Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Somewhere in the house, a longcase clock chimed twelve, the bell-like ring stirring Simon from sleep. He rolled over in bed. He willed himself back into slumber, but thoughts already attacked his mind.

Like the lies of Alexander Oswald. Why deny knowing Brownlow unless the business between them was wicked? Had Oswald been the one responsible for—

Something creaked outside Simon's door.

Tension chilled in his stomach, as he sat up and strained to see in the darkness. He waited for the door to sling open, for a shot to fire into his room, but the silence stretched on.

Ripping off his downy coverlet, Simon lit the candlestick beside his bed and hurried to the door in his bare feet. He pulled it open.

The hall was empty, long, dark, quiet.

Perhaps it had been nothing.

As he closed himself back into his chamber, his foot scraped against something on the cold floorboards. A folded paper. Unease cut a jagged line through his chest, as he picked it up, smoothed it out, and read handwriting he'd seen only once before: " Which is the greatest sin: to murder thine own loved ones to keep the right, or to murder strangers with your silence?"

Simon balled it in his palm and raised his fist to the wall, shaking with the urge to whack his knuckles into something that would ease the rage.

Instead, he slung the note to the ground and stormed back into the hall. He must find Miss Whitmore's chamber. Perhaps that was illogical. After all, she would certainly not be considered his loved one, by any account.

But the need to see her, to make certain she was undisturbed, was overpowering.

He located her door, found the knob in the dark, and resisted the knowledge he should knock. Instead, he slipped inside.

The blackness was thick and cool, the only light a silvery stream falling in from the window. The faint glow outlined her bed and an unmoving lump.

He approached. Without reason, his heartbeat thumped at the base of his throat—low and distinct, like his hammer pounding nails into the cabin wood back home. "Miss Whitmore." He settled his hand on the side of her face.

She stirred, fingers slipping over his, doubtless a confused instinct. Then she jerked, shrinking back, a sound shrieking—

"Shhh." He clamped his hand over her mouth. "It is me. Simon." He should have said Mr. Fancourt. He would have to anyone else.

Her body relaxed, and he forced himself to move his hand from her lips. His skin tingled.

Strange, that.

Stranger still that he remained hovered over her, that his heartbeat still hammered like ten kinds of a fool.

"What are you doing in here?"

"I wanted to make certain you were well."

"You had no such worries the first three days I was here."

That struck him. Did she think he had not cared? Maybe he should have stayed close to her after the injury, but finding the driver had seemed so imperative. He was weary of life-and-death choices. He was weary of not being where he was needed. He was weary of arriving too late and of screams he could not stop and—

"Something has happened." She pushed to a sitting position. "What is it?"

"Someone pushed a note under my door."

"A note?"

"More threats."

"Perhaps if you awake the servants, scour the grounds—"

"He is already gone." Simon raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Or was here all along."

"I cannot believe Mr. Oswald capable of such madness."

"And his sister?"

"She is haughty but hardly the sort of creature who could be capable of killing innocents."

"You seem very certain."

"I am certain of nothing." Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight. "I have never been more uncertain in my life."

He touched her face again. Had it been daylight, had he been in his right mind, he would never have done such a ridiculous thing. He was so unraveled he did not know how to pull himself back together. Instead of stepping back, he pulled her face closer and pressed his lips to her forehead, in the frail hope that would offer her comfort.

Then he left the chamber and closed the door behind him.

He wished he could close the traitorous gateway of his heart as easily.

Last night lingered between them.

As they sat at opposite ends of the breakfast table, with other guests clinking their plates and chattering about them, the unaddressed kiss seared like madness between their few shared glances.

Or had it been a kiss?

Perhaps she had only dreamed his lips had landed on her forehead. Even if they had, the touch was likely more fraternal, more kindness, than anything else.

"Where is the sherry?" Having loaded his plate at the sideboard, Mr. Oswald settled into his place at the head of the table. "Mere cocoa or milk might suffice some in the mornings, but I shall take something with a bite or nothing at all."

"Let the sherry bite him or he shall be biting all of us." Miss Oswald made her comment with a small laugh, which other guests mimicked, but a hint of steel lined her words.

