Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

She would not be able to eat. She knew that. Already, faint queasiness fluttered at her stomach and familiar weakness jellied her knees.

This was ridiculous.

That she should still be affected by him—by something so inconsequential as a dinner party at Sowerby House, where he would doubtless not spare her more than a stiff "good evening" when she arrived and low "good night" when she departed.

With one last glance in the looking glass, she pinched her cheeks and shoved a loose pin back into her chignon. She wore a pink, empire-waisted evening dress, the lace overlay patterned with flowers and peacock feathers. A matching bandeau decorated her hair. Would he notice anything about her appearance? Had he ever?

"You look lovely, dear." Agnes' reflection appeared in the mirror, already dressed in one of her finer gowns. "Nellie says the carriage is ready if you are."

Georgina grabbed her white shawl from a chair, nodded, and preceded Agnes downstairs—all without looking at her. For too many days, the strain had lingered.

Agnes attempted kindness, soft words, cheerful smiles.

But all of it felt empty.

Like a facade.

As if everything within her cousin was locked inside, constrained by bands that were ready to burst and unleash something terrible. Something Georgina was too frightened to face.

In silence, the carriage took them from the town house toward Sowerby House, the quiet London air tasting of new growth and spring.

Georgina picked at a loose thread on her glove.

Agnes read a book they both knew she was uninterested in. When the carriage wheels crunched the pea gravel of Sowerby House drive, Agnes finally glanced up. She smacked the book shut with force. "You should not have come here tonight, dear."

"What do you mean?"

"All day, I have watched you. I know that you think of him still."

"Other guests shall be in attendance. It is not as if I have any intention of succumbing to him."

"Simon Fancourt is not who you think." Again, it flashed. The stranger inside of Agnes that Georgina did not know. The same look from the bedchamber, when her cousin had vomited and clutched the window curtains and fallen to her knees.

"I know you do not wish my heart to be injured further." Georgina glanced out the window with a frown. They had arrived. "But like you, I must be allowed to make my own choices."

"Yes." Agnes' head fell and her voice weakened. "We both must do what we have to do."

He'd rather plant corn seeds until the skin blistered on the back of his neck than do this.

Simon stood near the window, having already opened the pane to allow in a fresh breeze. Curtains fluttered. Mother scolded that it was primitive behavior to leave it open, while Sir Walter nursed a pipe from one of the ornately carved chairs.

Then the drawing-room doors parted. A servant announced Lord and Lady Gilchrist, who strode into the room with squared shoulders and patronizing expressions, as if they were bestowing Simon mercy by attending.

Truth was, it was the last thing he wanted.

Were it not for Sir Walter, he would have told them as much.

"Good evening, my lord." Sir Walter bowed, remarked on the pleasant weather, then approached to kiss Lady Gilchrist's hand.

While she giggled and moved to sit with Mother on the settee, Lord Gilchrist waddled closer.

"Young Fancourt, you have quite a lot to learn, I fear, about the genteel life you were raised in. But"—he held up a quick hand, as if in sudden fear Simon might seize his cravat—"though I may be a hot-tempered man, by all accounts, I am not entirely without a considerate nature. I have decided to overlook your ghastly behavior and start anew."

Before Simon could respond with something he'd regret, the drawing-room doors opened a second time.

Miss Whitmore entered, her movements all grace, smooth cheeks already suffused with pink. Did she blush on demand? A coy, maidenly charm meant to lure in unsuspecting gentlemen? Or was it in earnest? A true sense of shyness?

Whatever the case, she glanced everywhere but at his face.

Unlike her cousin.

Still in the shadows of the doorway, the girl called Agnes Simpson stared at him—her eyes wide, her jaw tight, her lips pressed together with such vigor that a flood of red came over her own cheeks.

A sense of foreboding struck Simon. What in the name of good sense was wrong with the girl?

More importantly, why did it seem to involve him?

Something was not right.

Georgina dipped her spoon into the frothy soup, the hot steam moistening her face. The table was too quiet. Her chair was too close to Simon Fancourt—close enough that she could detect the faint sound of his breathing, smell the scent she despised, feel the tablecloth ripple beneath her fingertips when his elbow caused a wrinkle.

But it was more than that.

Tension swirled in her gut, making it more and more difficult to swallow down soup she could no longer taste.

Sir Walter laughed over the peculiarities of a recent case.

