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 moved 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.