Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The repulsion in his words cut through Georgina. She took one step back, as if she'd been slapped, and worked to keep the tears from springing to her lashes. What had she walked into?

The room was tiny, stifling, with the door already clicking shut behind her. She told herself to run. The last thing in the world she had strength for was to be trapped this close to him—the object of so many of her dreams, now flesh and bone, staring at her as if she was despicable.

"Do have a seat, Miss Whitmore."

She glanced at the empty leather chair before the desk, anywhere so she would not have to look at his face—but she did not move. She could not move.

"Well." Sir Walter rose from behind his desk. "As both of you are averse to sitting, I believe I will stand too. Shall we begin?"

Neither answered.

Her heart hammered so fast in her ears that the roar of it drowned out the man's voice. Something about finding his spectacles. The vices of disorganization. Giving and bequeathing and monies to the steward and relicts to the clergyman and shillings to the destitute mud-lark boy and—

"Spare us the specifics." Simon's words rattled the room, even in quietness.

Sir Walter lowered the will, forehead marked with lines. "After your brother's death, not many years after your own departure, your father altered his will."

"Go on."

"He did not know if you would ever return, even in the event of his death. Nevertheless, it was his greatest wish that you, his only living heir, should inherit Sowerby House."

"And the stipulation?"

"From the time of his death, he has allotted exactly twelve months. If you have not returned to claim your inheritance by then, and if you have not fulfilled the specifications of the will, then the entire inheritance will go to your mother, in her own power. She may do with any property and monies as she so chooses."

"And the specifications?"

The same dread in Simon's tone coiled around her chest, as Sir Walter walked around the edge of the desk. He cast the will atop scattered letters and papers. "You are to marry Miss Georgina Whitmore, as was arranged before."

Her heart dropped. Despite every pleading not to, she lifted her face to look at him.

He stood erect and tall in a green tailcoat with silver buttons. His cheeks were shaven. Every line of his face was visible—the curve of his tense jaw, the faint dimple in his right cheek, the heated blaze of fury on his sun-weathered complexion.

Without looking at her, he nodded. "I am sorry to have taken up your time unnecessarily." He started for the door—

"I would not make your decision so hastily, Mr. Fancourt."

"There is nothing to decide."

"You realize, of course, that without the benefits of this inheritance, you will be penniless."

Silence.

"And your mother has already made arrangements to sell Sowerby House, in the event you did not arrive or cooperate."

More silence.

Georgina glanced back at Simon, as he creaked open the door without exiting, the weight of the words slumping his broad shoulders.

Sir Walter rubbed his palms together, as if washing his hands of an unpleasant matter. "Whatever the case, you only have two months left. Then I fear, Sowerby House is lost to you forever. I only pray your father never hears of this tragedy in his grave."

Simon departed the office without response, and Georgina pressed her hand to a chest that thumped hard and out of control. She had lost twelve years of her life and most of her heart to the man who just fled this room.

Now she had lost more to him.

What little pride she'd had left.

He should have known it would be something like this.

Back at Sowerby House, Simon ripped open the carriage door, slammed it shut, and ignored the footman already pressing close to him, as if begging to offer assistance.

Simon had been home only days, and already he was sick of being coddled and waited upon. For mercy's sake, he could put on his own coat, cook his own meals, and handle his own bloody reins.

"Sir, may I—"

"Tell my children I will not be home until dark." Simon marched for the redbrick stables, saddled a muscled gray horse, and rode his way past the Sowerby House gates.

The road stretched out before him, the fields a dull green, the trees naked and lifeless. Cold air smacked his face—as jolting as the words still stirring in his gut. "You are to marry Miss Georgina Whitmore…marry Miss Georgina."

He'd be hanged first.

Flashes of her face, her startled expression, rushed through him. She had changed so little. Even nearing the age of a spinster, she had the same soft look, the same innocent blinking eyes as the girl he'd left behind twelve years ago.

She was beautiful.

Not even a fool could deny that.

But she embodied everything he despised about his past life. He remembered so well. The balls she had excited over. The extraordinary dresses, the jewels dripping from her ears and neck, the perfect light blond curls decked with flowers or hairpins.

Every gentleman who ever chanced a glance at Georgina Whitmore looked twice.

A fact she knew too well.

Had she not teased all the young dandies who smiled at her? Had she not encouraged them despite the promise of marriage to Simon?