Lord and Lady Gilchrist nodded and smiled in turn without any sign of true interest.

Mrs. Fancourt partook of her meal in silence, still appearing pleasant despite the rigidity of her shoulders, as two well-dressed footmen brought in the second course.

But Agnes was different.

She was always different lately, but this evening it was worse. She ate none of her soup. In fact, she had not so much as unfolded her napkin or lifted the spoon or sipped from the goblet of water. She trembled, but only at the corners of her lips, the edges of her eyes, symptoms so mild no one but Georgina would notice.

"Dear." Georgina mouthed the word as soon as Agnes glanced up from across the table. "Are you ill again?"

Agnes bent her head, as if she had not understood.

But she had.

"Mr. Fancourt." Sir Walter plopped a large slab of beef onto his plate. "Have you kept up with those paintings you were always entertaining yourself with as a child?"

"Paints weren't easy to come by in the settlement."

"Your father always did say it was a trivial diversion. ‘One you were certain to outgrow,' I believe is how he put it."

"I have a book of sketches." Simon leaned back in his chair. "My wife and children found pleasure in looking at them—"

"Please, stop it!" The shrill note blasted, like glass shattering in an empty ballroom.

Georgina whipped her head to Agnes, the tension intensifying into panic. "Agnes, dear—"

"No." Her cousin stood so fast the chair nearly knocked to the floor behind her. Her gaze was frantic, roaming to every face in the room before freezing on one. Simon Fancourt. "Please tell them the truth."

Georgina glanced to his face.

His eyes were steady, confused, but he did not change expressions. "Miss Simpson, I do not know what you're talking about."

"I cannot bear it any longer. Tell them."

"Miss Simpson." Sir Walter stood too. "Whatever is troubling you surely can wait for a more appropriate time and audience."

"I will not hide it. Not anymore. I cannot." Quivering hands framed her blazing cheeks. "Simon Fancourt, you tell them the truth or I will."

He rose from his chair but said nothing.

Agnes' whimper echoed throughout the room, before she sank back into her chair and covered her face. "Tell them that I carry your child."

Heat exploded within Simon's chest. No one moved. No one spoke. Silence dominated the high-ceilinged dining room, save for Miss Simpson's muffled cries and the whistle of an evening wind outside the windows.

He glanced at every face.

Mother was as pale as he'd known she'd be. Sir Walter looked away. Lord and Lady Gilchrist glared at him, noses lifted, as if he was just the despicable creature they had imagined.

And Miss Whitmore.

From the chair beside him, she searched his face. Her eyes were careful, tearful, but they lacked the disappointment or disgust he would have fathomed. Instead, they mirrored his confusion. His panic, humiliation, numbness, everything—until he almost took courage from the seconds her eyes stayed on his.

"What have you to say for yourself?" Lord Gilchrist rose and, as he occupied the chair next to Agnes, placed a hesitant hand on the girl's writhing shoulder. "I expected barbaric tendencies from someone like you, but to ruin an innocent this way is—"

"I have never touched this woman."

"Take responsibility, you coward. Do you intend to make this poor child bear such a burden alone? What did you do, promise her a marriage until she surrendered to you?"

"No." Agnes stumbled from her chair, smearing her cheeks with viciousness. "No, you do not understand."

"Miss Simpson." This came from Lady Gilchrist. "Poor darling, you need not be afraid. Do tell us the truth. We shall not abandon you, and any fault shall be cast, at least in our estimations, on him and not—"

"You do not understand." Rubbing her arms, Agnes backed into the wall. "He did not seduce me, he…he…"

"He what, darling?"

"He attacked me."

The words punched Simon in the gut. He brought both fists down on the table, anger tightening his skin, flooding his veins. "Miss Simpson, I don't know what you're trying to do, but we both know I have never hurt you."

"You have done more than hurt me." She swept a hand to Miss Whitmore. "And then you dare propose marriage to my cousin. You are despicable. You are wicked. And the most terrible part of it is…despite everything…she loves you."

Loves me? He snapped his face back to hers, swallowing, as doubts and disbeliefs thronged him. Georgina Whitmore loved him?

No, it was impossible.

They both knew, all along, there had never been anything more than a meaningless promise binding them together.

He waited for her expression to deny the words, for her lips to murmur against such a thought, but they never did.