Mr. Oswald did not seem to notice. When the servant filled his goblet with the greenish-yellow wine, he raised it in a toast. "I would raise to Hollyvale, but that would seem rather pretentious of me. So allow me to raise to Sowerby House instead. To you, Mr. Fancourt, and the longevity of your home."

The mockery of his words twisted annoyance through Georgina. She glanced at Simon.

He neither raised his glass of water nor made expression.

Others lifted to the toast in happy spirits, then cheered, then resumed their aimless nattering as if all was right in the world.

If only it were.

Before Simon glanced up at her again, a footman entered the room, beelined for Simon's chair, and said something into his ear. Heaping his napkin on the table, Simon rose and left the room, explaining naught to anyone.

"—Heard the whispers, but to see him myself is certainly outrageous," murmured a voice near Georgina.

"Indeed, it is obvious he has spent the last years of his life among barbarity. His lack of manners and common affability…"

"The very idea of arriving so late to a house party…"

"If you ask me, I believe every allegation against him."

"A certain look in his eye…"

"Unnerving."

"Shocking."

"He can no more hide his true vulgarity than he can pretend he did not assault that young woman like a revolting animal—"

Georgina slammed the table with a fisted fork. Heat blasted her face. A hundred million defenses trampled through her mind, screaming to be heard, though the only thing she said was "None of you know him at all."

"Surely, Miss Whitmore, you are taking a little harmless spill of gossip beyond reason." Miss Oswald smiled, unaffected by the outburst. "I think perhaps you are in need of smelling salts yet again."

"Quite enough, Sister." Mr. Oswald stood. "Miss Whitmore is right, of course. I could not agree with her more." He drained the last of his sherry in one quick drink. "There is much about Simon Fancourt, I fathom, that we do not know at all."

"I wanted to tell you before you heard the news from someone else." Sir Walter frowned in the Hollyvale drawing room, seated on the edge of a sphinx-armed chair.

"What news?"

"You might as well sit."

"I'll stand."

"As I might have imagined." Sir Walter scraped at his chin, lines of fatigue under his eyes. "Your mother departed for the hunting lodge this morning. She has taken with her most items of sentiment, the rest is to be handled by you, and anything remaining is to be sold with the estate."

Simon shoved back a grunt. "I thought I had time."

"Your mother has many virtues. Patience is not among them."

"How long do I have?"

"The details will be taken care of with Mr. Oswald this afternoon, if he can make it to my office." Sir Walter muttered an oath. "Which I have no doubt he will."

"I thought the will said—"

"This is not the time, I daresay, to be speaking of the will as if you cast any sentimentality or reverence upon it. Up to this point, you have done nothing the will suggested. We both acknowledge the fact that you will not be married and the inheritance will be lost to you. A day or two faster makes very little difference."

"It only complicates matters."

"If you are referring to your trifling search of—"

"Such a search almost cost Miss Whitmore and myself our lives." Simon clenched his teeth. "Hardly trifling."

"Exactly why you should abandon such nonsense and consider present quandaries, such as housing your children."

"I will provide."

"Yes." Sir Walter stood, patting the watch fob on his waistcoat, as if to be certain he had not misplaced it. "I am certain you will."

"How long do I have to gather my things?"

"Today. Tomorrow." Sir Walter shrugged. "As long as Mr. Oswald permits, I imagine."

"Very well."

"I had best speak with the man now, as I have to be back in court presently." He motioned for a servant to send for Mr. Oswald, and only when they were alone did he finally meet Simon's gaze. "For what it is worth, Fancourt, I did my best to persuade your father against such a stipulation." He sighed. "I wish things had turned out differently."

Simon nodded, heaviness sinking his shoulders. "As do I."

Simon had little to retrieve from his chamber at Hollyvale. He stuffed his clothes into the leather valise, left the room as he'd found it, and headed downstairs. "Pardon, miss." He hailed a servant in the hallway. "Where can I find Mr. Oswald?"

The gangly housemaid led him through rooms and corridors until she pointed to a green-paneled door. "In there, sir, or likely near so. He always attends to his correspondences this time of morning, he does."

"Thank you." Simon tapped on the door.

No answer.