"Perhaps she would not seek attention elsewhere," Father had once scolded, "if her own betrothed paid her a bit of heed."

Maybe there was truth in the words. Maybe he had been less than attentive.

But it did not change the fact that Simon had a right to choose his own wife. All the anger that had sparked in the office and mounted during the carriage ride now simmered into something else. A raw sadness. A strange disappointment.

Father, how could you?

How many times had he asked that question? How many times had he stood before Father, begged him to understand, only for the pleas to be unheard?

Father had never understood anything.

All he'd ever wanted, the whole of Simon's life, was to enforce each new decision he made for his sons. Nicholas had complied. Indeed, he'd seemed apathetic to the fact that someone else orchestrated every detail of his life—down to the books he read, the meals he ate, and the woman he would marry.

Simon had resisted everything. Even the painting he did alone in his upstairs bedchamber was a pastime he'd adopted because Father had called it pointless and unrewarding.

Urging the horse faster, Simon clenched his jaw and swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth. He would not think of Father now, nor the infuriating will.

He was certain Mother would badger him enough upon his return.

Right now, he had an address to locate. Before the meeting at Gray's Inn, he had taken the time to ask after Friedrich Neale and Reginald Brownlow in London's most elite shops.

No one had heard the name Neale, but several had seemed familiar with the surname Brownlow. "Don't knows the bloke by name, but me guv sews the articles for a fellow wot writes Brownlow on the ledgers."

A gaunt-faced bookkeeper at Wimwick Tailor Shop had pointed to an address in one of his overly large records.

As the dimming tints of evening cast over the London streets, Simon turned his horse into the orange lamp glows of Vanprat Avenue. He dismounted before a white-hued town house, whose facade and well-trimmed boxwoods were as opulent as the surrounding neighborhood.

His fists balled as he strode to the black-painted door. Ruth's scream, her blood on the pillow, the shreds of her blue dress in the corner of the cabin—all struck his memory with force as he banged his knuckles into the wood.

I'll find who did this, Ruth.

No matter how long he had to stay in England. No matter how far he had to search. No matter what it cost him to expose those responsible for setting murderers free.

I swear.

"Dear, you must be sensible—"

"Leave me alone." Georgina ran up the carpeted stairs, clamping a glove over her mouth lest sounds of her hurt blubber free. She raced for the sanctuary of her chamber, but before she could sling open the door, Agnes snatched her elbow and swung her around.

"Stop it this instant, Georgina. You are ridiculous."

"Do not scold me now. I cannot bear it."

"There are a lot of things you cannot bear, apparently." A strange note hardened the words, as Agnes' chin lifted. "I suppose now that he is returned, this entire infatuation will begin all over again."

"It is not an—"

"Let us not tease ourselves, shall we? This was utter nonsense from the beginning, but I nursed your feelings and sympathized with your sorrows, despite that fact."

A wound opened within Georgina. "I am sorry I have been so burdensome to you."

"It is not for my sake that I am telling you this." Agnes' grip tightened. "It is for yours, dear, because you cannot see what is happening to yourself. You just could not endure it, could you? With all the gentlemen who fawned over you, the fact that one paid you no heed was so irksome to your pride that you have immortalized him all these years and—"

"That is not true."

"You know it is."

"If you thought so little of my plight, why did you remain my confidant?"

"My parents are dead, I am living in your house, and I am accepting the charity of your mother." Agnes' forehead tightened. "Do you think I had a choice?"

The brutality of the words knocked Georgina back. She ripped from her cousin's hold, the world blurring into tears, and slammed herself inside the safety of her bedchamber.

She pressed her back to the door and slumped to the floor. Since the first day Agnes had arrived, at eleven years old, Georgina had accepted her unfortunate cousin's companionship. As months lengthened into years, she'd come to rely on Agnes. To need her. To depend on her as someone who would never commit the nightmarish fear—walking away.

But how deep did Agnes' friendship truly reach?

"Dear, let me in." A knock thumped above Georgina's head. "You must forgive me. I said things I did not mean. Please, let me comfort you."

Dragging her sleeve across wet eyes, Georgina hugged her knees tighter to her chest and waited throughout all the knocks and pleadings. Finally, they ceased. Footsteps padded away, and the room became silent.

"With all the gentlemen who fawned over you…one paid you no heed…so irksome to your pride that you have immortalized him all these years …" Georgina squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Partly because her cousin's words were cold and pitiless and so unlike the motherly notes of usual.

