Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The last place he wanted to be was here.

Simon lowered himself to the edge of an old black chest, the lid creaking under his weight. Mercy scrambled onto his lap, and John strode into the center of the round turret room, sweeping his hand across dusty items and sheeted furniture.

The paintings, hung crooked and without thought, stared back at Simon. How long had his parents waited before they'd ordered the frames to this forgotten room? Had Father dismissed them in anger—or sadness?

"This looks like me." John climbed atop a saggy wingback chair and pointed to one of the largest paintings. "Don't it?"

Simon nodded.

The child in the muted brushstrokes hid behind a drapery, as a glistening couple danced the crowded ballroom. His parents. How he had sighed and despised the sights and sounds of a world so caught up in nonsense. All the pretense, all the shallow chatter, all the flaunting show of wealth and position had frustrated him for as long as he could remember.

But the boy in the painting was a fool.

He should have ceased hiding in drapery windows.

He should have smiled at the sight of his parents—whole and gleaming and loving him—and he should have painted the beauty in this ballroom and not the darkness.

I'm sorry, Father.

"Me want to bring Baby here to play." Mercy leaped from his lap and joined John on the wingback, laughing as she stepped on her brother's toes.

Sorry I could not listen to you. Whether it was right or wrong, Simon did not know. But for all his dreading the encounter, for all his anxiety over returning empty-handed to a man who had forewarned him of failure…he had needed that.

He had needed to look Father in the eyes. He had needed to know that, after years of unanswered letters, the man still considered him a son.

Pain jabbed at his throat. Now he would never know.

Crack. Thud. John and Mercy must have jostled themselves too hard in the wingback chair, for wood splintered and their legs crashed through the seat.

With a look of chagrin, John scrambled out and pulled Mercy with him. "Sorry, sir."

"Sorry," echoed Mercy.

"Be careful." Simon stepped over a stack of wooden boxes and motioned them to the window. "Come here and look."

They hurried next to him, and despite another small thunk of something knocking over, he grinned as they pressed their small hands to the tall sash window. "You can see as far from this window as you can see from the top of a mountain back home."

"Me see sheep, Papa!" Mercy squashed her nose against the glass, the evening sunlight dancing in her curls. "Me see five. Me see six. Me see seven."

"And horses." John pointed across the brown, yellowed countryside, where a servant led two horses on a worn path. "Can I ride one please? If I'm good?"

"Yes. You can ride all of them if you wish."

"I can?"

Simon clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "But not today. First, you must do as your nanny tells you. You will both have your own chambers tonight."

Both stilled at the news.

Mercy tugged at his coat. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Me want to sleep with you."

He shook his head no.

"Then me want to sleep with John."

"She can." John took his sister's hand. "I mean, so she won't be scared. So I can watch after her."

Before he could answer, a tap came from the half-open turret door. A footman leaned inside. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but—"

"Step aside now, Hanson." Mother's voice. The footman swung the door open wider, and she filled the doorway with a tentative smile. "Are you all here, then?"

Simon stepped back over the boxes, urging his children with him. "You need not have climbed those steps, Mother. Had you a wish to see us, you might have asked."

"I am blind, not crippled, my dear." Despite the words, her breaths came fast, and she leaned upon her cane as if the journey up the winding turret stairwell had exhausted her. "This is only your second day home, and already I feel as if you are avoiding me."

Guilt niggled him.

"But you are my Simon, always to himself. Perhaps I should have expected that." She felt her way into the room. "May I see the children?"

"John, this is your grandmother." Simon motioned John to approach the older woman, and though he stiffened as her hands swept down his face, his shoulders relaxed a bit at her soothing smile.

"He is a strong young lad, is he not?"

"Indeed." Simon drew Mercy forward next, squatted next to her, and guided Mother's hands to the child's curls and cheeks. "And this is Mercy."

"How are you, child?"

"Me saw sheep." Mercy seemed uncertain about the hands probing her face, so she kept her eyes on Simon as she spoke. "Me can count high."

