Beside him, Juliet breathed a small groan.
Sensing the tension in the air, Fisk retreated a step. “I will let you sort this out in private, then. I’ve gotten all the information I need from Miss Finch.” His gaze narrowed on her as he clapped on his hat. “But remember, I shall be keeping a close watch on you.”
She didn’t so much as flinch, God love her. “I would expect nothing less, sir.”
Shaking his head, his father exhaled sharply. “I will see you to the door, Mr. Fisk.”
The constable dipped his head as a parting gesture, then followed the man out.
The instant they were alone, Henry turned to Juliet, barely able to keep from pulling her into his arms. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, but her lips pressed tight as she retrieved a paper from her pocket. “You need to see this.”
He unfolded the small square of paper, and the meaning of the words sank like rocks to his gut. “This cannot be true!”
Her brows raised slightly at his outburst, her voice a calm sea in comparison. “That is exactly what I thought.”
He clenched the paper in his fist. The penmanship was shaky, but the message had undeniably been written by his sister’s own hand. She was gone. To Italy. Could it be true?
Or was it a deception?
Chapter 25
So. Henry agreed with her. The notion hung in the air like the final note of a lullaby, softening the room’s gathering dusk. Juliet allowed a small smile at the triumph, although not an actual grin. The dismal situation did not sanction such mirth. She’d barely been out of gaol for a few hours and already the constable was sniffing about, just waiting to pin something else on her. Drat that Mr. Scather!
A scuffling of feet entered the room, Mrs. Hamby leading the charge. Behind her, Mr. Carver hustled in the footman, Woodley looking for all the world like he’d seen a spectre. Or maybe an entire host of them, so ashen was his face.
“What the deuce is this about?” Henry boomed beside her.
“I should like to know as well.” His father’s tone was no less harsh as he strode into the room.
Mrs. Hamby aimed an accusing finger at Woodley. “The instant I mentioned that the constable Mr. Fisk was here, this bodger made a run for it out the back door. I wasted no time in asking Mr. Carver to haul him right back in.” Her eyes narrowed at the footman. “I refuse to speak poorly about anyone if there is no outward cause, Mr. Woodley, but dashing off like that just wasn’t right. I cannot abide such questionable conduct. What you did was untrustworthy and outright defiant, ignoring me like you did.” Her gaze shifted to Henry and his father. “I thought you might wish to question him about such odd behaviour before I turn him out.”
“Well done, Mrs. Hamby.” Henry’s father nodded at the woman. “You are entirely correct. My son and I will handle the matter from here.”
Carver pushed Woodley into a chair. “You want me to stay, sir?”
Henry shook his head. “That will not be necessary.” He turned to the footman, his expression ice and steel. “Woodley will not do anything foolish, will you?”
The footman white-knuckled the chair arms. “N–no, sir.”
“Right.” Carver tipped his head. “But all the same, forethought spares regret.” He pulled out a length of rope from his pocket and made short work of fastening Woodley to the chair.
After jerking on the knot, Carver straightened and tugged his forelock at the Russell men. “I shall be but a call away should you require a little muscle.”
Mr. Russell stayed the man with a touch to his arm. “Why don’t you go fetch the constable, just in case there is need. He can’t have gone far.”
With an “Aye, sir,” Carver strode from the room, Mrs. Hamby following.
They had barely exited before Henry turned on Woodley. “What have you done?”
His father laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Allow me.”
But his line of questioning didn’t go any better. Oh, Mr. Russell’s tone was deadly calm, all right—but deadly all the same. Woodley looked positively green seated before the two imposing men. Even were the footman inclined, Juliet doubted very much he could put two words together without swooning.
She stepped closer, studying the man. Fear twitched his lips, his nostrils flaring with each ragged inhale, but she sensed instinctively it was not only the Russells causing such a visceral reaction. He was terrified of something—or someone—else.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.” She rounded the tea table, facing Henry and his father. “If I may have your permission, I should like to ask Mr. Woodley a few questions of my own.”
