“I would keep the matter to myself if I did not need your help.”
“I am flattered I rate so highly in your confidence.”
Simon rubbed the back of his neck, moved to the window, where the view of fresh, symmetrical gardens made him tempted to unlatch the pane. He needed air. He needed answers. “Someone in London is releasing condemned prisoners under the Crown’s nose.”
“A steep charge.”
“But true.” Anger sizzled. “A ship of convicts arrived in Marwicktow. Two of them killed my wife. I killed them.”
“I see.”
“I intend on stopping it.”
“Assuming, of course, it is a reoccurring crime.”
“That proves”—Simon swept a hand to the note—“it is.”
“Hmm.” Sir Walter reclined in his chair, scratching his chin, as if this was merely another case he could sort out. “I suppose this is the true reason you have returned home.”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Does your mother know?”
“No.”
“And you do not intend on telling her the truth?”
“I would not inflict her with worries.”
“Yet your morality suffers no pains at burdening Miss Whitmore.” Sir Walter stood. “Do not look so surprised, Fancourt. I know she visited you at Newgate, and I further know she arrived home when you did. How much did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“I can hardly believe a woman who has rejected you in marriage would go to such extremes on your behalf did shenotknow the truth. You have likely provided her with a most interesting crumb of gossip to feast on with her idle-minded friends—yet another careless outlet in which you are risking your reputation.” Sighing, he shrugged and walked around his desk, lines creasing his face, eyes narrowing in the same disapproving way Father’s always did. “I do not suppose I can discourage you from pursuing this dangerously noble endeavor.”
Simon shook his head.
“You realize, of course, that such accusations would be outlandish in court without tangible proof.”
“Which I intend to get.”
“And you further know, I hope, that more is at stake than your own safety and standing. You have children to consider. Your mother.”
“I do not have a choice.”
“We always have a choice.” Sir Walter shook his head, lips flattening, though a hint of amused admiration lifted his eyes. “I hope this is not a choice I shall regret myself.”
“Then you shall assist me?”
“If I can without landing myself in the deadhouse, yes.”
Relief softened the painful pounding of Simon’s temples. He moved to the desk, ripped a blank sheet of paper from the ledger, and scribbled down nineteen names. “This is all I have. I suspect many of them are false names, else I would have given them to you sooner, but these are the nineteen men who arrived in the settlement.”
“I shall check my files and those of other barristers. If any of these men were convicted at the Old Bailey, I shall know of it.”
“Good. I need to speak with their families, their friends, anyone who might lead us to the devil who was paid to free them.”
“Very well. You shall hear from me the moment I discover anything.”
