“Impossible. It has taken me all day to secure Miss Finch’s release.” He strode off, gut twisting, and took the stairs two at atime. Juliet’s skirts rustled behind him all the way to Charity’s room.
He pounded his fist against the door. “Charity? I am coming in.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
The door banged against the wall as he stalked inside.
But as Mrs. Hamby had said, the room was vacant.
He wheeled about, nearly crashing into Juliet in the corridor. She stumbled. He righted her with a grasp on her arm.
And a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Henry?”
He turned towards the stairs, where a broad-shouldered figure ascended. Silver streaks winged back at his temples, but time had done little to soften the man’s commanding presence. His travel-creased suit spoke of days on the road, and as he approached, a faint scent of basil and cinnamon hung about him. His face was golden, kissed by a foreign sun, his gaze keen and assessing.
Vincent Russell, Esquire.
Henry immediately straightened his shoulders.
Of all the times for his father to return home.
Chapter 24
If Henry were a panther, this man was a wolfhound in comparison. Instinct drove Juliet back a step. His stride was unrushed and methodical, that of a man accustomed to obedience without a snap or snarl. His presence alone commanded respect. He held his head high as he approached, bearing the same angular jawline as Henry, every bit as strong and resolute. This was a man not to be crossed. Yet despite all that, she got the distinct impression he was an evenhanded gentleman—open to reason and compassion—and would not bite without due cause.
But when he did, he would not let go.
“Father.” Henry’s head dipped in greeting. “I was not expecting you.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Drawing close, his father clasped Henry’s shoulder. A brief touch, yet significant. Obviously they held a close relationship, for affection gleamed in the green streaks of the man’s hazel eyes. All in all, he was not an unkind-looking fellow, but neither would he be one to tolerate foolishness.
He pulled away, his gaze flicking between them. “The two of you appear more travel weary than I am.”
Her hand flew to her hair, smoothing and tucking. Pointless, really. One could not instantaneously craft a bird’s nest into a sleek swath of satin. Nor could she do a thing about her filthy gown. Or—most unfortunately—her stench.
Henry stood straight as a church spire. “I will explain, Father, but first allow me to introduce you to Miss Juliet Finch.” He swept his hand towards her, pulling her up to his side. “Miss Finch, my father, Mr. Vincent Russell.”
She dipped a curtsey, despising the caked mud on her hem. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Russell.”
“You as well, Miss Finch.” He gave a sharp nod, then arched a brow, humour twitching his lips into a grin. “I can only hope your current state has nothing to do with my son.”
She returned his smile, deciding that despite his quiet dominance, she liked him. “It was a joint effort, sir.”
He turned to Henry. “And am I to find Charity so disheveled as well?”
Henry tensed—she could feel it even though she stood apart from him. “I certainly hope not.”
“Well, I should think you would know.” His smile faded. “When I arrived not long ago, Mrs. Hamby informed me your sister was with you.”
Henry shook his head. “Mrs. Hamby was incorrect.”
“Then where is she?” It was not an angry question, not harsh or condemning in the least.
But all the same, Henry flinched. “I … am not sure, sir.”
Mr. Russell’s brows raised to the rafters. “Am I to understand while you and Miss Finch were apparently rolling about in the great outdoors, that your sister has gone missing?” His eyes bounced between them, sharp as a tailor’s pins, and Juliet suddenly longed for the floorboards to develop a sense of mercy and swallow her whole.
