His grey eyes looked at her with such softness, such tenderness, that she took a step back. “But you said—”
He grimaced. “I am sorry for what I was forced to say. But I had to if I wanted Mrs. Morton to think I did not suspect her.”
She stared at him. Was she imagining this? Were the desperate hopes of her heart influencing her mind? Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. “You do not believe I did it?”
He shook his head, taking her trembling hand and holding it against his chest. “No, I do not. But I do believe you know something about what happened. I need to know everything.”
Rose’s mind was spinning, but relief swelled within her, forcing out the dread that had taken root there. She suddenly felt weak, the whirlwind of the past hour taking its toll on her, and only once Henry had seated her again and repeated the question did she find her voice.
“Last night,” she began. “I was outside when I heard Mrs. Morton speaking with a man.”
“A man?” he asked sharply. “Did you recognize him? Was he one of the servants?”
She shook her head. “I never saw him, just heard his voice, and I did not know it. He spoke of acting quickly, before it was too late and something was moved. And Mrs. Morton said they needed to avoid suspicion, and that she had a plan in place.” She closed her eyes briefly. “It wasn’t until Mrs. Morton was accusing me that I realized they were talking about the mirror. I was going to tell you this morning, but she came before I could.”
She looked up at him, searching his face for any signs of mistrust. But she saw only determination in his steely eyes.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Whatever I must,” he said. “I will not allow that viperous woman to succeed. I have a footman watching her every move and the constable is on his way. I intend to inform him of everything, and then let him proceed with the investigation as if you truly were guilty.”
Her hands went cold and her insides jolted. “What?”
His face softened, his eyes apologetic. “I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you again. But if we want Mrs. Morton to lead us to both her accomplice and the mirror, she needs to think we have no doubts as to your guilt. I promise I will not allow any harm to come to you.”
He took her hand again and pressed it to his lips, and it was difficult to feel anything but the rush of emotion that overwhelmed her senses. His lips were soft on her skin, and she wanted nothing more than to slip into his arms and let the world go on without them. But that was not so easily done as said. He lowered her hand and watched her intently, waiting. She took a steadying breath.
“Tell me what I must do.”
Chapter Twelve
The clock ticked softly in the quiet of the library. It was nearing midnight, the flames in the fireplace burning low, but Henry did not feel the least bit tired. Not only had the turmoil of the day rendered sleep entirely impossible, but Rose had finally fallen asleep on his shoulder, exhausted from the trying day. He had no desire to move now, not with her warmth beside him and her soft breaths against his neck.
The constable, Mr. Bowles, sat across the room, arms crossed as he stared into the fire. He looked every bit as alert as Henry felt. It had taken some convincing when they had first told the constable the truth earlier that afternoon. But after he questioned Rose and listened to Henry’s words on her behalf, he had been more than willing to join their charade.
Bowles had called Mrs. Morton up for questioning, treating her as if she was a valuable witness and not in fact their only suspect. Henry could not be present for that interview; he was certain he would be unable to sit quietly as Mrs. Morton told her lies. But it had all gone as planned. Mrs. Morton believed that Rose had been arrested, and that there were no suspicions cast upon her at all.
They had been waiting through the long hours of the afternoon and into the evening. Bowles was certain the housekeeper would make her move soon. “Thieves always make mistakes when they think they’ve escaped,” he’d said.
Despite their circumstances, Henry could not find himself disappointed in being forced to spend the entire day in Rose’s company. Even when worried, she still managed to smile and laugh with him, and their day passed much quicker than it should have, considering what they were up against. But as darkness settled in, Rose finally gave in to weariness and laid her head against his shoulder. He would have liked to stay this way all night, inhaling her tantalizing scent, feeling her soft hair against his cheek.
But a sharp knock came at the door, and it could only mean one thing.
He nudged Rose, and she sat up immediately, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “It’s time,” he whispered.
Bowles was already on his feet, moving across the room to the door. Frampton stepped inside and searched the room until he met Henry’s eyes.
“She just slipped out the servants’ entrance,” he said quietly. “Charlie is certain she is heading to town.”
“Let’s get on with it,” Mr. Bowles growled. “My man at the road will keep an eye on her until we get there.”
Henry nodded and was about to stand when he felt Rose’s hand slip into his. He turned to her, and his pulse tripped at the concern in her eyes. “Do be careful,” she whispered.
Even with her hair a mess and her eyes red from exhaustion and tears, Henry had never imagined anyone so beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and kiss her quite soundly, but now was hardly the time with both Frampton and Bowles watching them.
“I will,” he said, and he meant it. He did not know who Mrs. Morton’s accomplice was, if he was armed or not, but he had every intention of returning to Rose. In their time together, he’d glimpsed something unfathomable, something he’d never thought to have for himself, and he had no desire to give that up now. “Try to sleep,” he said.
She gave him a wry look. “How am I to sleep when my pillow has gone off to catch a thief?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Then I shall return as soon as I can, so I may take up the position again.”
She gave his hand one last squeeze, keeping her expression brave. But he saw the fear in her eyes and in her forced smile, and he determined that he would never allow her to be afraid again.