"Oh, she is delightful. How high, my dear?"

"This many." Mercy displayed five fingers first, then five more, but seemed confused when the woman would not look at them.

Simon stood. "Children, return with Hanson back to the nursery. I will come back to get you for dinner."

With nods, the children slipped away with the footman. The door closed behind them.

"Mother, would you like to sit?"

"No, Son." Her hand clasped his arm, and the smile from earlier faded into the more serious look he'd sensed in her eyes. "I wish a private word with you, though it seems you have realized as much."

"Go on."

"I am aware, of course, that news of your father's death is still terribly new to you—but I fear some matters simply must be attended to."

"What matters?"

"Your father's will."

A sigh built in his chest. "Mother, I—"

"Do not say anything, dear. Tomorrow, you will meet with Sir Walter in his office, and he shall set you to straights on the details and stipulations." Something in her tone altered on that last word.

Simon tried to push back the wave of uncertainty, but it rushed to shore anyway. He knew Father too well. "What stipulations?"

"You shall see tomorrow."

"Mother—"

"But whatever they are, you must obey them. It was your father's wish that his son should live on in this house, and with your brother gone, it must be you."

"I did not return home to stay."

Despite her sightlessness, she lifted her eyes to his face. A trace of resentment, of unresolved hurt, twisted at her trembling expression. "You forsook this house and your father the day you left twelve years ago. I beg of you to not disrespect him now. Not in his last wish."

This made no sense in the least.

Leaning closer to the looking glass on her bedchamber wall, Georgina inspected her gown for any trace of wrinkle or blemish. She had chosen her finest day dress and had instructed a maid to pay diligent attention to her hair. After all, what else was one to do when a renowned barrister called for one's presence?

She blew air out of her cheeks and stuffed at her fichu, nerves already twisting at her stomach. What could such a thing mean? Was she some sort of unaware witness in an important case? Was that why Sir Walter Northcote should send a personal letter to her doorstep?

The bedchamber door hurried open without a knock and Agnes swept in. "Are you ready? The carriage is waiting."

"As ready as I shall ever be, I suppose." Georgina hurried on a pelisse and snagged her reticule from a chair. "How do I look?"

"I cannot see what that has to do with anything." Agnes crossed her arms. "Unless, of course, you have already been peering out your bedchamber window."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That we shall be late if you do not get rid of him."

"Whom?"

"Whom do you think?" Agnes grabbed her elbow and pulled Georgina into the hall. The second they reached the stairs, she made out the distinct voice below.

Alexander Oswald.

"I do not have time for company—"

"I have already told him as much," Agnes whispered back. "Unfortunately, to no effect. He will not be put off. You shall have to dispose of him yourself, if you can."

Georgina nodded, squared her shoulders, and descended the stairs with Agnes on her arm. "Mr. Oswald."

He turned from the butler in the downstairs hall, hat in his hands, as if he had just arrived. His eyes smiled as they glanced over her. "I came to inquire after your health."

"It is much improved since our last encounter, I assure you."

"I would have come sooner had business not been so demanding." He handed his hat to the butler and met Georgina at the bottom step. "You are pale."

"A calamity inflicted by dreary winter months, not illness." She smiled to reassure him. "I trust your sister is enjoying her return?"

"Buenos Aires had a most peculiar effect on her disposition, I admit."

"Oh?"

"She is even more disagreeable than ever, and that is a feat I did not think possible." He grinned and opened his black-gloved hand to her. "What say you to a stroll outside, Miss Whitmore? I imagine the sunshine will be beneficial."

She glanced from his hand to his face, somehow compelled to accept the spontaneous invitation and forget the barrister's mysterious summons.

Instead, she shook her head. "Regrettably, I have a carriage awaiting me. I fear I have a pressing engagement."

"Of what nature?"

"Do you always pry?"

"I find a direct question usually results in the swiftest answer." He stepped aside as she moved to don her cloak. When she did not enlighten him further, he followed her to the door. "Another secret for me to unravel, I presume?"

