“Someone you should have left alone.”
“The prisoners—”
“That was over anyway. We were finished with the last ship. Seems you sacrificed everything for nothing.” The stranger massaged his bruised knuckles. “Now. The letter.”
“Not until my children are—”
“I get the letter, you get them back.”
Doubt swarmed Simon, drying his mouth. The letter was less revealing than the man seemed to think. Still, it was something. With the right barrister on the case, perhaps the initial, combined with Father’s untimely death, would be enough to pinpoint those responsible.
The voice.
Last night raced through Simon’s mind with lightning speed. The shadow on the stairs. Why could he not remember?Sir Walter. The chapel. The crooked spectacles. TheW.
Yes, Sir Walter.
Of course it was him.
Because when Simon had heard the voice last night, in some muddled and ludicrous way, he had been soothed. As if the voice was wont to bringing him comfort. Something he trusted in. Someone he loved.
“If I surrender the letter, my children will be set free?”
“You’ll be placed on a ship back to America. All three of you.” The man’s jaw tightened, as if the idea was not his own. “But if you ever come back, I’ll kill you myself. Now where is it?”
Sowerby House was deserted.
Georgina knocked for the sixth time, impatience echoing louder than the brass door knocker. She peered in a window. Had Mr. Oswald not already employed servants? Had he even stayed here last night?
A disheartened sense of being overwhelmed sagged her shoulders.
As little as she cared to admit it, she had hoped Mr. Oswald had not yet left for his meeting. That he would assist her. That he would somehow take the measures necessary, use his resources, and search in all the ways she could not.
I do not know.She started back down the stairs, splotches of rain discoloring her blue-muslin dress.I do not know where to look.
The docks perhaps.
At least then she would know if he departed back for America.
“Miss Whitmore?”
She whirled, jaw slacking. “Mr. Wilkins.”
“I am so sorry.” The butler hurried out from the house, the buttons of his coat undone, eyes blazing. “I was removing the last of my personal belongings from my chamber and only just spotted your carriage out the window.”
“The children.” Georgina raced for him. “Where are the children? Where have you been? I thought you were—”
“Come inside.” He tugged her within the house, and only then did she see everything. The vigorous tremor of his hands as he locked the door. The pallor of his face. The sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Miss Whitmore, I…ahem, I fear something most dreadful has happened. You must help me.”
“Where are they?”
“The children have been taken. If I were not so weak, if I were not such a wretched coward, I might have stopped it from happening.”
“You cannot be blamed. None of this is your fault.” Georgina grasped his arm and squeezed. “Where are they? Where is Simon?”
“There is a carriage waiting outside the kitchen entrance. I shall take you.” He took her elbow, but she pulled back.
“Should we not first enlist help?”
