“You hear me?”
Still nothing.
God?He carried Mercy back to his bed, tucked her inside the linens, walked to the table and dropped into one of the creaky chairs. Exhaustion weighted his soul.What do I do?The letter still remained beneath the candle. He slid it closer, spread it open, read the words for the hundredth time with stinging eyes.
In all these years, no one had ever beckoned him back.
Every letter had remained unanswered.
Now this.
He crumpled it in his fist and blew out the candle. Darkness fell. Perhaps, despite every warning within him, it was time to return home.
At least long enough to find out who was responsible for the death of his wife.
CHAPTER 3
“You shall never believe this.” Agnes swished back a canary-colored curtain in the parlor, hiding herself artfully enough that whoever was outside could not possibly detect a spectator.
Georgina hovered over the beechwood embroidery frame and pierced the canvas with her needle. “I am certain nothing can surprise me this morning. After a burned breakfast and two quarreling maids, I expect most any mayhem.”
“Not this, I daresay.” Agnes turned with a quirked brow. “Come and see for yourself.”
“La.” Georgina smirked. “Such mystery, my darling cousin.” Leaving the needle mid-canvas, she moved for the window and stared out to the snowy cobblestone street.
A familiar landau sat before the town house, sunlight gleaming off the black paint and reflecting from the front silver lamp. A family crest adorned the door. Was that—?
“A Mr. Oswald is requesting to see you, Miss Whitmore.” From the parlor doorway, the butler made his formal announcement.
Georgina glanced to Agnes in puzzlement. How strange this was! In the past four months, Mr. Oswald had crossed paths with her enough times that it hardly seemed coincidental. At every ball, he was in attendance. At half of her theater visits, she noticed him in a distant box. Even her trips to Sowerby House often coincided with his own. Now he was here, calling upon her at her own town house?
If he desired a courtship, he had a most queer way of pursuing her.
“Whatever he wishes, it cannot be a courtship.” As if Agnes had read her mind. “At least, not a lasting one. Everyone knows of his quiet affairs and his continual lack of matrimonial offers.”
“Of that, I am quite aware.”
“Then what can he want?” Agnes grabbed her hand, voice dropping to a whisper. “Although you seem to find it rather flattering that he appears most everywhere we do, I find it more unnerving than anything. He is not to be trusted. He is a confirmed rake, a dandy who has ruined more hearts than anyone knows—”
“Guilty, in every point.”
Both girls startled at the suave voice from the parlor doorway.
Georgina stepped back from her cousin and plastered on a hurried smile. “Mr. Oswald.” She curtsied. “This is a most unexpected visit.”
“I sense confusion, if not discomposure, in your tone.” He entered the room in a double-breasted green tailcoat, snowflakes dotting his auburn waves. His normally pale cheeks blazed pink from cold. “All reactions I have inflicted, no doubt, in my blundering attempts to find myself in your presence.”
Agnes shot her a look—the familiar motherly warning.
Georgina worked to keep her smile in place. “Mr. Oswald, you remember, of course, my cousin.”
“Miss Simpson, how are you?” Mr. Oswald stepped forward, took her cousin’s tiny hand, and brushed a faint kiss to her knuckles.
A flame of red burst across Agnes’ cheeks. “I—I am well, thank you, sir.”
“As you look.” He faced Georgina next, and though he moved to take her hand, she swept it instead to the chairs and lounge. “Will you not sit? I shall call for some hot tea. You must be frigid after your travels here.”
“In fact, I have only but a minute.”
