“Whom?”
“Whom do you think?” Agnes grabbed her elbow and pulled Georgina into the hall. The second they reached the stairs, she made out the distinct voice below.
Alexander Oswald.
“I do not have time for company—”
“I have already told him as much,” Agnes whispered back. “Unfortunately, to no effect. He will not be put off. You shall have to dispose of him yourself, if you can.”
Georgina nodded, squared her shoulders, and descended the stairs with Agnes on her arm. “Mr. Oswald.”
He turned from the butler in the downstairs hall, hat in his hands, as if he had just arrived. His eyes smiled as they glanced over her. “I came to inquire after your health.”
“It is much improved since our last encounter, I assure you.”
“I would have come sooner had business not been so demanding.” He handed his hat to the butler and met Georgina at the bottom step. “You are pale.”
“A calamity inflicted by dreary winter months, not illness.” She smiled to reassure him. “I trust your sister is enjoying her return?”
“Buenos Aires had a most peculiar effect on her disposition, I admit.”
“Oh?”
“She is even more disagreeable than ever, and that is a feat I did not think possible.” He grinned and opened his black-gloved hand to her. “What say you to a stroll outside, Miss Whitmore? I imagine the sunshine will be beneficial.”
She glanced from his hand to his face, somehow compelled to accept the spontaneous invitation and forget the barrister’s mysterious summons.
Instead, she shook her head. “Regrettably, I have a carriage awaiting me. I fear I have a pressing engagement.”
“Of what nature?”
“Do you always pry?”
“I find a direct question usually results in the swiftest answer.” He stepped aside as she moved to don her cloak. When she did not enlighten him further, he followed her to the door. “Another secret for me to unravel, I presume?”
She slipped on her bonnet, tied the ribbons under her chin, all without looking at his face. “You are mistaken, sir, for I harbor no secrets.”
“None that you admit to.”
A flame soared up her cheeks, and despite the fact that she wished he were in error, the truth shuddered through her with flashes of the library, the shadow, the scream.
She had kept the horrors of that night locked inside her for three long years. If the secret were ever discovered, would it torture her further, as Mamma said it would? Or would it make the terrors less severe if she finally told?
“Good day, Mr. Oswald.” Georgina motioned for Agnes to follow her, and with one last smile to her guest, she slipped outside into the cold.
In the carriage, she could not help but glance back at the town house.
Mr. Oswald was exiting, placing the shiny beaver hat on his head, with a determination about him that almost rivaled that of Simon Fancourt’s.
She almost hoped Mr. Oswald kept searching until he found out the truth. That the secret always aching at her throat could finally find release. That someone, for the first time in her life, would seeher—exposed with all her fears and nightmares—and love her anyway.
But that would not happen.
Anyone who loved her, or pretended to love her, would only run away.
If she knew anything in this world, she knew that.
“You have changed.” Sir Walter Northcote leaned back in a squeaky green-leather chair, the symmetrical lines of his forehead bunching. “But it is good to see you are at least dressing the part of a respectable English gentleman.”