And partly because, despite everything, Georgina knew some of Agnes' words were true. Did Georgina truly love Simon Fancourt? Or had she only imagined as much because he did not love her?

For the second time, Simon glanced at the gilded clock on the drawing-room wall. Another ten minutes had passed, and his knees bounced with impatience.

Too much of life in England was constrained.

Back home, no matter where he was, he had the freedom to step outside, breathe rich air into his lungs, and stare at the towering mountains until he lost himself. The sooner he could return, the sooner his pain would lessen.

He needed something to ease the tension, this sense of being trapped in finery.

He needed his rifle strapped across his shoulder and that soothing scent of gunpowder and dew-laden morning air. He needed rich dirt between his fingers, the orange pine needles sticking to his clothes, and the pulsing thrill of slinging a dead deer across his back to feed his family—

Ornate folding doors came open, startling Simon from his reverie. About time someone arrived.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sir, but I was otherwise detained."

Simon rose to face the middle-aged gentleman. "I realize the hour is late."

Dressed in burgundy tailcoat and tan pantaloons, the man strode to a chair but did not sit. He had a voluminous Brutus hairstyle, with dark brown sideburns, and a neck so short it was hardly visible between his chin and his neckcloth. "My butler took the liberty of telling me your name, Mr. Fancourt. To what do I owe this visit?"

"You are Brownlow?"

"I am Patrick Brownlow, yes."

"Relation to Reginald Brownlow?"

The name drained the gentleman's face to a pallor. He gripped the back of the wingback chair, glanced to the left, then to the right. "What is this about?"

"You did not answer my question."

"Nor do I intend to, as you have not answered mine." Mr. Brownlow stepped closer to a bureau, rubbing a hand behind his neck. "I do not appreciate receiving visitors at such an inconvenient hour, and I even less appreciate the manners you have displayed in so doing."

Simon nodded. "I have been abrupt."

"To say the least."

"I mean no disrespect, but it is important I speak with someone who knew him."

"Did you?"

"Yes." Simon hesitated. "I killed him."

A breathless profanity breezed from the man's lips. He turned to the bureau, seized a decanter and poured a glass, though the glass clinked against the decanter from the shaking of his hands.

Simon took a step closer. "I don't know who he was to you, but I have reason to believe he was convicted here in London and sentenced to hang."

"You are more than abrupt, Mr. Fancourt. You are savagely vulgar."

"Reginald Brownlow did not expire on the gallows. He ended up in a settlement in America, and he attempted to murder my wife. I need to know how that happened."

"And you think you shall find your answers here?" Mr. Brownlow slid a glance at Simon, hesitated for several ticktocks of the wall clock, as sweat formed along his brow. In one flashing second, he flung open a bureau drawer and lifted a dueling pistol. "I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Fancourt. I think you should leave."

"You must have more answers than you'd like to admit."

"Untrue, I fear. I have no answers, and I do not know anything. Reginald was my brother. I am only telling you as much because you may hear of the relation anywhere. If he attempted to kill your wife, I am sorry." The gun quivered as he lifted it higher. "He killed my wife too."

Simon's jaw flexed. "Then I should think you would be equally eager to see whoever set him free is punished."

"The only thing I am eager for is to be rid of his revolting memory." Mr. Brownlow pointed his gun to the door. "Now leave my sight. If you ever bring my brother's name into this house again, God forgive me for what I shall do."

The kitchen door creaked shut behind Simon as he slipped through a servant's entrance. The room was black, the hearth mere glowing embers as he felt his way through the kitchen and into quiet halls.

He reached the stairs by memory, boots thumping the carpeted steps—

"I knew you would not enter the front door."

Simon gripped the banister and turned.

Without candle or lamp, Mother's flowing white wrapper outlined her presence at the bottom of the stairs. "Sir Walter arrived for dinner. We both expected you would join us."

"Other business needed my attention."

"Business?"

"Yes." He started back down the stairs. "You waited up for me?"

"I suppose after all these years of being deprived of motherly roles I rather enjoy doing something for my son."

"I'll help you to your chamber."

"I would not sleep anyway." She must have sensed he was close to her, for she reached out and brushed his chest first, then his arm, then down to his hand. She squeezed. "Sir Walter told me of your impetuous reaction today. I know the will must have been a shock to you."

