“Indeed he does.” The constable rose, arms outstretched. “Everyone step back. Give the man some air.”
Henry straightened out Woodley’s legs while Juliet swiftly shrugged out of her spencer and balled it up. Without hesitation, she tucked the fabric beneath the footman’s head.
“Perhaps we should carry him into the sitting room,” Parker suggested.
Clara sniffed. “No need. I shall see that my butler calls Dr. Branch immediately.”
She whirled.
Henry lunged, grabbing her arm. “Oh, no. You are not going anywhere.”
She wrenched away—or tried to. He held tight.
“Henry!” She glared at his fingers clutching her sleeve. “Unhand me this minute.”
“And let you get away?” A mirthless chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Not on your life.”
Clara swiveled her head, her blue gaze petitioning his father as if he were God. “Mr. Russell, I appeal to your better sense, as clearly your son has taken leave of his own. The Whitmores and Russells have been family friends for generations. You cannot doubt my loyalty. And where would I run? This is my home!”
His father rubbed his knuckles along his jaw, a favourite thinking stance of his.
Henry gaped. Surely he wasn’t considering this.
At length, his father tucked away his handkerchief, straightening to his full height. “Let her go, Henry. This is not how civilized people behave.”
It was a command, not a request—one that chafed.
Henry shook his head. “There is nothing civilized about Charity being shipped off against her will.”
His father advanced, stopping inches from Clara, his face hewn like stone. “Clara will not flee.” Each word was a proclamation. A demand. A challenge for her to go against it and find out what sort of brimstone would rain down upon her head.
Clara trembled beneath his grip. Good. Let her feel the full weight of what she was up against.
Henry released her.
Juliet let out a breath as if she’d been holding it the entire time, then turned from the spectacle to the constable. “We believe Miss Whitmore—along with Mr. Woodley’s aid—arranged for Charity Russell’s abduction and had her taken to Bellamy House in Tunbridge Wells. For such a crime, she should be placed into custody at once.”
“Preposterous!” Clara stamped her foot. “I will not tolerate such accusations in my own home. Though it pains me to do so, I ask all of you to leave at once, for I must attend my mother posthaste. Even now she lies abed suffering.” Her fingers fluttered towards the main staircase leading to the first floor.
Henry gaped. “And what would you have us do with Woodley here? Roll him out the door for the doctor to attend him on the lawn?”
“That is not my concern. My mother is of foremost consideration at the moment.” She sashayed melodramatically to the bellpull, an unnecessary act. The butler yet hovered just down the corridor.
Henry turned to the constable. “I agree with Miss Finch. Miss Whitmore should be taken into your custody immediately, and here is proof to back up that statement.” He handed over the wrinkled paper.
Sniffing, the constable squinted at the note. His lips twitched one way then another before he gave a little shake to his head. “All this proves for certain is that Miss Whitmore gave a generous donation to Bellamy House and that she evidently has some sort of acquaintance with a Dr. Floodstone. That is hardly call to lock her in gaol. Without evidence of foul play, I cannot simply arrest a lady because another is missing.”
“Pah!” Parker rapped his cane against the tiles, the sharp crack splitting the air. A volcanic shade of red crept past his collar, his temper near the breaking point, and Henry didn’t blame him a bit. “Station an officer here and come with us to Tunbridge Wells to rescue Miss Russell; then you shall have your evidence.”
The constable wagged his head. “That’s out of my jurisdiction. In order for me to accompany you, paperwork must be filed and—”
“Blast the paperwork!” Parker cut in, his voice like the crack of a whip. “My men and I suffered on the battlefield for harebrained negligence such as this.” He stepped forwards, his cane now gripped like a weapon. “I ride for Tunbridge Wells tonight. Who stands with me?” His fierce gaze shifted from face to face.
Henry glanced at Juliet, then his father, resolution carved in both their expressions.
“We do,” he agreed. “If the law will not act swiftly, then we shall.” For while Charity might be the responsibility of the Almighty, that did not mean he had to stand around and do nothing.
He turned to Clara, stepping close enough that only a breath of air separated them. “But”—his voice dropped to a treacherous bass—“do not think to flee. If you are responsible for this, you’d best pray I find Charity alive and unharmed.”
