“I cannot simply abandon my duties.” Mr. Wilkins craned his neck forward. “Besides that, I can hardly fathom anyone cruel enough to do harm to mere children.”
Desperation fissured through her. She breathed harder, willed her voice to remain calm, as she grasped his arm with force. “We do not have time for this. Mr. Fancourt, as I am certain you know, is hardly the sort of man who would fabricate danger. If he is so desperate as to beg for our assistance, the very least we can do is not shrink.”
His cheeks drained, his eyes shifted—but when he finally glanced back to her face, something stronger than mere excuse dimmed his expression.
Georgina released his sleeve with a wince. “You do not believe him.”
“Ahem, I—”
“You have known him your entire life, and one vicious lie has made you doubt his character.” She took a step back and shook her head. “Mr. Fancourt was wrong. He cannot trust you.”
“Miss Whitmore, wait.” Mr. Wilkins stopped her from opening the door. His shoulders sagged. “All the servants have been murmuring. I have even heard Mrs. Fancourt’s uncertain thoughts. I fear, in all the mayhem, I may have questioned him myself…as your cousin has always seemed such a sensible, upright lady.” He pulled himself straighter. “But you are right. I must not judge Master Fancourt until I know more of this…Regardless, I fear I cannot be so disloyal as to disappear on Mrs. Fancourt on such a reckless escapade.”
“I see.” A suffocating weight pressed down on her. “Then I shall take the children myself.”
“Oh dear. Are you certain that is safe?”
“I am certain it is not, but it is safer than remaining here.” She nodded across the anteroom. “Go and fetch the children and tell them to pack for a small journey.”
“But—”
“Make certain they are dressed for riding. Pack several knapsacks of food which we might secure to our saddles, and see if you might draw some sort of map to the whereabouts of the Fancourt hunting lodge. Mr. Fancourt spoke of a cottage where an old steward used to stay. I shall take the children there.” She opened the door, a flower-scented breeze rushing in. “I am sending back my driver and carriage to the town house. If anyone asks after me, I visited Mrs. Fancourt this afternoon and then returned. Do you understand?”
Mr. Wilkins bobbed his head, too stunned for more words or questions, it seemed. With a flustered sigh he rushed away to do her bidding, and Georgina slipped back outside.
Warm air bathed her burning face. She glanced at her carriage in the drive—the sun-reflecting coach lamp, the snoozing driver atop the perch, the curtained windows. How easy it would be to rush inside, slam the door, and hurry home without looking back.
I am afraid.
The realization carved through her, and her legs shook as she descended the stone stairs.I do not understand the danger.Another step.I do not know how to find the hunting lodge.Two more steps.I do not owe Simon anything.
But when she reached the bottom, she awoke the driver and ordered him home, despite every plea inside herself not to.
This was something she had to do.
She understood very little, but she understood that.
He was not certain if it was daytime or night, but the lamps in the prison corridor had been extinguished. The darkness was dense.
From a corner of the cell, Simon sat with his arms resting on his knees, rolling a piece of straw between his fingers. Hunger nipped at his stomach, though he could not quite bring himself to finish off the mold-splotched chunks of bread they’d scooted in on a tin plate.
Sir Walter should have come by now.
Someoneshould have come.
Simon had spent the length of the day sparing glances at the barred window, half expecting Mother’s tearstained face on the other side, her soft reassurances that the lies would soon be put to rest and this would be over.
But the window had remained empty.
Except once.
Simon snapped the straw in half, a flash of Miss Whitmore’s features forming in the moist blackness. The memory was almost pleasant. Almost consoling.
As if he was not entirely alone.
Why had she come? She who was aloof to him, who had cared so little in their engagement that she teased other gentlemen and even now would not accept his proposal of marriage.
Of all the people in the world, he would have fathomed her the last one he should find standing near in time of peril. If only it would last. If only he couldknowit would last. At least long enough for him to get out of here to protect Mercy and John himself.Lord, how could this happen?
