Mrs. Hamby stood at the front door, conversing with a beam-shouldered man in a blue coat. A blueconstablecoat.
The same man who’d hauled her out of here days ago.
“Ahh, Miss Finch.” His moustache rode the rise of his lips as his dark eyes settled on her. “Just the woman I was looking for.”
Henry sank into the leather chair adjacent the hearth, keenly aware of the man standing across from him. This was his father’s domain. No matter how long Vincent Russell had been away, he reclaimed his place the moment he stepped through the door. Henry had merely been a steward, a placeholder.
A little boy pretending to fill his father’s shoes.
Not that his father need say as much. Authority clung to him like a well-fitted coat. It always had.
His father studied him a moment, the flickering light of the fire sharpening the angles of his face. Henry knew that look. It wasn’t mere curiosity—it was an assessment.
“So, that woman …” His father’s tone was casual, yet not to be brushed off. “This Miss Finch. I notice you are on a first-name basis with her and that she is residing here at the manor.” He paused, smoothing a crease in his trouser leg. “What is the nature of her ‘employment,’ as you put it?”
Henry shifted on the cushion, leather creaking along with the crackle of wood in the grate. Several answers sprang to mind. None of them any good. How could he possibly explain the enigmatic Juliet in a way that would endear her to his father just as she’d captured his affections? His father would want facts, notthe merits of a headstrong woman who’d charmed him against his better judgement. There was nothing for it but to be honest … and to start at the very beginning.
He met his father’s gaze head-on. “Remember when, shortly before you left for Italy, Carver informed us he suspected a poacher was nicking our game?”
“I do.” He wagged his finger. “But do not think to change the subject.”
“I wish I were.” A humourless chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Juliet is—or was—that poacher.”
“A woman?” His father’s brows drew into a stern line before he stepped away from the hearth. Languidly, he strolled to the drinks cart and pulled the stopper off a decanter, then glanced over his shoulder. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
Henry shrugged. “She was caught in the act. Ask Carver if you like.”
Liquid poured into a glass. The stopper clinked into the bottle. His father’s footsteps shushed over the rug, the cushion on the chair across from him whooshing as he sat. For a long while he said nothing, just swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the tiny whirlpool. Then, quiet as dusk in a graveyard, he spoke. “So, you invited a thief to reside in our home. Had I known your judgement to be this skewed, I never would have left the estate to your care.”
Henry flattened his lips, trapping a frustrated groan. That stung. Not just because it was a slight, but because it confirmed his deepest fear. Ever since his father had left for Italy, he had questioned himself on each decision, second-guessed every choice, all in an effort to prove his worth. To show his father—and the world—that he’d raised an honourable man.
And yet he’d fallen short.
He ought to hang his head and beg for pardon, but self-pity would do Juliet no good. Despite the regret burning beneath hisskin, he answered with quiet steel. “Juliet is no common thief, Father. She hunted on our land to stay alive, taking only what was needed. Margaret Brewster, the widow in the woods, is her aunt. There are too many details to go into at the moment but suffice it to say they both fell on hard times—life threatening, actually.”
His father tossed back his drink in one great swallow, then set the glass on the low table between them. “That still does not explain why she is at Bedford Manor now.”
“I have a feeling you are going to like this even less,” Henry murmured as he rose. What he must say next would be better spoken without bearing the weight of his father’s gaze.
He paced to the desk and gripped the edge. “Several months ago—four, I believe—Charity began receiving cryptic notes, then flowers, followed by more sinister means of communicating a threat.”
He blew out a low breath. Even now he could hardly believe he’d let such a travesty go on for so long. “Someone wished her gone.” He turned, leaning against the solid wood for support. “I tried to convince her to come to you while I sorted through who the tormentor might be, but you know Charity. She can be so … obstinate.”
“Yes. Like your mother, God rest her.” Planting his elbows on his thighs, his father steepled his fingers. His jaw stiffened, though it was hard to tell if it was from concern or a stifling of grief. “Why did you not inform me of this? I would have returned home at once.”
“Which is why I did not. You left me to manage things here, and I—” His voice caught, and he swallowed. “I did not want to be the reason you had to come back. Not again.”
His father hissed a breath. “I thought we were beyond that childhood incident. You learned your lesson. You have proven yourself responsible, or I would not have left you in charge.”
The words settled over his shoulders like a blanket Henry didn’t know he needed. His father thought he had been doing a good job. That he’d learned and grown.
But the man’s next words popped that rising elation. “Yet it appears you have taken this too far the other way. You were not meant to be God, Henry.”
Be God? Is that what had happened here? Had he shouldered responsibilities that were not his to carry? He shoved his hands into his pockets, conscience thoroughly pricked. “Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly, “but what else was I to do? When Mother died, everything shattered. You lost yourself in grief. Charity drifted. And I … I thought if I just kept things running—the estate in order and the books clean—it might ease your sorrow. Might bring you back to the land of the living.”
His father said nothing, just waited. The fire crackled in the grate, and for a moment, he saw himself then—barely more than a boy—trying to mimic the way his father sat in this very chair, handling correspondence with ink-stained fingers too small for a man’s pen.
“Then you left,” he continued, “and I was certain it was because I failed. So, when things went wrong again—when the letters started coming and Charity grew frightened—I could not bear to call you. I thought, if I could fix it this time, maybe it would prove I was capable.”
