Chapter 25
So. Henry agreed with her. The notion hung in the air like the final note of a lullaby, softening the room’s gathering dusk.
Juliet allowed a small smile at the triumph, although not an actual grin.
The dismal situation did not sanction such mirth.
She’d barely been out of gaol for a few hours and already the constable was sniffing about, just waiting to pin something else on her. Drat that Mr. Scather!
A scuffling of feet entered the room, Mrs. Hamby leading the charge. Behind her, Mr. Carver hustled in the footman, Woodley looking for all the world like he’d seen a spectre. Or maybe an entire host of them, so ashen was his face.
“What the deuce is this about?” Henry boomed beside her.
“I should like to know as well.” His father’s tone was no less harsh as he strode into the room.
Mrs. Hamby aimed an accusing finger at Woodley.
“The instant I mentioned that the constable Mr. Fisk was here, this bodger made a run for it out the back door. I wasted no time in asking Mr. Carver to haul him right back in.” Her eyes narrowed at the footman.
“I refuse to speak poorly about anyone if there is no outward cause, Mr. Woodley, but dashing off like that just wasn’t right.
I cannot abide such questionable conduct.
What you did was untrustworthy and outright defiant, ignoring me like you did.
” Her gaze shifted to Henry and his father.
“I thought you might wish to question him about such odd behaviour before I turn him out.”
“Well done, Mrs. Hamby.” Henry’s father nodded at the woman. “You are entirely correct. My son and I will handle the matter from here.”
Carver pushed Woodley into a chair. “You want me to stay, sir?”
Henry shook his head. “That will not be necessary.” He turned to the footman, his expression ice and steel. “Woodley will not do anything foolish, will you?”
The footman white-knuckled the chair arms. “N–no, sir.”
“Right.” Carver tipped his head. “But all the same, forethought spares regret.” He pulled out a length of rope from his pocket and made short work of fastening Woodley to the chair.
After jerking on the knot, Carver straightened and tugged his forelock at the Russell men. “I shall be but a call away should you require a little muscle.”
Mr. Russell stayed the man with a touch to his arm. “Why don’t you go fetch the constable, just in case there is need. He can’t have gone far.”
With an “Aye, sir,” Carver strode from the room, Mrs. Hamby following.
They had barely exited before Henry turned on Woodley. “What have you done?”
His father laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Allow me.”
But his line of questioning didn’t go any better. Oh, Mr. Russell’s tone was deadly calm, all right—but deadly all the same. Woodley looked positively green seated before the two imposing men. Even were the footman inclined, Juliet doubted very much he could put two words together without swooning.
She stepped closer, studying the man. Fear twitched his lips, his nostrils flaring with each ragged inhale, but she sensed instinctively it was not only the Russells causing such a visceral reaction. He was terrified of something—or someone—else.
“Pardon me, gentlemen.” She rounded the tea table, facing Henry and his father. “If I may have your permission, I should like to ask Mr. Woodley a few questions of my own.”
Mr. Russell’s brows rose.
Henry’s furrowed. “What could you possibly ask that we have not?”
“I mean no disrespect.” She smiled sweetly. “Your queries are spot on, and yet I would like to give it a go.”
Mr. Russell retreated a step, gesturing with an outstretched arm. “Be our guest, Miss Finch. Women are not without their merits when it comes to getting a man to speak.”
She gave her own gesture—towards the door. “Thank you, but I ask that you two step out of the room while I do so.”
“No.” Henry’s dismissal rang sharp. “If Woodley made a run from the constable, there is no telling what he might do if left alone with you. I will not have you in danger.”
A sweet sentiment, but one wholly misplaced. She laid a light touch on Henry’s sleeve. “I am not asking you to leave the premises, merely to stand outside the door. Besides, he is tied up.” She glanced at the footman. “But even if you were not, you would not harm me, would you, Mr. Woodley?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No, miss! I would never do such a thing.”
She peered up at Henry. “There. And I do not think I need to remind you that time is of the essence concerning your sister, do I?”
His jaw ticked. A cord rose along his neck. For a moment, she thought he would argue further.
But then—he stilled.
A flicker of something shifted in his expression. Thought. Memory. Decision. She could almost see the war waging behind his eyes.
And then his posture changed. Less braced. Less rigid. “I don’t like this, Juliet,” he murmured. “But I trust you.”
