Chapter 12
A few spare crickets chirruped in the gathering dark of Bedford Manor’s woods, welcoming Juliet back to her old haunt.
The familiar rush of possible danger pulsed through her veins.
She’d missed this thrill of the hunt. The hush between the trees.
The eerie screech of a barn owl calling like an old friend.
And yet this time was also distinctly different.
She dared another peek at the master of the estate, walking several paces to her right.
He was a distraction, this man, but it was not to be helped.
Henry’s dark form stalked like a panther, determined, stealthy, a predator to be feared …
but what she really ought to fear was the growing admiration for him she could no longer deny.
She blew a quiet sigh. It had been with mixed feelings she’d returned from church earlier that afternoon, fully expecting him to release her from their bargain.
To pack up and go back to Aunt Margaret’s and resume her former life.
Instead, with great surprise—and alarm—she’d listened as he’d read her the threatening letter that had been delivered for Charity.
Apparently Mr. Parker had ignored Henry’s warning of last night …
unless Mr. Parker wasn’t the one responsible for the harassment.
And Mr. Dankworth had clearly been on the road to town, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d hired a village lad to deliver that dastardly note.
Henry’s gaze sought hers, his voice not much above a whisper. “I trust you found your aunt well today.”
“Yes, thank you very much. I appreciate you allowing me to visit her. It was quite kind of you.” Guilt nipped her conscience. Her aunt hadn’t been her only stop, for after that she’d delivered the requested yarrow tincture to Mrs. Craft.
“All I did was grant you permission. Hardly the makings of a hero,” he murmured.
“That’s a lie.” She smirked.
He stopped, head cocked. “What do you mean?”
And that, right there, was one of the very things that drew her to him. The man had no idea how much his generosity benefited those around him.
“It is heroic what you have done—what you are doing, I should say. You could have had me arrested, sent me to my death, yet you did not. And now my aunt is flourishing in the care of the nurse you hired. She is well fed and not fretting anymore about the roof falling in on her head, for the repairs on her cottage are coming along quite nicely. Not many men are as generous, leastwise not those I have known, and those who are seldom let the world forget it.”
“So”—a slow smile lifted his lips—“you think me a hero, do you?”
“Careful.” She snorted. “Pride goes before a fall.”
A light chuckle rumbled in his chest, competing with the snuffling of a nearby hedgehog. “You sound as dour as your Reverend Mr. St. John. No doubt he gave the parish a blistering this morning. Why are you drawn to such bleak services?”
A valid question, one not even she was sure how to answer, so she simply shrugged. “I suppose there is truth to what he says. Or maybe I am a morbid soul given to self-flagellation.”
“No. You are no cowering hen. As much as I do not like Mr. St. John’s style, I imagine he tries to impart truth, and I concede that it is sometimes the harsher words of wisdom that keep us grounded, so to speak.
The book of Proverbs certainly is blunt.
Perhaps, at times, such abrasiveness is what is needed to break down the walls we build around our hearts. ”
She shook her head. She’d had enough abrasiveness in the past year to last a lifetime. “Sometimes a barrier serves a noble purpose.”
“And yet if those walls are built too high, light cannot penetrate. Nor can love.”
Pah. Such words were the privilege of a heart exempt from life’s cruelties.
She had cut herself off on purpose—to survive.
She needed to be a fortress against vulnerability.
She would never allow herself to be as exposed and helpless as she’d felt when her father’s greed destroyed their family.
His weakness had condemned him to suffer a miserable death alone in a gaol cell.
That would not be her fate. She would make certain of it.
Yet deep in a dark corner of her soul, Henry’s words struck a chime. One she hadn’t heard in years. The faint echo whispered of a time when she’d held firm to her faith. A time when she’d been innocent enough to trust in someone she’d loved.
She shoved the memory aside, aiming an accusing finger at Henry instead. “You, sir, sound as if you ought to be in a pulpit.”
His teeth flashed white in the scant light remaining before dark. “I think I shall stick to being a hero instead of a preacher. I fear I lack the necessary patience to sway hearts.”
“Oh, I think not. You have clearly swayed Clara Whitmore to your side.”
