Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Light streamed through the stained-glass windows, reflecting bright colors on the vestibule floor of St. Bartholomew's Church. The thorns of the dead flower pinched through her gloves. "Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr. Carthew."

"Regretfully, I have a parish meeting in a moment, but I am happy to assist if I can." The young curate tugged a pocket watch from his coat, as if her time was already waning. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you might tell me anything about this." Georgina outstretched a dried yellow rose, the edges fringed in a dull pink. "I have been discovering them at my father's grave…among other places."

"I am certain they were probably placed in goodwill."

"Yes, but—"

"Mr. Carthew?" A woman in a white mobcap leaned around a doorway in the vestibule. "Very sorry to disturb you, sir, but the two Surveyors of the Highways and Bishop Eldred are awaiting you in the nave."

"I shall be with them presently." Mr. Carthew sighed. "I am very sorry to end this so abruptly, Miss Whitmore. Perhaps we can discuss the matter another time?"

"That will not be necessary." What a fool she must seem for questioning dead flowers in the first place. "I am sorry to have bothered you."

"Inconsequentially, have you spoken with the sexton?"

"No."

"Mr. Grubb is rather absent of mind, but if anyone would know answers to your questions, it would be him." The curate nodded to the woman still waiting in the doorway. "Alfreda, do take Miss Whitmore to my study and then go in search of Mr. Grubb. And make certain he cleans his boots before traipsing mud throughout the entire church."

"Yes, sir."

With a last word of best wishes, the curate hurried away and Georgina was led to a small study with open windows. The scent of rain drifted in, and beyond the white-blossoming branches of a dogwood tree, Georgina had a view of the graveyard.

This entire matter was insanity. No one visited Papa but her. No one cared enough.

Not even Mamma.

Three years after his death, why would some elusive stranger leave flowers at the forgotten grave? Why slip into her town house bedchamber? Why leave evidence of his presence like some sort of message?

More than anything, she wanted to imagine it was nothing. A silly game, an inconsequential mistake. Perhaps she could have only—

He left the flowers in the library. A chill ran through her body, as she leaned closer to the window and breathed in the midmorning air. Everyone assumed Papa had died in bed.

No one knew about the rows of books in the flickering candlelight.

The shadow on the rug.

The overturned chair, the silhouette of his body dangling from the ceiling, with his neck twisted and his eyes void—

The study door whined open.

Georgina forced in a composing breath, squared her shoulders, and turned. "Mr. Grubb…" The words trailed as recognition slammed her in the chest.

Him.

The man from the graveyard.

Greasy black hair stuck to his stubbled cheeks, and crinkled lines spread from his eyes and mouth. His suit was black, expensive, but the silver buttons were tarnished and the fabric seemed damp and rumpled.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He pressed the door shut behind him. A sense of panic shook her, as his stricken eyes fell to the flower in her hand, then back to her face.

"You left this." She tossed it to the floor between them. "You visited my father's grave. You entered my chamber."

The accusations did not affect him. He took another step closer, mouth open, as if the sight of her was baffling to him.

"What do you want?" She flattened against the window. Her skin pebbled, her limbs froze, as he approached close enough to grab her. "Get away from me."

His lips moved without sound, as he pulled something from behind his back. Another dried rose. He pressed it to her chest, fingers grazing her collarbone—

With a cry of protest, she darted to the left and crashed into something. A pole screen. She scrambled back to her feet, but when she darted for the door, it was already open.

She glanced about the study with terror.

The man was gone.

Miss Whitmore was not here.

Simon pulled shut the whining iron gate, the light drizzle of rain cool on his skin. He glanced back into the graveyard through the bars. A shame that it happened this way—that he had come to the graveyard to search out someone else and stumbled upon Father instead.

He should have come sooner.

He should have thought to come sooner.

The sandstone monument, the winged cherub, the engraving of Father's name all deepened the sense of realism. He was truly gone. Why did it seem as if Simon was still battling with him? As if it was still a force of wills, a hard-run race to see whether father or son would back down first?

Simon wiped rain from his face and shook his head. None of that mattered now. He had finally succumbed to Father's demands and now it was impossible, due to Miss Whitmore's unexpected rejection.

Simon was not certain whether to thank her or change her mind. Mayhap he lacked the strength for either.

From the corner of his eye, a flash of blue made him turn.

A figure darted down the church's stone steps, wearing a light blue pelisse and straw bonnet. Her pace seemed frenzied as she fumbled with her bonnet ribbons and ducked her head against the increasing rain.

He stepped to the center of the flagway as she neared. "Miss Whitmore."

She startled, hand flying to her chest. "Mr. Fancourt."

