“Why?” Simon banged his head. Twice.
The jar seemed to penetrate the stupor, for the man’s eyes slit open with panic. Recognition washed over him. His throat worked up and down. “Where am I?”
“The root cellar. You killed my wife. You knew my name. How?”
“The day the ship came…she was there…at the settlement.” His eyes twitched. “She would not so much as speak to us…as if we were beggar rats. If she could have seen me then…back home…the manor…Mother…she would not have so disgraced me.”
An acrid taste soured Simon’s mouth. “You found out her name.”
“Yes.”
“You followed her.”
“Yes.”
“You came back and you killed her—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” With an unholy sound, Neale lunged himself out of Simon’s grip. He overturned a basket, toppled onto the floor, sprang for the door.
Simon caught him by the hair and flung him back. He dove on top of him, pinned down the writhing shoulders with his knees.
“Get off of me.” He flailed, screamed, spit in Simon’s face. “You promised! You said I could be free if she paid…you said it would be over…no more prison. Get off of me!” His fist caught Simon’s nose.
Warm blood pumped over his lips. He swung back.
Neale’s body slackened. A gasp left his lips, and with hair strung into his face, he lifted dimming eyes to Simon. “If she could have seen me…back home…” The sentence faltered. His features froze. His gaze remained still and unblinking.
Simon dropped a finger to his neck.
No pulse.
Dead.
Of all the rooms in the town house, Georgina had known she would find Mamma here. The library was dim this time of evening, and the flickering wall sconces cast the endless shelves in a dull orange glow.
Georgina crept beside the chair.
Mamma stared into the hearth, her red curls disheveled from leaning into the chair. When she glanced at Georgina, her eyes were sleepy and her voice soft. “What a dull creature I am tonight. An entire evening with no guests at all. How shall we endure?”
Georgina pulled the velvet-buttoned stool next to the chair. She sat as close to Mamma as she could. She didn’t know why. A nonsensical urge. As silly as the child who thought scampering into her mother’s lap and burrowing her face in the sweet-scented dress would make all the fears of the world abandon her.
She wished they would.
“Mr. Waterhouse visited today. Did you notice the flowers in the drawing room window?”
Georgina recalled the wilting pink daffodils with a slight smile. “I did indeed.”
“Quite pathetic, are they not? Poor Mr. Waterhouse. He does try so to be charming, but I fear he lacks the good sense and proper wit to be anything but tiresome.”
“And Colonel Middleton?”
“Who?” Mamma yawned. “La, the colonel. I had quite forgotten. He was very amusing, but I fear he became far too cheery after three glasses of ratafia. I for one cannot tolerate a gentleman who does not imbibe well.”
Georgina murmured a response. She leaned into Mamma’s chair, the heat from the hearth and the sputtering noises working to unwind the tension this room inflicted.
She tried not to stare at the place.
The center of the room.
