Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"You shall never believe this." Agnes swished back a canary-colored curtain in the parlor, hiding herself artfully enough that whoever was outside could not possibly detect a spectator.

Georgina hovered over the beechwood embroidery frame and pierced the canvas with her needle. "I am certain nothing can surprise me this morning. After a burned breakfast and two quarreling maids, I expect most any mayhem."

"Not this, I daresay." Agnes turned with a quirked brow. "Come and see for yourself."

"La." Georgina smirked. "Such mystery, my darling cousin." Leaving the needle mid-canvas, she moved for the window and stared out to the snowy cobblestone street.

A familiar landau sat before the town house, sunlight gleaming off the black paint and reflecting from the front silver lamp. A family crest adorned the door. Was that—?

"A Mr. Oswald is requesting to see you, Miss Whitmore." From the parlor doorway, the butler made his formal announcement.

Georgina glanced to Agnes in puzzlement. How strange this was! In the past four months, Mr. Oswald had crossed paths with her enough times that it hardly seemed coincidental. At every ball, he was in attendance. At half of her theater visits, she noticed him in a distant box. Even her trips to Sowerby House often coincided with his own. Now he was here, calling upon her at her own town house?

If he desired a courtship, he had a most queer way of pursuing her.

"Whatever he wishes, it cannot be a courtship." As if Agnes had read her mind. "At least, not a lasting one. Everyone knows of his quiet affairs and his continual lack of matrimonial offers."

"Of that, I am quite aware."

"Then what can he want?" Agnes grabbed her hand, voice dropping to a whisper. "Although you seem to find it rather flattering that he appears most everywhere we do, I find it more unnerving than anything. He is not to be trusted. He is a confirmed rake, a dandy who has ruined more hearts than anyone knows—"

"Guilty, in every point."

Both girls startled at the suave voice from the parlor doorway.

Georgina stepped back from her cousin and plastered on a hurried smile. "Mr. Oswald." She curtsied. "This is a most unexpected visit."

"I sense confusion, if not discomposure, in your tone." He entered the room in a double-breasted green tailcoat, snowflakes dotting his auburn waves. His normally pale cheeks blazed pink from cold. "All reactions I have inflicted, no doubt, in my blundering attempts to find myself in your presence."

Agnes shot her a look—the familiar motherly warning.

Georgina worked to keep her smile in place. "Mr. Oswald, you remember, of course, my cousin."

"Miss Simpson, how are you?" Mr. Oswald stepped forward, took her cousin's tiny hand, and brushed a faint kiss to her knuckles.

A flame of red burst across Agnes' cheeks. "I—I am well, thank you, sir."

"As you look." He faced Georgina next, and though he moved to take her hand, she swept it instead to the chairs and lounge. "Will you not sit? I shall call for some hot tea. You must be frigid after your travels here."

"In fact, I have only but a minute."

"Oh?"

"I wish permission to be forthright with you, Miss Whitmore, although I sense you would have it no other way."

She nodded for him to continue.

A grin worked at his lips, as if he tried to constrain it but could not quite help himself. "It cannot have escaped your notice that I have, shall we say, appeared often in your vicinity."

Despite herself, she grinned back in answer. "Do go on."

"I have no great explanation which might excuse me from your tarnished opinion, but rather than go on making the fool of myself, I have decided to act upon my curious passions and ask you to accompany me."

"Accompany you?"

"If you are not otherwise engaged."

Was he in earnest? She glanced at the long case clock in the corner of the room, scrambling for a suitable excuse, but the only thing that came out was "Where, I pray?"

"The Pool of London. My sister is returning today from her trip abroad, and I most detest carriage rides alone. And if you do not accompany me, the ride back shall be even more intolerable."

"Is your familial relationship so unbearable?"

"You did permit me forthrightness."

"Yes." Georgina glanced at Agnes and hesitated. "I did."

Her cousin stood rigid, a grim set to her lips, and her eyes narrowed with some unnamed emotion. Disapproval? Or was that a hint of disgust curling her nose?

"No, I could not possibly." Georgina swept her hand in Agnes' direction. "I would require my cousin's company, and she has already complained of a most dreadful headache."

"How fortunate that your one excuse is so dismissible." Mr. Oswald nodded toward the window. "My sister's abigail is already waiting in the carriage, in the event my sister shall have need of her on the returning trip. A suitable chaperone, do you not agree?"

"Well—"

"Come now, Miss Whitmore. Let us not pretend I have asked for your hand in marriage. We both know I shall not do that." He outstretched his gloved hand to her, his grin emerging in fullest. "And if I do not miss my mark, that is to both your relief and mine. Shall we go?"

The honesty, the mesmeric pull of his eyes, all melted her excuses. Why should she decline? She was weary of gentlemen tripping over their own heels in her presence. She was weary of those who stumbled over their words, blushed over her as if she was a goddess, and proposed to her with every opportunity they found.

Alexander Oswald, it seemed, had the same endeavors she did.

To remain unwed.

"Very well." She placed her fingers in his and tried to ignore the objecting huff from Agnes. "Give me but a moment and I shall change."

"Of course."

She slipped from the parlor, and for the first time in twelve years, a sense of excitement coursed through her at the thought of a carriage ride. Nothing would come of today. Nothing would come of Alexander Oswald. Indeed, she did not even want it to.

But perhaps, if nothing else, this ordeal would make her forget Simon Fancourt.

If such a thing was even possible.