"Miss Whitmore, perhaps you should attend to your cousin." Sir Walter helped Mrs. Fancourt to her feet. "Perhaps the lady of the house would be so good as to assist you." In the absence of the three, Sir Walter faced Lord and Lady Gilchrist. "I admit, this evening has gone more awry than I could have foreseen. I suppose it would be futile to request that you keep the scandal we have all witnessed in silence until matters can be investigated."

"I am quite afraid that is impossible." Lord Gilchrist's jowls trembled, as if in rage. "I was willing to overlook a mild offense against myself and my family, but I cannot in good conscience stand by while this barbarian ravishes innocents of society."

"As one who so often occupies the courtroom, I know better than anyone else that things are not always as they seem."

"I have heard all I need to hear."

"James, let us go." His wife took his arm. "There is no point in discussing this with either of them."

"You are right, of course, my dear." He skewered Simon with one last look. "You shall be locked away for this, Fancourt. I shall see to that myself." The two marched away, the door slamming behind them, with an echo that ricocheted back and forth in Simon's brain.

"We shall fight this, Fancourt. You are innocent, of course, and given the chance to examine this chit's story, I shall uncover any lies that make such a tale believable."

Simon headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sir Walter called after him.

"For a ride."

"Not wise, I am afraid. You must remain here. I do not doubt but that Lord Gilchrist will have the authorities upon us before the night is through, and if it appears that you have run—"

"I do not have a choice." Simon let out a breath slowly, enough that it tempered some of his fury. "Do what you can here, and I will be grateful."

"You do not seem to realize what is at stake. If this story is accepted, you could face more than being jailed. You could be hung—"

"I said I do not have a choice." With a quick nod of regret, Simon hurried from the dining room, escaped the walls of Sowerby House, and ran to the stables.

He had promised Helen Neale he would meet her tonight.

Everything else would have to wait.

"Agnes, how could you do this?" Georgina sat on the edge of the bed, a rock-sized lump at the base of her throat. Mrs. Fancourt had sent them to one of the upstairs guest chambers, where she'd instructed a servant to bring up warm milk and honey.

"You must stay here tonight. This has been such an ordeal for both of you," Mrs. Fancourt had crooned. But the second Agnes entered the chamber, Mrs. Fancourt had seized Georgina's hand and pulled her into the empty hall. "Can this be true of my son?"

"Do you truly doubt?"

"No, of course not." Mrs. Fancourt had downcast her unseeing eyes. "But he has been gone so many years…sometimes I fear I do not know him anymore."

"Mayhap you never knew him at all." Perhaps the words had been unkind. Perhaps Georgina should have said something reassuring and soothing. But the reality had struck her with fear. If Simon's own mother did not believe him, would anyone?

As darkness fell outside the chamber window, Georgina stared at Agnes' still form on the gold-and-green quilted bed. "Answer me. I deserve that much."

"What would you have me say?" More tears dripped down Agnes' face. "Simon Fancourt has never done anything but hurt you. You should thank me for sparing you more agony. I have severed the ties you were never strong enough to sever yourself."

"You lied."

"No."

"Agnes, I know you too well." Her insides ached. "I know him too well."

"You do not know him at all." Agnes sat up, chin bunching, drawing the covers tighter against her. "How dare you judge me for what I have done. You have no idea what I have endured. You pretend to love me best…to know me best…but you know nothing about me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You really could not see, could you?" Agnes breathed a laugh, though her voice quaked with the threat of more tears. "It was always you. At every ball, at every soiree, it was never plain Agnes Simpson a gentleman smiled upon or asked to dance with or came to court."

"Agnes—"

"It was you and you did not even care. All that mattered to you was him. The one person you could not have." Agnes shook her head. "I am doing this for you as much as I am for myself."

"You have betrayed me."

"No."

"I gave you my confidence and you exposed my heart to the one person—"

"Can you not see? Dear, it does not matter. Simon Fancourt does not matter. Because after this, we shall both be happy. You shall be free of him and I shall—"

"You shall what? Whatever could you hope to gain from such horrific lies?"

But the question remained unanswered. Agnes returned her face to the pillow and yanked the quilt over her head with an indifference so sharp it twisted a new blade through an old and festered wound.

Georgina left the chamber and entered the black hallway. She buried her face in her hands.

Again, it was happening.

