“Here, let me do that.” Finally dropping her makeshift weapon, Juliet shook away the debris. “You are lucky you did not twist your ankle with such a fall.”
“Clumsy me. I should have watched my feet instead of staring into the darkness, dreading another glimpse of that man.”
“Be at peace. He is gone.” She gave the fabric one last brush-over with her palm, then tensed when she neared Charity’s hem. There on the ground lay a green ribbon, one side of it still tied to ankle height on the branch of a lavender bush, its lingering sweetness a macabre contrast to the horror racing through Juliet’s veins. After untying it, she rose, clutching the frayed strip.
“What is that?” Charity’s brow puckered. “Your hair ribbon? I … I don’t understand. Is that what tripped me?”
Juliet swallowed, throat thick. “I am afraid so.”
Charity paled, shaking her head slowly. “But …? Surely you didn’t …?”
“Never! I swear it.”
Charity pressed a hand to her chest, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think so. But itisyour ribbon. I think …” She blinked rapidly. “Come, Juliet. Henry should hear of this. There must be an explanation.”
She moved forwards, glancing back once as if wishing none of this could be true.
So did Juliet.
Reluctantly, she followed, strangling the life from her ribbon, thoughts scrambling.
Someone had taken this ribbon from her room.
Someone had set her up as an aggressor.
Someone wanted her gone.
Blast!
Henry slammed down his pen, disgusted by the blot of ink ruining the pristine contract he’d been labouring over for the past hour. Another mistake. Another sign of disorder. One disaster after another had plagued his whole day. Nay, more like the whole week.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, he leaned back in his chair, the creak of leather competing with the pop of wood in the fireplace. He stared at the paneled ceiling, weary of numbers and meetings and failure.
Father had entrusted him with the soon-to-arrive shipment of his new blend, and he had yet to arrange a venue and finalize his list of possible investors. It was his responsibility. His test. And he was floundering. He ought to be spending his time keeping an eye on Charity until she departed for London tomorrow instead of burying his head in paperwork.
But it wasn’t just the wine or the investors or the endless contracts. It was the feeling that no matter how many tasks he completed or fires he stamped out, he was still falling short—just as he had after Mother died. They’d all mourned, naturally, but Father took it hardest. Oh, he had tried to draw his father back to life—inviting friends, managing the estate, keeping everythingjust so. But nothing reached through the fog. His father had left for Italy not out of whimsy nor fully because of business. It was a retreat. A quiet resignation that Henry hadn’t been able to stop. He hadn’t known what to say back then. Still didn’t.
So he worked. He filled the silence with duty and deadlines, hoping to earn back the confidence he feared he’d lost. And now, with so much hanging in the balance—with Charity’s safety, Juliet’s trust, the estate’s future—he couldn’t afford to come up lacking again. He huffed a long breath. Failure never came easy.
Would to heaven it might never come at all.
A scurry of footsteps entered the study. Charity stood, pale of face, clutching tightly to the shawl gathered in puckers at her neck. Juliet followed, as wide-eyed as the night he’d caught her in the woods.
He rose at once, his chair scraping harshly against the wood flooring. “What has happened?”
“Forgive our intrusion, Brother, but there is something you should know about.” Wincing, Charity pressed a hand to her side, slightly swaying on her feet.
He frowned, concerned, but before he could go to her, Juliet shored her up with an arm about her shoulders. “Charity, please sit. We can explain everything just as well from a chair.”
“Wise words.” He ushered them to the sofa in front of the hearth. Charity sank as if exhausted. Juliet perched on the cushion next to her, set to take flight if spooked.
He took the opposite chair, gripping its arms, the room steeped in foreboding. “Now then, what exactly is it you are to explain?”
Charity plucked at the tasseled hem of her shawl. “I asked Juliet to take a turn in the garden with me before dinner, as has been our habit of the past week. All was well until I saw a man near the shrubbery.”
He shot to his feet. “What man?”
“No need to charge off.” Juliet wound a dirty green ribbon into a tight coil as she spoke. “It was only Mr. Dankworth, and he has since left the premises. He said he called at the house for business with you but that you were too occupied to see him.”
