But after the quiet parlor, after all the whispered lashes from Miss Whitmore, he had needed something loud and distracting to dominate his mind.
Never once had it occurred to him that she would reject his proposal.
She had always been resigned to the match before. What did it matter to her whom she married? So long as he was wealthy, so long as the match was profitable, so long as she had plenty of pin money and plenty of social opportunities and—
No.He was unfair to judge her so severely. Why had he always assumed love and marriage meant nothing to her? Was it possible she desired something more? Why did that thought surprise him?
A cracking thud from the trapdoors, chilling gasps, then raucous applause from the crowd.
Simon glanced up at the dangling bodies. Two of them were already limp, but one body wriggled while another kicked the air in panic.
He saw Friedrich Neale in the dying faces. He saw Reginald Brownlow. Men who had murdered, who would go on murdering unless they met the punishment they deserved.Why, God?They should have faced the gallows. For the innocent woman cut to pieces and buried in her bed. For Ruth, his precious Ruth.Why did they not hang—
Something cool and hard slapped at Simon’s side.
Air left his lips.
He tried to gasp in another breath, to turn, to catch sight of whoever had landed the blow—but his knees sank. He smacked the cobblestones. Legs bumped into him as he groaned and lifted himself on his arms, but someone’s feet scampered over his back.
He flattened on the ground. The crowd shouted and chanted above him. Pain sliced through his side like lightning bolts.
Only then did he notice.
The grimy cobblestones were turning red.
“Are you awake?”
A strong plum, berry taste slipped through Simon’s lips, though his dry mouth ached for water. For the second time, he cracked open his eyelids.
A face beamed down at him, less hazy. The auburn hair, the thin features jolted recognition through Simon—but he could not summon a name.
“Who…” He licked the wine taste from his lips. “Who are you?”
“I admit I am insulted.” The gentleman, dressed in a silk purple banyan, poured a second glass of port. “People do not usually forget me so easily. Here, have another sip.”
“No.” Simon shook his head, though the movement awakened agony in his side. He glanced down at himself. He was lying on top of a floral-patterned bed, shirtless, with blood seeping through a bandage below his left rib cage. “What happened?”
“You do not remember.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did.”
The gentleman laughed, set the decanter and glass on a bedstand, then crossed his arms as he stared down at Simon. “I admire you, Mr. Fancourt. Even drunk and wounded, you are very certain of yourself. A commendable attribute.”
“You still did not answer my question.”
“You were stabbed.”
“By you?”
“You are drunk indeed, aren’t you?” He poured himself a drink, walked to the bottom of the bed, and leaned against the polished bed post.
Some of the cobwebs began to fade. The drawing room at Sowerby House. Mother. Sir Walter. The gentleman at the mantel with the glass of red port—
“Mr. Oswald, at your service.” As if sensing the recognition, Alexander Oswald bowed. “I was attending the execution at Newgate this evening. I saw you stabbed and was able to assist.”
Doubts swarmed. In all those people, in a crowd so large, what were the chances one of his few acquaintances in London should witness the act?
“You are still contemplating the theory that it was I who attacked you.”
