Chapter 24
If Henry were a panther, this man was a wolfhound in comparison.
Instinct drove Juliet back a step. His stride was unrushed and methodical, that of a man accustomed to obedience without a snap or snarl.
His presence alone commanded respect. He held his head high as he approached, bearing the same angular jawline as Henry, every bit as strong and resolute.
This was a man not to be crossed. Yet despite all that, she got the distinct impression he was an evenhanded gentleman—open to reason and compassion—and would not bite without due cause.
But when he did, he would not let go.
“Father.” Henry’s head dipped in greeting. “I was not expecting you.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Drawing close, his father clasped Henry’s shoulder.
A brief touch, yet significant. Obviously they held a close relationship, for affection gleamed in the green streaks of the man’s hazel eyes.
All in all, he was not an unkind-looking fellow, but neither would he be one to tolerate foolishness.
He pulled away, his gaze flicking between them. “The two of you appear more travel weary than I am.”
Her hand flew to her hair, smoothing and tucking. Pointless, really. One could not instantaneously craft a bird’s nest into a sleek swath of satin. Nor could she do a thing about her filthy gown. Or—most unfortunately—her stench.
Henry stood straight as a church spire. “I will explain, Father, but first allow me to introduce you to Miss Juliet Finch.” He swept his hand towards her, pulling her up to his side. “Miss Finch, my father, Mr. Vincent Russell.”
She dipped a curtsey, despising the caked mud on her hem. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Russell.”
“You as well, Miss Finch.” He gave a sharp nod, then arched a brow, humour twitching his lips into a grin. “I can only hope your current state has nothing to do with my son.”
She returned his smile, deciding that despite his quiet dominance, she liked him. “It was a joint effort, sir.”
He turned to Henry. “And am I to find Charity so disheveled as well?”
Henry tensed—she could feel it even though she stood apart from him. “I certainly hope not.”
“Well, I should think you would know.” His smile faded. “When I arrived not long ago, Mrs. Hamby informed me your sister was with you.”
Henry shook his head. “Mrs. Hamby was incorrect.”
“Then where is she?” It was not an angry question, not harsh or condemning in the least.
But all the same, Henry flinched. “I … am not sure, sir.”
Mr. Russell’s brows raised to the rafters.
“Am I to understand while you and Miss Finch were apparently rolling about in the great outdoors, that your sister has gone missing?” His eyes bounced between them, sharp as a tailor’s pins, and Juliet suddenly longed for the floorboards to develop a sense of mercy and swallow her whole.
Henry inhaled sharply, the sound striking a protective chord in her heart. All this time he’d borne the responsibility of caring for his sister in a most noble fashion. There was no way she could stand here and allow his father to think otherwise.
She pressed her palms along her skirt. “I assure you, Mr. Russell, that Charity has been your son’s utmost concern. Besides, we do not know for sure she is missing, and that is what we were investigating.”
A low sound rumbled in his throat, not a growl so much as a statement somewhere between doubt and disapproval.
He stared at her then, his keen eyes pinning her in place, his thoughts unreadable.
She forced her gaze not to falter, her muscles not to move, for any show of weakness might attract an attack.
Perhaps she should have let Henry defend himself.
“If I may ask, Miss Finch.” His voice was smooth as a calm sea, but with an undercurrent of skepticism. “What are your qualifications in such matters? What exactly is your association with my son and daughter?”
“I …” Her throat dried. How was she to answer that? She couldn’t very well say Henry had caught her poaching on his land.
Henry stood tall at her side, every line of his frame a silent declaration. “I hired her, Father. Juliet is under my employ.”
And custody.
She clenched her teeth to keep from grimacing. Admitting such a thing would not go over well.
Mr. Russell narrowed his eyes. “What sort of mayhem has been happening under my roof during my absence?”
Henry hefted an enormous sigh. “A lot, I fear.” Then he glanced at her. “How about you go freshen up? I think my father and I have much to say.”
She nodded, a cowardly act, and yet her feet itched to flee.
She’d heard of powder kegs going off before.
The boom of explosion. The devastation left behind.
All from one little spark at the wrong time.
