Nine. Ten.
No.
Eleven.
“Rupert, stop.”
Simon would have opened his eyes had he strength. The world spun as his chair was dragged upright again. He focused on breathing, pulling air in and out of his bloody mouth, bracing himself for another blow.
Instead, something soft and easy framed his face. “Simon.”
“Here’s the chain.” Iron clinked against iron. “Lock her to the beam.”
Her.
Ruth.
Yet the hands were too soft for Ruth. They were creamy and gentle and cool as they supported his head from falling to his chest.
“Simon, can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes as the hands were yanked away. His head lolled forward. He forced it up.Georgina.
The stranger dragged her to a beam across the room, slung her to the ground, and bound one wrist with a chain that circled the beam.
Then someone stepped before his vision.
Someone who stuttered the terrorized beating of his heart.Mr. Wilkins.
The protector Simon had left to safeguard his children. The butler who had scolded his younger self for sliding down newly polished banisters. The friend he—and Father—had never had reason to doubt.
No.Hurt sliced through him greater than the injuries.No. No.
Mr. Wilkins buttoned his coat, eyes twitching, lips flat and without expression. “Rupert, go and pacify your wife. I think it best you send her and the children to her sister’s until this is over.”
“What about them?” Rupert jabbed a finger toward Simon.
“They shall be here when we return.” Mr. Wilkins blinked hard and fast. “And if Master Fancourt wishes to spare Miss Whitmore from what he has endured himself, I think he will comply. This time with the truth.”
She could not look at him.
The wrist shackle was cold, heavy, like the weight of terror pressing into her. Upstairs, footsteps scurried. Sometimes light. Children. Other times heavy and stomping, followed by gruff orders or Mr. Wilkins’ even-toned pitch.
Then the last door slammed shut.
Silence.
They were alone—she and Simon—and despite every plea against it, she glanced up at his face. Her chest hitched.
Terrible, swelling bruises discolored his face. Blood matted his hair, crusted and dark. His lips were torn. Skin white. Eyes hazy and blinking and narrowed on her with so much intensity she wanted to weep. What had they done to him?
“I am sorry.” She shuddered. “I should have left sooner. I should have realized. I should have gone for help.”
He shook his head. The slight movement must have caused agony. His eyes slid shut. “I do not have what they want.”
“What do they want?”
“A letter.” He attempted to smear the fresh blood on his shoulder sleeve. “I left it locked in a drawer at Sowerby. It is gone.”
