Mr. Russell’s brows rose.
Henry’s furrowed. “What could you possibly ask that we have not?”
“I mean no disrespect.” She smiled sweetly. “Your queries are spot on, and yet I would like to give it a go.”
Mr. Russell retreated a step, gesturing with an outstretched arm. “Be our guest, Miss Finch. Women are not without their merits when it comes to getting a man to speak.”
She gave her own gesture—towards the door. “Thank you, but I ask that you two step out of the room while I do so.”
“No.” Henry’s dismissal rang sharp. “If Woodley made a run from the constable, there is no telling what he might do if left alone with you. I will not have you in danger.”
A sweet sentiment, but one wholly misplaced. She laid a light touch on Henry’s sleeve. “I am not asking you to leave the premises, merely to stand outside the door. Besides, he is tied up.” She glanced at the footman. “But even if you were not, you would not harm me, would you, Mr. Woodley?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No, miss! I would never do such a thing.”
She peered up at Henry. “There. And I do not think I need to remind you that time is of the essence concerning your sister, do I?”
His jaw ticked. A cord rose along his neck. For a moment, she thought he would argue further.
But then—he stilled.
A flicker of something shifted in his expression. Thought. Memory. Decision. She could almost see the war waging behind his eyes.
And then his posture changed. Less braced. Less rigid. “I don’t like this, Juliet,” he murmured. “But I trust you.”
He looked to his father, who gave a sharp nod, then turned to Woodley, dropping into a crouch with the weight of a threat. “Don’t give me reason to regret that trust. Understood?”
Woodley swallowed and nodded, paling by degrees.
Without another word, Henry stood and backed away. After a final glance at her, concern still etched in every line of his face, he and his father stepped out into the hall.
She pulled over a footstool, placing it squarely in front of Mr. Woodley, then sat, a little lower than eye to eye, which would hopefully give the illusion she was no threat. Unbidden, a snort begged for release, but she pressed her lips tight. Who was she fooling? She was no threat at all, so she would simply have to shoulder her way through this dangerous charade, a skill she’d honed in many a ballroom to avoid unwelcome advances.
“It is just you and I now, Mr. Woodley. This is your one—and only—chance to confess all to me. I may look the part of a woman of no consequence, but I assure you I have far deeper connections than you can imagine. From what I have seen these past two months of observing your service here at Bedford Manor—and trust me, it is no coincidence I arrived when I did—I do not believe you own a criminal nature. Rather, I suspect you may be a victim of circumstance.”
His jaw dropped, his mouth contorting several times before words escaped. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because as a casualty of the very same injury, I can spot it in others.”
“You?” He spluttered. “But you are a lady of high standing.”
“Mmm.” She stared him down. “We are not all as we appear, are we?”
He jerked his face aside, cursing under his breath. Dark hair fell over his eyes, yet he said nothing more.
So. She’d struck an exposed nerve.
But what was he hiding? Who was Mr. Woodley? If he was indeed aWoodleyat all. He could be operating under an assumed name, yet was surmising such a risk worth taking?
“Your name is not Woodley,” she said matter-of-factly.
He snapped his face back to hers, a storm brewing in his eyes. “What else do you know?”
“Enough to have you arrested,” she bluffed. “But if you are frank with me, I shall be lenient. Now”—tipping back her head, she stared down her nose—“tell me all.”
A low breath dragged out of him, followed by a look of determination. “Fine, but I’m not naming any names. I’m not that sort.”
She did not flinch. “Go on.”
