Mrs. Hamby sniffed. “I’ll tend to this. You needn’t worry yourself, sir. I shall see about repairing the damage.” She paused, producing a slip of paper. “This came a few minutes ago. A village lad brought it for Miss Charity—bolted before I could ask who sent him.”
Charity glanced at him as she held out trembling fingers.
He stayed her hand with a gentle touch. “How about if I glance at it first?”
Her shoulders sagged as she nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamby.” He collected the note, then once again returned to the drawing room, Charity’s steps not quite so eager this time as she followed.
He strolled to the window, his back towards his sister, and shook open the paper in a stream of sunshine.
Beware those you trust
And more those you doubt.
What seems at an end
Has yet to play out.
Fly away, little bird
Fly away while you can.
Fly away far and fast
Fly away or …
Henry’s jaw locked. And from the corner of his eye, he swore—just for a second—he saw Woodley’s pale face peeking in from the hall.
Chapter 12
Afew spare crickets chirruped in the gathering dark of Bedford Manor’s woods, welcoming Juliet back to her old haunt. The familiar rush of possible danger pulsed through her veins. She’d missed this thrill of the hunt. The hush between the trees. The eerie screech of a barn owl calling like an old friend.
And yet this time was also distinctly different.
She dared another peek at the master of the estate, walking several paces to her right. He was a distraction, this man, but it was not to be helped. Henry’s dark form stalked like a panther, determined, stealthy, a predator to be feared … but what she really ought to fear was the growing admiration for him she could no longer deny.
She blew a quiet sigh. It had been with mixed feelings she’d returned from church earlier that afternoon, fully expecting him to release her from their bargain. To pack up and go back to Aunt Margaret’s and resume her former life. Instead, with great surprise—and alarm—she’d listened as he’d read her the threatening letter that had been delivered for Charity. Apparently Mr. Parker had ignored Henry’s warning of last night … unless Mr. Parker wasn’t the one responsible for the harassment. And Mr. Dankworth had clearly been on the road to town, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d hired a village lad to deliver that dastardly note.
Henry’s gaze sought hers, his voice not much above a whisper. “I trust you found your aunt well today.”
“Yes, thank you very much. I appreciate you allowing me to visit her. It was quite kind of you.” Guilt nipped her conscience. Her aunt hadn’t been her only stop, for after that she’d delivered the requested yarrow tincture to Mrs. Craft.
“All I did was grant you permission. Hardly the makings of a hero,” he murmured.
“That’s a lie.” She smirked.
He stopped, head cocked. “What do you mean?”
And that, right there, was one of the very things that drew her to him. The man had no idea how much his generosity benefited those around him.
“It is heroic what you have done—what youaredoing, I should say. You could have had me arrested, sent me to my death, yet you did not. And now my aunt is flourishing in the care of the nurse you hired. She is well fed and not fretting anymore about the roof falling in on her head, for the repairs on her cottage are coming along quite nicely. Not many men are as generous, leastwise not those I have known, and those who are seldom let the world forget it.”
“So”—a slow smile lifted his lips—“you think me a hero, do you?”
“Careful.” She snorted. “Pride goes before a fall.”
A light chuckle rumbled in his chest, competing with the snuffling of a nearby hedgehog. “You sound as dour as your Reverend Mr. St. John. No doubt he gave the parish a blistering this morning. Why are you drawn to such bleak services?”
