Simon jerked his head upright, groaning at the realization he had closed his eyes again. He could not sleep. He had too much to do before tomorrow and too much left to go through.
Standing, he stretched his arms and yawned, though a twinge settled in the pit of his gut. Awake, he might have spared himself from reliving such a memory.
That was the only time in his life Father had admitted his love for Simon.
Had he said it back?
Did not matter now, he supposed. Not with the way things ended between them.
Moving the candlestick closer, Simon went through the drawers of the desk—tossing away old invitations, scribbled receipts, wrinkled political pamphlets that had been read too many times.
The bottom-left drawer rattled but did not open when he pulled. Locked?
Hmm.
He moved to the small sycamore stand in the corner of the room, where Father kept a lamp and his gold-plated cigar box. Underneath the cigars, Simon peeled back a loose layer of felt, where an assortment of keys lay hidden. He had watched Father unlock desk drawers enough to know which one to grab.
When he’d unlocked the bottom-left drawer, he found Father’s old caplock pistol and a letter.
One that had never been posted. He held the letter closer to the candlelight and began reading:
Dear W.
You cannot imagine how much it pains me to write such a letter. Albeit, you leave me no choice. I cannot in good conscience allow the corruption I have unwittingly discovered to go unpunished. Indeed, even now, I cannot think you capable. I wish there were some mistake. My wife and I are traveling to Tunbridge Wells with the morn, and as you have always been a friend to me, I debate on whether or not I should forewarn you of the nature of our trip. I shall be speaking with a man from Parliament, an old acquaintance, who shall know the gentlest form of legal action possible. I wish to help you as much as morality shall permit. I have always thought you a good man. Good men, I suppose, are capable of atrocious deeds. I only hope we may put an end to this obstruction of justice before anyone is hurt. May God, and the court of England, have pity on you.
Simon read the letter again. Then again. Too many things raced through his mind, all jumbled, like puzzle pieces fitting together in places he did not wish them to.
No.
This did not make sense. It was preposterous. Impossible.
Father’s carriage calamity in Tunbridge Wells was an accident, just as Mother had said. She would know. She was there. If this letter, hidden in the bottom-left drawer of Father’s desk, meant anything of significance, she would have been privy to the secret.
Simon balled the letter. Then smoothed it out again.
Lord, what does this mean?
Nothing, doubtless. Father had stumbled upon some dishonest and trivial crime, and in his noble integrity, he had planned to report such an act.
But it was more than that. Simon knew Father well enough to know that locked drawers were not for trifling matters. Was it possible that Father, all this time, had possessed the answers Simon searched for?
No.
Besides that, Simon had already determined who was behind setting prisoners free. Mr. Oswald wore guilt with as much flamboyance as he wore his flashing waistcoats and smug grins.
Sickness punctured a hole through Simon’s reasoning. He thumbed the initial on the letter. He read the words one more time, each one stinging him like a slap to the face.
Because he was already certain whom Father spoke of.
A man who had been their friend.
Sir Walter.
Their enemy.
CHAPTER 17
“I came to speak with Mr. Fancourt.” Georgina stood outside the Sowerby House entrance door, the early morning sun warming the back of her neck.
