Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

"I must speak with Sir Walter."

"Ye dinnae be listenin' very good, noo do ye?" The Scotsman's open-sored face grinned from behind the barred window in the door. "The barrister has already been called upon, he has, but is in court and cannae be disturbed."

"This cannot wait." Simon hammered a fist into the grimy stone wall, too many fears rearing. For the remainder of the night, he had paced this hay-strewn cell with prayers on his lips. He murmured so many they didn't make sense.

All he could see was the river.

The dead body they plopped into the rowboat. The red circle on the soaked, threadbare fabric. The white face.

My fault. Guilt flogged him, followed by another blow, then another. Ruth, I am sorry. For not being there the only time she had truly needed him. For not reaching her fast enough. For forsaking the cabin they loved.

For tonight.

The woman he'd let die in his arms.

For the danger now stalking his children when it should have been stalking him.

"Och, but are ye still there then?" The Scotsman again. His knobby fingers circled the bars. "I cannae be bringing ye Sir Walter, but I can be bringing ye something more sightly, if ye wish."

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Fancourt, it is me." A quiet voice on the other side of the door. "Miss Whitmore."

What was she doing here? "Send her in."

"As ye wish." With the rattling of the lock, the door creaked open.

Miss Whitmore entered, the white of her muslin gown a stark contrast to the blackened stone and filth smearing the cell walls. She startled when the door slammed shut behind her, then attempted to smile, as if to soften evidence of her discomfiture.

He should speak, but words abandoned him. The reality that she had deigned herself, that she had braved such a place without a perfume-scented handkerchief fluttering over her nose, pulsated shock throughout his being.

"I came because of the things you said." As if in answer to his questions. "I stayed in the nursery with your children, as you asked."

"You slept with them?"

"No." Her cheeks blushed again. "I did not sleep."

"Then no one tried to—"

"No one attempted anything, and they are now in the capable hands of both Mrs. Fancourt and the butler, who are teaching them proper botanical names for every bloom in the garden." Her eyes swept over him. Did she always have such a tender look about her, or was it only the exhaustion and pain that lent her face the gentleness he craved?

"Miss Whitmore, I never wished to involve you with this." He stepped closer, struck again with confusion when she did not so much as flinch or back away.

She did not fear him.

She believed him as much as she said she did.

"But I must ask something more." He dragged a dirty sleeve across his forehead. "I have no one else to ask."

"What is it?"

"There are many things I do not have time to explain to you now. The important one is this. Someone intends on harming my children…to stop me."

"Stop you from what?"

"I need someone to hide them away. There's a hunting lodge in Hertfortshire where my father used to take me as a boy. Mr. Wilkins could take you. You can trust him. There's a cottage in the woods where Father used to house his steward, but it is empty now, and there is enough room for—"

"Mr. Fancourt, please." She breathed faster. "What are you asking of me?"

"More than I have any right."

She nodded, as if in agreement, her gaze roaming the cell, rising to the ceiling, circling back to the collar of his coat without ever quite lifting to his face. "You would not ask did lives not depend on it."

"Then you'll do it?"

She nodded, tried to smile again, then tapped on the door until the Scotsman released her and locked it back.

Simon hurried to the window and seized the bars. "Georgina." The second time he had used her Christian name. He was not certain how it kept slipping from his lips, or why it came so easily, but she glanced up at him with a tearful glance.

"You are welcome," she whispered, then was gone.

He sank to the ground for the first time since he'd been thrown inside. Some of the fear dampened. Some of the torture left.

Father had been right about one thing.

Simon had not known Georgina Whitmore as well as he'd thought.

This was utter madness. People would murmur at her absence. Mamma would grow suspicious when her infrequent letters remained unanswered. Mr. Oswald would have yet another puzzlement to uncover, as if he hadn't enough already.

But she would do it.

She could not stop herself any more than she could rid her mind of the name Simon Fancourt, or cease dreaming of him during the night, or erase summer carriage rides from her most treasured memories.

Hurrying into her town house, she handed her bonnet to the butler and headed for the stairs.

Nellie awaited her at the base, wringing her hands. "Oh, miss, you are home at last."

