Alarm throbbed in his temple, and he pressed his fingers to it. Had Parker’s visit been too much too soon? He crossed the rug, dropping to her side. “I shall see you back to your room now.”
“Not yet.” She didn’t even glance at him, just stared at the fire with a wistful purse of her lips. “It is so cozy here by the hearth.”
Henry leaned back on his haunches, doubting very much it was the warmth of the crackling logs pinking her cheeks. “Do you care for the man … Parker?”
She hugged the book all the tighter, her voice fairy light. “We were friends.”
Friends?
A loaded word, that. What did it really mean? He thought he knew, once, but now? He stalked to the mantel, trying to make sense of it all. Swiping away one of the candlesticks, he spun it slowly between his fingers, studying his sister. “It was my understanding that Parker wanted more, and you did not.”
“Mmm.” At length, her gaze lifted to his. “People change, Henry. Not everyone is the villain we make them out to be.”
His fingers stilled on the candlestick. Ever since spying Parker on the street corner near the bakery, he’d thought the man a scoundrel—the potential tormentor, no less! And yet had he not come here today, was even now riding home in a buffeting rain, not to cause trouble or distress but to simply assure himself of Charity’s well-being? Henry white-knuckled the brass stick. How could he have been so wrong about him? And worse …oh, dear God.
If he was wrong about Parker, what about Juliet?
The candlestick clattered to the slate tiles in front of the hearth, chipping off the corner of one and sending it flying.
“Henry!” Charity cried.
He swiped up the brass holder and set it harshly on the mantel, rattling the other trinkets. Perhaps he’d been too caught up in emotion when Charity had swooned that afternoon. Maybe he’d been too eager to agree with the constable, allowing him to haul Juliet off without first giving her the benefit of the doubt. He exhaled sharply through his nose. Clara had painted a portrait of Juliet as a schemer, orchestrating everything to secure his favour. But poaching? That wasn’t clever. It wasn’t calculated. It was reckless. Desperate. If Juliet had come to Bedford Manor with motives, she would’ve played the part ofa lady. But she hadn’t. She’d risked everything for food, not affection. That was not the mark of a schemer.
It was the mark of a survivor.
He pressed his hands to his head, squeezing in frustration.
Whatwasthe truth?
“Henry?” Charity’s voice crept up his spine like a shiver, her fingers whisper light on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” He forced a measured tone and turned with a fake smile, then guided her back to the chair and retucked the lap rug about her legs. “Now, you rest here, and I shall have Mrs. Hamby bring you some tea. There is something I must do. Something I should have done long before this. Promise me you shall stay right here until I return, hmm?”
“Of course. But what is it that is suddenly so urgent?”
He clutched the back of Charity’s chair as if clinging to life itself. “I must find the truth.”
Chapter 22
Trust is dangerous, so beware.
Juliet fingered the note in her pocket as she paced a route around her cell. She didn’t need to see the scrawled ink anymore. The words were seared into her mind. And likely would be forevermore.
She chewed on her thumbnail as she swung into another circuit, which honestly didn’t take long, so small was the cell. Ignoring the stench of her own unwashed body—ahh, but she’d give her left arm for a rose-scented bath—she focused on the message. Was this a broad warning or a specific threat about a particular person? Probably not the former, because who would bother to deliver such a vague note? And if the latter, did it mean she’d misplaced her trust in someone she’d thought an ally but was really working against her?
A shiver lifted gooseflesh on her forearms, but not from the chill of the stone walls. If that line of thinking were correct, there remained precious few people to beware of, for she’d allowed her heart to trust only Aunt Margaret, Charity, and … She chewed her thumb more furiously, not wishing to admit the last person.
Henry.
Her step hitched, the thin soles of her shoes so damp her toes squished inside them. Logically, Aunt could do nothing in her condition. And Charity was the victim in this whole scenario. So that left … him. The man who’d held her in his arms, claimingshe undid him. The one who’d looked at her as if no other woman existed.
The one she’d given her heart to.
Wind howled through the cracked window high up on the wall, but the mournful sound might as well have slipped out of her own throat. What a fool! She deserved to be in here for being so naive.
Juliet whumped down on the hard cot, teeth juddering. Better to move on to the next part of the note than dwell on such a hideous truth.
Near the old stone gate, truth lies buried where lies take root.