"The butler at your town house mentioned I might find you here. I was hoping I might have a word with you."

A frown creased between her brows. "I do not think—"

"Do not worry. I did not come to persuade you into marrying me." Despite the gravity of the words, an errant smile tugged at his lips. "I will be brief. I promise."

"We can hardly talk here."

"My carriage is across the street."

Perplexity flickered in her expression—odd, as she usually kept her face so schooled—and she glanced behind her. Was she worried someone might see? After the ordeal at the picnic a week ago, he was not certain he could blame her for such trepidations.

Likely she would not marry him now if he begged on both knees.

Which he would never do.

"Very well." The words were a whisper as she avoided his gaze. "But let us hurry."

He took her arm, looped it with his, and guided her across the puddled street. They climbed into the carriage. Outside, the driver shut the door.

Silence, save for the rain drumming the roof of the carriage and the rustling of her dress as she smoothed the wet wrinkles with vigor. Was it his imagination, or did her hands tremble?

"I realize this may not make much sense to you, but the day of the picnic, you spoke to someone." He hesitated. "In the hall, just before you found me in the smoking room."

She nodded.

"Who was he?"

"I hardly know. A guest, I presumed."

"Then you have never seen him before?"

"Not that I am aware." Confusion narrowed her eyes. "But if it is a matter of importance, I could speak to Mr. Oswald—"

"No. I would ask you not to speak to anyone about this."

"Why?"

He looked away, watched the rain drip down the carriage window in rivers. How much should he tell her? Or should he tell her anything? The quieter he kept his mission, the better. If she was anything like the prattling gossips of society who shared secrets as often as they had tea—

"Forgive me, but I must return home now." She reached for the carriage door, but he stilled her hand.

"Let me drive you back."

"I do not mind the walk."

"The rain—"

"Does not bother me at all." She hurried from the carriage without assistance, the downpour showering her pelisse, the wind whipping at her white bonnet ribbons.

He caught her arm before she could cross the street. "At the very least, let me walk you back."

"That is unnecessary." When he did not release her, her shoulders slumped. "It is only a short distance, but very well."

They walked in silence, her pace as fast as his, as if she was desperate to escape his company. For the second time, she glanced behind them toward the church. Who was she watching for? Was she normally so pale, or was it only the cold rain that lent her face such pallor?

At her town house, he pulled open the wet gate. "Thank you for speaking with me."

She nodded, started for her door—

"Miss Whitmore?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him with a shiver. "Yes?"

"Is anything wrong?"

"You are not the only one with secrets, Simon Fancourt." With a faint and quivering smile, she hurried inside her town house and slammed the door.

He was not at all certain what she meant.

Georgina ripped off her wet bonnet and slung it to the ground without waiting for the butler. She hurried through the house, staining the hall rug with water, and yanked open the library door.

She closed herself inside.

She had not been here in weeks. She avoided this place as ardently as she rejected any gentleman who made nuptial remarks to her.

This does not make sense. She stepped into the center of the room, where Papa's body had thudded to the ground when Mamma cut the rope. Bruises had swollen his neck. His skin was bloodless. The overpowering odor of urine reeked from his clothes, from the library rug, so nauseating that even the memory threatened her composure.

She knelt at the spot. Everything was disoriented, hazy, but she recalled the look on Mamma's face. That seldom expression of disbelief, stark fear, perhaps even regret—though for what, Georgina did not know.

"We must find the note," Mamma had said. "He would not have left without saying goodbye."

But he had. They looked for hours—rummaging through every stand drawer, searching for loose bricks in the hearth, opening books, peeling back rug corners, searching the pockets of his coat.

Nothing.

He had killed himself without reason, without warning, and left without saying anything. He had solidified her fears. For as long as she could remember, she had lain in bed as a child and worried that someday she would be alone. That she would wake up the next morning and her parents would not be waiting for her at the breakfast table. That her friends would not wave to her at church. That her maids would no longer answer when she called.

The older she grew, the more she'd realized the fears were childish.

Until the fears began to come true.

At seven years old, she'd wandered into her nursery and found her beloved nanny absent. "Mrs. Jennings has simply found other employment, dear. Do not carry on so. I assure you, we shall find another," Mamma had explained, with a quaint pat to Georgina's head.

Another nanny had come and gone.

Then a governess.

Georgina had prayed on her knees every night that the kind-faced Miss Hasswell would stay forever, but one day, even she bid goodbye with the news that a marriage had been proposed to her.

But then Agnes had come. She had arrived in a rattling hackney, nothing with her but a frayed dress, a worn cloak, and a small valise.

