“I hardly know. A guest, I presumed.”
“Then you have never seen him before?”
“Not that I am aware.” Confusion narrowed her eyes. “But if it is a matter of importance, I could speak to Mr. Oswald—”
“No. I would ask you not to speak to anyone about this.”
“Why?”
He looked away, watched the rain drip down the carriage window in rivers. How much should he tell her? Or should he tell her anything? The quieter he kept his mission, the better. If she was anything like the prattling gossips of society who shared secrets as often as they had tea—
“Forgive me, but I must return home now.” She reached for the carriage door, but he stilled her hand.
“Let me drive you back.”
“I do not mind the walk.”
“The rain—”
“Does not bother me at all.” She hurried from the carriage without assistance, the downpour showering her pelisse, the wind whipping at her white bonnet ribbons.
He caught her arm before she could cross the street. “At the very least, let me walk you back.”
“That is unnecessary.” When he did not release her, her shoulders slumped. “It is only a short distance, but very well.”
They walked in silence, her pace as fast as his, as if she was desperate to escape his company. For the second time, she glanced behind them toward the church. Who was she watching for? Was she normally so pale, or was it only the cold rain that lent her face such pallor?
At her town house, he pulled open the wet gate. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
She nodded, started for her door—
“Miss Whitmore?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him with a shiver. “Yes?”
“Is anything wrong?”
“You are not the only one with secrets, Simon Fancourt.” With a faint and quivering smile, she hurried inside her town house and slammed the door.
He was not at all certain what she meant.
Georgina ripped off her wet bonnet and slung it to the ground without waiting for the butler. She hurried through the house, staining the hall rug with water, and yanked open the library door.
She closed herself inside.
She had not been here in weeks. She avoided this place as ardently as she rejected any gentleman who made nuptial remarks to her.
This does not make sense.She stepped into the center of the room, where Papa’s body had thudded to the ground when Mamma cut the rope. Bruises had swollen his neck. His skin was bloodless. The overpowering odor of urine reeked from his clothes, from the library rug, so nauseating that even the memory threatened her composure.
She knelt at the spot. Everything was disoriented, hazy, but she recalled the look on Mamma’s face. That seldom expression of disbelief, stark fear, perhaps even regret—though for what, Georgina did not know.
“We must find the note,” Mamma had said. “He would not have left without saying goodbye.”
But he had. They looked for hours—rummaging through every stand drawer, searching for loose bricks in the hearth, opening books, peeling back rug corners, searching the pockets of his coat.
Nothing.
He had killed himself without reason, without warning, and left without saying anything. He had solidified her fears. For as long as she could remember, she had lain in bed as a child and worried that someday she would be alone. That she would wake up the next morning and her parents would not be waiting for her at the breakfast table. That her friends would not wave to her at church. That her maids would no longer answer when she called.
