“How absurd. Clara is an old friend, not given to wagging her tongue in public.”
“I meant no disrespect. She seems a lovely lady. I simply think there is wisdom in being cautious—even with friends. I have learned the hard way that those you think are constant companions can turn out to be rabid dogs.”
He wrestled with her words while directing her into the left-hand corridor. Matching her stride, he mulled over all she’d said—and hadn’t said. He didn’t appreciate the implication he might have provided Clara with too much information. Clara was no stranger, no frivolous gossip. Still, Juliet’s insight gave him pause. There was something unnerving about the way Miss Finch was always so aware, always watching, calculating, as though she saw through layers others missed. Was such a suspicious mien born of necessity, the by-product of a life where caution was the only way to stay alive? Or was her caution nothing more than an overactive nerve he’d accidentally struck?
He pressed his fingers to the base of his neck, easing the lingering tension. Then again, she wasn’t wrong to be cautious.Women often reveled in a tale, no matter how innocent it began. And Clara … well, Clara was a good friend, but that didn’t make her immune to curiosity.
“Is that how you have learned to get by, then?” he mused outwardly. “By leashing every word and reading every room?”
She licked her lips before answering. “I suppose you could say that.”
He paused several steps shy of the pantry. “You never told me what it was that has brought you so low.”
“No, I have not.” Her eyes flashed with a now-familiar fire.
Insolent little sprite. And yet there was something thrilling in her refusal to yield, something that resonated deep inside him. Not only did this woman know her mind, she was determined to keep her dignity intact, no matter the cost. Such a fierce resolve demanded respect, even admiration, despite himself.
“Very well,” he murmured. “You may keep your secrets … for now.”
She raised an eyebrow, challenging him without a word—and it took every ounce of restraint not to reach out and brush a stray curl from her cheek.
Instead, he indicated the door ahead. “After you.”
He followed her inside the small room, his nose immediately struck with the acrid reek of hartshorn and tarnished metal. An array of silverware was laid out meticulously on a black cloth with William Woodley seated in front of the lineup. He was a wiry young man, with dark hair clinging in wisps to his forehead. His shoulders bowed over his work like a prayer, as though some unseen weight pressed him down. Scullery maids might find him handsome, as he was pleasant of face, skin unmarred by blemishes or pockmarks. He glanced up at their arrival, the cloth in his hand stilling. Immediately he stood. A cornered hare couldn’t look more panicked.
Henry halted a few steps past the threshold. No sense in giving the man an apoplexy. “We would have a word with you, Woodley.”
The knob of the man’s throat bobbed, but to his credit, his voice did not quaver. “Yes, sir?”
Henry set the note on the table and, stabbing it with his index finger, slid the paper towards the footman. “I would have you explain this.”
Woodley collected the scrap, his eyes widening as he silently mouthed the words. Colour drained from his face. “I—I don’t know, sir.”
Juliet stepped closer to the man. “It was found in your pocket, Mr. Woodley.”
He shook his head wildly. “I swear I never seen it before.”
Henry studied the fellow carefully, eyes narrowing as he took in every detail. The footman’s once-ruddy cheeks turned ashen. His posture was rigid with a slight tremor in his hands, the paper quivering noticeably. Either the man had been caught in a lie, or the terror of being falsely accused was too much for him to bear.
“Who is the ‘she’ implied in this note?” Henry pressed.
Woodley cleared his throat, that knob at his neck once again bobbing. “I have no idea, sir.”
“And yet,” Juliet drawled, “the fact remains that the note was found in your pocket. Surely you must have some explanation.”
His brow furrowed as he fidgeted with the hem of his waistcoat. “I swear, I don’t know how it got there, miss. I wouldn’t … I mean, I’dneverhave anything to do with—”
Without warning, he clammed up.
Henry stepped closer, folding his arms. “It seems someone thought your pocket a convenient hiding place for such a message. Tell me, Woodley—if as you say this is the first time you’ve laid eyes on that note—then how do you think it came to be in your pocket?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. It—it must’ve been slipped in when I wasn’t looking. I swear it.” Lamplight glinted off a moist sheen on his brow. “Am I in trouble?”
Juliet glanced at Henry, then back at Woodley. “I assure you, Mr. Woodley, we are accusing you of nothing. We are merely gathering information. Now then, that note implies someone, this mysterious ‘she,’ will find out about something soon. Is there anyone in the household who might have reason to believe you have been involved in anything … improper? Is there some untoward behaviour into which you are being coerced?”
His face flushed a deep crimson. “I do my duties and keep to myself. That’s all. Ask Mrs. Hamby. She’ll tell ye.”
Henry aimed a finger towards the note, now crumpled in the man’s hand. “That little missive implies otherwise.”