He bit back any response, lest resentment escape. Father was dead. No good would come in speaking harshly of him now.

"My dear, you realize I have promised to sell Sowerby House."

"Sir Walter said as much."

"And this does not trouble you?"

"It troubles me more to marry a woman I do not love."

"Pshaw." Mother dropped his hand. "I had hoped, with as many years as you have been away from us, that you would have matured to some degree." Was that Father's voice coming out in her?

Of course it was. Had she not always sided with him and taken his part?

"You have a responsibility, and I simply do not know what I shall do if you fail us this time too."

Simon took her arm. "Let us not speak of it tonight."

"We have not time to speak of anything else. Within two months, all of this will be lost to you, and your father's dream will be extinguished."

"That is not my fault."

"Yes, Simon, it is. All of this is." Her voice shrilled. "You disappeared from us once, and I do not think I can bear it again. For once in your life, you must think of someone besides yourself. You must think of your father, you must think of me, and you must think of those children sleeping upstairs." She stomped her cane onto the marble floor, the thud echoing. "What is to become of them if you fail to accept your inheritance?"

"I will provide."

"I may be blind, but I can see how well you have provided thus far."

"Mother—"

"Do not mother me, Simon Fancourt. I made a vow to your father that if you did not follow his instructions, I would not impart one shilling to you, nor housing, nor support. Do you not realize that in two months' time you and your children shall be on the streets? Likely, you have not adequate funds for ship fare back to America—even if you did wish to return to that savage, forsaken land."

Tightness crept along Simon's chest. The same urge to run, to disappear, swamped him just as strongly as it had years ago.

Only now it was not so simple.

He didn't know what to do.

"Let me help you to your chamber." His voice was low, a near whisper, but she shuffled away from him and shook her head.

"You have never worried after me before, Son. Do not pretend to now."

Swallowing hard, he turned back to the stairs and hurried his way up. The empty halls, the faint musty scents, the squeaky floors, all suffocated him with their familiarity and memories. The same loneliness he'd known twelve years ago burrowed deep inside him.

Ruth, I need you.

When he reached his bedchamber, he froze.

Bundled together in a white blanket, John held Mercy in his arms outside the door, their breathing soft and measured in the quietness of the hall.

Simon bent next to them. "John." He nudged his shoulder. "Wake up."

John stirred, blinked hard several times, then pushed himself up on one elbow. He mumbled something incoherent.

A rebuke rose through Simon—how the children should have kept to their new chambers, how they should have listened to the nanny who placed them there, how they should not have slipped out into the hall to be close to Simon.

None of the reprimands made it to his lips.

Instead, he slipped his arms under both of them, carried them inside his chamber, and eased them on top of his bed. He tucked the bed linens around them. He kissed their faces. Then he undressed and joined them, warmed by Mercy's soft curls tickling his arm and John's low snores sounding in his ear.

Lord, what am I going to do?

Ruth's face swam before him, her voice, her soothing touches, her gentle wisdom. Ruth, what do I do?

He did not know. Right and wrong were lost on him, and he was not certain if it was more worthy to be true to others or true to his own convictions.

He only knew that, no matter how much this felt the same, it was different than the decisions thrust on him twelve years ago.

He hugged his children closer to him. This time, he was not alone.

He had more to think of than himself.

Something was wrong.

Georgina lay still in bed, a chill shivering her body though a white-cotton counterpane was tucked under her chin. Wake up. Despite her frigid skin and the noise that had disturbed her, sleep drew her back.

Then it happened again.

A thump.

A creak.

Georgina lunged upright, raking in a breath of frigid air. Mercy, why was it so cold? Had the hearth gone out?

Teeth chattering, she pulled back the heavy bed curtain and glanced throughout her bedchamber. Blackness cloaked the room. Even the fireplace held no crackling yellow flames or glowing red coals.

Deed, I shall freeze to death before morning. She fumbled for her nightstand in the darkness, found the silver candlestick, and lit the wick. The tiny flame spread a feeble light throughout the room, illuminating furniture, deepening shadows.

Something moved in the corner of her vision.

Georgina's heart thumped to her throat, as she scrambled from the bed and raised the candle higher. Someone was here. "Agnes?"

No one answered.

At the window, white curtains fluttered and billowed. Night wind breathed throughout the room, sending goose bumps along her skin, as she edged closer and peered out below. Why was the window open? Had someone climbed into her chamber? Was that even possible?

