“Fine.” Bennet turned away. “Harry, Will is in the kitchen. I can have my bags packed in a half hour.”
“Bennet!” The word felt as if it were ripped from Silas’s lungs.
His son walked away from him.
“I’ve killed for you, boy.” Damn it, he would not go groveling after his own son.
Bennet turned, a look of mingled horror and loathing on his face. “You what?”
“Murdered for you.” Silas thought he bellowed, but the words weren’t as loud as before.
“Jesus Christ. Did he say he murdered someone?” Bennet’s voice seemed to float around him.
The pain in his chest had spread and become a fire burning through to his back. Silas staggered. Tried to grab a chair and fell, toppling the chair next to him. He lay on his side and felt the flames licking hungrily down his arm and over his shoulder. He smelled ashes from his son’s body and piss from his own.
“Help me.” His voice was a thin trickle.
Someone stood over him. Boots filled his vision. “Help me.”
Then Pye’s face was in front of his own. “You killed Mistress Pollard, didn’t you, Granville? That’s who you murdered. Janie Crumb never had the strength to feed another woman poison.”
“Oh, my God,” Bennet whispered in his ruined voice. Bile suddenly filled Silas’s throat, and he heaved, choking on the contents of his own stomach. The carpet wool chafed his cheek as he convulsed.
Dimly, Silas saw Pye step aside, avoiding the pool of vomit.
Help me.
Harry Pye’s green eyes seemed to bore into him. “I never begged for mercy when you had me beaten. Do you know why?”
Silas shook his head.
“It wasn’t pride or bravery,” he heard Pye say.
The fire crawled up into his throat. The room was going dark.
“My da begged you for mercy when you had him horse-whipped. You ignored him. There is no mercy in you.”
Silas choked, coughing on hot coals. “He’s dead,” someone said.
But by that time, the fire had reached Silas’s eyes and he no longer cared.
Chapter Twenty
“You’ve gone mad.” Tony sat back in the settee as if his pronouncement settled the matter.
They were in his elegant town house sitting room. Across from him, George sat stiffly in an armchair, the now-ever-present basin at the ready by her feet. Oscar prowled the room, munching on a muffin. No doubt, Violet and Ralph were taking turns pressing their ears to the door.
George sighed. They’d arrived in London yesterday, and she seemed to have spent all the time since debating her condition with her brothers. I should have just eloped with Cecil. She could have informed her family in a note and not even have been around to hear the resulting commotion.
“No, I’ve gone sane,” she replied. “Why is it that everyone was against my being with Harry before and now they keep pushing me at him?”
“You weren’t increasing before, Georgie,” Oscar pointed out kindly. He had a fading bruise high on one cheek, and she briefly stared at it, wondering where he’d got it.
“Thank you very much.” She winced as her tummy gave a bubbling rumble. “I think I’m aware of my state. I don’t see that it matters.”
Tony sighed. “Don’t be obtuse. You know very well that your state is the reason you need to marry. The problem is the man you’ve chosen—”
“It’s a bit thick, you must admit.” Oscar leaned forward from his place at the mantelpiece and waved a muffin at her, scattering crumbs. “I mean, you are carrying the fellow’s child. Seems only right he should have a chance at marrying you.”
Wonderful. Oscar, of all people, was lecturing her on propriety.
“He’s a land steward. You told me only recently that a land steward just wasn’t done.” George lowered her voice in a fair imitation of Oscar’s tone. “Cecil comes from a very respectable family. And you like him.” She folded her arms, sure of her point.
“I’m terribly disappointed in your lack of morals, Georgie, old girl. Can’t tell you how disillusioning this insight into the female mind is for me. Might very well make me cynical for years to come.” Oscar frowned. “A man has a right to his own progeny. Doesn’t matter what class he comes from, the principle is the same.” He bit into his muffin for emphasis.
“Not to mention poor Cecil,” Tony muttered, “foisted off with someone else’s get. How are you going to explain that?”
“Actually, that probably won’t be a problem,” Oscar muttered sotto voce.
“No?” “No. Cecil’s not that interested in females.”
“Not inter—oh.” Tony cleared his throat and yanked down on his waistcoat. She noticed for the first time that his knuckles were raw. “Well. And that’s another consideration for you, George. Surely you don’t mean to have that kind of marriage?”
“It doesn’t really matter what kind of marriage I’ll have, does it?” Her lower lip trembled. Not now. The last few days she’d found herself almost constantly on the verge of tears.
“Of course it matters.” Tony was obviously affronted. “We want you to be happy, Georgie,” Oscar said. “You seemed happy with Pye before.”
George bit her lip. She would not cry. “But he wasn’t happy with me.”
Oscar exchanged a look with Tony.
Tony drew his heavy eyebrows together. “If Pye needs to be persuaded to marry you—”
“No!” George drew a shuddering breath. “No. Can’t you understand that if he’s forced to marry me, it would be far worse than marriage to Cecil? Or no marriage at all?”
“Don’t see why.” Oscar scowled. “He might balk at first, but I think he’d soon come around once married.”
“Would you?” George stared at Oscar.
He looked taken aback.
She switched her gaze to Tony. “Either of you? If you were forced to marry by the brothers of your bride, would you soon forgive and forget?”
“Well, maybe—” Oscar began.
Tony spoke over him. “No.” She raised her eyebrows. “Look—” Oscar started.
The door opened and Cecil Barclay stuck his head around it. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Come back later, shall I?”
“No!” George lowered her voice. “Come in, Cecil, do. We were just talking about you.”