Chapter 16 #2
A correct enough statement, for now. People changed, some for the better, others for worse. Even if it were true that he took interest in a wine shipment, why had he been here in the garden, watching them stroll along?
“Well.” Charity clutched her shawl tightly to her neck. “I am going in.”
She bypassed Juliet, her steps crunching gravel. Juliet stared long and hard into the darkness, making sure Mr. Dankworth hadn’t doubled back for any nefarious reasons. Nothing good ever crept out of the gloom, so she kept hold of the rock.
“Oh!” Charity’s cry mingled with a hard crunch of pea gravel.
Juliet ran down the path and, when she rounded a corner, stopped in front of Charity, who lay sprawled in a heap on the gravel. “Charity!” She dropped to her knees, wildly assessing the woman. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, just—” She pressed her fingers to her side, brow tightening.
“You are a very pretty liar. Let me help you up.” She slid an arm around Charity’s shoulders, lifting her to her feet.
“Thank you.” Charity pulled away, brushing crushed leaves from her skirt.
“Here, let me do that.” Finally dropping her makeshift weapon, Juliet shook away the debris. “You are lucky you did not twist your ankle with such a fall.”
“Clumsy me. I should have watched my feet instead of staring into the darkness, dreading another glimpse of that man.”
“Be at peace. He is gone.” She gave the fabric one last brush-over with her palm, then tensed when she neared Charity’s hem.
There on the ground lay a green ribbon, one side of it still tied to ankle height on the branch of a lavender bush, its lingering sweetness a macabre contrast to the horror racing through Juliet’s veins.
After untying it, she rose, clutching the frayed strip.
“What is that?” Charity’s brow puckered. “Your hair ribbon? I … I don’t understand. Is that what tripped me?”
Juliet swallowed, throat thick. “I am afraid so.”
Charity paled, shaking her head slowly. “But …? Surely you didn’t …?”
“Never! I swear it.”
Charity pressed a hand to her chest, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t think so. But it is your ribbon. I think …” She blinked rapidly. “Come, Juliet. Henry should hear of this. There must be an explanation.”
She moved forwards, glancing back once as if wishing none of this could be true.
So did Juliet.
Reluctantly, she followed, strangling the life from her ribbon, thoughts scrambling.
Someone had taken this ribbon from her room.
Someone had set her up as an aggressor.
Someone wanted her gone.
Blast!
Henry slammed down his pen, disgusted by the blot of ink ruining the pristine contract he’d been labouring over for the past hour. Another mistake. Another sign of disorder. One disaster after another had plagued his whole day. Nay, more like the whole week.
Lacing his fingers behind his head, he leaned back in his chair, the creak of leather competing with the pop of wood in the fireplace. He stared at the paneled ceiling, weary of numbers and meetings and failure.
Father had entrusted him with the soon-to-arrive shipment of his new blend, and he had yet to arrange a venue and finalize his list of possible investors.
It was his responsibility. His test. And he was floundering.
He ought to be spending his time keeping an eye on Charity until she departed for London tomorrow instead of burying his head in paperwork.
But it wasn’t just the wine or the investors or the endless contracts.
It was the feeling that no matter how many tasks he completed or fires he stamped out, he was still falling short—just as he had after Mother died.
They’d all mourned, naturally, but Father took it hardest. Oh, he had tried to draw his father back to life—inviting friends, managing the estate, keeping everything just so.
But nothing reached through the fog. His father had left for Italy not out of whimsy nor fully because of business.
It was a retreat. A quiet resignation that Henry hadn’t been able to stop.
He hadn’t known what to say back then. Still didn’t.
So he worked. He filled the silence with duty and deadlines, hoping to earn back the confidence he feared he’d lost. And now, with so much hanging in the balance—with Charity’s safety, Juliet’s trust, the estate’s future—he couldn’t afford to come up lacking again.
He huffed a long breath. Failure never came easy.
Would to heaven it might never come at all.
A scurry of footsteps entered the study. Charity stood, pale of face, clutching tightly to the shawl gathered in puckers at her neck. Juliet followed, as wide-eyed as the night he’d caught her in the woods.
He rose at once, his chair scraping harshly against the wood flooring. “What has happened?”
“Forgive our intrusion, Brother, but there is something you should know about.” Wincing, Charity pressed a hand to her side, slightly swaying on her feet.
He frowned, concerned, but before he could go to her, Juliet shored her up with an arm about her shoulders. “Charity, please sit. We can explain everything just as well from a chair.”
“Wise words.” He ushered them to the sofa in front of the hearth. Charity sank as if exhausted. Juliet perched on the cushion next to her, set to take flight if spooked.
He took the opposite chair, gripping its arms, the room steeped in foreboding. “Now then, what exactly is it you are to explain?”
Charity plucked at the tasseled hem of her shawl. “I asked Juliet to take a turn in the garden with me before dinner, as has been our habit of the past week. All was well until I saw a man near the shrubbery.”
He shot to his feet. “What man?”