No, it was not.

She had imagined the noises, the thumps, the soft thud of footfalls. As for the open window, it was merely an accident, evidence of a maid's idleness and nothing more.

Slamming the pane shut, Georgina re-situated the curtains, rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and moved for the hearth.

She stoked the ashes and coals until a small flame brightened the room, frightening away the last nonsense of invaders and nightmares. What a child she was. This was certainly an embarrassment she would not relate to Agnes in the morning.

She waited until the bumps disappeared on her skin and the warmth soothed away the last shiver before she grabbed her candlestick again and crept to the bed. Leaning in with her light, she reached to pull back the counterpane—

And froze.

Confusion splintered into fear as she drew in a breath, too afraid to move, too revolted to touch the object waiting for her on the feather pillow.

A yellow rose.

She reached for it despite her trepidation, the dry petals crackling and falling apart as quickly as her composure. What could this mean? Why had the same flower been left at Papa's grave?

She crumbled it in her grip. She did not understand anything—except this.

The man from the graveyard had been in her chamber.

Simon halted within the drawing-room doors. "Forgive me. I didn't realize you had company—"

"Do not go, Son." Mother sat in the Egyptian-style chaise lounge by the window, late morning sun streaming around her and illuminating dust motes in the air.

Simon had hoped that by morning, some of the bitterness and anger toward him would have subsided—that they might have returned to loving mother and son.

Her pinched lips and narrowed eyes, however, told him otherwise. "This conversation, I fear, involves you as much as it involves me." She flicked her hand to where a grim Sir Walter sat beside her. "Will you join us?"

Simon nodded and moved behind a wingback chair but did not sit.

From the mantel, a lean young gentleman swished his glass of port and smiled. "So this is the notorious wanderer at last. I have heard much about you, sir."

"Who are you?"

"Do not be uncivil, Simon." Mother tapped her cane to the drawing-room rug. "This is Mr. Alexander Oswald, the man to whom I am prepared to sell Sowerby House."

Mr. Oswald bowed. "At your service, sir."

"I have invited him and Sir Walter here today to discuss the change of plans. As you have made your decision concerning the inheritance, I see no advantage in prolonging the inevitable." Mother sniffed, patted a handkerchief to her nose. "The house shall be sold to Mr. Oswald as soon as Sir Walter can switch the deed, and I shall move to the hunting lodge in Hertfortshire within a fortnight. It is much smaller and of greater comfort to me, as some of the dearest memories I have with your father took place there." A vein bulged in her forehead with that last phrase. She lowered her face. "I wanted you to be aware, Son, as this affects you too."

"Mrs. Fancourt, I stand by my conviction that this is all rather sudden—"

"There is nothing sudden about it, Sir Walter. My son has made his decision."

"Which he might have changed, had you given him a chance to acquaint with the idea." Sir Walter stood, his height towering, and Simon understood the gratitude prisoners might have felt when the barrister argued their case in court. "With all due respect, marriage is no trivial matter. One can hardly expect a man to succumb to the notion as easily as he might succumb to wearing a new suit of clothes or taking home a new book."

"You always speak with precision, Sir Walter. An attribute my Geoffrey always admired in you." Mother leaned forward, both hands folded over the top of her cane. "And though I am not so insensitive as to deny Geoffrey's will requires sacrifice, I am still conservative enough to believe in duty—something my son has the tendency to shirk."

Simon gripped the back of the wingback chair. His duty was not to Mother or Father or this house or even to himself. His duty was to his children. Ruth, please. In the name of mercy, what was he to do?

"At least allow him a day longer." Frowning, Sir Walter nodded to the gentleman by the mantel. "Surely our gracious Mr. Oswald will not object to that."

"I object to nothing except disregarding Mrs. Fancourt's wishes. If she is determined to move the process forward, I shall not approve of prodding her to wait."

"Very kind of you, dear boy." Mother nodded. "You are right, in any event. Unless you wish to speak now, Simon, we shall proceed as planned."

Pressure grew inside his chest, intensified by each distinct pound of his heart. Marry Miss Georgina Whitmore so he could attain a life he had never wanted in the first place? So he could finally acknowledge, in the end of things, that Father had gained his way after all?

Simon shook his head. "I am sorry, Mother. Proceed as planned." He started from the room, then hesitated as his reason for entering the drawing room struck him. He turned back long enough to spot Baby under a small table and snatch the doll from behind the claw-footed legs.