He took a hall chair, as if he intended to wait for the man, but as soon as the housemaid disappeared, he entered the study instead.

The room was large and impressive, complete with a coromandel desk, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, and more than one framed painting of nude women.

Setting his valise on the edge of the desk, its hazel- and black-striped wood creating a pleasing pattern, Simon brushed through the stack of open letters, reading over the names between wary glances at the door.

Most were women. A few were names Simon had heard mentioned in talk of Parliament. None of them significant—

Mingay.

Below the stack of letters, the name jumped out at Simon from an unfolded sheet of paper. When he lifted it, a banknote slipped out too. "For all your services to me," the letter read.

Signed Mr. Oswald.

To Captain Mingay.

The name mentioned between Mr. Brownlow the morning he disappeared and the stranger who took him away. Simon's heart sped. Was this the link he had been looking for? The evidence that tied—

"If you are going to rummage through the contents of my study, you might as well sit down and do it." Mr. Oswald strode into the room, unruffled, it seemed, by the intrusion into his privacy. He motioned to the cellarette. "A drink?"

"No."

"You do not mind if I have one, I am certain." Mr. Oswald poured from a decanter of port, but when he turned back around with the glass to his lips, a distinct grin played in his eyes. "Find anything of interest, Mr. Fancourt?"

Simon handed over the letter and banknote. "You tell me."

"I rarely tell anyone anything." Mr. Oswald folded the letter and tossed it back to the desk, as if it was of little importance. "Especially upon demand."

"It was you that night."

"What night?"

"At Patrick Brownlow's town house."

"Never heard of him."

"Liar."

Mr. Oswald shrugged, took another sip of his port. "Now that is something I can readily admit to. I am not only a liar; I am a habitual one."

"I was here the day of the picnic. You had words with Brownlow in the corridor." Simon stepped around the desk. "He was blackmailing you."

"For?"

"Releasing his brother, along with eighteen others, from prison."

"A fantastical story."

"A true one."

"And that letter there"—Mr. Oswald smirked and motioned to the folded sheet—"proves my involvement in such a scheme."

"When you were tired of paying Brownlow's fee for silence, you had him kidnapped and shipped out of country by Mingay. I have a witness."

"Amusing."

"Not when it sends you to the gallows."

For the first time, a pinch of unease tightened Mr. Oswald's face. He thumped his glass on the top of the cellarette with force. "As entertaining as this little exchange has been, Mr. Fancourt, you must excuse me. I must depart for Sir Walter's office within a couple of hours, though I imagine I need not expound the nature of such a visit to you. Shall I call for a servant to escort you out?"

"Miss Whitmore is coming with me."

"She is free to come and go as she pleases."

"This is not over."

"I did not expect it was."

"A little more time and I shall gather the evidence I need. Your game is almost over."

"I rarely play games, Mr. Fancourt." Mr. Oswald walked to the door and swung it open for Simon. He cocked his head. "But when I do, I always win."

"We are leaving." Those are the words Simon had spoken to her, after striding into a parlor full of ladies busy with their needlework and gossip.

Georgina had not known what to say, but she trusted him enough to excuse herself from the room, hurry upstairs to pack her things, and meet him back at the entrance door moments later. They climbed into a carriage together.

Apprehension bristled her. Perhaps it was being in a carriage again, knowing someone had no qualms about ending their lives.

Or perhaps it was only the look on Simon's face. The fact that he still had not explained. Just when she thought he never would, he glanced from the window to her face. "I wish to take you to the hunting lodge."

"But I—"

"Mother is there, and you shall be safe. You cannot return to your town house when there are so many unknowns concerning your mother's husband, and you cannot remain with me because…"

She expected him to mention the danger, but he hesitated, as if it was something else. "Because what?"

"Because I lost Sowerby."

Weight settled over her. "When?"

"It is official today. I am returning home to pack my things."

"Where will you—"

"I've a couple days at the most. Perhaps longer. I shall make arrangements in the meantime."

How unfair for him. That he should have traveled this far, that he should return home, only to have his last security ripped from him. How could the late Mr. Fancourt do such a thing?

Guilt climbed her throat. She had no room to cast judgment when she was as blameworthy herself. "If I had accepted your proposal of marriage, this would not have happened."

