Georgina would have retreated backward, except the stairs were behind her and Simon still clung to her arms. She should have wiggled herself away. She should have kept the words inside herself.
But the secret had slipped free of its own accord.
His face angled slightly, brows lowered, as if he was not certain what to think. Then, low, “Sit.”
They sat on the bottom step, and she grasped the edge of the stone with aching fingers. The realization that he knew—thatsomeoneknew—pulsed through her in a maddening race. What did she feel? Remorse for having told what should have been kept silent? Or relief for bearing the secret no longer?
“You found him.” Not a question, but deep and careful, as if he understood the horrors of stumbling upon death.
“I fainted. Mamma awoke me. We cut down his body together.”
“I am sorry.”
“I cannot overcome it.”
He had no response for that, but he looked at her. Not as he had before—absently, a courteous glance, as if he was dull with indifference. He actuallylooked.
His gaze traveled from her hair to her nose to her lips to her eyes, yet still he did not glance away. He saw into her. Something inside her cried to turn her head, or hide her face, but she could not.
She knew this would hurt later.
Everything she felt for him, everything she’d always felt, would seem faint to what she experienced now. All her senses livened. She smelled him. Her skin tingled with his breath. “Simon, what do I do?”
“I don’t know—”
A distant, bloodcurdling scream struck the air.
Simon leapt to his feet and was halfway up the stairs before the entrance doors crashed open. A maid stood in the doorway, white-faced, with a dreaded shriek: “Someone is in the house!”
CHAPTER 14
No.Horrors of the cabin—of running, but not running fast enough—drained the blood from Simon’s veins. He flung through the anteroom, flew up the red-carpeted stairs, aware of every thud and footfall above him.
When he reached the second floor, two maids and a trembling Mr. Wilkins surrounded the nursery door. The butler wielded a candlestick like a sword.
“Move.” Simon shoved them back, but a timid grip stopped him from entering.
“The children are not in there,” Mr. Wilkins panted. “Mrs. Fancourt had requested to see them before she fell asleep and they were visiting in her chamber when this—”
Simon lunged at the door. It budged open to a crack but no further, as if the intruder had shoved furniture against it from inside. “Go and get more footmen. Hurry.”
“Yes, Master Fancourt, but I fear he has a gun. Perhaps you should wait until—”
Simon busted through with his shoulder, the same time a gunshot exploded next to his head. He ducked, rolled into the room, scampered behind a child-sized bed.
Another shot struck the pillow, smoke and feathers exploding. The man would have no bullets left. Not unless he had time to reload.
Which he didn’t.
Simon rose from behind the bed, stepped over it, fists balling.
Even in the evening shadows, without any wall sconces lit, the figure was exposed. The turnkey. Lucan. He flattened against the nursery wall, next to the window, and pulled a knife from his worn coat. “Already used this on you once, bloke.”
“Drop it, and no one gets hurt.”
“Mebbe that’s what I come for.” With a ringing yell, the turnkey charged, but Simon caught his knife hand before the blade had a chance to plunge.
He kneed the assailant in the gut. Whooshed him backward. Slammed him against the wall, picture frames clanging, and banged the man’s arm until the knife fell to the rug.
