“This little occurrence had better not repeat itself.” A constrained whisper. “It is pitiful to me that you would even dare show your face—”
“I want no part of your righteous indignation, Mr. Oswald. We both know if there is a hell out there, it belongs to both of us.”
“If I were you, I would concentrate on avoiding such a destiny as long as you can.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Must you ask?”
Simon eased closer to the door, breath bated.
“Listen, I told you I—”
“Enough. I do not have time for your pitiful defenses. For a coward, you are exhibiting an unusual amount of bravery, and I fear it could be more detrimental to your health than you realize.”
“This is the last time. I swear.”
“For your sake, I hope it is.”
Simon gripped the doorknob, but before he could crack open the door, a warning hissed from outside.
“Someone is coming.” One pair of footsteps fled down the hall, and another continued onward and greeted someone with a low “Good day.”
He recognized the response, the quiet feminine voice, one second before the smoking-room door flew open.
Simon stumbled back and blinked.
Miss Whitmore.
Everything slammed her at once. The dropping of her heart, the flames in her cheeks, the cowardice that shuffled her backward one step.
He stood in gaping shirtsleeves, blood soaking through the white fabric, staining his fingertips. He glanced down at himself, then up to her face, as if he was uncertain how to explain.
“I am sorry.” The only thing she could work past her throat. “The maid said you were resting—”
“Do not go.”
The command stilled her.
He reached for the tailcoat draped across the velvet chair, shrugged into it, as if propriety had not already been breached. He seemed uncertain.
Strange, because he was never uncertain about anything.
“I would ask that you do not speak of this.” His throat bobbed and sweat wet his hairline. “Please.”
“What happened?”
“I do not wish my mother to know.”
“Know what?”
He turned his back to her, faced a stand where a small basin of water and a bandage had been placed. He dipped a rag into the vine-patterned bowl. “She has been through enough already. I have no wish to burden her further.”
“Nor do I.” Despite every warning, she slipped closer to him. The room was too tiny. The air too choking with tobacco and books and…him.
She had not been so close to Simon Fancourt in years and the smell had been forgotten.
But she breathed of it now, that subtle scent of soap and earth and oil paints and uniqueness. “Mr. Fancourt, I realize I am likely the last person to which you prefer to confide.” She stepped around the stand. “But if you are embroiled in some sort of trouble—”
