Georgina stilled in dread. “Flowers?”
“Yes. Most dreadful things too, Nellie said. Dried yellow roses and not even sent in a vase.” Agnes shrugged. “And how they ended up in the library, I daresay I shall never know.”
The library.Georgina bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.What is happening?
The rusty scent of dry blood intensified as Simon peeled back the bandage. Dull pain rippled across swollen flesh. The wound was longer than he had realized, more of a deep cut than a true stabbing.
He had suffered worse from a hatchet accident his first year in America.
The day he’d met Ruth.
“I suspected you were stalwart, but not invincible.”
Simon glanced to the doorway, where Mr. Oswald stood in a pristine suit and gleaming, waxed hair.
“Where are my clothes?”
“I fear they are quite beyond repair, what with all the blood. Though I doubt you may squeeze into anything of my own, I shall see about locating something for you.”
Simon nodded, tucked his bandage back in place, and eased himself to the window. Outside, carriages were already arriving, and footmen were scurrying about the yard, fluttering quilts onto the grass or displaying food on the stands covered with lace tablecloths. “My family has arrived?”
“Not as of yet.” Mr. Oswald approached from behind. “Do not concern yourself. I already have a suitable fabrication as to why you shall not be attending.”
“That will be unnecessary.”
“Oh?”
Simon turned from the window, met the man’s eyes. “As soon as I get some clothes, I want to see my children.”
“It will be arranged. They may see you here in your chamber. Although I assumed you would wish to keep this tragedy from them, I see the benefits of—”
“I do not lie to my children.”
“I see. An honorable notion, of course.” Mr. Oswald checked his watch fob, then nodded. “It shall be as you like. I will see that everything is arranged, and both your children and mother may visit here anytime they wish during your stay—”
“I will not be staying.”
“You must not understand.”
“I thank you, but—”
“I am offering you care and protection, as well as the services of my personal physician, until you are more than well enough to travel.” Self-assuredness, intensity, perhaps even a hint of insult all flickered in the man’s waiting eyes.
As if every decision was his to make. As if no one had the right or the station to refuse his goodwill. If itwasgoodwill.
When Simon did not respond, Mr. Oswald nodded. “I see.”
He grinned, though it lacked mirth, and his tone hinted at disgust. “Although it is I who should have ill regard for you and your untimely reappearance, it is you who rejects with prejudice my small attempt at human kindness.” He shrugged and headed for the door. “If you need anything at all, do tug the bellpull and a maid shall come to assist you.” He tilted his head with a look of cool composure, one that belied the fire in his eyes. “I shall send up your clothes shortly, Mr. Fancourt.”
When the door thudded shut, Simon returned to the edge of the bed and wrapped an arm around his aching side. One thing was certain.
Either someone he had questioned concerning the prisoners had become fearful of what Simon would discover.
Or Mr. Oswald wanted Sowerby House more than any of them realized.
Something was amiss.
For the fourth time, Georgina stole a quick glance at Agnes’ profile, as her cousin stared out the sunny carriage window. Streams of light fell on the somber face, the distracted eyes.