“No need to charge off.” Juliet wound a dirty green ribbon into a tight coil as she spoke. “It was only Mr. Dankworth, and he has since left the premises. He said he called at the house for business with you but that you were too occupied to see him.”
Interesting. Henry rubbed the back of his neck.
“I was not informed of his arrival, though now that I think on it …” His words trailed off as he recalled the harsh reprimand he’d handed the footman the last time Woodley had interrupted him.
“However, it is not out of the realm of possibility Woodley turned him away. Yet even were that the case, why was Dankworth in the garden?”
“I asked as much.” Juliet jutted her jaw. “He claimed the benefit of evening air and not wishing to disrupt your train of thought, though he was quite cryptic about it as usual.”
He snorted. A flimsy account if ever he’d heard one. He’d have to pay the man a call in the morning and ask him exactly what he’d been about.
Charity leaned forwards slightly. “Henry, I didn’t like the way he looked at me.” She winced again, untangling her fingers from the fringe and pressing her palm against the side of her abdomen.
Alarm settled sickly in his gut. “Are you unwell, Sister?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just a cramp I’ve had on and off all day.”
Henry stiffened. Oh. Women’s things. A subject he was loath to broach. Instead, he turned to Juliet, unable to stop a glower from tightening his brow. “Why did you not call for me immediately?”
She straightened as if ready to do battle. “Do you really think you would have heard me in here all the way from the garden? Besides, I was perfectly capable of managing the situation. Mr. Dankworth is singular to be sure, but he is not a threat.”
“A man does not hide for innocent reasons.” A growl rumbled in his throat. He would speak with the fellow on the morrow.
Juliet folded her arms, boldly staring him down. “I shielded your sister the entire time. He would have had to plow me over to get to her.”
“And I am supposed to feel good about that?”
“Calm down, Brother.” Reaching across to him, Charity squeezed his knee before settling back against the sofa. “It is true I could have run to safety if Mr. Dankworth had advanced, but nothing of the sort happened. It is what took place after that which I thought you should know.”
“There is more to this?” His voice rose.
And the women flinched in unison.
Exhaling deeply, he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting to collect himself. Bullying these two would get him nowhere. He dropped his hand while lowering his tone as well—though the strain in his voice likely betrayed him. “Forgive me. Continue, please.”
Charity shifted uncomfortably on the cushion. “After Mr. Dankworth left, I told Juliet I wished to return to the house. I didn’t wait for her reply, and as I hurried away, I tripped over something.” She side-eyed Juliet.
Juliet held up a ribbon, tightly wound in her hand.
Henry’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“My hair ribbon was stretched low across the path,” Juliet explained. “Tied at ankle height.”
His chest tightened. Someone had deliberately set a trap—for Charity? For Juliet?
He stared at the ribbon as though it might explain itself, mind spinning, not with suspicion of Juliet—for he could not believe that—but with fury that someone had entered her room and used her belongings. Violated her space. Threatened his family.
Again.
“You’re certain this is your ribbon?” His voice came low and tight.
Juliet nodded. “It must’ve been taken from my dressing table. I had not noticed it missing.”
Hmm. A convenient excuse. The tiniest doubt niggled at his mind. Pushing it away, Henry exhaled through his nose and forced himself to think. “So … whoever set this snare wanted it traced back to you.”
Juliet’s mouth trembled. “It appears that way.”
Beside her, Charity pressed her hand again to her side, her face drawn and pale. “If you’ve no objection, Brother, I—I believe I’ll lie down for a bit.”
At once, Henry moved to her. “Of course. Let Mrs. Hamby fetch you a sleeping draught.”
Charity offered a faint smile before rising and quietly slipping from the room.
Henry waited until the door latched behind her, then turned back to Juliet.
His fists clenched at his sides. “Juliet, you swear you …” The words snagged on his tongue.
No, she would never. Involuntarily, he shook his head ever so slightly, then took a beat to shift direction.
“You realize what this means? Whoever it is that’s doing such things is not only toying with Charity—he is now trying to cast blame on you. ”
“Perhaps.” She swallowed hard—blast it, she’d seen his moment of doubt—but kept her composure. “Which means this isn’t only about Charity anymore.”
He turned towards the fire, heart hammering. “And—things are escalating.”
Skirts shushed behind him. “Henry …” A light touch landed on his sleeve. “Believe me, I want to find whoever’s doing this as much as you do.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
His gaze flicked towards the doorway where Charity had gone. “I suppose it is one thing to be angry, and quite another to be frightened.”
“And … you’re frightened,” Juliet whispered.
“For both of you,” he admitted.
They stood there in fragile quiet for several breaths before Juliet murmured, “Then let us continue to work together to end it.”
Henry exhaled slowly, his anger cooled by her calm strength. He gave her no answer, though, for in truth he was beginning to wonder if he should cut her free to escape whatever danger might be coming their way next.
“Henry? You do want me to stay, do you not?”
Before he could speak again, the door burst open and Mrs. Hamby hurried inside, wringing her hands. “Sir—you must come at once!”
Henry’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”
“It’s Miss Charity.” The housekeeper’s voice trembled. “She’s fainted.”