“I think I do not care enough about your insane plight to find out.” Coughing into his fists, Sir Walter gestured toward the door with anger that was rare from his usual calm. “If you will excuse me.”
Simon nodded and departed the room with a groan building in his throat. Either chance was against him…
Or someone was much closer to Simon’s search than he’d realized.
“La, you are such a boring creature. If you cannot read literature, you might as well read gossip columns like your mother.” Mamma laughed at herself, the kipper half eaten on her plate as she indulged in her third cup of cocoa instead. “Listen to this. Remember Miss Hattie Gossett—that strange wallflower child who was always blinking too much? It says here she ran off with a man from the militia a fortnight ago. Heaven knows she must have disgraced her poor parents out of their wits.”
Georgina swallowed the last of her poached egg and washed it down with a cup of tea. The thought to chide Mamma for indulging in pathetic gossip came to her, but what good would it do?
Mamma would only find someone else to tell the stories to.
At least she was talking to Georgina. That was more than she usually did on her brief stays at home.
“Hmm, let me see. It says here that our local ratcatcher was seen”—she glanced up with a sudden frown—“Where in heaven’s name is dear Agnes?”
“Mamma, I told you last night.”
“That is all very sad, but surely she cannot be so ill that she cannot attend breakfast. Why, I was nearly days from birthing you andIstill always attended meals at the table. But never mind.” Mamma fluttered her napkin, as if it was of little consequence. “She may do as she wishes, of course.”
“Perhaps I should go and see after her.” Georgina scooted from her chair. “Excuse me—”
“Mercy!” A gasp. “Oh you must look at this. Simply horrifying.” Mamma shuddered and clicked her tongue as her eyes darted across the magazine page. “You remember that ghastly woman who was murdered and disfigured in her own bed? It was all a rather terrible affair. The poor husband was bereaved and his own brother was accused of the crime.” Mamma motioned Georgina to her side and lifted the magazine page. “But now it seems the husband has quite disappeared and his town house has been left in shambles. Do you imagine it could have been him all along? Pray, does the drawing of him not appear rather murderous?”
“Mamma, you judge too quickly.” Georgina frowned at the drawing. Something about the features, the eyes, was disturbing—though she would certainly not encourage her mother’s nonsense. “He might have a thousand reasons for disappearing.”
“Out of the country?” Mamma harrumphed. “I think not. But either way, you were off to see to your cousin. Go on with you. I shall probably recline in the parlor for a small nap. I daresay, how very much home life tires me. How ever do you keep up your energy all day long without something interesting to stimulate you?”
Georgina smiled. “Yet another mystery, I suppose.” She left the breakfast room, shaking her head at Mamma, brushing a tiny speck of egg from her dress when—
She froze halfway up the stairs. The drawing flashed through her mind again. This time with color, with dimension, as if she’d seen the man before.
Impossible.
Or was it? After all, the magazine did say Patrick Brownlow had resided in London. Perhaps she had met him at a ball, or sat in a box near him at the theater, or ridden beside him at Hyde Park.
Wherever she’d seen him,ifshe’d seen him, it hardly mattered.
She continued to Agnes’ chamber, coaxed her into eating more breakfast from the tray, and talked in soft tones until her cousin fell asleep. Not until she had gently closed herself from the chamber and had taken the hall did her mind materialize a second memory.
Another hallway.
Dark, downcast eyes. A muffled “Good day.” A panicked pace to his steps, as he hurried past her and fled—
Hollyvale.
Of course. The day of the picnic. Why had Patrick Brownlow been there? Why had she not seen him outside with the others? Why had Simon asked her about it nearly a week later, as if it bore some sort of significance?
She darted her way back to the breakfast room. Nellie was just clearing the plates and pots, but the open magazine still lay in Mamma’s place.
Georgina snatched it up and tore out the column concerning Patrick Brownlow. Her heartbeat spiked faster. “Nellie, will you go and call for the carriage?”
“Where are you going, Miss Whitmore?”
“To Sowerby House.” An overwhelming sense of anticipation burst within her. “At once.”
He could think better up here.
Simon sat on the arm of the broken wingback chair, while Mercy and John played on the dusty turret room floor with old toys they’d discovered in the chest. The flat tin animals, mostly monkeys and tigers, became alive with childish sounds and voices.