She did not wish to be the flash that set these two at odds, and she really didn’t want to be around should such a thing happen.
“Father.” Henry indicated the stairs with a tip of his head. “Shall we retire to the study?”
“Finally, something that makes sense. I look forward to your explanation, Son.”
As they fell into step, Juliet pivoted and dashed down the corridor with as much dignity as she could muster. Never had she been so glad to reach her chamber door. Once inside, the sweet scent of lavender greeted her.
So did Molly, who glanced up while pouring a final bucket of steaming water into a washtub. “Here ye be, miss, and just in time too. Water’s nice and warm, it is.” She smiled as she gathered the other empty bucket. “Is there aught else I can get ye?”
Juliet could have swung the woman around, so happy was she to even think of stepping into that basin and scrubbing away her grime. “No, there is nothing I want more than a long soak. Thank you, Molly.”
The young maid bobbed a quick curtsey—a bucket in each hand—then quietly exited, leaving behind blessed silence save for the crackle of a fire. Juliet smirked. Funny, before spending four days with Jackie and the rest of the inmates, she’d never appreciated how wonderful stillness could be.
She quickly peeled off her dirty garments and sank into bliss. It was nearly indecent how much she adored the kiss of water and soap. For a long while, she closed her eyes, allowing the warmth to soak into her skin and make her a new person.
But even in that state of heavenly surrender, she couldn’t help but wonder how Henry fared.
What was happening in the study? Sharp words and barbed looks?
Or weighted brows and repentant shoulders?
Either way, at least his father was there, talking to him.
Caring enough to demand answers. Her father would never have done such a thing.
He’d always been too tied up with ledgers and contracts, the accounting of money far more important than a daughter who longed to be noticed.
She rose and grabbed her robe, surprised that such a thought didn’t sting nearly as much as it used to.
After rubbing off the moisture in front of the fire, she dressed and ran a comb through her hair until every tangle straightened itself out.
She’d lingered here long enough. With Henry hopefully still occupied, she’d have time to poke about Charity’s room for any clues as to where the woman might be.
She rapped on the door, hoping for a response, but when none came, she entered anyway.
Inside was just as she remembered. The bed sat at center with an embroidered counterpane atop, unwrinkled.
The hearth sputtered with the last of a fire that’d likely been set earlier that day.
Late-afternoon shadows haunted the corners.
Juliet trailed her fingers over the furnishings as she circled the room, then stopped as she glanced at the rug near the desk.
A folded paper had fallen. She scooped it up immediately.
Dearest Henry,
I have decided to go to Italy after all. As you said, it will be good for me. I shall write to Father and let him know, so there is no need for you to act on my behalf. I will send you a note when I arrive.
All my love,
Charity
Juliet frowned. This couldn’t be right. Why would Henry’s sister drag her feet all this time about going to Italy, then suddenly leave with nothing but words penned on paper? And that so quickly on the heels of barely recovering from her illness and a poisoning?
This did not add up at all.
She tucked the note in her pocket and sped to the stairs. No matter what Henry and his father might be discussing, they needed to see this.
But the moment she stepped into the front hall, she froze.
Mrs. Hamby stood at the front door, conversing with a beam-shouldered man in a blue coat. A blue constable coat.
The same man who’d hauled her out of here days ago.
“Ahh, Miss Finch.” His moustache rode the rise of his lips as his dark eyes settled on her. “Just the woman I was looking for.”
Henry sank into the leather chair adjacent the hearth, keenly aware of the man standing across from him. This was his father’s domain. No matter how long Vincent Russell had been away, he reclaimed his place the moment he stepped through the door. Henry had merely been a steward, a placeholder.
A little boy pretending to fill his father’s shoes.
Not that his father need say as much. Authority clung to him like a well-fitted coat. It always had.
His father studied him a moment, the flickering light of the fire sharpening the angles of his face. Henry knew that look. It wasn’t mere curiosity—it was an assessment.
“So, that woman …” His father’s tone was casual, yet not to be brushed off. “This Miss Finch. I notice you are on a first-name basis with her and that she is residing here at the manor.” He paused, smoothing a crease in his trouser leg. “What is the nature of her ‘employment,’ as you put it?”