"What is it?"

"Lady Gilchrist arrived not half an hour ago. She was most demanding. I did not wish to assist her, but she said such determined things and Miss Simpson—"

"Miss Simpson what?"

"She cried and cried and said she could not stay here a moment longer. Lady Gilchrist told her it was disgraceful…that her own cousin should not defend or believe her in such a predicament. She made me pack all her trunks and valises. She said poor Miss Simpson would live with her."

A choking bitterness filled Georgina's mouth. The taste of betrayal. Abandonment.

But she did not have time for that now.

"Hurry upstairs with me, Nellie. I too am going away for a while and shall need you to pack my valise."

"Oh, miss, but—"

"No fuss now. We must make haste." They ascended the stairs together, and while Nellie folded dresses and organized stays, Georgina tucked stockings and ribbons and her comb inside the valise. No sooner had she snapped the lid shut than Nellie squealed.

"Oh, miss, you cannot go yet. I nearly forgot." She dug into her apron pocket and held out two letters. "Both came for you this morning."

The first one bore a red seal she recognized. Mr. Oswald. She read through his letter quickly—apologies for not having called upon her of late, mild complaints of his sister's latest antics, an assurance that he would be on her doorstep sooner rather than later. "For a quiet visit where we might do a little less fainting and shivering and a little more analysis on the secrets of the heart."

She folded it back, half regretting that she would not be here when he came. She would have enjoyed having someone to talk to. Even if she could not tell him anything.

Peeling off the second seal, she ripped open the next letter and blinked. Two faded, yellow rose petals slipped to the rug. The script was heavy, ink-blotched. "Meet me at the graveyard tomorrow at the fall of the eve. I must confess."

Anxiety swept through her, tainted with grief, with panic. She was right. He knew something. Perhaps had done something. Was it truly possible Father had not hung himself that night? That someone else had entered their house and murdered him?

She needed those answers.

She needed to obey this letter and face the man who had haunted her these past weeks. Perhaps, if her suspicions were right, much longer than that.

"What is it, miss?"

"Nothing." Georgina folded the letters and handed them back to Nellie, with regret gnawing numbness throughout her limbs. "If Mr. Oswald calls, tell him I have gone to visit my aunt and uncle in Winchester."

"How long shall I tell him you shall be gone?"

"Tell him my stay is…indeterminable." Georgina grabbed her valise from the bed, sparing little more than a longing glance at the letters peeking out of Nellie's apron pocket.

She prayed to heaven the answers would still be waiting when she returned.

"Miss Whitmore, this is truly preposterous." Mr. Wilkins spared another frantic glance about the empty anteroom, as if in fear someone would overhear. "I could never do something so drastic without first consulting Mrs. Fancourt."

"I do not think that wise."

"But—"

"If the children truly are in danger, the fewer who know of their whereabouts, the less chance they shall be found."

"I cannot simply abandon my duties." Mr. Wilkins craned his neck forward. "Besides that, I can hardly fathom anyone cruel enough to do harm to mere children."

Desperation fissured through her. She breathed harder, willed her voice to remain calm, as she grasped his arm with force. "We do not have time for this. Mr. Fancourt, as I am certain you know, is hardly the sort of man who would fabricate danger. If he is so desperate as to beg for our assistance, the very least we can do is not shrink."

His cheeks drained, his eyes shifted—but when he finally glanced back to her face, something stronger than mere excuse dimmed his expression.

Georgina released his sleeve with a wince. "You do not believe him."

"Ahem, I—"

"You have known him your entire life, and one vicious lie has made you doubt his character." She took a step back and shook her head. "Mr. Fancourt was wrong. He cannot trust you."

"Miss Whitmore, wait." Mr. Wilkins stopped her from opening the door. His shoulders sagged. "All the servants have been murmuring. I have even heard Mrs. Fancourt's uncertain thoughts. I fear, in all the mayhem, I may have questioned him myself…as your cousin has always seemed such a sensible, upright lady." He pulled himself straighter. "But you are right. I must not judge Master Fancourt until I know more of this…Regardless, I fear I cannot be so disloyal as to disappear on Mrs. Fancourt on such a reckless escapade."

