skulked about yesterday in the bakery doorway? That was no crime. And then there was the matter of the enigmatic poacher. He would speak with Carver today about intensifying security, but how to go about that? A snare for the setter of snares? Armed men? A concealed spring gun? Pah! None seemed right for a slip of a woman toting a game bag over her shoulder. There was also the matter of Charity. Was sending her to Italy truly the best option? Father would be sure to question her sudden arrival, and she was certainly giving Clara a stalwart defense for remaining at home.
A flicker of movement snagged his attention outside, and he brushed the curtain aside with his finger. Woodley, the footman, darted past the stables. What the deuce was he doing out there? A frown tightened his brow. Perhaps it was time to discuss with Mrs. Hamby about keeping a closer eye on the man.
“Isn’t that right, Henry?”
He let the curtain fall as he turned back to the women perched on the settee. Clara’s head angled like a curious robin. Clearly she waited for an answer.
“Whatever it is,” he drawled, “I am sure you are right.”
“There, you see?” She leaned towards Charity, patting her knee. “Your brother is nothing if not agreeable.”
His sister cast him a malignant glance. “I doubt he was even listening.”
“Tsk.” Clara clucked her tongue. “Of course he was. Your brother has always had your best interests at heart—anyone can see that. Truly, darling, I think this trip could be good for you. I’ve heard Italy is breathtaking in the autumn.”
Henry lowered himself into the chair across from his sister, glad for the gentle push. “She’s right. Father would be glad of your company.”
Charity sighed but said nothing.
Clara leaned forwards. “I haven’t said it before, but you do seem pale lately. Tired. A change of scenery might be just the thing. I would miss you at the ball, of course—but your health comes first.”
