“The deuce it is! We all witnessed him go mad like a raging—”
“I’ll hear it from my son.” Simon took his child’s shoulder. “What happened?”
John’s cheeks whitened. His jaw set. His eyes took on that look again—the one from the hay loft, after the screams, after the oak tree.
“John, answer me.”
Mercy’s face scrunched. She rubbed her eyes and began to cry, while John remained as stock-still and silent as one of the tall, stubborn trees back home.
Simon faced the gentleman. “For what is happened, I am sorry.”
“The deuce with your apology. It is a disgrace that you have the indecency to return here in the first place, after the dastardly life you have partaken of all these years.” His jowls shook and the heat of his face fogged his spectacles. “You do not belong here, Fancourt, and if it were not for your dear mother, do not think the rest of us would pretend you did.”
Simon ground his teeth. “Children, come.”
“If you can call them that. I should say they are more like a little demon and she-devil—”
Rage cut through Simon, snapping a sense of control. In one fluid movement, he seized the man’s coat, hoisted him off his feet, as a shocked round of gasps echoed around them.
“Put me down! Errr! Put me—”
“Say anything more about my children and I will grind your face into the dirt.”
“Put me—”
“Is that clear?”
“Put me—”
“I said”—Simon shook him hard, pain radiating through his side—“is that clear?”
“Yes.” A minced oath. “Yes, yes, now unhand me.”
Simon forced his fingers to uncurl, stepped back, took Mercy with one hand and John with another. The guests all parted. He tried to keep his back straight, his steps strong, despite the crippling sting along his wound and the pulse of regret hammering through him.
Lord, forgive me.
Mother would despair over what had happened today. Perhaps even regret calling him home. He had never belonged here twelve years ago. What made him think he could return to society now?
Without explaining anything, without answering her breathless confusion, Simon gathered Mother from the quilt and helped her to their carriage. He lifted her inside. Then John. Then sniffling Mercy.
Only once did he glance back.
The guests had already dispersed, folding their parasols, fluttering their fans, leaning close enough to whisper to each other. Their eyes beheld him with contempt and disgust. As if he was some sort of crude painting that belonged in flames, not inside a glistening manor hall.
Except one.
In the blur of faces, a gaze locked with his, the eyes soft enough that they almost appeared tearful. Compassion glowed from her expression. Perhaps, as unfathomable as it might have been, a hint of understanding.
Which he was certain was untrue.
No one could possibly understand him less than the reserved, indifferent Miss Whitmore.
But when he climbed into the carriage, when he slammed the door shut, when he pulled Mercy into his lap and breathed the sweet smell of her sweaty curls, Miss Whitmore’s eyes stayed with him.
He was comforted by their tenderness long after the carriage rolled away.
CHAPTER 8
