Chapter 26
As town houses went, Clara Whitmore’s was no more or less outstanding than any other Juliet had ever visited, which was oddly off-putting.
While she and Henry waited for the butler to answer, Juliet glanced at the large sconces on each side of the door, their flickering candle flames alive in the fresh dark of early evening.
The dim light licked over the polished brass knocker just like every other house on the street.
A residence like this did not belong to a villain.
Or maybe that was the most villainous thing about it. The polished veneer … just like Clara herself.
“Stop that.” Reaching aside, she stilled Henry’s hands, preventing him from wringing the life out of his leather gloves. “Wishing you were throttling Mr. Woodley’s neck will not make it so.”
His gaze flicked to her, then to the street. “I should have gone with my father and Carver to find him.”
“Yet you were the one who insisted I not confront Clara alone.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Though it would have been a pretty spectacular catfight.”
He frowned down at her. “That is exactly what I am here to prevent.”
The door opened to a hook-nosed man clad in black. “Good evening, Mr. Russell. Miss Whitmore did not inform me you would be calling tonight.”
“This is an unexpected visit on my part, as well. Is she available?”
“I believe she is tending Mrs. Whitmore, but you may wait in the sitting room while I enquire.” He allowed them entrance into a spacious front hall, a modest chandelier casting golden light over the black-and-white-tiled flooring.
Shutting the door, he assessed her with a measured eye while speaking to Henry. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
Henry gripped his gloves with both hands. “Simply inform Miss Whitmore I am here. I will not detain her for long.”
“Very good. The sitting room is already lit with a fire.” He swept his hand towards a door with a golden glow spilling out.
“Thank you.” Henry strode away without waiting for further invitation, his shoulders rigid, his step clipped and stilted.
Juliet caught up to him just past the threshold of a green-and-cream-painted sitting room.
The warmth of the fire couldn’t touch the storm simmering in his posture.
“Give me those gloves before you wear holes in them. You are working yourself into quite the lather.” Not that she blamed him, but still …
their interview with Clara would have to be handled delicately—with calculated thought, not emotion.
He shoved the gloves into his pocket. “There. Happy?”
“No.” She squeezed his arm. “Not until we find your sister, but I am certain Clara knows something.”
He huffed a sharp breath. “Yes, but the real question is how much will she admit to?”
“I got Mr. Woodley to talk. I think I can—”
“Henry!” Clara flew into the room on a cloud of jasmine perfume, her silk skirts billowing. She was all smiles and bliss, her eyes twinkling with love and life. “What a surprise! How lovely to see—oh.”
Her smile froze as her gaze landed on Juliet. Her chin lifted a fraction, just enough to claim superiority. “Miss Finch. I had not heard of your release from gaol.”
Juliet savoured the victory before curving her lips into a pleasant smile. “I would be surprised if you had.”
Clara’s left eye ticked a moment before she diverted towards the drinks cart. Her hands hovered over the crystal decanters. “May I offer you both some—”
“No refreshments required.” Henry’s harsh tone rang like an unexpected gong. “Only information.”
Clara hesitated a moment longer, then turned around, her smile sliding into place as the consummate hostess.
“As you wish. Please, won’t you have a seat?
” She gestured towards an emerald-and-gold damask sofa, lowering herself into a matching chair across from it.
“Now, what is it that you think I can tell you?”
“Where my sister is.” Henry sat as stiff as a weaver’s beam.
Clara blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Juliet shivered from the ice in his voice. And he’d worried she’d be the one with claws out at this inquisition? She folded her hands in her lap, softening her tone in contrast. “What he means is do you happen to know where Charity might be?”
Clara’s brow furrowed. “I did not know she was gone.”
“You are her dearest friend.” Henry snorted, his skepticism more than apparent. “Surely she would have said something to you.”
“She has been ill, Henry … which makes this all the more disconcerting.” She traced a well-manicured finger along the arm of the chair, lips pursing for a moment. “Wait a minute.” Her head tilted. “You do not think she is here, do you? Because I can assure you she is not.”
“I do not know what to think!” Henry jolted to his feet, striding to the mantel and bracing his hands against it as if he might rip it from the wall.