"I was wrong to ask it of you. As wrong as Father was in expecting me to."

"Would we have been so very unhappy?" She clenched her hands and stared at them in her lap, the carriage rocking her back and forth. "If we had…I mean, if I had said…yes."

"No one is ever happy until they make their own decisions."

"Yes." She nodded too assuredly. "You are right of course."

Silence weaved between them, the carriage rumbled on across rutted roads, and the late morning sun warmed her already-flustered cheeks. Several moments passed before she gained courage to speak again. "As much as I am grateful for your kindness in sending me to the hunting lodge, I fear I must decline such an offer."

"Georgina—"

"I must return home. I have run from what is difficult to face for too long, and I must have answers if I am ever to be at peace." She straightened her back. "I need to face him. I have to."

Simon did not say anything, but he did not have to.

She knew he understood those words better than anyone at all.

The knock came at Georgina's bedchamber door not an hour after she had returned home. The town house had been empty upon her return, save for the servants, and Nellie had explained that Agnes was staying with the Gilchrists, and the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Lutwidge, were strolling at Hyde Park.

Mamma never did such things with Papa.

Only balls and soirees and other important social events had garnered her interest. Not quiet, romantic walks in the park. Certainly not sitting by the hearth, curled on Papa's lap, as he would have wanted.

"Who is it?" Georgina folded the last morning dress back into the bottom drawer of her clothes press.

The door opened without further invite. Mamma swept in, hair a little windblown and cheeks rosy from exertion. "There you are at last. You know, of course, I have rarely been displeased with you—besides the time you spilled tea on my invitation to the 1798 exhibition ball at Assembly Hall. Do you remember that catastrophe? I should say you wouldn't. You were only three."

"I was attending a house party." Georgina cut to the heart of Mamma's ramblings. "At Hollyvale. You could not expect me to forgo such a party to stay here, could you?"

"What a calculating girl you are." Mamma sank on the edge of the bed and wiped her sweaty face. "See, I am not displeased with you even now. I came in here with every intent of being ill to you, and now you have made me entirely proud of you. Of course you could not sacrifice such a party. The Oswalds are as wealthy as they are gracious. I do not suppose Alexander himself has exhibited much hints of matrimony, has he? He is bound to marry sometime, you know, and it might as well be to you."

"Mamma."

"Well, who else more worthy for such a rich man?"

"That is not why I attended."

"Oh?"

Georgina pushed the drawer shut, perhaps with too much vigor. She winced and joined her mother on the bed. "In truth, Mamma, I was not certain I could remain in this house."

"How silly of you. Whyever not?"

"The news of you and…and Mr. Lutwidge has been rather of a shock." She glanced at Mamma's face and wished—if only for a moment—Mamma could see the real her and understand.

But she only smiled, patted Georgina's knee, and stood from the bed.

"House parties are always the cure for any trouble. But now that you are back, I am certain all is well, and the sooner you become acquainted with your new papa, the happier all of us shall be. I have wonderful aspirations for our new little family." She walked to the door. "Now, I must hurry along and freshen up for dinner. Pray, my dear, do not be late. Byron hates tardiness."

He must have hated Papa too.

Enough to kill him.

Something was not right.

Simon lowered into a holland-covered chair in the drawing room, the absence of Mother's treasures lending the room a foreign aura. All the furniture had been draped in white. The windows were drawn. The marble bust sculpture of Marcus Aurelius was missing from the stand in the corner, and the three botanical vases were devoid of flowers.

Mercy poked her head out from beneath one of the covers. "Papa, me hide and you find me."

He nodded before his mind comprehended what she asked.

Too late.

She darted back under the chair, hidden beneath the white cover, giggling as she crawled to a new hiding spot.

Simon stood and tried, for her sake, not to take notice of where she hid. But he still glanced at all the windows. Then the door. Then the windows again.

Nothing.

Which made no sense.

Alexander Oswald knew what Simon had discovered. He knew Simon had every intention of proving his guilt. He also knew that the servants here at Sowerby House had been released from their employment and that only Simon, Mr. Wilkins, and the children remained.

Mr. Oswald should have tried something.

It made no sense that he wouldn't.

