“She already has.”
Georgina leaned forward on the settee, fingers massaging her temples. “How did you come to find us? You should not have left Sowerby House. The children—”
“They are safe and well guarded. Upon my return, I stationed four footmen to walk the grounds and have instructed both Mr. Wilkins and two other capable manservants to follow the children about. They shall not be left alone, nor taken out of doors.”
“I hope it is enough.”
“It is.”
Silence fell, just as it always had in younger years, at this very settee, when they were mere children shoved into the perplexities of courting.
“I did not expect you to still be here.” She glanced at him, candle light gleaming from her curls. “Downstairs, I mean. When I was finished with Agnes.”
“There are questions I must ask.”
“About Agnes?”
“About the pendant on her neck.”
“I know nothing of it. Indeed, I have never seen it before.”
“I have.”
“When?”
“At Newgate. The turnkey.” The tangible link—the first one that made sense—brought his blood to a warm boil. The muscled brute had access to prisoners. He also had access, it seemed, to Miss Simpson. Was he the one who had pressured the girl to accuse Simon? What had the turnkey done? Promised to marry her if she consented—knowing that, as she carried his child, she had no choice?
Georgina leaned her head against the back of the settee and sighed, as if as many questions raced through her own mind. “I wish I knew more. I wish I could help you.”
The sincerity pulled at him. Like a cool and painless dagger, it cut through the center of his chest. Deeper, deeper until it pricked a quiet place in his heart.
He didn’t want to feel hurt.
He didn’t want to feel anything.
But he did. “You deserve to know everything you wish.”
She tilted her head. That blushful look again. A faint smile breezed across her lips, as she whispered that it was late, that he may tell her later, that she would listen whenever he was ready.
He was ready now.
But he stood to his feet without saying anything. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded paper. He held it out. “For you.”
She hesitated, so he unfolded it for her, then settled the drawing in her lap.
“It is not very good.” The urge to squirm itched at his feet. “I drew from memory.”
She said nothing for so long he regretted everything. Coming here, drawing the face, sitting in the dark with her while she worried over his children and understood him and—
“It is Papa.” She flattened it against her chest. Tears swam. Silence thickened in the still and shadowed room.
With a faint good night, he departed the parlor and wiped sweating hands down the length of his trousers. Her face followed him. The earnest eyes. The worry-laden brow. The kind lips and the voice so soothing with care.
Care for him.
For his children.
For the ruined cousin upstairs and the papa in the drawing and the world around her.
