So where was he?
The question consumed her. She’d expected him to return last evening. When that didn’t happen, she’d hardly slept for anticipation of an early-morning release. That was ages ago. Furiously, she wound the cloth one way then another, questions swirling in her head. Had the magistrate refused her discharge? Or worse, had Henry not even visited the man and instead first sought the buried evidence—then found something damning against her? Another vial of laudanum, perhaps? A torn bit of one of her gowns? Maybe even a written confession forged in her own penmanship? Clearly whoever had been tormenting Charity was not above such a dastardly deed, wishing not only Henry’s sister gone but her as well.
And if Henry had unearthed supposed proof of her guilt for a crime she didn’t commit, did that mean the next face she’d see would be a hangman’s?
She shivered, and not just from the bone-chilling cold—then her spine snapped straight as the iron latch on the admitting door scraped open. Hinges screeched. Boots thudded. Heartracing, Juliet shot to her feet. He’d returned. Henry had returned! She flew to the bars.
Only to see the turnkey standing there, club ready at his side—theonlything at his side. Henry did not accompany him. She pressed her fist to her belly, gutted.
The man eyed her as if she were merely one more item on his daily task list to tick off. Which she probably was. He reached for the key looped to his belt. “Looks like you’ve been dealt a new hand, Miss Finch.”
“Ho, ho!” Jackie called from farther down. “Queenie’s got herself a pardon.”
“Careful there, yer highness.” The woman in the next cell cackled. “Don’t let that door hit yer royal behind on the way out.”
Ignoring them, Juliet smoothed her shaky hands along her skirt, working out the twists she’d inflicted. “What does that mean?” she asked the turnkey.
He swung her door wide open. “You’re free to go, miss.”
She blinked, hardly daring to believe his words. If that were so—oh, God, please let it be so—then where was Henry? She gazed past him, murmuring, “On whose order? Who freed me?”
The big man shrugged. “I just do as I’m told. All I know is I’m to let you out. What happens after that is up to you, I suppose.” Hooking the key ring back on his belt, he turned away.
“Ye better hustle along, Queenie, a’fore that bounder changes ’is mind … lessen ye’d like to skip down here a’ways fer a good-bye kiss,” Jackie hollered.
“Don’t do it, luv! Ye’re sure to catch a crawler o’ a disease from that barker.”
Gathering her skirts, Juliet dashed after the turnkey, glad to be free of such unending waggery, and reached the door just as he did. She followed his blue coat up a set of spiraling stairs, the air fresher with each tread. With a final turn, they emerged into the receiving area of the Bedford gaol.
When she’d first been hauled in, she’d cringed from the intimidating starkness of the place. The black beams overhead had pressed the air from her lungs. The pockmarked desk near the windowless front door stood empty now, as the guard was at her side, but the sight of it still sent shivers down her spine. That’s where she’d been indelibly marked as a criminal in the ledger. Next to it was the scarred wooden bench, stained with the sweat and despair of countless criminals—herself included—as she’d waited for her imprisonment.
But now it all seemed a cheery haven compared to what she’d endured belowstairs.
Only one other door graced the west wall. The warden’s office, where two men conversed in low tones, both with their backs towards her—one of which sent her pulse into an erratic beat.
Henry’s black coat fell in crisp lines over his broad frame. He stood rigid, fists flexing at his side, hinting at restraint. Had it been such a battle for her release? Warmth wrapped around her shoulders. If it had been a struggle, he’d fought it for her.
“Here she is, Mr. Gabbert.” The guard nodded at the warden, then apparently washing his hands of the whole business, strode to the chair behind the desk and plopped down, wood creaking.
Henry spun at her approach. It took everything in her not to run into his arms and pretend none of this had ever happened. But the moment she gained his side, his scent of bay leaf and leather wrapping around her like an embrace, she could finally breathe again. She peered up at him, knees shaky. “I was beginning to wonder if you would return.”
A sultry smile curved half his mouth, and for a breath-stealing moment, she wondered if he would pull her against him. He did not reach for her, but his husky tone caressed her all the same. “I will always come for you.”
Behind him, the warden cleared his throat. “See that you keep the terms of her release, Mr. Russell.”
“No need for a reminder, sir.” Though he spoke to Mr. Gabbert, his gaze did not stray from her face. “I shall not be letting her out of my sight.” He crooked his arm, his tone softening. “Come.”
She pressed her fingers against his sleeve, allowing him to steer her towards the door. “What terms?”
He glanced down at her as he led her outside. “I will explain it on our way home.”
Home.
Her breath caught. How lovely the sound of that word. Even lovelier was the scent of rain-washed streets mixed with chimney smoke. A whirlwind of leaves swirled at her feet as Henry stopped near the carriage and helped her up. She sank onto the velvet cushion, the softness of it something she would never again take for granted. Oh, how thankful she was to be out of that hellish place!
Henry climbed in beside her, rapping on the wall for the driver to move on. When the carriage lurched forwards, his thigh bumped against hers. A thrill charged through her, but even so she eased away, putting space between them, painfully aware of how wretched she must look—and smell.
“So”—she faced him—“what are the terms of my release?”
