Simon bit into the bread with a small grin of his own. “Then I owe you my thanks.”
“I am not finished.”
“Go on.”
“It seems that your impetuous outburst on Lord Gilchrist was more harmful than either of us could have realized. I fear you have made a great enemy of a very respectable, reverenced member of London’s society.”
“I have had enemies before.”
“Perhaps. But the one at current has not only determined to support Miss Simpson in her time of crisis, but also house her too. It took three visits and four letters before Lord Gilchrist would allow me entrance into his home, and even more persuading to gain a private audience with the distraught victim.” Sir Walter crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Miss Simpson has decided she will not testify against you in court.”
“Then she admits the lies.”
“Not exactly.”
Simon swallowed down the bread with difficulty. “Why would she—”
“I am not certain if you are aware of the procedures of such cases, Mr. Fancourt. In any event, Miss Simpson was not. I rather think the idea of relating her story, in explicit detail, in front of a court full of men was rather too shameful for her to bear.”
“You threatened her.”
“No. I merely made her aware of the scorn and humiliation she was about to subject herself to—when there were, of course, much gentler options.”
“What options?”
“Enough funds, supplied by you, to see her comfortably cared for.”
“No.”
“Your mother and I have already delivered the amount. She agreed, as do I, that it was the only sensible plan of action.”
“You as much as admitted my guilt.”
“Whether you are guilty or innocent is irrelevant.”
Fury burned in his gut. He slung the bread to the ground. “I did not touch that woman.”
“I am trying to make certain you are not hung as if you did.”
Threading his hands behind his head, Simon spun the other direction, heat suffocating him. This was wrong. The lies, the covering of more lies. His freedom bought with an admission of his guilt. “I am sorry, Sir Walter, but I cannot allow this.”
“I am afraid it is too late.” Sir Walter must have tapped the door, because the Scotsman on the other side creaked it back open. “You shall be released from here on the morrow, and Miss Simpson shall move on with her life as if none of this ever happened.”
“It did happen.” Simon turned. “Someone obviously hurt her and it was not me. Are you not even concerned with finding the truth?”
“The only thing that interests me is you, Mr. Fancourt.” Sir Walter’s lips flattened into an apologetic line. “Not all paths in life are right and wrong. Some are neither narrow nor wide, and it is on the unnamed footways where we often make our most crucial decisions. Forgive me, son, for making this one for you. One day, you shall agree it was best.”
Simon forced back a wave of sickening memories. He had heard the words a thousand times over.
Father had not ceased battling at all.
Every sound, every movement slammed into her awareness.
With the rusted bucket in her hand, Georgina trampled ferns and dead leaves until she reached the stone well. Sunlight filtered in through the towering evergreens, and a piney-scented breeze rustled her wrinkled dress and wayward curls.
Never had she been so far from the London streets and town houses in her life.
She glanced back at the cottage—the mossy stone walls, the faded thatched roof, the broken window, and the charred chimney. How many seconds would it take to dart back inside if someone lunged at her from the surrounding woods? Then what?