Juliet smoothed her palms along her skirt, his frustration seeping into her bones.
They were getting nowhere asking direct questions, so perhaps it was time to dangle some bait instead of casting empty lines.
She speared Clara with a sharp look. “There was a note in Charity’s room, saying she’d gone to Italy. ”
“Well.” Clara leaned back with a tinkling laugh. “There you have it. Why the concern?”
Henry spun, folding his arms over his chest like a shield. “You said yourself she has been ill. Do you not find that incongruous?”
Her smile faded. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Her eyes widened slightly, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, Henry, are you thinking someone made Charity leave? What an awful thought! Something must be done, and I will be glad to lend any aid I can. What can I do?”
Hah! She’d done quite enough already. This woman belonged on a Drury Lane stage.
Henry shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet, holding it up so that lamplight glittered off the gold. “You can start by telling me why I found this in the woods.”
Clara gasped. “Oh! I thought I lost that ages ago … I didn’t realize it was still on the grounds. Thank you, Henry.”
She jumped up, hand outstretched.
Henry merely tucked it back into his pocket, face inscrutable. “I will hold on to this for now. I would not wish for you to lose it in some other obscure place.”
“But …” Clara’s brow twisted. “I don’t understand.”
Juliet stood as well. “Why was your bracelet on the manor grounds?”
Clara turned, eyes flashing. “I visit there often enough. I ride with Charity—or at least I did when she was fit to do so. How dare you question me so rudely in my own home?”
“There is nothing rude about Juliet’s question.” Henry stepped away from the hearth, planting his feet wide. “So, answer it.”
“I have given you a perfectly plausible answer.” She closed in on Henry, lightly rubbing her fingers along his arm. “I understand you are upset over your sister’s disappearance, but pray do not take your frustration out on me. I only—ever—mean the best for you. Do not be angry.”
Juliet folded her arms. “Who do you know in Tunbridge Wells?”
Clara glanced back at her. “No one. Why do you ask?”
“What about any connections with Bellamy House?” Henry’s gaze sharpened on her.
She frowned, her brow furrowing slightly.
“I do not know what you are talking about. Truly. Of course I am worried about Charity, and I will do all I can to help you.” She stepped towards the bellpull, her fingertips reaching for the scarlet cord as she faced them both.
“But for now I am afraid I shall have to ask you to leave. My mother is upstairs with a raging megrim, and I must return to her side. I hope you understand.”
Aha. The megrims! Clara had the perfect opportunity to pocket extra laudanum every time she visited Mr. Scather’s shop for her mother’s medicine.
“So, tell me, Clara.” Juliet crossed the rug, studying the woman’s perfectly painted face. “Just how much laudanum did you—”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Whitmore.” The butler strode in before she could finish—and before Clara had even rung the bell—a cream-coloured envelope with a gold seal in his outstretched hand. “A message arrived for you, miss. Marked urgent.”
Clara retrieved the note and, without so much as a glance, held it behind her back. “Thank you, Graves. My guests were just leaving.” She turned to them as he took up a post near the door. “Now, as I said, I have pressing matters to attend, so I bid you good night.”
Henry shook his head, red creeping past his collar. “I will not leave here until—”
Juliet grabbed his arm, digging in her fingers to make a point. She only had one shot at this—and that was now. “Come, Henry. Clara is clearly preoccupied.”
He glowered. “But—”
She shot him a sharp look, silently pleading for him to trust her. Would he?
His frown deepened, but at length, he gave a barely perceptible nod.
Juliet flashed Clara a smile as she led him forwards. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. Good night.”
Hardly a step past the woman, Juliet lunged sideways. Her hand shot out. Fingers grasping. Snatching at the note. Yanking it away.
Clara’s blue eyes blazed. “How dare you!” She dove.
Henry blocked her.
Juliet ripped open the note.
And when the meaning set in, she gasped.
Henry whirled at the sudden intake of air from Juliet. The stunned look on her face lifted gooseflesh on his arms. He plucked the paper from her fingers just as Clara shoved past him.
“Give me that!” Clara swiped for it, her usually composed features twisted into desperation.
