Mr. Russell chuckled. “The horses need to rest, and so do you.”
“But Charity needs us!”
“She needs us in fine form, not stumbling from fatigue.” He reached for his hat on the far side of his seat. “Do not fret, Miss Finch. If I know my son, this respite will only be a few hours, so I suggest you make the most of it.”
The door opened. Henry helped her down, watching her with quiet intensity, and his hand lingered on hers even after she alighted. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
She smiled. How like him to concern himself with her comfort when he’d been the one bumping along in a saddle. “This carriage ride is making me soft. I am used to tromping through woods at all hours of the night.”
He returned her grin, his thumb brushing over the curve of her cheek. “Minx.”
An ostler collected his bay. Another began unhitching the other horses.
Henry offered his arm. “We are only here long enough for the animals to rest, so I suggest you get what little sleep you can. Parker’s already arranging a room for you.”
His father joined their side, one brow arched. “What about for me?”
Henry’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “I was recently told I took on too much responsibility. Thought I’d give delegation a try. You are clever, Father. You shall figure something out.”
“Splendid. I’ll go make up a stall.” With a theatrical sigh, his father turned on his heel and marched towards the yard, tossing a dismissive wave over his shoulder.
Henry merely chuckled.
Juliet shook her head, half amused, half bewildered. These Russell men—equal parts charm and cheek.
A night mist curled around them as Henry led her to the front door of the black-timbered coaching inn. The White Hart, according to the placard hanging overhead.
Inside, nothing but vigil lamps lit the public room. Mr. Parker stood near a counter, speaking in low tones with a man in a stained white apron. At Juliet and Henry’s approach, they both looked up.
Mr. Parker nodded at her. “Your room is ready, Miss Finch. First one at the top of the stair on the left.” He faced Henry. “You should get some sleep too, Russell.”
“As should you, but not too much. We leave before dawn.” Henry placed a firm hand at the small of her back, guiding her to the narrow staircase. How Henry’s broad shoulders would manage the climb without rubbing holes in the fabric of his greatcoat would be a miracle. The wooden planks groaned behind her at his heavy steps.
When they finally located her room, he reached for the knob, then hesitated. “You will sleep, will you not?”
She shoved down a yawn and forced a smile instead. “Only if you do.”
He grumbled as he shoved open the door, then retreated a step.
She ought to go in. Common sense cried for her to take every advantage of the blessed relief a soft mattress would bring to her weary bones. But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when he stood there looking like that—like a man fraying at the seams, stitchedtogether by duty and running low on thread. She’d do anything to lift even a fraction of that burden.
It wasn’t much, but soft as a feather, she rested her palm on his cheek, her fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. If nothing else, she would offer him hope. “We will find her, Henry. Your sister knows you will come for her, and God will take care of her until then.”
Hope—and fear—flashed in his eyes. “And if she is not in Tunbridge Wells? If this is all some wild-goose chase?”
She jutted her chin, resolute enough for both of them. “Then we will keep looking until she is safe.”
For several moments, he said nothing, just stared into the depth of her soul as he wrapped his fingers around her hand. Ever so slowly, he turned it palm up and pressed his lips gently against her skin. “I do not deserve you,” he breathed.
Inside, she melted, craving to nestle into the warmth of his arms. But this was not the time or place. Not yet. Though it killed her in a hundred possible ways, she pulled back.
Then curved her lips into a saucy grin. “Well, you had best make yourself worthy then, Mr. Russell—and I have no doubt that tomorrow you will.”
By the time they reached Tunbridge Wells, everyone was out of sorts. It was to be expected. Save for the animals, Henry doubted any of them had truly rested when they’d stopped last night … and that was eleven hours ago. He’d snapped at his father when they changed horses. Parker had grown powerfully taciturn, his usual quips nonexistent. Not even Henry dared poke that bear. His father had nearly rubbed his temples raw from frustration. And then there was Juliet … sweet, beautiful woman—stubborn as a field of thistles. Despite his coaxing, she’d barely eaten twobites the entire journey, and she was already painfully thin from her stint in the Bedford gaol.
Yet he appreciated that determination of hers as she entwined her fingers through his on their march to the front door of Mrs. Bellamy’s Private Home for Rest and Recuperation.
It was an unassuming building, the kind that might house a dowager keen on living the rest of her days in Kent’s pastoral countryside. Wisteria vines hugged the stone walls, nothing but the most stalwart of leaves clinging to them this late in the season. White lace curtains hung in every window, and a sculpted boxwood sat on each side of the front entrance.