She was losing the one person she had assured herself she never would.

Two street lights flanked the entrance of Drax Well Bridge, their foggy glows orange against the moon-tinted darkness. A rushing wind billowed Simon's coat. Mist from the river dampened his face, as he marched faster onto the stone bridge.

"Miss Neale?"

Midway across, the silhouette turned to face him. "You came then. I didn't think you would."

"Were you followed?"

A rushed laugh slipped out. "You aren't very clever, are you, Mr… .Mr… ." She hiccuped. "You didn't tell me your name. I should have known. They never do. Not at the places I had to—"

"You are drunk."

"You seem surprised."

Frustration laced through him. Had she no idea what this meant? How important tonight was? "Listen, there are things you promised to tell me."

"I don't make promises. That's one thing I've learned—never make promises." She wagged a finger in his face, swaying forward.

He steadied her, grimacing at the scent of onions and ale. "Lady Neale hired someone to set free her son. Who was it?"

"I don't know what the devil you're talking about."

"You're lying."

"Yes." Moonlight highlighted the shadows on her wan face, flickering within her desperate eyes. "Yes, I'm lying. If you cared anything about yourself—your children…"

Coldness rushed through him. "How did you know I have children?"

She staggered to the edge of the bridge, peered down at the hazy view of the Thames, but he seized her arm—

A cry broke from her lips. She clamped a hand across her side, sucked air between her teeth. "Don't touch me," she gasped.

"You are hurt."

"Does not matter."

He turned her body until moonlight shimmered over her dress—the blood on her white hand, soaking across her abdomen, trickling down her dress. "Who did this to you?"

"Leave me alone."

"Why are you protecting them when—"

"I'm not protecting them!" Groaning, she stumbled to the ledge and cursed. "I'm protecting you. Get out of here while you can. Leave me alone."

"I will not leave you like this."

"You're a fool."

"Whoever is doing this must be stopped."

"But it doesn't work that way." She glanced back at him with hair whipping across her face. "The good ones get stopped instead. They get locked in wine cellars and thrown out into the streets. They get locked in brothel bedchambers and eat scraps and get stabbed in the stomach for the one thing they…they…" In one frantic movement, she hurled herself over the wet-stoned ledge, her scream deafening.

Simon lunged after her. His stomach dropped, air beat at his face, then cold water smacked his body so hard the breath escaped his lungs. Lord, help me. Black water swirled him deeper. He stroked, pushed himself upward, broke the surface and blinked hard against the water stinging his eyes. "Helen!" He spat out water. "Helen!"

A body rushed past him, carried into the black shadow of the bridge.

With a rush of adrenaline, he dove after her, snatched her foot and dragged her to him. "Hold on to me." Fingernails clawed at his face, seized his hair and pulled. Water sucked them down. He resurfaced and kicked his way toward the stone pier, but her flailing arms turned limp. She's dead.

No.

Not that fast.

Please no, God. The prayer raced like madness. He was under again, breathing again, under again, breathing again. Everything hurt. Somewhere in the distance, voices shouted at him. Or was it only the roar of the water?

Rough stone met his fingertips. Spewing fish-tasting water from his mouth, he secured his grip and pressed his back against the pier, where the rushing current could no longer carry them.

Everything blurred. The moonlight flickering on the Thames. The distant lamplights. The small schooners and rowing boats and distant figures watching them from muddy banks. "Someone, help!" The yell was hoarse, but it must have carried, for the figures began scurrying into action. Seconds later, several silhouettes were lunging into a rowboat and paddling toward them.

Simon hoisted Helen higher, her limp head on his shoulder. A faint breath tickled his neck as water splashed around them. "Hold on. Help is coming."

"I want to die." Slurred and sickening and almost lifeless. "They hurt me enough. I just want to die."

"I will find them."

"No."

"They must be stopped before more people are injured—"

"Fool." A string of profanity gagged from her lips. She seized his coat in a death grip. "Leave it alone. Forget everything."

"Helen—"

"Unless you want what happened to me…to happen to your children. He swore to me…they were next."

"No."

Her body shuddered. She slipped deeper into the water, limp, neck craning backward.

Over the rush of water, the shouts drew closer, the rowboat nearer.

"Helen, answer me." With a dripping hand, he pressed two fingers below her earlobe. Sorrow weighted him. No heartbeat pulsed against his skin.

