“He did not.” His father tucked the cheroot between his lips, then pulled a small tinderbox from his coat pocket and struck flint against steel. A tiny spark caught in the char cloth, and he coaxed it into a flame before touching it to the cheroot’s end. “Though I fail to see why he would wish her gone from Bedford.”
“Originally, I thought revenge. Spite for her refusing his hand, wishing her banished as he had no doubt felt banished.” Henry hefted a sigh. Though he still did not trust the man completely, Parker had shown no reason to question his integrity. “But recently I have come to the conclusion that did not suit.”
His father circled the rug, a curl of smoke wreathing his head from a mighty exhale. “All right, if not Parker, then who else?”
“Carver has spied Mr. Dankworth poking about the grounds at odd hours. He also had contact with Juliet and Charity under odd circumstances, and seems to take particular interest in Charity.”
“That old hermit?” His father stopped near the grand staircase, resting one arm casually against the balustrade. “If—as you say—he’s been interested in your sister, then what could he possibly gain by chasing her off?”
“You know he has not been right in the head since the death of his wife and daughter. Perhaps Charity reminds him too much of his loss.”
Though if Dankworth were going to come unhinged, it would have likely happened years ago when the two women in his life had perished in a carriage accident. Henry held up a hand before his father could speak. “Yes, I know, not likely, but I have had to consider every possibility.”
“Indeed.” His father nodded. “Outside of you failing to write me sooner—a misunderstanding I presume we have now cleared up—it sounds like you have done all you could. I would not have done better if I had been here.”
The words struck deeper than praise—because they named the ache he hadn’t dared admit. All this time, he hadn’t needed to prove himself. He’d just needed to stop bracing for disappointment.
“Any other leads?” his father prompted.
He sidestepped to the console table, aimlessly picking up a recent calling card from Miss Potter. “One more. Woodley,” he murmured, thoughts turning dark. Dropping the card, he spun towards the sitting room, itching to march in there and shake the man until intelligence tumbled out. “That footman is clearly hiding something!”
“He is.” Juliet crossed the threshold, one brow arched in amusement. “Mr. Woodley hides a sordid past, one that involves smuggling on the Cornish coast, but I do not believe he is Charity’s tormentor. I think the honour goes to Miss Whitmore.”
Henry’s hand drifted to his pocket, his fingers curling around the gold bracelet. Clara’s bracelet. The metal warmed beneath his touch, a heated reminder there was still much mystery to solve.
“That is absurd.” His father aimed the burning end of his cheroot at Juliet. “The Whitmores have been family friends for generations.”
Juliet took up a post in front of the gilt-framed mirror, her hair yet damp and curling down her neck. “Things change over time, whether we like them to or not.”
Henry stifled a snort. “But why? What reason would Clara have to frighten off Charity?”
She speared him with a piercing stare. “You.”
“How ridiculous.” A denial, but even so he stilled from the probability of it.
“Is it?” She launched away from the mirror to stand in front of him. “If Clara got Charity out of the country, she would have you to herself. But then I came along, which necessitated she get rid of me as well, hence my incarceration.” Her voice lowered to a dire tone. “And now your sister is missing, Woodley is terrified, and the only person who benefits from all this is Clara.”
His father took a last drag on his cheroot, then crossed to the table where they stood, and ground it out on a silver salver. “She has a point.”
She did—but it went down like a fish bone in Henry’s throat. “Are you seriously asking me to believe that my childhood friend, the woman who has been nothing but kind to our family, has orchestrated all this?”
“Clara has been patient, which is not the same as being kind. She has been lying in wait for her chance to get you alone and persuade you there is no other woman for you but her.”
The explanation made more sense than he cared to admit. He’d always known she’d admired him, but he’d written it off as nothing more than platonic. Now that he thought on it without blinders, though … the flattering words, the way she always seemed to stand too close for propriety and spoke of his future as if she were a part of it. How she looked at him not as a man with his own choices but as one she could steer to her own will.
His gut clenched. Had she been plotting all this time to ensnare him, body, mind, and soul, and he’d been too naive to recognize it?
He tugged on his cravat, fighting for breath while he strode to the front door. “I need some air.” He yanked it open.
Only to see Edwin Parker, one hand clutching his cane, the other raised to grasp the brass knocker.
Amusement flickered in the man’s dark eyes. “Taken to answering the door yourself, Russell? Times are strange indeed.” He strolled past him, doffing his hat and shaking the mist off the felt. Then he spied Juliet and his father. “Mr. Russell, I had not heard you had returned home. Good afternoon, sir, or what is left of it, at any rate.” He sketched a bow and then turned to Juliet with a dip of his head. “And Miss Finch, good afternoon to you as well. I hadn’t realized you’d been released from gaol.”
“As you see, I have been.” She curtseyed.
Henry’s fingers curled at his sides as he studied the man. “Why have you come?”
“Don’t panic. I won’t stay long.” Parker set his hat on the table. “I merely learned some curious information in town and thought I’d stop by to see if it were true.”
