As darkness fell outside the chamber window, Georgina stared at Agnes’ still form on the gold-and-green quilted bed. “Answer me. I deserve that much.”
“What would you have me say?” More tears dripped down Agnes’ face. “Simon Fancourt has never done anything but hurt you. You should thank me for sparing you more agony. I have severed the ties you were never strong enough to sever yourself.”
“You lied.”
“No.”
“Agnes, I know you too well.” Her insides ached. “I know him too well.”
“You do not know him at all.” Agnes sat up, chin bunching, drawing the covers tighter against her. “How dare you judge me for what I have done. You have no idea what I have endured. You pretend to love me best…to know me best…but you know nothing about me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You really could not see, could you?” Agnes breathed a laugh, though her voice quaked with the threat of more tears. “It was always you. At every ball, at every soiree, it was never plain Agnes Simpson a gentleman smiled upon or asked to dance with or came to court.”
“Agnes—”
“It was you and you did not even care. All that mattered to you was him. The one person you could not have.” Agnes shook her head. “I am doing this for you as much as I am for myself.”
“You have betrayed me.”
“No.”
“I gave you my confidence and you exposed my heart to the one person—”
“Can you not see? Dear, it does not matter. Simon Fancourt does not matter. Because after this, we shall both be happy. You shall be free of him and I shall—”
“You shall what? Whatever could you hope to gain from such horrific lies?”
But the question remained unanswered. Agnes returned her face to the pillow and yanked the quilt over her head with an indifference so sharp it twisted a new blade through an old and festered wound.
Georgina left the chamber and entered the black hallway. She buried her face in her hands.
Again, it was happening.
She was losing the one person she had assured herself she never would.
Two street lights flanked the entrance of Drax Well Bridge, their foggy glows orange against the moon-tinted darkness. A rushing wind billowed Simon’s coat. Mist from the river dampened his face, as he marched faster onto the stone bridge.
“Miss Neale?”
Midway across, the silhouette turned to face him. “You came then. I didn’t think you would.”
“Were you followed?”
A rushed laugh slipped out. “You aren’t very clever, are you, Mr… .Mr… .” She hiccuped. “You didn’t tell me your name. I should have known. They never do. Not at the places I had to—”
“You are drunk.”
“You seem surprised.”
Frustration laced through him. Had she no idea what this meant? How important tonight was? “Listen, there are things you promised to tell me.”
“I don’t make promises. That’s one thing I’ve learned—never make promises.” She wagged a finger in his face, swaying forward.
He steadied her, grimacing at the scent of onions and ale. “Lady Neale hired someone to set free her son. Who was it?”
“I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”
