Page 158 of The Language of Love

Henry jerked his chin at Green, who was standing beside her chair.

The Runner clamped a hand over Martha’s mouth and not ungently lifted her to her feet. “We’ll be off, my lord,” Green said, bowing low while easily holding the squirming thief.

Once the door shut behind them, the only people left were Henry, Annis, and Julia. The constable was still keeping guard outside the door. Henry hadn’t sent Caldwell out of the room because he feared his servants would barge in, but because it wouldn’t serve to have the man hear any of the conversations taking place inside the study.

“What are you going to do with me?” Julia asked listlessly, staring at her feet.

“You are also going to Europe.”

Her head jerked up at that.

“Not on the same ship as Mrs. Loring,” Henry assured her. “You will make an extended tour of the Continent—much as you’d planned to do, but without taking the Stoke relics with you.”

Rather than look grateful, she scowled. “I won’t have the money to do such a thing now.”

“I shall make sure you have ample funds to enjoy a long journey. You were already packed?”

She nodded.

“Remain in your chambers and be prepared to leave as soon as Mr. Green returns from his errand. He will escort you to Dover personally.”

She snorted, and her lovely face twisted into a mocking, miserable smile. “I suppose you expect me to thank—”

“Just go, Julia,” Henry said. “Go before you make me change my mind.”

She huffed and strode from the room in a flurry of skirts.

Once she’d gone, Henry went to the door and opened it again to exchange a few quiet words with the constable regarding the disposal of Loring’s body, which had been transported to the village already.

Caldwell looked perplexed by Henry’s decision not to charge Mrs. Loring with any crimes, but he nodded. “If that is what you’d like, my lord. I’ll see to the burial.”

When Henry returned to the room, he saw that Annis had picked up the St. Oswald painting, which had been lying forgotten on the study floor.

“I’m afraid it has been damaged.” She showed him where the frame had come loose from the painting.

Henry chuckled. “That doesn’t matter.”

Annis gave him an affronted look. “Henry, it is a priceless relic—of course it matters.”

“It is a fake, my dear.”

“What?”

Henry took the painting from her hands. “It’s a very good fake, but a fake nonetheless.”

Annis pointed to the doctor’s bag. “No, the fakes are still in there.”

“That is yet another set of fakes.”

“I don’t understand. Where are the genuine relics?”

“In a bank safe in Leeds—exactly where they belong.”

He put the damaged painting back in the reliquary, lowered the lid, and replaced it in the vault.

A stitch formed in her brow. “I’m confused.”

He straightened the painting that covered the vault and turned back to her. “About?”