"I see." A suffocating weight pressed down on her. "Then I shall take the children myself."

"Oh dear. Are you certain that is safe?"

"I am certain it is not, but it is safer than remaining here." She nodded across the anteroom. "Go and fetch the children and tell them to pack for a small journey."

"But—"

"Make certain they are dressed for riding. Pack several knapsacks of food which we might secure to our saddles, and see if you might draw some sort of map to the whereabouts of the Fancourt hunting lodge. Mr. Fancourt spoke of a cottage where an old steward used to stay. I shall take the children there." She opened the door, a flower-scented breeze rushing in. "I am sending back my driver and carriage to the town house. If anyone asks after me, I visited Mrs. Fancourt this afternoon and then returned. Do you understand?"

Mr. Wilkins bobbed his head, too stunned for more words or questions, it seemed. With a flustered sigh he rushed away to do her bidding, and Georgina slipped back outside.

Warm air bathed her burning face. She glanced at her carriage in the drive—the sun-reflecting coach lamp, the snoozing driver atop the perch, the curtained windows. How easy it would be to rush inside, slam the door, and hurry home without looking back.

I am afraid.

The realization carved through her, and her legs shook as she descended the stone stairs. I do not understand the danger. Another step. I do not know how to find the hunting lodge. Two more steps. I do not owe Simon anything.

But when she reached the bottom, she awoke the driver and ordered him home, despite every plea inside herself not to.

This was something she had to do.

She understood very little, but she understood that.

He was not certain if it was daytime or night, but the lamps in the prison corridor had been extinguished. The darkness was dense.

From a corner of the cell, Simon sat with his arms resting on his knees, rolling a piece of straw between his fingers. Hunger nipped at his stomach, though he could not quite bring himself to finish off the mold-splotched chunks of bread they'd scooted in on a tin plate.

Sir Walter should have come by now.

Someone should have come.

Simon had spent the length of the day sparing glances at the barred window, half expecting Mother's tearstained face on the other side, her soft reassurances that the lies would soon be put to rest and this would be over.

But the window had remained empty.

Except once.

Simon snapped the straw in half, a flash of Miss Whitmore's features forming in the moist blackness. The memory was almost pleasant. Almost consoling.

As if he was not entirely alone.

Why had she come? She who was aloof to him, who had cared so little in their engagement that she teased other gentlemen and even now would not accept his proposal of marriage.

Of all the people in the world, he would have fathomed her the last one he should find standing near in time of peril. If only it would last. If only he could know it would last. At least long enough for him to get out of here to protect Mercy and John himself. Lord, how could this happen?

Nothing made sense.

Not Agnes Simpson. Not the senseless lies. Not Helen and the river and the threat against his children. Not Ruth dead in the cabin.

God, You should not have taken her. He stood and paced the room, dragging his hand along the jagged stones, blinking against tears even though he knew no one was here to see them. I needed her. Moisture brimmed his eyes. My children needed her.

Somehow, he would resolve this. He would resolve everything. He would find the men responsible for unleashing murderers. He would be the voice Helen lost courage to speak. He would see justice meted out to every filthy beast involved.

All his life, he had searched for purpose. Something that would make a difference. A pulse that would thump in the pit of his soul, as he lay dying, with the powerful assurance he had done something.

Now he knew what that something was.

He prayed to heaven he was able to fulfill his purpose before someone had him killed.

Or hung.

Moonbeams slanted between the trees, casting the worn forest path in silvery light. Georgina twisted in her saddle.

The children still plodded onward behind her. Atop the black-dappled horse, John handled the reins with ease while Mercy hugged her brother's back, both as quiet as the forest.

They were frightened too.

Words bound to her throat, a hundred soft assurances, but all of them dissolved before shattering the silence. What could she possibly say?

She had no more answers than they did.

Ahead, the pine-strewn path widened into a clearing. The cottage awaited, smaller than she had imagined, tucked between bushes and two giant pine trees. "We are here." She led them closer, then swung from her saddle.

John had already done the same. He pulled Mercy down next, along with the rifle nearly as tall as he was.