Stretching his arm high, he held the missive far from her reach and narrowed his eyes at the black ink.
Dear Miss Whitmore,
As per your request, everything is in place for the new arrival, and I shall do all in my power to carry out your wishes.
Thank you for your generous donation.
Dr. Robert Floodstone, Director of Bellamy House
Clutching the paper, he whirled on the woman he’d trusted all his life. His friend. His confidant.
His betrayer.
“Why?” His voice boomed to the rafters but so be it.
Let it thunder to the heavens if that’s what it took to shake the truth from her.
“Why would you be informed by the director of a recovery home in Tunbridge Wells—a place you claim you have no connections with—of a soon-to-arrive patient? Is this where you have sent Charity? Is it, Clara?”
Clara froze, her mouth deformed into a big O, her eyes seas of glass, looking for all the world like Lot’s wife taking a last glance at Sodom and Gomorrah.
Just before she became a pillar of salt.
And then she folded, falling into a chair, palms pressed to her cheeks. Tears came. Buckets of them. Washing over her fingers, her lips, her chin. A woman racked by sorrow, sucking in stuttering breaths.
Henry scowled. He should feel some measure of pity, but no. He would not grant her that. And yet—though she didn’t deserve such a kindness—he mechanically thrust a handkerchief towards her. A lifetime of training was too hard to break. “Here.” The single word was like gravel in his throat.
She snatched it, pressing the fabric to her eyes. “I … only wanted … to help,” she sobbed.
Juliet flung out her hands, scoffing. “Drugging a woman and shipping her off against her will is a strange way to help her.”
Clara dragged the handkerchief across her face, her voice warbling between gasps.
“Everything has been too much for Charity. I only wished her to receive the tender care she deserves. You have been blind, Henry, buried in your father’s affairs.
I don’t blame you, but someone needed to act on your sister’s behalf. So I did.”
Henry’s gut seized. Was that what she told herself to justify such a wicked act? That she’d been the righteous one in all this? That she was some sort of saviour?
“What a load of claptrap!” Juliet’s voice lashed through the air, cutting right through Clara’s pretense.
“You tormented Charity.” She stabbed her finger through the air.
“You poisoned her with laudanum you stole from Mr. Scather. You set me up to bear the blame for it. And now, on top of it all, you have kidnapped Charity.”
Clara’s head snapped up, handkerchief balled on her lap, tears pushed away by a blazing mask of fury.
“The only thing I have done is care about my dearest friend in all the world. My dearest friends.” She jerked her face towards Henry, eyes wild.
“Look at me, Henry. Look! I have always been here for you. For Charity. We have known each other since our time in leading strings. You cannot believe I would be so wicked as to do what this woman accuses me of.”
Henry studied her face, then advanced a step and stared deeper. Beyond her facade. Past any charade. Seeking for truth.
But he might as well have been gazing at a marble statue.
“What I see”—his voice cracked, so loath was he to admit aloud what he barely wished to ponder in secret—“is a woman who believes she is justified in her crimes. A woman who would go to any lengths to attain what she wants.”
Juliet turned on her heel, striding towards the butler, who yet lingered at the door. “Call the constable.”
Clara surged to her feet, crimson blotches staining her cheeks. “Do not presume to order my staff about, Miss Finch.”
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, once again forced to choose to commit a woman to gaol … only this time he spun towards the butler without hesitation. “Do it.”
The man gave a sharp nod and left the room.
Clara whirled to him, hands outstretched, lower lip quivering. “Henry, you cannot be serious about this. Think of all the times we have shared, how I have proven my loyalty to you and your family. You cannot let this upstart drive a wedge between us. She has poisoned your mind!”
“And you have poisoned my sister.”
Clara winced as if struck. Her mouth opened, perhaps to deny or maybe to beg, but she never got the chance.
The butler reappeared, his brows oddly knit. “Pardon me, sir, but the constable is already at the door.”
Henry cocked his head. So soon? He exchanged a glance with Juliet before marching out to the front hall, the women’s skirts swishing behind him.
Indeed, there in the front hall the constable waited, imposing in his calf-length blue wool, flanked by three bloodied men.
Henry’s father, Parker, and Woodley.