* * *
Henry could barely make out the shape of Constable Bowles’s shoulders ahead of him in the dark, crouched behind a thick bush outside the Golden Crown, the town’s inn. They had met the constable’s man and Charlie, the footman, on the outskirts of town, where they both confirmed that Mrs. Morton had entered the inn not five minutes past. Henry and Bowles now waited as the other two men took up positions at the back entrance, prepared to intercept anyone trying to escape.
“Ready?” Bowles asked.
Henry gave a nod. He wanted this over and done with, for Rose’s sake.
He followed Bowles as the man rose and strode to the front door. The room was busy, but one glance told him Mrs. Morton was nowhere to be seen. He tightened his hold on his pistol, hidden in the pocket of his great coat. The other guests cast curious looks at him, turning away quickly when he glared at them.
Bowles went to the innkeeper, wiping a table in the corner, and conferred with him. The man’s eyes found Henry and stared at him, then gestured to a hall at the back of the room as he spoke.
Bowles returned to his side. “He says Mrs. Morton is in the back parlor. A cloaked man went with her.”
“Good,” Henry said shortly. “We have them.”
“I should ask you to stay out here, my lord.” Bowles eyed him. “I do not want to endanger the life of a peer.”
“Blast it, man,” Henry growled. “It hardly matters who I am.”
Bowles gave a swift nod. “If you are sure. I think we ought to approach with discretion. Since they are alone, we might be able to overhear something to aid in our case against them.”
At Henry’s agreement, they started forward again, this time with slow footsteps and no words between them. They entered the hallway and m
oved to a closed door at the end, where a faint light flickered from beneath. Bowles motioned for Henry to take the opposite side and they readied their pistols.
Voices spoke from inside, and it took a few seconds for Henry to calm his racing heart enough to hear them.
“You’re certain your man is reliable?” came a woman’s voice. Mrs. Morton. Henry grit his teeth at the sound. He’d never particularly liked his housekeeper, but neither had he suspected she might steal from him.
She went on. “If I have gone through all this trouble, only to have the man caught as he tries to sell it—”
“He won’t be caught.”
Henry stiffened at the man’s voice, and his head snapped up to stare at Bowles. The constable met his eyes. Do you know him? he mouthed.
Henry nodded, barely seeing the man beyond the red haze of anger in his eyes. Oh, he certainly knew that voice.
“You needn’t worry over such details, my dear Mrs. Morton. You have played your part well, and now you must trust that I will do the same. This mirror will fetch an impressive price, and the jewels are nothing to scoff at. I assure you that you will have your money.”
At that, Bowles gave one sharp nod. Henry took a quick breath, raised his pistol, and threw open the door. Bowles stormed inside, with Henry right after him, heat pulsing through his veins.
Two figures sat before the smoldering fire, a lamp lit beside them. They both leaped to their feet, Mrs. Morton letting out an unladylike screech as she threw herself against the far wall. But Henry was watching the other figure, the familiar silhouette of John Ramsbury, as he lunged toward a small table where a pistol lay.
“Stop!” Bowles shouted. “If you touch that weapon, I will shoot.”
Ramsbury stumbled to a halt, staring at them with ragged eyes.
“Step away,” the constable demanded, gesturing with a point of his gun. Mrs. Morton stood frozen in the corner, hands clasped to her chest.
Ramsbury did not move. “Henry,” he said with a gasping breath. “Thank goodness you’re here. I was coming to see you tomorrow, to prove you can trust me. I thought if I could bring you your housekeeper, who plots against you and steals from you, then—”
“Save your lies, John.” Henry pointed his pistol directly at his former friend’s chest. He would not shoot without provocation, but Ramsbury did not know that, and he rather enjoyed the surge of fear he saw in the man’s eyes. “An innocent man does not go for his gun at the sight of the constable.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall and the constable’s man and Charlie burst into the room. Bowles began directing them, taking Ramsbury’s pistol and ordering his arrest. Mrs. Morton wailed from the corner, and Henry watched her with narrowed eyes. All the pieces of the puzzle flew together; Mrs. Morton had worked as housekeeper for the Ramsbury’s for years. Their connection was obvious now that he thought to look for it. Even as she was taken sobbing down the hallway, Henry did not feel one ounce of forgiveness towards her; she would have stolen away Rose’s future in a heartbeat, and that was something he would never forget.
Ramsbury glared at him as he was also led him from the room, but Henry barely spared him a glance as he sat heavily in one of the empty chairs. For a moment, the old pain returned, the stabbing ache of loss. Ramsbury had taken his parents from Henry with his lies and deceit. Would this wound ever heal entirely?
Bowles approached him then, a leather bag in his hand. “Yours, I believe.”
Henry took it and glanced inside. Jewels sparkled at him, the familiar lines of his mother’s mirror contrasting against the rough leather. He realized then that throughout the entire day, he had given barely a thought to his mother’s missing jewelry or her beloved mirror. His worry had been solely for Rose.
That told him more than anything the truth of what he felt for her. Rose had brought light back into his existence, and if anyone could heal his broken heart, it was she. He did not want to live without her, not when he knew the joy of having her in his life.
