Yes, she had known.
But for once in her life, she had hoped her fears would not come true.
“You are a difficult man to kill.” Mr. Oswald flipped out his coattails and sat on a round, velvet-cushioned stool near the bed. “Dr. Morpeth expressed his astonishment at both your strength and willpower to heal.”
“I have much to live for.”
“I presume you speak of your children.”
“Among other things.”
“Including Miss Whitmore?”
Her name dampened the back of Simon’s neck. He did not know how to answer, but the look on Mr. Oswald’s face—the obvious infatuation—stirred protectiveness. “She is vulnerable right now.”
“We are all vulnerable, more often than not, Mr. Fancourt. Love does not prey on vulnerability, but emboldens it.”
“You will not hurt her.”
“The only one who has done that is you.”
Simon looked away, hands curling around the coverlet. “You said you had news of Mr. Wilkins.”
“Yes.” Mr. Oswald accepted the change of topic with no hitch in his voice. “He was apprehended, along with his brother and family, late last night by the Bow Street runners. You shall be happy to know the two imbeciles are now locked in Newgate.”
“What of the wife and children?”
“Both sent to a workhouse.”
“I want them out.”
“You owe them nothing.”
“My funds are in the trunk. Take it. Get them—”
“Very well.” Mr. Oswald stood. He shoved the stool against the wall and spun the seat with his finger. “But as I had a greater hand in their capture, I shall assume the responsibility myself. They shall be released from the workhouse before morning. I believe the woman has a sister. Perhaps arrangements might be procured in that regard.”
“Good.” Simon nodded, the most thanks he could stomach.
Mr. Oswald grinned. “You are welcome.”
“A few more days, I shall be out of here.”
“Take as long as you like. I am in no hurry.”
“I am.”
“Truly, Mr. Fancourt, you never cease to amuse me.” Mr. Oswald walked to the end of the bed, pulling a cigar from his coat. He lit it and puffed. “You accuse me of some nefarious scheme, I save your life and house you anyway, and you still persist in treating me as if I am some unfavorable scoundrel you wish to place a pox on.”
“What of Brownlow?”
“Back to him, then.”
“You deny your lies and—”
“No, I do not deny them.” Cigar smoke clouded his face. “Though you must admit I warned you. My conscience has never borne any pains over avoiding the truth, if a falsehood would serve me better.” Mr. Oswald shrugged. “But lies gain me little now, so if it is any consolation, you were right.”
Simon stiffened. “You were involved with Brownlow.”