Then he hurried from the room, unease warping through him, as too many thoughts attacked at once. Hadn't he done the right thing?

Then why was his stomach unsettled?

"Papa, you found her!" In the wide corridor, Mercy threw herself against his legs, squealing.

John grinned in his new gray skeleton suit. He'd never worn something tailored specific to his size, and the hearty meals of late seemed to have increased his thickness and height. Indeed, even his dimple had deepened.

Mayhap here his son could be happy. Mayhap one day he could stop worrying over guns and fighting and that painful need to protect the people he loved.

They were safe here.

Fed.

Clothed properly.

Protected.

"I daresay, sir, these are most spritely children." The butler grinned at Simon, a little out of breath, and admitted with a blush of shame that he had permitted the children to slide down the banister. "Most unseemly, of course, sir, but I do admit rather amusing."

The children laughed their agreement, and Mercy hurried to Mr. Wilkins, tugged his coat, and begged to do so again.

"You go along and I shall join you presently." The butler shooed them away, his cheeks radiant with fondness—but the second the children were gone, his cheeriness faded. "Sir, if I might be so bold as to speak with you a moment concerning a very, ahem, private matter."

"What is it?"

"I have heard it whispered about this morning that Mrs. Fancourt plans to sell Sowerby House." Mr. Wilkins glanced away, as if the embarrassment was too strong to look Simon in the eye. "I do not mean to be presumptuous, sir, nor insulting in any way…but I…well, I thought that perhaps if you—"

"Say it out, Mr. Wilkins." Simon grinned. "Whatever it is, I'll not hold it against you."

"Thank you, Master Fancourt. Very kind of you, sir. I only wished to say that, as you shall need lodgings and as I shall likely no longer be employed here, you may come with me to my brother's house on Pockley Street. It is a humble abode and my brother has five young ones of his own, but they have already promised me a position in the family warehouse. I am certain my brother could secure you a job too, and in time, perhaps you may earn enough to return to America on another ship—"

"Thank you." The words burned coming out. Images overtook him—crowding his children into unused corners, feeding them off the kindness of others, hustling them back onto another ship where the sickness and the cold and the hunger could tear at them.

Mother was wrong in many points, but she was right in this.

He had a duty.

He had brought his children to England, and he would not allow them to suffer for the rivalry between Simon and his dead father. If it took marrying a woman he did not love to protect his children, so be it.

His heart belonged to Ruth anyway. Nothing would ever change that.

"Master Fancourt, where are you—"

"I will be back, Mr. Wilkins." Simon turned back down the corridor, found the drawing-room doors, burst them open.

Mother startled and Mr. Oswald leaned off the mantel and Sir Walter paused from bending over the writing desk with a quill.

"I have changed my mind." Simon's voice deepened. His throat stung. "I will do as Father wished."

"I was certain I would find you here."

Georgina stood from bending over the grave, but she did not turn to the quiet voice. "I usually come to be alone."

Agnes slipped next to her, hesitating, the silence of the graveyard infecting them both. In a movement slow and cautious, she weaved her arm with Georgina's. "Will you be angry with me forever?"

Georgina stared down at the grave, the new yellow flowers identical to the one left on her pillow. Hurt pulsed through her. "I am not angry."

"How you must hate me for the things I said to you."

"No, I could never—"

"And you would be right to despise me. I have been terrible to you." Agnes leaned her head upon Georgina's shoulder. "Let us forget such things were ever said and be happy again."

"I cannot forget because I fear you were right." Georgina slipped from her cousin's hold and hunkered next to the marker again. She swiped her hand down the rough stone. "The things you accused me of concerning Simon Fancourt…perhaps they were all true."

"Dear, let us not—"

"Please, allow me to speak. I have been running your words over in my mind, and I see more clearly than I want to." Georgina glanced up at her cousin, a sad smile upturning her lips. "I am my mother, am I not?"

"What do you mean?"

"The one thing I always despised in her—how she flaunted and laughed and teased every gentleman about her. Even when Papa was alive, she was whispered of for her exaggerated affability with the other sex."

"You cannot accuse your mother of being unfaithful."

"I am not. Only of enjoying gentlemen's company to the point of fault." Georgina stood again, running her hands down her dress, her own weakness rushing through her with painful vividness. "Perhaps I am inflicted with the same fault. Perhaps that is why I have worshiped and lamented over Simon Fancourt, why I have desired him so much—because he was the one gentleman I know who has not been affected by my attentions."