"Come along." Georgina eased the two knapsacks over her shoulder, secured both horses' reins to a tree, then stepped into the deep shadow of the cottage. She hesitated at the door. Courage reared, then fled.

As if sensing her trepidation, John squeezed past her and tried the knob. When it would not budge, he lunged his shoulder into the wood. The door crashed open.

A musty, stale odor slapped Georgina in the face, a distasteful contrast to the damp, mossy scents of the forest. They trekked into the blackness. Cobwebs stuck to her face, and somewhere in the dirt-floored room, the low squeak of a rat or mouse caused a shiver to crawl through her.

"Just a moment." Feeling her way to the window, she pulled the brass tinderbox from her knapsack and fumbled to nurse a flame. She lit a candle, then two more. The soft glow dispelled the blackness.

In one sweeping glance, she surveyed the cottage. One bed frame without linens or a mattress tick. A blackened hearth. An overturned cauldron. A busted window with glass fragments littering the sod floor.

Her unease soared. "I am sorry." The only thing she could think to say.

The children stood rigid in the center of the room, clasping each other's hands, as lost and tiny as anything she'd ever seen.

"Me want Papa."

"Shhh, Mercy." John pulled her closer, brandishing the gun as if he would have few qualms in using the weapon. His eyes leveled on Georgina. "Why did Papa tell you to bring us here?"

She wanted to weep. "I do not know."

"Well, at least you were incarcerated in presentable attire." Sir Walter banged the cell door behind him, the echo as booming as his voice. "Though it does appear as if the clothes have dried to your back."

"Then you know."

"About the river?" The barrister shrugged. "A dead body in the Thames is just the sort of news that finds its way to Gray's Inn every time. Imagine my astonishment to hear your name intertwined in yet another scandal." A patronizing grin formed. "Interesting, I admit, but certainly a conversation for another time. I fear we have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Such as Agnes Simpson." Simon rubbed the back of his neck, the tiny bumps itching from more bites than he could count. "What happens next?"

"You eat." The barrister handed over a warm, linen-wrapped loaf. "I already paid a turnkey to keep you isolated instead of throwing you beneath the gate or with the others in the common wards. Thus, the reason you are still wearing your clothing."

Simon bit into the bread with a small grin of his own. "Then I owe you my thanks."

"I am not finished."

"Go on."

"It seems that your impetuous outburst on Lord Gilchrist was more harmful than either of us could have realized. I fear you have made a great enemy of a very respectable, reverenced member of London's society."

"I have had enemies before."

"Perhaps. But the one at current has not only determined to support Miss Simpson in her time of crisis, but also house her too. It took three visits and four letters before Lord Gilchrist would allow me entrance into his home, and even more persuading to gain a private audience with the distraught victim." Sir Walter crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "Miss Simpson has decided she will not testify against you in court."

"Then she admits the lies."

"Not exactly."

Simon swallowed down the bread with difficulty. "Why would she—"

"I am not certain if you are aware of the procedures of such cases, Mr. Fancourt. In any event, Miss Simpson was not. I rather think the idea of relating her story, in explicit detail, in front of a court full of men was rather too shameful for her to bear."

"You threatened her."

"No. I merely made her aware of the scorn and humiliation she was about to subject herself to—when there were, of course, much gentler options."

"What options?"

"Enough funds, supplied by you, to see her comfortably cared for."

"No."

"Your mother and I have already delivered the amount. She agreed, as do I, that it was the only sensible plan of action."

"You as much as admitted my guilt."

"Whether you are guilty or innocent is irrelevant."

Fury burned in his gut. He slung the bread to the ground. "I did not touch that woman."

"I am trying to make certain you are not hung as if you did."

Threading his hands behind his head, Simon spun the other direction, heat suffocating him. This was wrong. The lies, the covering of more lies. His freedom bought with an admission of his guilt. "I am sorry, Sir Walter, but I cannot allow this."

"I am afraid it is too late." Sir Walter must have tapped the door, because the Scotsman on the other side creaked it back open. "You shall be released from here on the morrow, and Miss Simpson shall move on with her life as if none of this ever happened."

