“There were fourteen letters in total. Your mother had written them to me before—years ago, when the three of us were friends…when she loved me more than she loved your father.” He loosened his neckcloth. “I was seventeen. She was fifteen. She liked yellow roses, so I brought them to her every time there was a ball she was too young to attend.” He smiled. “She was beautiful in those days. She used to watch for me out her bedchamber window. I climbed the lattice, and she would leave letters on the sill.”
“And Papa?”
“Cecil was more my friend than hers. Ever since boarding school, we had been inseparable. We even discussed partnering to open our own private bank. Likely would have, if both of our fathers had not so strongly opposed the action.” Mr. Lutwidge wiped perspiration from his forehead. “After her coming out, everything changed. She saw more of Cecil than me. Once I caught them unchaperoned in a dark carriage outside Almack’s. Her hair was down, and I think she was in his arms.” Mr. Lutwidge paced to the window. “She ceased leaving letters on the windowsill. Within four months, they were wed.”
“Mamma never told me.” Georgina gripped her hands in her lap. “About you…and her.”
“I do not think she realized. I do not think either of them did.” He shrugged. “To her, I think the yellow flowers and the letters were merely child’s play. We had made no commitments. Indeed, I do not think Cecil ever suspected I fancied her over any other girl in our circle of acquaintances.” His words wobbled. “But I died when she married him. For years, I indulged myself in other pleasures. I avoided London during the season because I knew she would be there. I never answered Cecil’s letters. I pretended indifference, and when I could no longer pretend, I drank myself into oblivion.”
Georgina’s heart skipped faster.
“And then I began to hate him. At night the most, when I nursed a bottle alone in my chamber. I hated Cecil Whitmore so much it gave me something to live for again.” Mr. Lutwidge strode closer to her chair. Veins bulged at his temples. “When I was drunk, when I was brave, I concocted a plan to injure him with the same vengeance he had injured me. I took the letters she had once written me. They were not dated, so I added in my own dates and took a coach here to London.” He blinked faster. “After two days of nearly losing courage, I knocked on their town house door. Cecil brought me in here. He hugged me. We poured drinks and talked about opening a bank again, and it was old times all over.”
Cowardice itched beneath Georgina’s skin. Like a child yanking bed linens over her head, she wanted to clamp her ears shut against the reality of what had happened.
But Mr. Lutwidge took another step closer, breath heavy. “Then I showed him the letters. I lied. I told him your mother had been meeting me at night, that it was me she loved and not him—that the two of us desired to run away together.”
“And Papa?” Her words squeaked. “He…believed you?”
“He said very little. He actually thanked me for telling him the truth.” Tears gathered at the corners of Mr. Lutwidge’s eyes. “I left then and never felt more satisfied in my life. I was certain he would leave your mother, and perhaps I would have the chance he once robbed me of.” Mr. Lutwidge shook his head. “The next morning, I heard of his death.”
“He hung himself.”
“They said it was his heart, but I knew the truth. My lies had murdered him.” Mr. Lutwidge smeared the moisture with the back of his wrists. “I saw him everywhere after that. I was mad. Perhaps I am still mad, because even in this house, I see his face in every room—the way he looked at me that night.” Intensity swam in his gaze. “I even see him in you.”
Georgina pushed herself from the chair. Strange, how little she felt. After so many years of questions, the truth had an odd, cold touch of apathy. What was she to do with this? How much different would her grief have been, all this time, if she had known his demise had nothing at all to do with her or her own inadequacies?
“I brought you the flowers because I wanted to make up for the pain I had caused. I wanted you to know my sins.”
“You married Mamma instead.”
“Love is a wicked power.”
She walked past him, toward the door, but he stopped her at the center of the room. They stood together where Papa’s body had sprawled.
“I will be gone by the time your mother returns from her puppet show. You may tell her anything you wish. If there is any form of punishment you would like to inflict, I shall oblige.”
She glanced him up and down. He no longer wore the loose, drenched clothes, and his hair no longer whipped long and stringy in the breeze. But the demons still plagued his eyes. Grief and guilt and torture scarred his face. “You have already been punished, sir.”
He nodded, his hand grasping hers again, as if he needed a touch of forgiveness. “You will never see me again.”
She wanted to watch him leave. He did not deserve Mamma any more than he deserved her pardon. If anything, she should have demanded the letters returned, taken them to the constable, and insisted Mr. Lutwidge be arrested for invading this town house.
But her blood simmered, and the weight in her chest lessened, and all she could think of was how happy Mamma had been these past weeks. “You love her.” Georgina tugged her hand free. “I think Mamma needs that more than the truth.”
She left the library, eased the door shut behind her, and held her shoulders back as she climbed the stairs with shaking legs. His confession did not make Papa’s death easier. If anything, it made her long for him more—for his goodness, his trueness, his earnest love for his wife.
But Georgina was lighter. Far more than she’d been in years.
She did not think she would ever have need to pry open the library door again.
“I would like to speak with Miss Whitmore.”
“She is indisposed.” The gray-haired butler glanced to his left, as if following instructions from someone behind the door.
Simon clutched Mercy’s hand tighter. “We will wait.”
“Perhaps another time.”