Mamma said her parents had died of consumption, that she was entirely alone, and Georgina had determined to make the sullen child into a happy playmate. Together, they had slipped into Mamma's wardrobe when she was away—which was more often than not—and pretended balls in the oversized dresses. They had drawn pictures on the foggy morning window panes. They had studied together, eaten meals together, taken walks together—and for the first time in her life, Georgina had felt confident she had found someone who would never leave.

After all, Agnes had no one to leave to.

With an involuntary tremor, Georgina stood back to her feet, her wet clothes deepening her chill. She should not have comforted herself so quickly at fourteen years old, for only one year later, the boy she was promised to marry did the same thing.

He left without imparting a word.

Then you. She glanced from the ceiling to the rug, bitterness choking her, wishing Papa's smiling face were not so mingled with his dead one. Why, Papa? How could you do this to me?

Was it because she had fussed at him the day before for refusing her the new dress she'd spotted in La Belle Assemblée ? Was it because, more and more, Mamma found reasons to depart London? Or was it nothing either of them had done? Was it something within himself, a secret hurt she'd been far too busy to detect?

Georgina moved to the rosewood stand, where the old yellow roses were still heaped in a disconcerting pile. Whoever this stranger was, he knew something about Papa. Perhaps he had the answers she needed.

With vividness, his eyes flashed back to her. Their dark, cold depths. The sinister gape to his lips. The haunting expressions. Dear heavens, what if Georgina had been wrong from the beginning? Mamma too?

A prickling sensation worked through her. What if Papa had not killed himself at all?

Of everywhere on Sowerby grounds, the stables smelled the most like home.

Simon leaned against the cast-iron top of a stall, reaching out to stroke the muscled gray horse he'd just finished riding. The smooth hide scraped against his fading calluses, a reminder that he had not worked a plow or swung an axe in too long.

He was about ready to start chopping down garden boxwoods just for the sport.

"Ah, Mr. Fancourt."

Simon turned to the approaching figure.

Sunlight filtered in from the open stable doors, the beams revealing dust and flying midges, as Sir Walter removed his beaver hat. His stance seemed uncertain. "Your father never had any qualms in expressing displeasure, in the event my visits were untimely. I hope you will do the same."

Simon managed a smile. "I think I understand why the two of you were such friends."

"He was obstinate, and I was single-minded. In any event, we found common ground." Sir Walter crunched over the straw-littered brick floor. "I just finished dinner with your mother and children. They are as singular as you always were as a child."

"They are good children."

"All children are good when they are young. It is the grown creatures who become corrupt and devious. As one who deals with one criminal after another, I should know better than anyone." He released a heavy breath. "But that is not why I have come. I wished to tell you that I have spoken with Lord Gilchrist about the ordeal at the picnic."

"Who?"

"The baron you quite lifted off his toes. Or have you done so to more than one gentleman since your return?" At Simon's glower, Sir Walter cleared his throat, as if to keep back evidence of his amusement.

"Forgive the ill humor. It is not a jesting matter, certainly not to your mother's account, nor to the rest of society, I assure you."

"What's done is done."

"You are in error. I fear it has only begun, if you allow gossiping tongues to go on wagging."

"Let them say what they want."

"You are as stubborn as your father." Sir Walter seized Simon's arm before he could walk away. "Which is why I have taken the matter into my own hands."

"What do you mean?"

"I have expressed your deepest regret to Lord Gilchrist over not only your son's behavior but your own. In the spirit of making amends, I have furthermore invited him, along with his family, to Sowerby House in a sennight for a private dinner party."

"You had no right."

"Perhaps not. But if your father were alive, he would expect no less of me, and if it takes meddling into affairs that are none of my concern to gain back your respectability, then so be it." Sir Walter's grip lessened on Simon's arm. "And if you wish to keep that respectability, I suggest you administer a lesson or two in proper conduct to your son."

"My son did nothing more than I would have done."

"Meaning you condone fisticuffs?"

"If that's what it takes." Simon shrugged out of the hold. "No one shoves Mercy Fancourt off her feet, nor calls her names without her brother doing some shoving of his own. If that puts us on the outs with society, so be it."

"I did not realize John's intentions were so noble."

Simon started for the door—

"Fancourt, just a moment." Sir Walter followed him to the open stable doors, where misty evening light warmed their faces. "As distasteful as it is to you, I fear you must entertain the Gilchrists for one evening. That will doubtless cease some of the ill opinions, and everything shall be much fairer for you after this is over. Trust me." He patted Simon's back, his eyes softening. "It is what your father would have wanted."

"What my father wanted for me and what is best for me have not always been the same."