"It did happen." Simon turned. "Someone obviously hurt her and it was not me. Are you not even concerned with finding the truth?"

"The only thing that interests me is you, Mr. Fancourt." Sir Walter's lips flattened into an apologetic line. "Not all paths in life are right and wrong. Some are neither narrow nor wide, and it is on the unnamed footways where we often make our most crucial decisions. Forgive me, son, for making this one for you. One day, you shall agree it was best."

Simon forced back a wave of sickening memories. He had heard the words a thousand times over.

Father had not ceased battling at all.

Every sound, every movement slammed into her awareness.

With the rusted bucket in her hand, Georgina trampled ferns and dead leaves until she reached the stone well. Sunlight filtered in through the towering evergreens, and a piney-scented breeze rustled her wrinkled dress and wayward curls.

Never had she been so far from the London streets and town houses in her life.

She glanced back at the cottage—the mossy stone walls, the faded thatched roof, the broken window, and the charred chimney. How many seconds would it take to dart back inside if someone lunged at her from the surrounding woods? Then what?

She had never been forced to defend herself in her life.

Let alone someone else.

Why had Simon chosen her? Was he so destitute of friends and companions that he should call upon such a weakling to protect his children?

Something snapped to her left.

Her heart slammed, her fingers loosened on the frayed rope, and the bucket kerplunked back into the well before she spotted a small brown creature disappearing into a bush.

A hare. Some of the tension drained. Despite everything, a smile pulled at her lips as she hoisted the bucket upward again. What would Mamma say to see her this way? What would Agnes?

Agnes. She latched on to the name, the face, with a longing so deep it cut. She remembered too many things at once. The careless conversations. The nonsense and laughter. The faint and hazy blur of children turning into women, and the indistinct line between what was real and what was pretended. How long had Agnes harbored such contempt? How long had her smiles been feigned and her sweet words insincere?

A sobering grief expanded across her chest, as she hurried the sloshing bucket back inside.

The children sat just where she'd left them.

Mercy at the edge of the cauldron, making a bed for her doll inside the dusty cast-iron hole. John at the hearth, stacking the wood he had chopped this morning, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair falling into his eyes.

With a wary look, they both glanced up at her with caution. Questions raced across their faces, but she had no more answers than they did.

She thudded the bucket to the dirt floor with a smile. "Perhaps we might make dinner now. I could eat most anything."

Mercy nodded and John stood. Neither spoke.

Indeed, in the last two days, they had hardly said anything to her. How long was she supposed to hide them away like this? How long before they realized she meant them no harm, that she was only doing as their father asked?

She closed the door behind her with a sigh. More importantly, how long before the danger discovered where they had run?

Simon was not certain of the hour, but the bread Sir Walter had brought yesterday had long ceased to satisfy the claws of hunger. Somewhere in the outside corridor, the bang of wood echoed against stone, as if someone was scraping a hard object along the wall as they approached.

The closer the sound came, the more lights dimmed.

Keys jangled. The door slung open, and a muscled figure filled the doorway, his lantern revealing ragged blond hair and a familiar face. Where had Simon seen him before?

"They say I'm to be letting the likes o' you free."

Simon nodded, took a step forward.

The cudgel lifted. The turnkey kicked the door shut behind him. "Not so fast, me little dandy. Mebbe you can be paying off the barrister and the lady you soiled, but a bloke don't be coming in and out of Newgate without something what will keep it in his memory."

Simon pulled his fingers into fists. "I don't think you want to do this."

"Methinks I do."

"You may just regret that."

"You may not get out of here to regret anything." Hanging his lantern on a peg, the turnkey spread his legs and glared.

Recognition trickled through Simon.

Here at the prison. The day of the hangings. The turnkey with the distinct scowl who had waited with the Scotsman outside the door, listening as if—

The cudgel swung in Simon's direction, the wind a buzz by his ear.

He ducked, brought his fist into the man's prickly chin, and sent him flying into the opposite wall.

The turnkey bounced back with a grunt. He charged, cudgel slicing empty air, as Simon threw another punch and knocked him flat. The cudgel rolled out of reach.

