“This way.” Mr. Oswald’s hand slipped to her arm, guiding her toward the overly crowded river. “I believe that is theSwift Couriermoored there.” As they neared the edge of an ice-filmed wharf, he pointed to a distant ship, whose creamy white masts fluttered in the breeze. “Looks as if they are ferrying her over in that smaller craft. No doubt, the ordeal shall increase the pleasantness of her temperament.”
Georgina’s breath puffed into a cloud when she laughed. “I am certain she is only happy to be home.”
“Your optimism is fascinating.” Craning his neck, he took one step away from her. “There is Captain Mingay now. Excuse me one moment while I apologize profusely for any difficulties my sister inflicted upon him.”
Georgina nodded and shuffled back from the wharf, out of the way of hurried sailors and passengers. She rubbed her hands together. Even the slight friction, however, did nothing to unchill her fingers beneath the gloves.
One thing was certain.
Mr. Oswald was no ordinary gentleman. Why bring her to the Pool of London on a snowy February day, when he might have easily brought flowers to her town house, or taken her to the theater, or invited her to Hollyvale Estate for a dinner party?
Yet despite the ridiculousness of such a situation, a small ounce of intrigue wiggled in. She imagined nothing the man did was conventional and the thoughtwasrather adventurous—
Something caught her eye.
A face.
Simon.
Heart hammering, she took a step backward, denial racking through her brain as quickly as her breaths escaped in hurried clouds. No, it could not be. Her mind deceived her.
He was dead. He was hidden in some far-off country. He was anywhere, anyplace in the world, but he was not here—
The man turned his back to her. His coat was brown, and the worn sleeves rippled when he reached over the edge of the wharf, accepted a small trunk someone handed him, and hoisted it to the wet planks.
Then he reached again.
He lifted a boy.
Then a girl.
No.Georgina barely noticed when someone bumped into her from the side, knocking her into a stack of crates. She grasped them for support, willed her legs not to wilt.It cannot be.
But he turned again, his shoulders straight, his eyes determined and fervent as he surveyed the world around him…
Itwashim.
Simon Fancourt.
Her vision tunneled and a terrifying sensation soared through her, one second before her body fell backward. Blackness claimed her before she ever hit the ground.
CHAPTER 4
The chaos was maddening.
Hefting the trunk in his arms, Simon nodded down to John. “Take hold of my coat and your sister’s hand. Do not let go of either, understand?”
John’s wide eyes scampered from one commotion to the next, but at the instruction, he nodded and did as he was told.
“Me cold, Papa.” Mercy’s whimper was barely audible amid the shouts and wind.
He choked back a sense of shame. The ship fare had cost more than he’d had—even after selling his livestock, the farm, and the last of his pelts. Had it not been for Blayney’s small bag of gold dust, Simon could not have made the trip at all.
His friend would be repaid though.
Even if Simon had to work alongside Father’s servants to earn the amount.
“We’ll be warm soon.” The promise tasted dry and empty on his tongue. How many promises had he made them of late?