"Even so"—Sir Walter placed the hat back on his head and marched out the doors, coat tails flying behind him—"make certain you dress the part of a gentleman, and if you decide to disappear during dinnertime, as you did today, I shall hunt after you myself." Three feet from the stables, he turned back with a wry twist of his lips. "By the way, I forgot to mention Miss Whitmore has also been invited to the dinner party." He winked. "If you are as much like the late Mr. Fancourt as you seem, you shall not allow one refusal to keep you from an inheritance. You may thank me later, of course."

As the man disappeared, Simon grabbed the stable door and slammed it shut, the echoing rattle as distinct as the one in his brain. He was not certain if he should despise this figure who so adamantly crusaded Father's cause.

Or if Simon should be grateful, in a country full of strangers, he had one friend.

Noises.

Georgina bolted upright so fast her head spun. Her skin tingled. Ever since the night a yellow rose had been left on her pillow, she had kept two candlesticks burning until morning, as if something so futile would deter the stranger from entering. Would anything? Who should she tell? Did she truly want to tell?

More than anything, she desired to face him. She needed to probe him, question the roses, uncover everything he knew about the night that had ruined her life. If he had any part in Papa's death—

For the second time, the noises stirred. Not in her chamber, as she had imagined, but outside in the hall—rushing footsteps, a muffled sound, almost a cry.

Georgina lunged from bed and tripped her way to the door, then flung it open. The glow within her chamber spilled out into the darkness, illuminating the staircase and three rectangular rugs.

Then a creak.

A door shutting.

Agnes' door.

Georgina rushed down the hall where light brimmed out from beneath the white-painted door. She slung it open. "Agnes?"

Across the chamber, her cousin whirled. She wore a silk dress, the plum-purple one she often donned for a ball, and a black cloak fell from her trembling shoulders. Her cheeks were ashen. Tearstained.

"Agnes, what is it? Why are you dressed?" Georgina weaved around the bed, stepping over a spilled reticule and thrown glove. "Where were you? What are you doing?"

"Leave me alone." Agnes doubled over, loose hair cascading around her face. She retched, then smacked the floor with her knees, then seized the window curtain with a gasp. "Get out of here. Now!"

"Dear." Georgina slid her knees next to Agnes, stroking back hair as more vomit spewed from her lips.

She coughed, wiped her mouth, turned her face away. "Please." A rasp. "I do not wish whatever ails me to infect you too."

"You cannot think me so selfish."

"Please—"

"Let me help you to bed. I shall call for Nellie, and she shall send one of the manservants out for the doctor—"

"No." Agnes scrambled to her feet, the hem of her dress swishing into the vomit. She backed into the wall and framed her face. "I do not wish to see anyone. If you truly care to assist me, leave me alone."

"I will not leave you like this."

"You must."

"Where were you in that dress?"

Nothing.

"Agnes, answer me. It has been night for hours—"

"You already own every piece of my life, Georgina. Is one small request too much to grant?"

Chest deflating, Georgina forced down a wave of confusion. Mayhap anger too. She glanced at the vomit smeared across the floral rug, to the soiled silk, then back to the stricken face. "Very well. I shall leave you alone." Blinking fast, she padded back to the door in her bare feet, but leaned back inside before pulling it shut. "Agnes?"

Her cousin's rigid stance flinched. She lifted dull eyes in waiting.

"You can still tell me everything, you know." The whisper scraped Georgina's throat. "Just as before, when we were children. We are not so very changed, are we?"

Agnes turned to face the window. She swiped a hand across her eyes, as if rubbing away tears, but said nothing at all.

For once, something was going right for him.

Simon pulled Mercy between his legs, the carriage creaking and bouncing with every dip. "Hold still." He ran his fingers through the tangles of her curls. Why her hair always appeared a matted nest after every night's sleep, he would never know.

Ruth had always handled such matters before.

"Papa, John no let me draw. Me turn."

Across the carriage, sprawled out on a seat of his own, John moved the pencil in concentration, his tongue stuck out from his lips. "I can't stop till I'm done, Mercy."

"What is it?" She tried to move, but Simon pinned her back. "Me see, John."

"Not till I'm done."

"Then me turn?"

John nodded, then groaned when another street bump disrupted his drawing.

Ten minutes later, the carriage rolled to the front of a four-story brick building with a sign reading T HE K ELL -B ELL hanging above the door.

"Where are we, sir?"

"Stay here, John. I must speak with someone inside for a moment. Then we'll find one of those confectioner's shops I was telling you of." Leaving the children inside, Simon started for the coffeehouse.

He had expected anything but this.