"Find me," came a whisper.

Simon roamed about the room, looking under furniture, pulling back covers, saving the three-paneled fire screen for last. He poked his head under the cover and she squealed.

"Master Fancourt?"

Pulling Mercy into his arms, Simon stood and faced the doorway.

Mr. Wilkins entered, an arm looped around John, both grinning. "We quite succeeded, this young chap and I, in removing every painting from the turret room walls. They are packed in a trunk and ready to be carted away, sir."

Bringing along his old life for remembrance was the last thing Simon wanted. But he could tell, by the faces of both, it was done to please him. He smiled. "Thank you."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything I can do to be of service." The butler motioned to Mercy. "Now, have I two little ones I might persuade into helping me with dinner?"

Both chimed their enthusiasm, and the butler motioned them ahead with promises to join them in the kitchen. When they were alone, some of his cheeriness faltered. "Sir, I did wish to speak with you a moment, if I may."

"And I with you."

"Sir?"

"It is not right you should stay here. I cannot pay you and you owe me nothing—"

"It is only but a few days, Master Fancourt." The butler glanced away bashfully. "I have been at Sowerby House for so many years that I somehow feel as if I must be here to the very last."

"I could not have managed without you." With the servants already dismissed, household responsibilities had fallen to the butler and Simon. Between watching over his shoulder for intruders, he had tried his best to go through each room and see the last of their family relics and personal belongings sold, as Mother had instructed in her goodbye letter.

But the three days were already up.

Tomorrow, they must all be gone.

Where, he did not know.

As if the butler sensed his thoughts, he cleared his throat in discomfort. "Sir, might I broach the delicate subject of future lodgings?"

"I have not forgotten your offer."

"Then you will consider—"

"With the funds gained from selling the household items, I can afford to lodge us in town." For now.

"But who shall care for the children while you are—"

"They stay with me. From this point on."

"Very good, sir." The butler nodded, as if that was a relief to him. "They are brilliant children. Quite as delightful as you always were as a child."

Simon clapped a hand on the butler's shoulder. "I shall be in the study if you need me. We have already sold the books, but I must rummage through Father's correspondence and dispose of what I can."

The butler nodded, a hint of moisture in his gaze. "It is a pity to see a home torn apart this way. To see it stripped of all its sentimentality in welcome of a stranger."

"Yes." Especially a stranger who likely wanted all of them dead.

The strangeness still simmered in his eyes.

Amid all his politeness, his pristine clothes, his shortened hair, and the eloquence which he used to address Mamma—the strain of insanity still emanated from his being.

Georgina dipped her needle in and out of the handkerchief. The parlor was soundless, as any room was upon Mamma's departure.

This was the first time Georgina had been alone with him.

Mr. Lutwidge occupied the chair nearest the window, a book in his hands, though he had not turned a page in over an hour. His eyes avoided her. Indeed, he had taken such strains these past days to remain far away from Georgina that she imagined he would dismiss himself now and flee the room.

But he remained in his chair. Quiet.

"I did not tell her."

He glanced up, startled. "Pardon, Miss Whitmore?"

"I did not tell Mamma." Georgina plunged the needle harder. "About the graveyard."

"Forgive my witlessness. By the significance of such a statement, I imagine I should know what you are speaking of. Unfortunately, I do not."

"I did not expect you would own to it."

"Own to what?"

"Whatever you did to Papa." A hook of pain raked down her throat. She threw down the needlework, faced him on the edge of her seat. "I want to know the truth. I want to know why you invaded this town house and why you left those dreadful flowers and what you were doing at my father's grave—"

"Miss Whitmore, you are excited."

"Your letter gave me the false assurance you would confess. You married my mother instead."

"Your mother has nothing to do with this." He snapped the book shut. Blue veins bulged his neck. "And confession, if that is what you expect of me, has many different forms."

"You killed Papa."

His face turned to ash.

"You killed him. I know you did."

The book thudded to the floor. Not because he had slung it in anger, but because he seemingly lost power of his fingers, his body, his face. Shadows loomed across his expression as he stood. "They were her favorite."

"What—"

"The yellow flowers. Back in the spring. Another lifetime ago." He smiled, but his eyes wept. "Do not drag me back into the grave, child. I have only just come back to life again…for the first time in three years."

