“You did the right thing.”
“Did I?” With a whimper, she glanced up. “For twenty-eight days, Lady Neale kept me locked in the wine cellar of her manor. She told everyone I had gone abroad. She made them believe I was gone until after the trial was over.”
“I am sorry.”
“You don’t know what she did to me down there.” Her hands shook. She brushed hair out of her eyes, scratched her head, as if to distract him from the fact that tears were flooding her cheeks. “It might have been worth it had Friedrich been punished, but she fixed that too. He was set free and I was thrown out into the streets.”
“Where is Lady Neale now?”
“She fell ill and died shortly after her son was no longer around to coddle.”
Questions overwhelmed Simon. Too many. He stepped closer, blood quickening so fast heat burned at his face. “Helen, who did she pay to set Friedrich free?”
“Doesn’t matter what I say.”
“Listen—”
“I tried to speak up before and it got me locked in a wine cellar.” She smeared some of the blood onto her filthy pinafore. “Besides, no one would believe anything I have to say. Not now. Not after the things I’ve had to do to survive.”
“I’m not asking you to run to any constable or Bow Street runner. I will take care of everything. I just need to know the truth.”
“Helen!” The pimple-faced boy, who had been shoveling ashes from the hearth, now lumbered closer with the bucket. “Wot you fink our guv would say if I was to tell him you been courtin’ instead o’ working? Guess you’d be back out in the gutter, eh?”
She weathered the blow with little more than a haggard flinch. “We cannot talk here,” she whispered, piling the meat slices together, blood dripping off the edge of the table. “Philo there will be away in two nights. I can sneak away.”
“Where do we meet?”
“The Drax Well Bridge. On the Thames—”
“Helen!”
“You must go.” She motioned to the door with a frantic nod. “And do not ever come back here again.”
Simon nodded, departed the kitchen, his mind whipping in so many directions nothing made sense. He only knew one thing.
He was closer than he’d ever been to finding the truth.
CHAPTER 9
She would not be able to eat. She knew that. Already, faint queasiness fluttered at her stomach and familiar weakness jellied her knees.
This was ridiculous.
That she should still be affected by him—by something so inconsequential as a dinner party at Sowerby House, where he would doubtless not spare her more than a stiff “good evening” when she arrived and low “good night” when she departed.
With one last glance in the looking glass, she pinched her cheeks and shoved a loose pin back into her chignon. She wore a pink, empire-waisted evening dress, the lace overlay patterned with flowers and peacock feathers. A matching bandeau decorated her hair. Would he notice anything about her appearance? Had he ever?
“You look lovely, dear.” Agnes’ reflection appeared in the mirror, already dressed in one of her finer gowns. “Nellie says the carriage is ready if you are.”
Georgina grabbed her white shawl from a chair, nodded, and preceded Agnes downstairs—all without looking at her. For too many days, the strain had lingered.
Agnes attempted kindness, soft words, cheerful smiles.
But all of it felt empty.
Like a facade.
As if everything within her cousin was locked inside, constrained by bands that were ready to burst and unleash something terrible. Something Georgina was too frightened to face.
