“Yes. He blackmailed me, and I paid Captain Mingay to escort him to Halifax.” Some of Mr. Oswald’s indifference slipped. His eyes hardened behind the smoke puffs. “He has been entangled in an affair with my sister since before his wife’s death. I did not wish the scandal to come to light, so I did the only thing I could do—shipped her abroad to Buenos Aires and paid him to forget her. Unfortunately, my attempts were not so successful. I gained little more than my sister’s hatred and a continual loss of funds.”
“You should have told me the truth.”
“I doubt you would have believed me any more than you did Sir Walter.”
The words punctured Simon. He ripped the coverlet from his legs. “If you are finished, I would like to rest.”
“Not quite.” Mr. Oswald threw the cigar into the hearth, and when he glanced back to Simon’s bed, his cheeks were a rare shade of red. “I do not profess to being a saint. I do not even profess to being good, as many men count goodness. But I am candid, if nothing else, and wish you to know one thing.”
Simon nodded him on.
“I have never wanted anything in my life more than Georgina Whitmore. If you do not marry her, I will.”
Georgina crushed his second letter in her palm. None of the hearths were lit in the town house, not with the weather so warm, so she went to the kitchen and threw them into the crackling fire beneath Cook’s cauldron.
Why she felt the need to burn them, she was not certain.
Perhaps because she knew herself. Her own weakness. If she read them once more, Simon’s plea for her to visit, Georgina would cave.
“I am recovering quickly. The children ask about you.”The first letter had come nearly a week ago. She had put on her bonnet, changed into her favorite gown, and gone downstairs to order a carriage.
She had never reached the bottom step.
Then yesterday morning, a letter carrier had delivered the second. The writing was more hurried, more distressed, and the words echoed with urgency:“You left before I could speak with you.”
“Come down ’ere to sneak a sugar biscuit, did you?” Cook shooed a scullery maid away from her platter of freshly baked desserts, though Cook glanced more than once to the burning letters.
“They are as good as they ever were.”
“And you as impatient. Here.” Cook motioned to the table. “Go on and take one for the missus too. Dinner is not for another two hours yet, and she’ll be loving a treat, methinks.”
Georgina smiled, wrapped two crumbly sugar biscuits in an embroidered napkin, and took them upstairs to Mamma’s chamber. She knocked twice. “It is Georgina. Come with a surprise.” Mamma had complained of a headache three hours ago, had retired for a nap, and had requested Nellie to awaken her at least two hours before dinner.
“So I have ample time to prepare my hair,” Mamma had insisted, with a dramatic clutch to her head.
But when the door whined open, it was not Mamma who stood in the threshold, but Mr. Lutwidge. His black hair was askew, his coat unbuttoned, a dribble of red wine at the corner of his lip. “Your mother left nearly an hour ago.”
“Where?”
“Some puppet show down the street. She thought the…excitement might distract her headache.”
“I see.” Georgina backed away.
“Wait.” He snatched her wrist. His grip was cold, bony, damp, and his eyes were as crazed as they’d been in the graveyard—but more.
“Let me go.” Georgina dropped the napkin. Her knees weakened. “Now.”
“The flowers were for you.”
“You are drunk.”
“No.”
“Unhand me, Mr. Lutwidge, or Mother shall know everything.”
“You must not. You cannot tell. I shall—”
“Kill me?” The words hushed. Her chin raised. “Like you did my father?”
