She gazed up at Henry. “I think it sweet how you look out for your sister.”
“Some would say I am overbearing,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on Charity.
“I say it shows you love her.”
“It is only right I remain vigilant with my father away. I am responsible for her, and I take that charge to heart.”
“Would that everyone took their obligations so seriously.” Her father certainly hadn’t. This time an angry huff came out.
Henry’s brows drew into a straight line … the same protective expression he used when regarding his sister. “You have been hurt—deeply, I suspect—and by someone very dear to you.”
Her breath stalled, those green-grey eyes of his penetrating beyond her carefully fashioned facade. Though couched as a statement, there would be no shrinking from such a direct query.
“Yes,” she whispered.
A breeze whipped down the lane, tinkling a string of bells on the nearest booth and coaxing loose a wave of her hair. Good. She shoved it back, giving her fingers something to do other than relent to the scandalous urge to touch his sleeve and pretend to once again be a lady, one whom this man might cherish.
“I am sorry to hear it.” Sincerity ran thick in his voice. “God never intends for us to carry our burdens alone. Sometimes it helps to have a confidant, and my sister tells me I have a good listening ear.”
Longing welled, so tangible she tasted the sweetness of it on her tongue. How good it would be to share her woes with someone other than Aunt Margaret. To be met with compassion instead of derision. But could she trust him?Shouldshe?
And if she did, would he discard her as easily as had Colin Chamberlain?
“Anything you tell me will remain with me. I vow it. Besides”—a slow smile spread across his full lips—“I have already seen you at your worst.” He elbowed her shoulder playfully.
How true that was. He could have had her arrested, sent her away, and yet he’d taken her into his home to work alongside him. Though she’d known him scarcely over a fortnight, he’d been nothing but the portrait of integrity.
“But come.” With a light touch to her arm, he guided her into the fray of pedestrians. “My sister is on the move.”
Sure enough, Charity and her friends had strayed several booths down the lane. Juliet fell into step with Henry, casting him a sideways glance. “I suppose it is no secret to you that I come from a family of some standing, leastwise I used to.”
“I knew you were a lady that first night we met.”
Her brows shot to the torchlit sky. “In the woods?”
He chuckled, the happy sound blending with the giggles of small children gathered around a brightly lit puppet show, Punch going after Judy with a papier-mâché club. “Yes, even when you had mud on your boots and leaves in your hair, you carried yourself with a grace that could not be hidden. A true lady does not need fine clothes or jewels to be recognized, and you, Juliet Finch, are every bit a lady.” Admiration warmed his tone as he steered her around the cluster of show gawkers. “But back to your tale of woe.”
Indeed. Woeful it was.
“My father”—she nearly choked on the word—“was a man of affairs. A high-ranking one, to be exact. He managed the dealings of some of the finest families in England, not only overseeing their financial matters but also acting as a trusted adviser to very powerful men. This position afforded us a comfortable life. But that did not satisfy him. He always strived for more, reaching for things he ought not to have touched. As I understand it, he started small, shifting insignificant sums into his own account. At first, I believe he thought he could set things right should anyone find out, but eventually everything spiraled out of control.”
Henry stopped dead in his tracks, a mix of horror and compassion chasing across his face. “Are you saying he embezzled money?”
She nodded, lips flat. “More than any of us suspected. He was caught, of course, for such a crime cannot go on forever without being discovered. There was trial, a very public trial in which our assets were seized to repay the families he wronged. My mother could not bear the disgrace when Father was hauled off to gaol. She had already lost my brother two years prior to consumption. The doctor said she died of a broken heart—and that nearly broke mine.”
“Oh, Juliet, I am so sorry.” There was a husky—almost vulnerable—rawness to his sentiment, which did much to begin healing some of the shame and contempt she’d suffered from her former so-called friends. Would that they’d been as understanding as this man.
Yet understanding did not fill a belly, as she well knew. “I appreciate your sympathy, Mr. Russell—”
“Henry,” he interrupted.
“Henry,” she conceded with a small smile. “But I have learned that ‘sorry’ changes nothing.”
“And yet sometimes it changes us.”
“How so?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “When I was a boy, I once thought my sister and I were in grave danger. Our father had gone to France on business—and that time, he’d taken our mother with him. Charity and I were left behind with only the governess and the household staff. My sister and I were convinced the house was haunted, that some malevolent spirit meant us harm. So, I sent a letter—panicked, begging my father to come home. He did. Dropped everything. Packed himself and Mother up and sped home … only to find nothing more than creaking shutters, a loose hedgehog, and two frightenedchildren.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I apologized, of course. Said I was sorry for drawing him away.”
