“But…” Vanessa looked confused, and she glanced from Winston to the old man. “I want to be here with you.”
“I must insist,” Winston said, and he cursed himself for the cold tone that his voice had taken. But his anger was so close to the surface, he knew it would erupt at any moment, and he could not bear for her to see that side of him. “The carriage will be out front already, and my valet will be there. You will be safe.”
“It’s not that… Winston, I do not want you to face whatever this is alone.”
“This is not up for discussion,” Winston snapped. “Go to the carriage. I will meet you there.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her expression disappointed, then she turned without another word and strode away along the hall, away from him. He watched until she had disappeared out the front doors, then turned back to Lord Egerton, who was watching him with a small sneer on his face.
“You are truly your father’s son,” he said.
The words hit Winston like an arrow, and he felt himself sway.
“I am nothing like my father,” he snarled, his hands balling into fists.
“Whatever you say, Thornfield,” Egerton said, and he laughed, which immediately turned into a cough. The cough was so loud and hacking that Winston winced, despite not caring about the man’s health. Raising a handkerchief to his mouth, Egerton coughed into it for another few moments. When he lowered the handkerchief, Winston saw that it was full of blood.
“What are you doing here?” Winston demanded. “I thought you were dead.”
This wasn’t strictly speaking, true. He knew Egerton was alive because he kept a vigilant track of his whereabouts and because he knew the Bow Street Runners had spoken to him recently.
“I am not dead,” Egerton said, “although you will get your wish very soon. I am dying. It is consumption.”
“I can see that,” Winston said. “I can only pray that it will be a long and terrible death.”
Egerton, to Winston’s fury, laughed.
“I see that you are as vengeful as ever. As spiteful.”
“I am only spiteful because you made me so,” Winston growled.
Egerton chuckled again then it turned again into a hacking cough. He raised the bloody handkerchief to his mouth again, and Winston waited for the coughing to subside.
“That is funny to you?” he asked, once Egerton was finished.
“Not funny, exactly,” Egerton croaked. “But I am impressed that you are such a fine actor.”
Winston’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“You are so good at playing the aggrieved brother, the righteous mourner for the dead sister.”
“What do you mean ‘playing’?” Winston snapped. “That is exactly what I am because of you—because of what you pushed my sister to do with your cruelty.”
He had to steady himself. His anger was so strong that he wanted to leap forward and grab the man by the lapels andthrow him to the ground. He might have if Egerton had not been so old and withered.It would not be a fair fight.
Then again, it had not been a fair fight between Egerton and Clementine.
Egerton’s eyes, meanwhile, had grown hateful, and he glared up at Winston.
“I know,” he said, his voice a low, deadly rasp.
“You know what?” Winston was growing impatient. “Tell me what it is you are prattling on about and be done with it.”
“I know that Clementine is alive,” Egerton murmured. “I know that you are hiding her.”
Winston felt as if he had been punched in the gut. All the air was sucked from his lungs, and his eyesight grew blurry, his head foggy. He swayed, and for a moment, he actually thought he was going to fall over. Then he righted himself, blinked, and stared down at Egerton in shock.
“What,” he whispered with such furious intensity that Egerton flinched, “Are. You. Talking. About.”
