These walls were used to music. They would shrivel without the sweet melodies Mrs. Fancourt used to play. The floors knew the pitter-patter of little feet. The banisters were accustomed to nonsense. The turret room remembered all the wishful, painted beauty of Simon Fancourt’s mind.
This house needed him, and his children, and his mother.
But houses, like people, did not always attain what they needed. Sometimes they were stripped of everything. Sometimes what was left of them was so hollow they were just shells of what once was—
A noise stirred behind the closed drawing-room door.
Georgina stood, already ashamed at the heat rising to the tips of her ears. She had not expected Simon back so soon. How long had she been waiting? A mere ten minutes?
But he did not stride through the door.
Perhaps it was only Mr. Wilkins, come back to tell her something or offer tea.
“Who is it?” She weaved around the white-covered furniture and approached the door. She grabbed the knob, but it did not budge.
Confusion swept through her. Why was it locked?
“Who is out there?” She slapped her hand against the wood. Her palm stung. Her heart sped. “Mr. Wilkins? Mr. Wilkins!”
The quiet house swallowed her cries.
Mercy. John.She pounded louder.Mr. Wilkins.
She need not worry. The children were safe. The butler would know if there was danger, and he would devise a plan of defense. One they could count on.
With an involuntary groan, she hurried for the window instead. She tried to pry it open, but the exterior shutters were bolted shut.What is happening?
Only she knew.
Someone was in the house. The same one who was responsible for overturning the carriage, writing Simon threats, and ruining his life.
Throwing herself back into the door, she screamed and kicked at the wood. She would not let this happen. Mr. Wilkins would not let this happen. He would hear her. He would protect the children. He would stop whatever tragedy was unfolding.
A stunned realization smacked her.
Unless Mr. Wilkins was dead.
Morning light spilled through the armorial stained-glass windows, casting the chapel in hues of red, purple, yellow, and green.
Sir Walter sat alone in one of the middle-right box pews. His posture was slumped. His head downcast.
Simon had never known of the man to pray before. The last thing he would have credited Sir Walter for was piety.
Or murder.
Disgust edged up his throat, a revolting taste, as he walked the chapel aisle with more calmness than he felt. He stopped before the box pew. He told himself to unlatch it, sling the blackguard out, throttle his neck.
But he was afraid if he touched Sir Walter, he would go too far. He would break Ruth’s promise, if he hadn’t already.
“Ah, Fancourt.” The barrister straightened in his seat, then reached over and opened the door. He scooted. “Why I bother asking you to be seated every time we talk is quite lost upon me. You never do.”
Simon slid in next to him. Wild emotion cut at him, each accusation jumbled into a memory, a place inside of him that hurt. The shreds of Ruth’s hair on the cabin floor. Brown strands he found in the dead fingers of the man Simon killed. Bloodstains he told Mercy not to look at. The wind in the oak tree, whistling, as the dying leaves tugged free and fluttered around her grave—
“You set the fire.”
“Pardon?”
“You set the fire.” Simon clenched his teeth. “In your office. To dismiss your own connection to the nineteen men.”
