Chapter 30
This might be a bad idea. Maybe her worst ever.
But something niggled in Juliet’s gut, urging her upwards.
The weak protests floating out the open window had to belong to Charity.
She’d stake her life on it—and in fact might just be doing that very thing by clinging to this rickety vine.
Still, this was the only way to know for sure.
Besides, if she did fall, Henry’s strong arms would catch her.
And then he’d blister her ears with a scolding.
Taking great care to avoid such a fate, she tested each handhold with a little tug as she climbed onto the ornamental ledge.
The carved limestone seemed solid enough beneath her half boots, but not so strong that she’d give up her grip on the wisteria.
Plus, it wasn’t that wide. She edged sideways on the balls of her feet, fear a constant hum at the back of her mind.
Thankfully, prayer no longer felt like a desperate plea—it was simply the air she breathed, steady and sure.
Her trust certain that no matter what, God held her soul securely in His hands.
Oh, how much she’d changed in the past few months!
She inched her way to the window.
Inside, a broadsided nurse in a light grey gown and white apron stood in front of an iron-railed bed, her back to Juliet. Her ample hips blocked the patient from view, but Juliet could make out the restless shift of movement beneath the white sheet.
She leaned closer. Come on, Nurse. Move!
A sharp whisper rose from below. “Juliet!” Henry grumbled. “Get down here this instant.”
She winced. He wouldn’t be put off much longer. Knowing Henry, she wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he was contemplating how to scale the wall to drag her back down.
Still, she held her ground. The west wind picked up, sending a stray curl whipping over her brow. It tickled her lashes, blurred her vision, but she dared not brush it away. Instead, she blew a quick breath upwards, blinking as her eyes watered.
Below, Henry growled another warning.
And then—at last—the nurse shifted, her heavy heels scritching across the floor as she turned towards the medicine cabinet.
Juliet’s breath caught. The woman in the bed came into view—golden haired, wrists bound to the iron rails, blue eyes fixed on hers in startled recognition.
Charity.
Her mouth opened, poised to speak, but Juliet pressed a quick finger to her lips. If Charity warned the nurse now, that window would be slammed shut before she had a chance to get inside.
A sharp movement below drew her gaze. Henry watched her, his face a thundercloud, his arms crossed tight.
She met his glare, mouthing an exaggerated “I found her.”
He pointed firmly to the ground, his meaning unmistakable.
Yes. Climbing down would be a wise idea. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. A proper lady wouldn’t even be in this situation to begin with.
And yet …
She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. Now that she was so close, the urge to help pushed her onwards—a decision she’d no doubt hear about later.
With a sharp shake of her head, she grasped the side of the window and hefted her leg over the sill, praying that the nurse still busied herself at the cabinet. She landed on light feet.
But not light enough.
The nurse glanced over her shoulder, and when she locked eyes on Juliet, she whirled with her fists on her hips. “I don’t know how you got in here but get out. Now!” She flung her arm towards the door.
“If you value your employment, madam, you will not say another word. Nor will you stop me. This woman is here against her will, and I intend to see her released.” She strode to Charity and began untying the bindings on her wrists, all the while keeping an eye on the nurse.
“Now, if you please, go down to the rear door and see that it is unlocked at once.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t know who you think you are, ordering me about like the King himself, but Mrs. Bellamy will hear of this!”
She spun on her heel, marching to the door—
Which burst open before she reached for the knob.
A gust of cold air swept through the room as Clara stormed in, a wild-eyed tempest. Gone was her usual flawless composure.
Her hair was mussed and hanging in a loose braid over her shoulder.
Deep wrinkles marred her gown. Dried mud clung to the hem.
The lace on one sleeve hung limp, as if she’d fought her way here—through carriage doors, brambles, or worse. All in all, she was a wreck.
One that Juliet could barely comprehend. What was she doing here?
A lethal shade of red darkened Clara’s face as her gaze landed on Juliet. “You!” She spun towards the nurse, voice shrill as broken glass. “Get this woman out of here! She is mad.”
The matron hesitated but a breath before nodding. “I will call for an orderly at once.”
“There is no time for that,” Clara snapped, the whites of her eyes too large, too unhinged. “Must I do everything myself?”
Clara shoved her hand into her pocket and pulled out a small—but deadly—pistol.
Then aimed it squarely at Juliet’s chest.
Blast that woman!
Henry barely suppressed a roar as Juliet disappeared through the window. He had to get up there. Now. Even if it meant breaking down the door and alerting everyone inside.
Bah! He fisted his hands, forcing down the reckless urge to barge inside like a raging bull. Getting himself detained by some hulking orderlies wouldn’t do Charity or Juliet any good.
Get a grip, man. Use your head.
Sucking in a calming breath, he reached for the knob.
Parker beat him to it.
And the door swung open freely.
What? No lock? No resistance whatsoever?
He hesitated for half a second, exchanging an arched brow with Parker. Then he tore off, thanking God for small miracles while pleading for larger.
He took the rear stairs two at a time. Parker’s gait laboured behind him. It couldn’t be easy for the man on this narrow servant stairway. Still, Henry gave him credit. By the sound of it, Parker wasn’t too far behind.
Clearing the last step, he lunged into a passageway lined with doors. A maddening puzzle. One he had no time for. He’d just have to—
A woman’s scream punched the air.
Second door down.
He sprinted, floorboards groaning beneath his weight. Reaching the door, he threw his shoulder into it, sending it careening into the plaster wall with a deafening crack.
And his breath slammed to a halt at the sight before him.
Charity sat up in bed, rubbing her wrists, face pale as a gravestone. A nurse hovered next to her, hands twisted in her apron, eyes wide with horror.
Directly in front of him, Clara Whitmore clutched a flintlock pocket pistol—six inches of deadly force—aimed directly at Juliet’s heart.
