“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…”
