Mr. Wilkins frowned. “I fear he is gone.”
“Gone?”
“He awoke me during the night with the most urgent news. It appears he discovered a letter in the late Mr. Fancourt’s study. One that was enlightening to him, it seems, though I cannot imagine what that is supposed to mean.”
She could. Hope sputtered her heart faster. “How long until he returns?”
“I hardly know myself.”
“I shall wait for him—”
“I do not think that wise, Miss Whitmore.” The butler glanced behind him, as if surveying the untidiness of the anteroom. He turned back to her with a grimace. “The house, I fear, is in much disarray. The children have not yet been fed their breakfast. And beyond that, Mr. Oswald shall be appearing any moment and I—”
“I would not ask were it not important.” She had not slept last night. Mr. Lutwidge had as much as admitted his part in Papa’s death, had he not? Why else would he have spoken of the three years?
If she had strength, she would leave now. She had been shackled to secrets long enough she should be used to carrying the chains alone.
But she could not make herself move any more than she’d been able to stop herself from rushing to Sowerby House with the first light of dawn.
“Please, Mr. Wilkins. I shall be no trouble, I assure you.”
“Very well.” The butler’s eyes narrowed, as he pulled the door open wider. The hinges creaked into the quiet morning air. “You may come in and wait.”
He needed calm. He knew that. But he was coming unraveled so quickly he did not know how to stop himself.
The Gray’s Inn was quiet this time of morning, the only sound his own footsteps clacking against the wooden steps. When he reached the second floor, no servants scurried about and no barristers leaned in open doorways, smoking and discussing law and order.
Sweat dampened Simon’s hands as he tried the knob without knocking.
Locked.
“Sir Walter.” He banged. “It is me. Simon. Open up.”
No answer.
A wellspring of rage burst. He thumped his fist in his palm, took a step back, glanced from one end of the corridor to the other.What do I do?
“Oh.” Sir Walter’s gangling clerk halted at the top of the stairs, nearly dropping the stack of letters tucked under his arm. Coffee swished from a cup in the other. “Morning to you then, Mr. Fancourt.”
“I am looking for Sir Walter.”
“Not in his office, sir. This time of morning he always takes to the chapel.”
Simon nodded and started past the clerk—
“Anything wrong, sir?” The clerk glanced to Sir Walter’s office, as if half expecting a fume of smoke to leak out from under the door again.
Simon shook his head, despite the whirl of nausea in his gut.
Everything was wrong.
God keep him from doing something that would make it worse.
This drawing room had never been so silent.
Nor so empty.
Georgina sat on the holland-draped lounge, hands entwined in her lap, as a sense of loss overcame her. Somehow, the thought of Mr. Oswald occupying such a house felt cold and jarring.
