Beside him, Mr. Parker didn’t fare much better. His waistcoat was splattered with mud and a fresh cut bloomed red at his temple. He leaned heavily to one side, propped up by his cane, the set of his jaw betraying a pain he refused to acknowledge.
And then there was Mr. Woodley.
He stood in the center of the bedraggled group, just in front of the constable. Blood matted his hair above one ear. His lower lip was split. A darkening bruise spread along his jaw. There was a crooked hump misshaping his nose, and one of his eyes had nearly swelled shut. When his good eye landed on Clara, he paled to a deathly grey, stumbling back and smacking into the constable. His lips parted in a silent oath.
So. He did fear Miss Whitmore.
Juliet dropped her hand, her fingers absently trailing along her skirt. She’d been right all along.
The constable—not Mr. Fisk but every bit as burly—nudged Woodley forwards. “This man’s life was saved by the quick action of Mr. Russell and Mr. Parker.”
Henry’s father pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood near his mouth. “Once we left Bedford Manor, Parker here used his military skills to track Woodley to the livery—or nearly so. We can only surmise he intended to hire a horse and make a run for it.”
“Only a rather bullish thug ended that plan.” Mr. Parker rolled his shoulder as if shaking off the lingering effects of the fight. “It was quite the skirmish, one I admit I rather enjoyed. I haven’t seen that much action since my men and I held the line at the Chindwin River. I’m afraid, however, the devil gave us all the slip.” He directed a sheepish smile at Henry. “Your father called for a constable while I revived Woodley.”
Juliet stepped closer to the footman, head tilted as she studied his battered face. “Who did this to you?”
Surely Clara couldn’t have known he’d been trying to flee and arranged for someone to stop him in such a brutal fashion.
The footman’s good eye darted wildly between the gathered faces before finally landing on Clara. Sure enough, he aimed an accusing finger at her. “She did. But”—he sniffed a trickle of blood seeping out his nose—“how did you know?”
Clara turned her attention squarely on the constable instead of Mr. Woodley. “I have no idea what this man is speaking about.” Her words were smooth enough, but Juliet didn’t miss a quick swallow before she continued. “I have been in my mother’s bedchamber all afternoon, tending to her needs. My staff will vouch for it. But even if I had not been at home, it is ludicrous to suggest I could have wrought such havoc on this strapping man.”
She flung a dismissive hand towards the footman. “When you two came upon Mr. Woodley, was it a woman who was besting him? Who bloodied the both of you in such a fashion as well? Do you seriously think I could have done such a thing?”
Balling up his handkerchief, Henry’s father glowered. “Of course not. Parker already said it was a bullish thug.”
“There you have it, then.” Victory—or was it venom?—dripped from her confident tone. She pinned Mr. Woodley with a cancerous look, her voice sweet as molasses but twice as thick. “You are a liar, sir.”
Juliet peered at the woman on the other side of Henry’s broad frame. “And you are very quick to defend yourself.”
A murderous red crept up her neck. “I—”
Henry slashed his hand through the air. “No one wishes to hear any more of your alibis, Clara.” He turned back to the footman, words like steel on stone. “Tell us, Woodley, how you know Miss Whitmore suspected you’d talked with us.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he tugged at his collar, his grey pallor deteriorating to a pea-soup hue. “She’s the only one with reason to send someone after me.”
Ahh. Juliet bobbed her head, the details fitting together like puzzle pieces. Since Charity was neatly tucked away and Juliet was supposedly in gaol, Clara had no more need of the footman. He was only a liability to her now.
“So.” Juliet faced the sorely beaten man. “It was one of your Cornish connections who found you. You think that Miss Whitmore informed your prior associates of your location and they’d come to enact retribution?”
Clara laughed, the sound brittle in the stuffy hall. “Oh, please. Do you really think I would know such details about a footman in another house?” She turned to the constable, squaring her shoulders. “Now, if you will pardon me, I have other things toattend. I suggest you take this party down to the station and sort this out.”
“No!” The footman’s bark came out raw, a man on the edge of madness. He lurched forwards, then staggered, his hand flying to his throat. “You’re the one who—” He sucked in a great gasp of air, clawing at his collar. “You said to keep my mouth shut or I’d”—another ragged inhale—“regret it and—”
His head swayed like a rabid dog’s, breathing erratic. Panic spasmed across his battered face as he realized his own body was about to betray him. “She made … me do it,” he rasped.
Juliet stepped forwards, straining to hear his weakening voice. “Made you do what, Mr. Woodley?”
“She—” He wobbled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish aground. Something gurgled in his throat as his pupils shrank to pinpricks. His face twisted in agony and one hand slapped his chest. The other flailed wildly about.
Then, like a marionette whose strings had been severed, Mr. Woodley collapsed to the tile.
Could things get any worse? Biting back ablast it all, Henry dropped to a crouch and pressed two fingers against the footman’s neck. The constable held no such restraint and spat out a curse as he hunkered down next to him.
Opposite, Juliet knelt, worry pinching her brow. “Is he going to be all right?”
A weak pulse beat beneath Henry’s fingers. Barely. He glanced at the constable. “This man needs a doctor.”
