Henry narrowed his eyes. “What sort of information?”
Parker glanced at the sitting room, obviously expecting the conversation to be had in the comfort of a sofa and chairs, but when none of them made a move for such trappings, he merely stationed himself with a shoulder against the wall. “I had business at the livery stable—my horse needs shoeing—so I spoke with Mr. Toll, the stable master. During our conversation, he let something slip that I didn’t think much of until I returned home. Another horse was taken out just after daybreak, one that also needed a shoe. Mr. Toll wasn’t keen to let it go far, but apparently a wealthy lady who’d ordered a coach early this morn insisted there be no delay and wouldn’t wait for the blacksmith. She argued the point until another carriage arrived.”
“Who was this woman?” his father cut in.
“Mr. Toll did not identify her, and I did not ask. At any rate, a driver and a nurse debarked this new carriage, assisting an unsteady, veiled lady whom they delivered into the coach the woman had hired. The wealthy woman herself did not join them, nor did the driver. That coach departed with the veiled woman and the nurse, bound for Tunbridge Wells.”
Such gossip. Henry snorted. “I had no idea you fancied yourself a society matron.”
“We all have our weaknesses.” Parker smirked. He paused a beat, his fingers drumming on the handle of his cane. “When I returned home and had a moment to think on the matter, the less sense it made. Why would a wealthy woman hire a public carriage instead of using her own? And why send an ailing lady to Tunbridge Wells when Cheltenham is closer and far morefashionable? And then it struck me. The only lady I know of with health concerns is Miss Russell.”
His fingers stilled, and his voice lowered. “So tell me, has Charity taken a sudden turn for the worse?”
“Blast!” Henry paced across the rug and back. “Itisworse. Charity is gone.”
Parker gripped his cane with both hands. “What do you mean, gone?”
His father straightened, stepping away from the balustrade, his entire frame going rigid. “My daughter is missing, and I suspect you have just given us some valuable information.”
Parker blinked. “So thatwasCharity? But you did not send her?” His eyes widened. “Are you saying she has been abducted?”
Juliet stepped up to Henry so quickly, her skirts swirled around her legs. “Do you still believe Clara innocent? She certainly qualifies as a woman with means to hire a coach. She probably coerced Woodley to help her and sent your sister to some undisclosed place where she will not be found.”
Parker snapped his fingers. “But I know just the place. Bellamy House, a private nursing institution in Tunbridge Wells. I was meant to go there when my leg failed to heal after being wounded by one of our own men, but the home was at capacity, so I was diverted to Bath instead.”
Henry stilled, sickened, as all the pieces fell into place. “If this is true, then the driver of that carriage this morning was no doubt Woodley—and he’d better confess if he knows what’s good for him.”
He stormed into the sitting room.
Only to find the chair empty, a rope pooled at the legs, and the curtains billowing in like ghosts from an open window.
Chapter 26
As town houses went, Clara Whitmore’s was no more or less outstanding than any other Juliet had ever visited, which was oddly off-putting. While she and Henry waited for the butler to answer, Juliet glanced at the large sconces on each side of the door, their flickering candle flames alive in the fresh dark of early evening. The dim light licked over the polished brass knocker just like every other house on the street. A residence like this did not belong to a villain.
Or maybe that was the most villainous thing about it. The polished veneer … just like Clara herself.
“Stop that.” Reaching aside, she stilled Henry’s hands, preventing him from wringing the life out of his leather gloves. “Wishing you were throttling Mr. Woodley’s neck will not make it so.”
His gaze flicked to her, then to the street. “I should have gone with my father and Carver to find him.”
“Yet you were the one who insisted I not confront Clara alone.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Though it would have been a pretty spectacular catfight.”
He frowned down at her. “That is exactly what I am here to prevent.”
The door opened to a hook-nosed man clad in black. “Good evening, Mr. Russell. Miss Whitmore did not inform me you would be calling tonight.”
“This is an unexpected visit on my part, as well. Is she available?”
“I believe she is tending Mrs. Whitmore, but you may wait in the sitting room while I enquire.” He allowed them entrance into a spacious front hall, a modest chandelier casting golden light over the black-and-white-tiled flooring. Shutting the door, he assessed her with a measured eye while speaking to Henry. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
Henry gripped his gloves with both hands. “Simply inform Miss Whitmore I am here. I will not detain her for long.”
“Very good. The sitting room is already lit with a fire.” He swept his hand towards a door with a golden glow spilling out.
“Thank you.” Henry strode away without waiting for further invitation, his shoulders rigid, his step clipped and stilted.
Juliet caught up to him just past the threshold of a green-and-cream-painted sitting room. The warmth of the fire couldn’t touch the storm simmering in his posture. “Give me those gloves before you wear holes in them. You are working yourself into quite the lather.” Not that she blamed him, but still … their interview with Clara would have to be handled delicately—with calculated thought, not emotion.