She slipped on her bonnet, tied the ribbons under her chin, all without looking at his face. "You are mistaken, sir, for I harbor no secrets."

"None that you admit to."

A flame soared up her cheeks, and despite the fact that she wished he were in error, the truth shuddered through her with flashes of the library, the shadow, the scream.

She had kept the horrors of that night locked inside her for three long years. If the secret were ever discovered, would it torture her further, as Mamma said it would? Or would it make the terrors less severe if she finally told?

"Good day, Mr. Oswald." Georgina motioned for Agnes to follow her, and with one last smile to her guest, she slipped outside into the cold.

In the carriage, she could not help but glance back at the town house.

Mr. Oswald was exiting, placing the shiny beaver hat on his head, with a determination about him that almost rivaled that of Simon Fancourt's.

She almost hoped Mr. Oswald kept searching until he found out the truth. That the secret always aching at her throat could finally find release. That someone, for the first time in her life, would see her —exposed with all her fears and nightmares—and love her anyway.

But that would not happen.

Anyone who loved her, or pretended to love her, would only run away.

If she knew anything in this world, she knew that.

"You have changed." Sir Walter Northcote leaned back in a squeaky green-leather chair, the symmetrical lines of his forehead bunching. "But it is good to see you are at least dressing the part of a respectable English gentleman."

Simon stood in the wood-paneled office, located on the second floor of Gray's Inn, with his hands in the pockets of his new breeches. The tailored clothes itched at his skin, the stiff fabric scratchy compared to the worn cotton and leather he'd worn before.

His children had gawked at him this morning as if he was a stranger. With his face shaved clean, he felt like one himself.

Sir Walter thudded shut a book. "Never mind my irrelevant observations, Mr. Fancourt. Thank you for coming today. As your mother probably explained, the late Mr. Fancourt appointed me executor of the will, and I would like to go over the reading of it today." He motioned to a chair. "You may sit."

"I will stand. Thank you." The sooner this was over with, the better.

Sir Walter's gray brows rose, but instead of insisting, he pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked the time, then barked someone's name.

A lanky clerk entered. "Sir?"

"Is anyone waiting to be shown in?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Late. How emblematic of a lady."

Lady? Simon stepped forward. "Is my mother's presence also required?"

"No. I daresay, your mother could recite the will backward, if asked." Sir Walter motioned the clerk away. "Send her in the moment she arrives. We cannot proceed without her."

"Without whom?" Simon asked.

"Your mother has not told you anything, has she?"

"I presume there is nothing peculiar to tell." He hoped. "Is there?"

"Your father was my best friend, Mr. Fancourt, but I daresay, you knew him better than I did. What do you think?"

Another itch along Simon's neck made him tug at the too-tight cravat. The fire on the other side of the room sweltered the office in heat, along with the heavy scents of woodsmoke, dusty books, and faint coffee.

Minutes passed.

Sir Walter rattled open a desk drawer, drew out a stack of papers, and began thumbing through them, while Simon wandered to the window and stared out at the colorless gardens. What stipulations could Father possibly have made?

He tried to rid himself of the look in Mother's eyes. The tone she'd used in speaking to him.

As if Simon had wronged them.

Mayhap he had. Was this his chance to make up for past wrongs?

"If she does not arrive soon, I fear you shall be in suspense yet another day." Sir Walter sighed. "I am needed at Old Bailey to present in court before the hour's end. I cannot be late unless I intend my client to hang for it—"

The door creaked open. "She has arrived, sir," said the clerk.

"Send her in."

Simon turned from the window as a woman strode into the room—and blinked hard. Confusion rippled through him as Georgina Whitmore met his eyes, one second before the reality of her presence clicked in place.

The promise made when Simon was an infant.

Summer carriage rides.

Balls.

Musicales.

Incessant demands that he marry the woman Father chose, despite the fact that Simon felt nothing for the girl and never would.

Stepping forward, his heart clubbed the base of his throat. The words were out before he could stop them. "You might as well rip up the will now. The answer is no."