Chapter 27
Juliet raced neck and neck with Clara as they followed Henry to the front door, using every ounce of self-restraint not to elbow the woman into the wall.
Clara deserved it for what she’d done to Charity.
But this was, after all, her home—for now.
If Juliet had any say in the matter, the constable would haul her to the very cell she’d left empty earlier that day.
“What the deuce is going on here?” Henry boomed as she caught up to him, Clara gaining his other side.
Juliet pressed a hand to her chest, barely comprehending the sight in front of her. Mr. Russell’s cravat hung like an unraveled noose around his neck, the right sleeve of his coat torn. A smear of blood darkened the corner of his mouth.
Beside him, Mr. Parker didn’t fare much better. His waistcoat was splattered with mud and a fresh cut bloomed red at his temple. He leaned heavily to one side, propped up by his cane, the set of his jaw betraying a pain he refused to acknowledge.
And then there was Mr. Woodley.
He stood in the center of the bedraggled group, just in front of the constable.
Blood matted his hair above one ear. His lower lip was split.
A darkening bruise spread along his jaw.
There was a crooked hump misshaping his nose, and one of his eyes had nearly swelled shut.
When his good eye landed on Clara, he paled to a deathly grey, stumbling back and smacking into the constable. His lips parted in a silent oath.
So. He did fear Miss Whitmore.
Juliet dropped her hand, her fingers absently trailing along her skirt. She’d been right all along.
The constable—not Mr. Fisk but every bit as burly—nudged Woodley forwards. “This man’s life was saved by the quick action of Mr. Russell and Mr. Parker.”
Henry’s father pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood near his mouth. “Once we left Bedford Manor, Parker here used his military skills to track Woodley to the livery—or nearly so. We can only surmise he intended to hire a horse and make a run for it.”
“Only a rather bullish thug ended that plan.” Mr. Parker rolled his shoulder as if shaking off the lingering effects of the fight.
“It was quite the skirmish, one I admit I rather enjoyed. I haven’t seen that much action since my men and I held the line at the Chindwin River.
I’m afraid, however, the devil gave us all the slip.
” He directed a sheepish smile at Henry.
“Your father called for a constable while I revived Woodley.”
Juliet stepped closer to the footman, head tilted as she studied his battered face. “Who did this to you?”
Surely Clara couldn’t have known he’d been trying to flee and arranged for someone to stop him in such a brutal fashion.
The footman’s good eye darted wildly between the gathered faces before finally landing on Clara. Sure enough, he aimed an accusing finger at her. “She did. But”—he sniffed a trickle of blood seeping out his nose—“how did you know?”
Clara turned her attention squarely on the constable instead of Mr. Woodley.
“I have no idea what this man is speaking about.” Her words were smooth enough, but Juliet didn’t miss a quick swallow before she continued.
“I have been in my mother’s bedchamber all afternoon, tending to her needs.
My staff will vouch for it. But even if I had not been at home, it is ludicrous to suggest I could have wrought such havoc on this strapping man. ”
She flung a dismissive hand towards the footman. “When you two came upon Mr. Woodley, was it a woman who was besting him? Who bloodied the both of you in such a fashion as well? Do you seriously think I could have done such a thing?”
Balling up his handkerchief, Henry’s father glowered. “Of course not. Parker already said it was a bullish thug.”
“There you have it, then.” Victory—or was it venom?—dripped from her confident tone. She pinned Mr. Woodley with a cancerous look, her voice sweet as molasses but twice as thick. “You are a liar, sir.”
Juliet peered at the woman on the other side of Henry’s broad frame. “And you are very quick to defend yourself.”
A murderous red crept up her neck. “I—”
Henry slashed his hand through the air. “No one wishes to hear any more of your alibis, Clara.” He turned back to the footman, words like steel on stone. “Tell us, Woodley, how you know Miss Whitmore suspected you’d talked with us.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he tugged at his collar, his grey pallor deteriorating to a pea-soup hue. “She’s the only one with reason to send someone after me.”
Ahh. Juliet bobbed her head, the details fitting together like puzzle pieces. Since Charity was neatly tucked away and Juliet was supposedly in gaol, Clara had no more need of the footman. He was only a liability to her now.
“So.” Juliet faced the sorely beaten man. “It was one of your Cornish connections who found you. You think that Miss Whitmore informed your prior associates of your location and they’d come to enact retribution?”
Clara laughed, the sound brittle in the stuffy hall.
“Oh, please. Do you really think I would know such details about a footman in another house?” She turned to the constable, squaring her shoulders.
“Now, if you will pardon me, I have other things to attend. I suggest you take this party down to the station and sort this out.”
“No!” The footman’s bark came out raw, a man on the edge of madness. He lurched forwards, then staggered, his hand flying to his throat. “You’re the one who—” He sucked in a great gasp of air, clawing at his collar. “You said to keep my mouth shut or I’d”—another ragged inhale—“regret it and—”
His head swayed like a rabid dog’s, breathing erratic. Panic spasmed across his battered face as he realized his own body was about to betray him. “She made … me do it,” he rasped.