“Clara and I have known each other since childhood. I am no more than a fixture in her life, like a favourite book on her shelf or a comfortable chair in the sitting room. We are friends, nothing more.”
Relief loosened the tightness in her shoulders. A ridiculous response, of course, but one she could not stop. She peered past him, unwilling to let him see just how much his words affected her. “At any rate, it is no business of mine.”
“Would that it were,” he said under his breath.
At least it sounded like it. She snapped her gaze back to him. “What was that?”
“Hmm? Oh. Nothing.” He swept out his arm. “But we did not come out here to while away the time in conversation, did we?”
She eyed him a moment more before she resumed scouting the trail. He was hiding something. Did he harbour some admiration for her? She blinked to keep from rolling her eyes. What a ludicrous imagining. A wealthy gentleman would not look twice at a woman who’d poached on his land.
They walked in silence, the crush of leaves and occasional creak of branches their only accompaniment—until she let out an oomph as she stumbled over a root. She shot out her hand to grasp a nearby sapling for balance.
“Are you all right?” Henry’s footsteps quickened behind her.
“I am—” The rest of the words lay fallow on her tongue. A small slip of cloth snagged on one of the spindly twigs. She freed the fabric, running her thumb along the length of it. Muslin. Fine muslin. With a lacy hem. The sort only a woman of means would own.
And the only one of such stature residing at Bedford Manor was Charity.
“What have you found?” Henry’s breath warmed the nape of her neck.
She turned, surprised at his nearness, and handed over the fabric.
The moment he lifted it to eye level, his jaw hardened. “This is my sister’s. She trims most of her garments with this custom lace.”
“Then either your sister has been running about in these trees, snagging her gown, or someone has left behind a very bold statement.” Juliet crouched, studying the ground, annoyed with herself for having disturbed the area where she’d tripped, but then thrilled to see that a snapped stick lay perpendicular to the route they’d taken.
She rose with a tip of her head. “The trail leads that way.”
Without waiting for a response, she set off, traveling from mossy depressions imprinted with half-heel marks, to rocks disturbed by the same foot that had passed this way.
The prints were large but unevenly depressed.
Either the man walked with a limp or he’d been carrying something heavy that offset his balance.
Or the fellow’s boots were simply too big.
Whatever, it was too hard to tell in the coming dark of night.
Yet with each broken stick or swirl of leaves pushed aside, the more her heart raced with the thought of where this might lead.
Or not—for suddenly all the clues ended.
Slowly, she spun in a circle, studying the ground.
“Why are you stopping?” Henry whispered.
Failure tasted sour at the back of her throat. “I lost the trail.”
He glanced around, a slight shake to his head. “Why would it end here? Whoever came this way could not have simply vanished into thin air.”
“True, unless they went airborne.” She glanced up at the maze of black branches.
“A flying scoundrel?”
“No, just one adept at climbing trees.” Though judging by the distance between alders, that wasn’t really a possibility.
She pressed two fingers to her temple, rubbing little circles to ward off a headache.
“Or it could be someone who knew where to step to avoid leaving a trace from this point on, and they are baiting us, drawing us to this dead end on purpose.”
“Blast!” Henry growled.
She felt the same way, but even so, she tossed back her shoulders. “The game is not over yet. We will return to the tree where we found the fabric and follow the opposite end of this trail. Perhaps that will give us more clues.”
Henry followed Juliet, annoyed that the cad he sought always seemed to be one step beyond his reach … and yet he couldn’t help but also be grateful for the woman’s honesty. It took fortitude to admit she’d lost the trail. Something to be admired.
And he would, if he weren’t so frustrated by this fruitless chase.
It was his duty to find the man responsible for putting his sister through such anguish, but thus far he’d turned up no solid evidence against any one person.
Not even when he’d tracked down the lad who’d delivered the note the other day had he been satisfied.
The boy had claimed he’d been in the market when someone pressed a coin and a folded paper into his hand, whispered quick instructions, and vanished into the crowd before he’d even gotten a proper look.
Just a voice, a hand, and then nothing. No face. No clues.
Which was no help at all.
Henry clenched his fists as he tromped through dampened leaves, fury competing with a strong wave of helplessness. How many times had he sworn never to feel this powerless again?