He looked to his father, who gave a sharp nod, then turned to Woodley, dropping into a crouch with the weight of a threat. “Don’t give me reason to regret that trust. Understood?”
Woodley swallowed and nodded, paling by degrees.
Without another word, Henry stood and backed away. After a final glance at her, concern still etched in every line of his face, he and his father stepped out into the hall.
She pulled over a footstool, placing it squarely in front of Mr. Woodley, then sat, a little lower than eye to eye, which would hopefully give the illusion she was no threat.
Unbidden, a snort begged for release, but she pressed her lips tight.
Who was she fooling? She was no threat at all, so she would simply have to shoulder her way through this dangerous charade, a skill she’d honed in many a ballroom to avoid unwelcome advances.
“It is just you and I now, Mr. Woodley. This is your one—and only—chance to confess all to me. I may look the part of a woman of no consequence, but I assure you I have far deeper connections than you can imagine. From what I have seen these past two months of observing your service here at Bedford Manor—and trust me, it is no coincidence I arrived when I did—I do not believe you own a criminal nature. Rather, I suspect you may be a victim of circumstance.”
His jaw dropped, his mouth contorting several times before words escaped. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because as a casualty of the very same injury, I can spot it in others.”
“You?” He spluttered. “But you are a lady of high standing.”
“Mmm.” She stared him down. “We are not all as we appear, are we?”
He jerked his face aside, cursing under his breath. Dark hair fell over his eyes, yet he said nothing more.
So. She’d struck an exposed nerve.
But what was he hiding? Who was Mr. Woodley? If he was indeed a Woodley at all. He could be operating under an assumed name, yet was surmising such a risk worth taking?
“Your name is not Woodley,” she said matter-of-factly.
He snapped his face back to hers, a storm brewing in his eyes. “What else do you know?”
“Enough to have you arrested,” she bluffed. “But if you are frank with me, I shall be lenient. Now”—tipping back her head, she stared down her nose—“tell me all.”
A low breath dragged out of him, followed by a look of determination. “Fine, but I’m not naming any names. I’m not that sort.”
She did not flinch. “Go on.”
“I hail from Porthcurno,” he said, “where smuggling is a way of life—a life my mother, a former lady’s maid, wished me no part of.
She made sure I knew how to live amongst the gentry.
When I came of age, the local squire took me in as a hallboy, where I learned to serve in a fine house.
I was trained in more delicate duties—how to carry a tray, wait a table, and address my betters.
Enough to pass as a footman, which I aspired to.
But my father never let me forget what stock I came from.
Smugglers like a man who can slip between the cracks.
So, I learned the hard way how to live in both worlds … until a deal went bad.”
Juliet tapped a finger to her lips. “A deal you knew about,” she murmured.
“It wasn’t me who peached to the revenue men, I swear it! But I got the blame all the same. And with a price on my head, I ran.”
“To Bedford,” she drawled, his situation becoming clear. “With whatever money you had in your pocket and some forged papers to present here at the manor.”
He nodded.
Rising, she circled the footstool, thinking hard. Cornwall was far away, and the man had already resided beneath Bedford Manor’s roof for nigh on three years. So, why such fear now?
She stopped, biting the inside of her cheek, as if she could chew through the problem itself.
Think. Think!
Maybe, like her, someone else had found out about this man’s past and threatened to tell his former associates where he was. Someone who could then use him as a pawn for their own nefarious deeds …
Unless, of course, Woodley was the tormentor.
She frowned. That didn’t ring true. He had run from trouble, not sought it. A man desperate to disappear wouldn’t stir up attention. And what would he stand to gain by prodding Charity away from her home?
Still, there was some sort of connection here. She could feel it in her belly. “What have you to do with Miss Russell’s tormentor?”
His face hardened. “I’m not going back, and she can’t—”
He clamped his jaw tight.
Juliet cocked her head. “She who?”
He took sudden interest in his shoes.
“Are you speaking of Mrs. Hamby?”
The name garnered no response. Of course it didn’t. If the housekeeper had known of the man’s past, she’d have sent him packing long ago.
Juliet paced away, something niggling at the back of her mind, an unease that’d been rattling around since she and Henry had discovered Clara’s bracelet in the woods.
A wealthy woman like Miss Whitmore had no reason to be wandering that stretch of trees so far off the beaten path.
And now here was Woodley, a man clearly dreading to name the woman he feared.