"I fear I must apologize." After a lengthy carriage ride, the landau now waited along the edge of a clamorous cobblestone street. From the left carriage window, a view of the Thames was visible, where endless vessels bobbed up and down in the frigid gray-green waters.

Mr. Oswald, who was seated across from Georgina and the dozing maid, crossed his arms over his chest. "If any blame can be assigned for the tardiness of the ship, I cast it unflinchingly upon my sister."

Georgina smiled. "You judge her very severely."

"Let us just say that I see people for who they truly are. I do not attempt to polish characters with praising words if they are undeserving, nor do I tarnish those characters gossipmongers would devour."

"You sound very certain in your own estimations."

"I am."

"You are never inaccurate?"

Something banged against the carriage door. "Eh, will'ee give me alms? Please, alms?"

As the maid beside her flinched in slumber, Georgina glanced out the snowy window.

A thin, rag-clothed woman banged again with shaking hands, but the driver outside had already hopped down to drag her away. He slung her into the street. A cry lifted.

"Leeds, get her up." Mr. Oswald leaned forward enough to open the carriage door. Freezing air rushed in, reeking of dung and fish and the heavy taste of salt. "And give her this."

The driver took the coins with an abashed flush. "Forgive me, sir, I just did not wish for the beggar to bother you—"

"I shall decide who bothers me and when. Now take care of the wretch and see that you keep watch for the ship. If my sister does not arrive soon, I shall let her find her own way home, if she can." Settling back into his seat and closing the door, he glanced back to Georgina.

She attempted to keep the surprise from her face. Why did that so astonish her? After all the cruel and lofty rumors she had heard mentioned of Alexander Oswald, she would not have imagined him to have pity for a poor street scrounger.

"I have surprised you."

"No." She shifted in her seat. "It is only that you puzzle me."

"I puzzle many people. The rarity is, no one ever puzzles me." He leaned forward. "With the exception of you, perhaps."

"I cannot imagine why."

"You mock my intelligence."

"Sir?"

"By pretending there is no intrigue about your character. You need not hide from me, Miss Whitmore."

"I do not understand—"

"We are more alike than anyone might realize. Our reasons might be different. Our pasts certainly are. But today, right now, I daresay we are quite the same."

The complexity of his words muffled her brain. Would she ever make sense of the things he said? Or did she comprehend more than she feigned? "You speak, of course, concerning my lack of matrimonial attachment."

"You have had as many offers as I have declined to give."

"Which makes us, in your assertions, alike?"

"To a degree, yes. I know why I am unwed. I do not know why you are."

"Then I am a quest to you." A smile rushed to her lips, but a small pang of disappointment still echoed through her. "Once you unravel this mystery and determine all my secrets, you shall move on to more exciting diversions."

"Likely yes." He matched her unwavering stare. "Disappointed?"

"No." She was numb to such a fate. Indeed, she expected as much.

The carriage door banged again, this time lighter, as the driver announced the arrival of Miss Eleanor Oswald's packet ship.

Mr. Oswald graciously offered that she might remain in the carriage, but as her back ached from too long sitting, she declined the gesture and followed him out into the cold.

Wind tore through her red cloak, racing a shiver up her spine.

The street was a commotion of the clip-clop of horses, bellows of street sellers, and thumps of crates and barrels being loaded into the many towering warehouses by stout sailors.

"This way." Mr. Oswald's hand slipped to her arm, guiding her toward the overly crowded river. "I believe that is the Swift Courier moored there." As they neared the edge of an ice-filmed wharf, he pointed to a distant ship, whose creamy white masts fluttered in the breeze. "Looks as if they are ferrying her over in that smaller craft. No doubt, the ordeal shall increase the pleasantness of her temperament."

Georgina's breath puffed into a cloud when she laughed. "I am certain she is only happy to be home."

"Your optimism is fascinating." Craning his neck, he took one step away from her. "There is Captain Mingay now. Excuse me one moment while I apologize profusely for any difficulties my sister inflicted upon him."

Georgina nodded and shuffled back from the wharf, out of the way of hurried sailors and passengers. She rubbed her hands together. Even the slight friction, however, did nothing to unchill her fingers beneath the gloves.

One thing was certain.

Mr. Oswald was no ordinary gentleman. Why bring her to the Pool of London on a snowy February day, when he might have easily brought flowers to her town house, or taken her to the theater, or invited her to Hollyvale Estate for a dinner party?

Yet despite the ridiculousness of such a situation, a small ounce of intrigue wiggled in. She imagined nothing the man did was conventional and the thought was rather adventurous—

Something caught her eye.

A face.

Simon.

Heart hammering, she took a step backward, denial racking through her brain as quickly as her breaths escaped in hurried clouds. No, it could not be. Her mind deceived her.

He was dead. He was hidden in some far-off country. He was anywhere, anyplace in the world, but he was not here—

The man turned his back to her. His coat was brown, and the worn sleeves rippled when he reached over the edge of the wharf, accepted a small trunk someone handed him, and hoisted it to the wet planks.

Then he reached again.

He lifted a boy.

Then a girl.

No. Georgina barely noticed when someone bumped into her from the side, knocking her into a stack of crates. She grasped them for support, willed her legs not to wilt. It cannot be.

But he turned again, his shoulders straight, his eyes determined and fervent as he surveyed the world around him…

It was him.

Simon Fancourt.

Her vision tunneled and a terrifying sensation soared through her, one second before her body fell backward. Blackness claimed her before she ever hit the ground.