The only person with the truth was dead.

Georgina weaved her hands together in the candlelit drawing room. Strange. She'd been in this room a hundred times. In the beginning, listening to Mrs. Fancourt sing from the pianoforte while other guests smiled and clapped beside her. Other times deciphering riddles on dull afternoons with Simon, his brother, Agnes, and the other school-aged friends who joined them.

Then later, after Simon was gone, taking tea with Mrs. Fancourt over cheerful smiles and happy conversations. The Sowerby drawing room had been bright, sentimental, comforting to Georgina for as long as she could remember.

Now it was dark.

Cold.

Eerie.

The two Bow Street runners stood by the mantel, unwilling to occupy the chairs she had offered them. They murmured to each other, passing back and forth a deck of cards, in some sort of puzzlement over how a gentleman had recently swindled them at such a simple game.

For the hundredth time, Georgina glanced at the gilded clock on the mantel. Two hours past midnight.

Perhaps he would not come.

Was it possible he would run? She was convinced of his innocence, yes. Such a tale was too preposterous to be true, and if she had learned anything in those warm summer carriage rides, it was the truth that Simon Fancourt, in the pit of his being, was as good as anyone she'd ever known in her life.

Mayhap better.

But with the evidence stacked against him, was it possible he would not return to face the charges? Surely, he would not abandon the two slumbering children upstairs.

But then again, he had abandoned the ones who loved him before.

"I heard something." The taller of the Bow Street runners straightened, stuffing the deck of cards back into his blue trouser pocket. "Let's go."

"Just a moment." Georgina stopped them at the door. "Do not trouble yourself. If Mr. Fancourt has arrived, I shall show him into the drawing room."

They glanced at each other, uncertain, before the taller one nodded. "You have two minutes."

"Thank you." Grabbing the brass candlestick from a stand, Georgina hurried into the corridor and navigated to the anteroom, just as the front door slammed open.

She took in a breath and lifted the light. "Mr. Fancourt?"

He stepped forward with a gaping coat, his clothes soaked, wet hair strewn across his forehead. Bloody scratches marred his left cheek. "What are you doing here?"

"Your mother insisted we stay."

"She is hospitable that way." He started past her.

"Mr. Fancourt, wait."

"I am sorry, I do not have time."

She caught his arm. "I fear there is no choice."

He turned on her, the candlelight flickering across his damp face, his blue lips, his tortured eyes. He hesitated, as if asking her something, though she did not know what.

"What happened to you?" She glanced at the scratches. "Your face."

"Your cousin would probably say I just finished assaulting my next victim."

"She would be lying."

"You believe that?"

"Yes."

He nodded, jaw flexing, then pulled from her hold.

"Do not move another step, Fancourt." A male voice boomed across the anteroom, as the two runners entered with drawn powder pistols. "You're going to Newgate."

"No." Simon's frame visibly trembled. "My children are not safe—"

"Save it for the magistrate, birkie." The shorter one approached with manacles. "Hold 'em out."

With one desperate lunge, Simon smacked the man off his feet, the manacles clattering to the marble floor. He swung in time to kick at the second runner who charged him. Tangling in blows, they hit the ground, rolled into a stand, knocked over a vase until the glass shattered into a million shreds.

No. Georgina backed into the wall with a rattled heartbeat. In the name of mercy, what was he doing? Why was he fighting when it would only make things worse?

This was not America.

He had no hope of disappearing, avoiding the runners, nor escaping the law. Did he not realize? What could be worth a violence that would only make him appear more savage to the entire world?

"Simon!" The warning flew from her lips, but not before the shorter runner brought his truncheon down on the back of Simon's head. The crack echoed. Simon collapsed onto the body he had wrestled to the floor.

"All right, get him up." The runner shoved Simon off him, the other locked his wrists, and between them both, they dragged him to staggering feet.

Blood dripped down the face he struggled to hold up. "Georgina, my children. They are not safe. They cannot be left alone. Please—"

"Shut up, birkie. You're wasting the last good air you'll be having for a while." They shoved him across the room, pushed him through the door, and were gone.

Georgina clutched the brass candlestick so hard her fingers hurt. She did not know what to do, nor how she was supposed to protect his children, nor why she had waited up half the night for a man she should despise.

She only knew she had to do something.

Simon's secrets were greater and far more dangerous than she'd known.