His betrayer.
“Why?” His voice boomed to the rafters but so be it. Let it thunder to the heavens if that’s what it took to shake the truth from her. “Why would you be informed by the director of a recovery home in Tunbridge Wells—a place you claim you have no connections with—of a soon-to-arrive patient? Is this where you have sent Charity?Is it,Clara?”
Clara froze, her mouth deformed into a big O, her eyes seas of glass, looking for all the world like Lot’s wife taking a last glance at Sodom and Gomorrah.
Just before she became a pillar of salt.
And then she folded, falling into a chair, palms pressed to her cheeks. Tears came. Buckets of them. Washing over her fingers, her lips, her chin. A woman racked by sorrow, sucking in stuttering breaths.
Henry scowled. He should feel some measure of pity, but no. He would not grant her that. And yet—though she didn’t deserve such a kindness—he mechanically thrust a handkerchief towardsher. A lifetime of training was too hard to break. “Here.” The single word was like gravel in his throat.
She snatched it, pressing the fabric to her eyes. “I … only wanted … to help,” she sobbed.
Juliet flung out her hands, scoffing. “Drugging a woman and shipping her off against her will is a strange way to help her.”
Clara dragged the handkerchief across her face, her voice warbling between gasps. “Everything has been too much for Charity. I only wished her to receive the tender care she deserves. You have been blind, Henry, buried in your father’s affairs. I don’t blame you, but someone needed to act on your sister’s behalf. So I did.”
Henry’s gut seized. Was that what she told herself to justify such a wicked act? That she’d been the righteous one in all this? That she was some sort of saviour?
“What a load of claptrap!” Juliet’s voice lashed through the air, cutting right through Clara’s pretense. “You tormented Charity.” She stabbed her finger through the air. “You poisoned her with laudanum you stole from Mr. Scather. You set me up to bear the blame for it. And now, on top of it all, you have kidnapped Charity.”
Clara’s head snapped up, handkerchief balled on her lap, tears pushed away by a blazing mask of fury. “The only thing I have done is care about my dearest friend in all the world. My dearest friends.” She jerked her face towards Henry, eyes wild. “Look at me, Henry. Look! I have always been here for you. For Charity. We have known each other since our time in leading strings. You cannot believe I would be so wicked as to do what this woman accuses me of.”
Henry studied her face, then advanced a step and stared deeper. Beyond her facade. Past any charade. Seeking for truth.
But he might as well have been gazing at a marble statue.
“What I see”—his voice cracked, so loath was he to admit aloud what he barely wished to ponder in secret—“is a woman who believes she is justified in her crimes. A woman who would go to any lengths to attain what she wants.”
Juliet turned on her heel, striding towards the butler, who yet lingered at the door. “Call the constable.”
Clara surged to her feet, crimson blotches staining her cheeks. “Do not presume to order my staff about, Miss Finch.”
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, once again forced to choose to commit a woman to gaol … only this time he spun towards the butler without hesitation. “Do it.”
The man gave a sharp nod and left the room.
Clara whirled to him, hands outstretched, lower lip quivering. “Henry, you cannot be serious about this. Think of all the times we have shared, how I have proven my loyalty to you and your family. You cannot let this upstart drive a wedge between us. She has poisoned your mind!”
“And you have poisoned my sister.”
Clara winced as if struck. Her mouth opened, perhaps to deny or maybe to beg, but she never got the chance.
The butler reappeared, his brows oddly knit. “Pardon me, sir, but the constable is already at the door.”
Henry cocked his head. So soon? He exchanged a glance with Juliet before marching out to the front hall, the women’s skirts swishing behind him.
Indeed, there in the front hall the constable waited, imposing in his calf-length blue wool, flanked by three bloodied men.
Henry’s father, Parker, and Woodley.
Chapter 27
Juliet raced neck and neck with Clara as they followed Henry to the front door, using every ounce of self-restraint not to elbow the woman into the wall. Clara deserved it for what she’d done to Charity. But this was, after all, her home—for now. If Juliet had any say in the matter, the constable would haul her to the very cell she’d left empty earlier that day.
“What the deuce is going on here?” Henry boomed as she caught up to him, Clara gaining his other side.
Juliet pressed a hand to her chest, barely comprehending the sight in front of her. Mr. Russell’s cravat hung like an unraveled noose around his neck, the right sleeve of his coat torn. A smear of blood darkened the corner of his mouth.