Juliet stepped forwards, straining to hear his weakening voice. “Made you do what, Mr. Woodley?”
“She—” He wobbled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish aground. Something gurgled in his throat as his pupils shrank to pinpricks. His face twisted in agony and one hand slapped his chest. The other flailed wildly about.
Then, like a marionette whose strings had been severed, Mr. Woodley collapsed to the tile.
Could things get any worse? Biting back a blast it all, Henry dropped to a crouch and pressed two fingers against the footman’s neck. The constable held no such restraint and spat out a curse as he hunkered down next to him.
Opposite, Juliet knelt, worry pinching her brow. “Is he going to be all right?”
A weak pulse beat beneath Henry’s fingers. Barely. He glanced at the constable. “This man needs a doctor.”
“Indeed he does.” The constable rose, arms outstretched. “Everyone step back. Give the man some air.”
Henry straightened out Woodley’s legs while Juliet swiftly shrugged out of her spencer and balled it up. Without hesitation, she tucked the fabric beneath the footman’s head.
“Perhaps we should carry him into the sitting room,” Parker suggested.
Clara sniffed. “No need. I shall see that my butler calls Dr. Branch immediately.”
She whirled.
Henry lunged, grabbing her arm. “Oh, no. You are not going anywhere.”
She wrenched away—or tried to. He held tight.
“Henry!” She glared at his fingers clutching her sleeve. “Unhand me this minute.”
“And let you get away?” A mirthless chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Not on your life.”
Clara swiveled her head, her blue gaze petitioning his father as if he were God.
“Mr. Russell, I appeal to your better sense, as clearly your son has taken leave of his own. The Whitmores and Russells have been family friends for generations. You cannot doubt my loyalty. And where would I run? This is my home!”
His father rubbed his knuckles along his jaw, a favourite thinking stance of his.
Henry gaped. Surely he wasn’t considering this.
At length, his father tucked away his handkerchief, straightening to his full height. “Let her go, Henry. This is not how civilized people behave.”
It was a command, not a request—one that chafed.
Henry shook his head. “There is nothing civilized about Charity being shipped off against her will.”
His father advanced, stopping inches from Clara, his face hewn like stone. “Clara will not flee.” Each word was a proclamation. A demand. A challenge for her to go against it and find out what sort of brimstone would rain down upon her head.
Clara trembled beneath his grip. Good. Let her feel the full weight of what she was up against.
Henry released her.
Juliet let out a breath as if she’d been holding it the entire time, then turned from the spectacle to the constable.
“We believe Miss Whitmore—along with Mr. Woodley’s aid—arranged for Charity Russell’s abduction and had her taken to Bellamy House in Tunbridge Wells.
For such a crime, she should be placed into custody at once. ”
“Preposterous!” Clara stamped her foot. “I will not tolerate such accusations in my own home. Though it pains me to do so, I ask all of you to leave at once, for I must attend my mother posthaste. Even now she lies abed suffering.” Her fingers fluttered towards the main staircase leading to the first floor.
Henry gaped. “And what would you have us do with Woodley here? Roll him out the door for the doctor to attend him on the lawn?”
“That is not my concern. My mother is of foremost consideration at the moment.” She sashayed melodramatically to the bellpull, an unnecessary act. The butler yet hovered just down the corridor.
Henry turned to the constable. “I agree with Miss Finch. Miss Whitmore should be taken into your custody immediately, and here is proof to back up that statement.” He handed over the wrinkled paper.
Sniffing, the constable squinted at the note.
His lips twitched one way then another before he gave a little shake to his head.
“All this proves for certain is that Miss Whitmore gave a generous donation to Bellamy House and that she evidently has some sort of acquaintance with a Dr. Floodstone. That is hardly call to lock her in gaol. Without evidence of foul play, I cannot simply arrest a lady because another is missing.”
“Pah!” Parker rapped his cane against the tiles, the sharp crack splitting the air.
A volcanic shade of red crept past his collar, his temper near the breaking point, and Henry didn’t blame him a bit.
“Station an officer here and come with us to Tunbridge Wells to rescue Miss Russell; then you shall have your evidence.”
The constable wagged his head. “That’s out of my jurisdiction. In order for me to accompany you, paperwork must be filed and—”
“Blast the paperwork!” Parker cut in, his voice like the crack of a whip.
“My men and I suffered on the battlefield for harebrained negligence such as this.” He stepped forwards, his cane now gripped like a weapon.
“I ride for Tunbridge Wells tonight. Who stands with me?” His fierce gaze shifted from face to face.
Henry glanced at Juliet, then his father, resolution carved in both their expressions.
“We do,” he agreed. “If the law will not act swiftly, then we shall.” For while Charity might be the responsibility of the Almighty, that did not mean he had to stand around and do nothing.
He turned to Clara, stepping close enough that only a breath of air separated them. “But”—his voice dropped to a treacherous bass—“do not think to flee. If you are responsible for this, you’d best pray I find Charity alive and unharmed.”