"You are too severe on yourself."

"Perhaps not severe enough." Georgina sighed, reached over, and grasped Agnes' hand. "What would I do without you? You are good enough to tell me things I do not wish to hear. Mother and friend and sister and angel all embodied in one soul."

The praise cast a stricken look on Agnes' face. Her eyes shifted. "I wish you would not say such nonsense."

"It is not nonsense. You are the only person in my entire life that I need never fear will abandon me." Georgina smiled, kissed her cousin's cheek, and looped their arms. "Now come. We must return and answer the letters we received this morning. Believe it or not, I am rather anticipating the picnic Mr. Oswald will host at Hollyvale Estate." As they slung the graveyard gate closed behind them, the iron groan mingled with their footfalls on the smooth cobbles. "Perhaps he shall distract me from the last thoughts of Simon Fancourt. Indeed, now that I realize the errors of my heart, I shall never think of him again. You must believe me."

"Your chance to prove yourself may be closer than you think."

"What do you mean?"

"Look." Several yards from their town house, Agnes paused. She lifted a finger to where a tall gentleman rapped on their door.

Georgina's heart missed a beat.

Simon.

What was he doing here?

The parlor had not changed. The same tasseled yellow curtains made orange by the streaming sunlight. The same books he used to peruse out of boredom. The same globe on its wooden tripod stand, which he used to spin with an idle finger.

And the cream-velvet settee, where the two of them sat.

Courting.

He nearly coughed at the memory and wiped both sweating hands on his pantaloons. Strange, how coming here brought everything back. He had forgotten much.

Indeed, he had forgotten her. When was the last time young Georgina Whitmore had crossed his mind before seeing her on Sowerby's steps?

With familiar whining hinges, the parlor door came open.

Simon stood as she entered. He had expected her to appear with her cousin, perhaps with her mother—but she strode into the room by herself, her movements elegant, her eyes as demure and hard to decipher as they had ever been before.

"Mr. Fancourt." She dipped her chin, a faint smile upturning her lips. A blush settled on her cheeks. Perhaps that would have meant something had she not blushed at every other gentleman too.

He remembered well.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was out on a stroll when you first arrived." She took a seat across from him, offered tea, then watched him without expression when he declined.

He cleared his throat. "You have been well?"

"Most well. And you?"

"The same."

"These past years have been kind to you." She seemed to study his face, then his hands, then his eyes—all with that same impassive look. "I imagine your mother is rejoicing greatly to have you returned."

More like distressing greatly, but he reined back the frustration and nodded instead. "How fares your mother?"

"She is in Bath, enjoying the mineral waters."

"I am certain you miss her."

"Yes."

"And your father?"

The blush drained. Something fissured across her face, a bothersome discomfort…almost akin to sorrow. "Papa died three years ago."

"I am sorry." Why had no one told him? "I did not know."

"His heart was weak. It was all very sudden."

Sudden. A scream hummed in his brain. His hands cooled with the memory of Ruth's blood, with the soft brush of her hair between his fingers, the worn blue dress, the cold skin…

He stood and walked behind the settee, clenching and unclenching his fists. He should have remained seated. He should have accepted tea. He should have done the proper things, the things he'd done before, instead of—

"Mr. Fancourt, is something amiss?"

He glanced at her, the confusion—and likely disapproval—already raising her brows. Yet it was more than that. Mayhap compassion, if that was possible. "I lost my wife."

"I am very sorry."

"I have two children. John and Mercy. You saw them at Sowerby House."

"They look like you."

"They look more like her."

She bent her head, folded her hands in her lap, the silence as heavy and unbreakable as it had always been in those dull courtship hours.

Only now it was different. No balls or upcoming carriage rides or faraway wedding lingering between them.

Now it was real. They were not children. This time, there was no escaping what their parents had already decided, the promise he had never wished for, the marriage he had run to a distant country to escape.

He was out of places to run.

He had nothing to run to.

One purpose and one purpose alone clawed at him now—and that was to care for his children and rain justice on the men who had ruined his life. Whatever sacrifice he had to make to achieve that would be nothing at all.

"Miss Whitmore, I don't know how best to say this." He crossed the room and stood closer to her, his heartbeat increasing, whether from misery or relief he could not tell. "I would like you to marry me."