He had too many memories in here.

Simon sat in Father's chair behind the large desk, the brass candlestick quivering orange light into the room. He tossed the last well-kept ledger to the floor.

Father had been meticulous. Every detail of his books—and his life—had been precise and rational. He did nothing on whim. Everything by strategy.

"Son, we must have a talk." Simon shook his head to dispel the sleepiness and reminiscences from his brain.

But they came anyway, as he slumped deeper into the chair. His younger self, standing before this very desk with paint stains on his trousers. Already he had braced himself for another lecture. At fourteen, he'd had enough to write ten volumes of books.

But Father had not launched into another sermon of instructions. Instead, he had motioned Simon around the desk, until his son stood facing him.

"You realize I do not approve of this squander of time you choose to indulge in. These paints, they are" —he had brushed at the dry stains on Simon's clothes— "well, they are unavailing to say the least."

Simon had wiggled, ready to depart, but Father had grasped his shoulders.

"Regardless, I want you to know something. I am severe on you, yes. As I am your brother."

"Yes, sir."

"But if my expectations of you are excessive, it is only because so is my love."

Simon jerked his head upright, groaning at the realization he had closed his eyes again. He could not sleep. He had too much to do before tomorrow and too much left to go through.

Standing, he stretched his arms and yawned, though a twinge settled in the pit of his gut. Awake, he might have spared himself from reliving such a memory.

That was the only time in his life Father had admitted his love for Simon.

Had he said it back?

Did not matter now, he supposed. Not with the way things ended between them.

Moving the candlestick closer, Simon went through the drawers of the desk—tossing away old invitations, scribbled receipts, wrinkled political pamphlets that had been read too many times.

The bottom-left drawer rattled but did not open when he pulled. Locked?

Hmm.

He moved to the small sycamore stand in the corner of the room, where Father kept a lamp and his gold-plated cigar box. Underneath the cigars, Simon peeled back a loose layer of felt, where an assortment of keys lay hidden. He had watched Father unlock desk drawers enough to know which one to grab.

When he'd unlocked the bottom-left drawer, he found Father's old caplock pistol and a letter.

One that had never been posted. He held the letter closer to the candlelight and began reading:

Dear W.

You cannot imagine how much it pains me to write such a letter. Albeit, you leave me no choice. I cannot in good conscience allow the corruption I have unwittingly discovered to go unpunished. Indeed, even now, I cannot think you capable. I wish there were some mistake. My wife and I are traveling to Tunbridge Wells with the morn, and as you have always been a friend to me, I debate on whether or not I should forewarn you of the nature of our trip. I shall be speaking with a man from Parliament, an old acquaintance, who shall know the gentlest form of legal action possible. I wish to help you as much as morality shall permit. I have always thought you a good man. Good men, I suppose, are capable of atrocious deeds. I only hope we may put an end to this obstruction of justice before anyone is hurt. May God, and the court of England, have pity on you.

Simon read the letter again. Then again. Too many things raced through his mind, all jumbled, like puzzle pieces fitting together in places he did not wish them to.

No.

This did not make sense. It was preposterous. Impossible.

Father's carriage calamity in Tunbridge Wells was an accident, just as Mother had said. She would know. She was there. If this letter, hidden in the bottom-left drawer of Father's desk, meant anything of significance, she would have been privy to the secret.

Simon balled the letter. Then smoothed it out again.

Lord, what does this mean?

Nothing, doubtless. Father had stumbled upon some dishonest and trivial crime, and in his noble integrity, he had planned to report such an act.

But it was more than that. Simon knew Father well enough to know that locked drawers were not for trifling matters. Was it possible that Father, all this time, had possessed the answers Simon searched for?

No.

Besides that, Simon had already determined who was behind setting prisoners free. Mr. Oswald wore guilt with as much flamboyance as he wore his flashing waistcoats and smug grins.

Sickness punctured a hole through Simon's reasoning. He thumbed the initial on the letter. He read the words one more time, each one stinging him like a slap to the face.

Because he was already certain whom Father spoke of.

A man who had been their friend.

Sir Walter.

Their enemy.