When he had visited Sir Walter in his office yesterday morning, Simon had little hopes the barrister had heard the name Friedrich Neale—let alone represented him. As it was, with the snap of his fingers to the lanky clerk and the rustling of several papers in several cabinets, Sir Walter was able to present Simon an address.

The only living relative of Neale lived here.

Striding inside, Simon took in the large room in one quick glance.

Four long tables dominated the room, swarmed by colorful gentlemen in coats and endless china plates, all steaming with the scent of venison and turtle. Laughter rumbled through the men. Their humming conversations mingled with the constant clink-clink of silverware against glass.

"Help you, guv'nor?" A middle-aged proprietor approached, balancing a platter of more meat. "A raucous bunch these be, but a respectable lot too."

"I'm looking for a Miss Neale."

"Oh." His voice flattened. "Go out the way you came. You'll be finding the kitchen entrance on the alley side of the building."

Simon nodded his thanks and made his way into a dank-smelling alley. He rapped on a door already cracked.

"Wot you want?" A pimple-faced boy, no older than thirteen, leaned out the door.

"I'm here to see Miss Neale."

"She's working."

"This will only take a moment."

"A moment wot she don't got."

Simon stopped the door from shutting with his hand. "If I must speak with your employer again, I will."

The threat seemed to dissolve the boy's arrogance. He barked the name Helen over his shoulder, then motioned Simon inside.

The kitchen was spacious, though the walls were blotched with stains and grime squished under Simon's boots. In a corner of the room, a deathly thin young woman hovered over a table, hacking a knife through a bloody slab of meat.

"Miss Neale?"

She did not glance up. Her dirty blouse slinked off one shoulder, and the closer he approached, the more he noticed tiny bugs leaping from her sweaty hair.

"I would like to speak with you a moment."

Whack.

"Concerning Friedrich."

Whack.

"I was with him when he died."

For the first time, her hand stilled and she glanced up. Dark blue circles hung beneath her eyes, and the wariness of her expression struck him with pity. Did she fear him?

"I do not wish to cause you any harm." He gentled his voice. "I only wish to ask you some questions."

"He's dead." She shrugged. "What do questions matter now?"

"He was imprisoned in Newgate and sentenced to hang, but he never made it to the gallows."

"His mother saw to that."

"Not yours?"

"No." She pulled her sleeve back over her shoulder. "I was Friedrich's aunt, though we were the same age. When my parents died, I went to live with Lady Neale and my nephew. That was before he…before he…"

"Killed?"

Gnawing her lip between her teeth, she sliced off another hunk of meat. "She indulged anything he ever wanted. She blinded herself to his waywardness and tried to make everyone else blinded too." The woman blinked fast. "When Friedrich killed, I was the one to tell the constable."

"You did the right thing."

"Did I?" With a whimper, she glanced up. "For twenty-eight days, Lady Neale kept me locked in the wine cellar of her manor. She told everyone I had gone abroad. She made them believe I was gone until after the trial was over."

"I am sorry."

"You don't know what she did to me down there." Her hands shook. She brushed hair out of her eyes, scratched her head, as if to distract him from the fact that tears were flooding her cheeks. "It might have been worth it had Friedrich been punished, but she fixed that too. He was set free and I was thrown out into the streets."

"Where is Lady Neale now?"

"She fell ill and died shortly after her son was no longer around to coddle."

Questions overwhelmed Simon. Too many. He stepped closer, blood quickening so fast heat burned at his face. "Helen, who did she pay to set Friedrich free?"

"Doesn't matter what I say."

"Listen—"

"I tried to speak up before and it got me locked in a wine cellar." She smeared some of the blood onto her filthy pinafore. "Besides, no one would believe anything I have to say. Not now. Not after the things I've had to do to survive."

"I'm not asking you to run to any constable or Bow Street runner. I will take care of everything. I just need to know the truth."

"Helen!" The pimple-faced boy, who had been shoveling ashes from the hearth, now lumbered closer with the bucket. "Wot you fink our guv would say if I was to tell him you been courtin' instead o' working? Guess you'd be back out in the gutter, eh?"

She weathered the blow with little more than a haggard flinch. "We cannot talk here," she whispered, piling the meat slices together, blood dripping off the edge of the table. "Philo there will be away in two nights. I can sneak away."

"Where do we meet?"

"The Drax Well Bridge. On the Thames—"

"Helen!"

"You must go." She motioned to the door with a frantic nod. "And do not ever come back here again."

Simon nodded, departed the kitchen, his mind whipping in so many directions nothing made sense. He only knew one thing.

He was closer than he'd ever been to finding the truth.