Chapter Thirteen
Henry could not sleep that night, his body far too restless after his confrontation with Ramsbury. When he’d returned home, Frampton told him that he had sent Rose to bed as soon as they’d had word that the thieves were caught. Henry had been disappointed, as he’d dearly wanted to see her, but he could not begrudge her the much-needed sleep. He retired to his room, waiting out the dark hours until morning when he could see her again.
As soon as the faintest light of dawn broke against his window, he changed and went downstairs. He was not even certain she would be awake yet, but he could not contain his impatience any longer. Frampton waited for him in the entry.
“Where is she?” Henry asked, not bothering with preamble.
Frampton very nearly smiled, which would have been a sight indeed. Instead, he nodded at the door to Henry’s study. “She’s waiting to speak with you, my lord.”
Henry nodded and started away, but then paused. “Remind me to thank you for everything you did last night, Frampton.”
“Of course,” he said. “I shall add it to your schedule myself.”
Henry smiled as the butler walked away. Even if Mrs. Morton had turned out to be less than loyal, he still counted himself fortunate in his staff.
Especially in his maids.
He strode to his study and stepped inside. Rose was at the window and she turned as he entered. The early morning glow lit her face, the reds and oranges blending with her lovely skin in such a way that caused his heart to pound ferociously in his chest. Her eyes met his and he walked slowly to her, afraid to look away, as if she might vanish into the very air.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked as he came before her.
She offered a half smile. “As well as can be expected. I was glad to hear that you apprehended the thieves.”
She stood rigidly, her hands tucked behind her, and for the first time Henry realized that there was something not quite right. Her face was not open and free as it should be now that the threat against her was gone. “What is wrong, Rose?” he asked quietly. “What has happened?”
She held up her hand, clasping a letter. “I’ve another letter from my father’s jailer.” She swallowed and looked away, but not before Henry saw the tears pooling in her eyes. “Papa is still terribly ill, and the jailer bids me to come immediately or I might not see him alive again.”
Henry’s chest tightened. He stared at her, his eyes moving over her familiar features, her drooping shoulders, and it took him less than a moment to decide. “Then you do not have any time to waste. You should go to him, immediately.”
She shook her head. “I cannot leave now, not when everything is such a mess.”
He took her shoulders and willed her to look up at him. Her gaze was erratic, wild almost, and it was all he could do not to pull her against him and hold her safe in his arms. But she did not need that now; she needed his support and help.
“You do not need to worry about me,” he said firmly. “The only thoughts in your mind should be for your father. Now hurry, go and pack. You will take my coach and be at Marshalsea by nightfall.”
She blinked up at him, her lips trembling. “You are sure?” she whispered.
“I am,” he said. “I wish I could accompany you, but I have to manage things here.” His insides flared with a new anger at Ramsbury. If that man was not such a scourge on society, Henry would be able to do more to help Rose when she needed him the most. But the house would be in chaos, reeling from the theft, and Bowles had asked him to testify against Rambsury in the coming days. He could not leave now. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, forcing them to his sides. “Now go pack, and I will order the coach.”
She nodded and moved across the room. She stopped with her hand on the doorframe and looked back at him, her eyes watery.
“Thank you, Henry,” she whispered, and then she disappeared into the hall.
Before the sound of her steps faded, he had already decided what he would do. She did
not need the worries of being away from her position, of hurrying to return as soon as possible. He would release Rose from her debt, do all he could to help her. And she would come back when she could, when her father was well.
Doubt began to wriggle within him. Would she return? There were no promises between them. Once she was free of debt, would she find a new life with her father and never look back? He could not have invented all that had grown between them. He loved her, and she must feel something for him. Or was she kind to him simply because she had no choice, because she was in his debt?
He let out a long breath. If she did not come back, then it was her choice, and he would not take that from her.
His wandering eyes paused on his desk, where he’d left his mother’s mirror locked in the drawer. An idea sparked. She was leaving, but not before he could make clear how he felt about her. A gesture that she could not possibly misinterpret.
* * *
Rose leaned forward in the coach, willing it to move faster. Though they made good time across the countryside south of London, it was still far too slow for the anxiety that gathered inside her, the desperation that reached its cold fingers into her chest. What if she was too late? What if even now her father was taking his last breaths?
She exhaled, trying to break the ceaseless circle of her thoughts. She was already doing everything she could to be at his side.
Though in truth, it was all Henry’s doing. If not for his help, she would likely still be waiting for a mail coach, instead of here in this comfortable carriage, with the protection of a coachman and footman.
Henry’s face flashed through her mind, from their moment of farewell outside Norcliffe House that morning. He had been somber, his eyes worried as he handed her a satchel. He helped her up into the coach, his steady grip reassuring, and said goodbye in a quiet voice that held a strange note of finality. She hadn’t questioned him, her focus completely on reaching her father, but now her thoughts could not help but linger on him.
She glanced at the satchel beside her, still closed. With hours still ahead of her, she gave in to her curiosity and pulled the bag to her. There were several items inside; a letter, bread and cheese, a bag that clinked suspiciously of coins, and a wrapped bundle at the bottom that was particularly hefty. The letter was not sealed, so she opened it.
Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1) Page 7