Simon lunged on top of him, slammed a fist into his chin, then dragged him back to his feet. He smacked him against the wall, coat seams ripping, the dirty blond hair strung into the man's eyes. "Now." He fisted the coat. "Are we finished?"

"Not quite." A blow struck Simon's side.

Pain screamed beneath the hidden bandage, loosening his grip just long enough for the turnkey to throw Simon back.

He stumbled, clutched his side, as the man jumped on top of him. They hit the ground and rolled. Dead bugs and straw crunched beneath them, as one blow exchanged for another.

The taste of copper pennies filled Simon's mouth. With one giant heave, he slung the turnkey off him and pushed to his feet, sweat stinging his eyes, breathing fast.

The turnkey charged with the cudgel.

Simon stooped, but it swung again too fast and wood cracked across his face with blunt force. He hit the floor. The lantern light swam, moving up and down and over, until a shadow blocked it entirely.

Before the turnkey had a chance at another clout, Simon tackled his legs. He rained down one stroke after another, until his knuckles bore blood and a string of curses flew from the man's torn lips.

"Stop." A gasp. "Stop!"

Vision blurred, Simon yanked him back to his feet. Something clanked to the floor. A tiny gold pendant, catching lantern light amid the filth and straw of the prison floor.

The turnkey grabbed it back and stuffed it into his pocket, blood streaming over his left eye. "All right, dandy, out o' here." He motioned to the door with a growl. "If you ever make it back in, I'll kill you."

Simon showed himself out the door, weaving his hand across the throbbing knife wound at his side. The man had either thrown a lucky punch or he knew just where Simon was weakest.

Perhaps the turnkey had already tried to kill Simon once before.

Another night.

The hearth blazed with warmth, filling the small cottage with the heavy scent of wood and smoke. From her position on the makeshift bed, Georgina leaned against the wall, resting her head on her knees.

John stood at the broken window, rifle in one hand. He had hardly released it in the three days they had been here.

Next to the hearth, Mercy was sprawled on her belly, drawing pictures in a leather sketchbook by the flickering firelight.

Georgina yawned and lifted her head. "Mercy, what are you drawing?"

For the first time, the child did not look to her brother for approval before answering. She glanced up with a grin. "Me drawing Papa and Mama and John and Baby."

"May I see?"

John glanced over his shoulder, frowning, but Mercy scrambled next to Georgina anyway on the folded quilts.

"See." With the book open on her lap, the dimpled fingers pointed to each crudely drawn figure. "Papa. Mama. John." She added the eyes to her doll. "And Baby."

"Where are you?"

"Oh." A giggle. "Me forgot." She hurried in a stick figure of herself, then flipped the page to a new drawing. "John draws better. He's older."

Although still not entirely distinguishable, the creature seemed to resemble a rearing bear and a rifle-clad hunter.

"This is Blayney. Him fights good like Papa." She turned another p a g e .

A woman stared out from the paper—hair long and straight, tucked behind her ears, with eyes that were doe-like in a thin face.

"This is Mama." A whisper, but Georgina would have known anyway. "Papa did it."

Every pencil stroke was careful. Tenderness lived in the drawing, hidden in the soft shading, with intimacy and passion that had never marked any of his paintings before.

He loved her.

She knew from looking. The expression he drew on her face. The wind at her hair. The glow in her eyes. Emptiness stung Georgina with such poignancy that tears blurred the picture.

The woman was not even beautiful. If anything, she was plain and ordinary and work-worn.

But she'd had something within her that made Simon Fancourt love her.

Something Georgina had never had.

Never would.

"Mercy, give it here." Abandoning his rifle by the window, John hurried toward them and ripped the sketchbook away. "Papa don't like no one to look at it but us."

"I am sorry." Georgina glanced away, a burning sensation rising to her cheeks. "I did not mean to—"

The door crashed open.

Georgina jumped, screamed, as Mercy scrambled onto her lap and John raced for the rifle—

The bulky, shadowed figure slung John back. He raised the rifle himself, stepping over John, breathing heavy.

Georgina suppressed another scream.

No.