Juliet didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But he did.
Without hesitation, Henry veered around Clara and stepped between them.
His entire body became a barrier, his arms lifted, palms out.
Not because he feared confrontation, but because a head-on attack might get someone killed—and as such, he kept his voice low and deliberate. “Clara, stop this madness.”
She blinked, her expression distant, dazed. Like a cracked porcelain doll with the pieces barely holding together. “Henry?” The gun held firm, but her voice wavered. “What are you doing here?”
Every muscle in him screamed to rush her. But one glance at the pistol told him it wouldn’t take much. A twitch. A gasp. One wrong word. He needed to buy time, to reach her heart before she pulled that trigger. “The real question is—what are you doing?”
“Don’t you know?” Confusion flickered over her face. “Everything I do is for us.”
He saw it now. Through the cracks in her resolve, the trembling beneath her icy poise. This wasn’t villainy. It was delusion. And that made her even more dangerous.
“Put the gun down,” he said softly, “and explain it to me.”
For a second—just a second—her grip slackened.
But then, as if snapping back into place, she straightened.
“Of course you shall have your explanation. I would give you anything you ask, for we are lifelong friends, are we not?” Her voice turned almost wistful.
“The simple truth is you have spent so much time doting on your sister that you had no time for me. So, she had to go. It was never personal—not really. She’s a sweet enough girl. I merely needed her out of the way.”
It was a struggle, but he kept his tone even. “So you deliberately tried to frighten her away?”
“I needed to. I knew she wouldn’t leave of her own accord. Always clinging to you. Needing this. Wanting that. So—” Her eyes glimmered. “I enlisted Woodley to help me scare her off.”
“But how? Why? No man would willingly … ahh. You must have paid him well.”
“Hardly. Didn’t cost me a thing.” She chuckled, the gun wavering in her hand.
“Remember when I went off to visit my cousins in Cornwall shortly after finishing school? They rubbed shoulders with the local gentry, so I spent a fair amount of time at the home of Squire Eldon, who happened to employ a hallboy named William Wood—or as you know him, Woodley. Some time later, my cousin wrote to me of a scandal involving smugglers. Many were arrested, and all blamed your illustrious footman for ratting them out. It seems he used to be one of them. I simply used that information to persuade him to help me pocket items from Charity’s room, set up trip lines, and the like—or I’d let those angry smugglers know his location.
His unique skill set proved invaluable—he even had experience in hiding his footprints. ”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “And the poison? Was that Woodley too?”
“Heavens no! The man’s too thick for something that delicate. That was me. I simply uncorked Juliet’s precious little tonic and added a hefty dose of laudanum and ether before Woodley brought it in. Simple. Neat. Traceable—to Juliet.”
“And devastating,” he said under his breath.
But apparently loud enough for Clara to hear, for the gleam in her eyes turned to ice. “She needed to go too. She’s like a leech, always near you, yet I am the one who is supposed to be at your side! Not your sister, and certainly not that trollop behind you.”
It took every ounce of will not to let anger betray him. This particular knot required a deft touch. A slow, careful unraveling. Not brute force.
Behind her, Parker slipped in, silent as a ghost. He crept towards Clara. Just a little longer.
“You are right, Clara,” Henry murmured. “We are friends. And that’s exactly how I know you do not want to hurt anyone.”
Her focus skittered to the pistol, her brow folding as if she couldn’t understand how in the world her fingers came to be curled around such a weapon. “I don’t mean to harm you.”
“Then don’t.” He took half a step closer. Every heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. Calm and steady—not power or cowardice, but control. He pressed on. “You do not want to do this.”
A tremor ran down her arms. “You don’t understand. Those women have ruined everything. I had a plan—a future—for us! They stole it from me.”
One more breath. One more inch. Parker nearly there. Slowly, he shook his head. “No one stole anything, my old friend.”
Unnatural red splotches blossomed on her cheeks. “Do not tell me I am wrong!”
She raised the pistol higher.
This was it. The moment. He didn’t move. One step, one startle, and she might fire. But if he kept her talking a breath more, a heartbeat longer …
So he held his ground, gambling on his resolve for a win. “I am not saying you are wrong, just—”
Parker lunged.
His cane clattered to the tiles as he seized Clara’s wrist and twisted sharply.
She shrieked, the sound feral. Her elbow snapped back, catching Parker in the ribs.
The gun flew—a shot cracking on the air.
Time splintered. Juliet screamed. Or perhaps Charity. Hard to say.
Parker grunted, stumbling back, barely catching himself against the wall as blood bloomed on his waistcoat.
Henry surged forwards, locking both arms around Clara, crushing her flailing limbs against his chest. She bucked like a wild animal, shrieking, her nails raking at his forearm, her heels kicking his shins. “Let me go!” she howled, twisting, her breath hot and ragged against his collar.
But he held fast, every muscle straining as she fought him.
The nurse rushed to Parker’s side, pressing her hands to the wound to staunch the bleeding.
Juliet flew to Charity, gathering her into her arms, stroking damp hair from her face. Charity whimpered, eyes glassy with confusion and lingering fear.
Then came the pounding of feet.
The room swarmed with movement—orderlies storming through the doorway, Mrs. Bellamy gasping at the chaos, Henry’s father stepping inside, sharp-eyed and unreadable.
“It’s over, Clara,” Henry rumbled into her ear, tightening his hold as he wrenched her arms behind her back.
She sagged in his grip. “Nooo,” she wailed, her head snapping back against his shoulder. “I only ever wanted you to love me!”
His jaw clenched, his voice hard as iron. “I doubt very much if you even know what love is.”
Her breath came in shattered gasps. But there was no fight left in her.
The orderlies stepped forwards, their hands closing over her arms.
And Henry let go.