Simon rose to face the middle-aged gentleman. “I realize the hour is late.”
Dressed in burgundy tailcoat and tan pantaloons, the man strode to a chair but did not sit. He had a voluminous Brutus hairstyle, with dark brown sideburns, and a neck so short it was hardly visible between his chin and his neckcloth. “My butler took the liberty of telling me your name, Mr. Fancourt. To what do I owe this visit?”
“You are Brownlow?”
“I am Patrick Brownlow, yes.”
“Relation to Reginald Brownlow?”
The name drained the gentleman’s face to a pallor. He gripped the back of the wingback chair, glanced to the left, then to the right. “What is this about?”
“You did not answer my question.”
“Nor do I intend to, as you have not answered mine.” Mr. Brownlow stepped closer to a bureau, rubbing a hand behind his neck. “I do not appreciate receiving visitors at such an inconvenient hour, and I even less appreciate the manners you have displayed in so doing.”
Simon nodded. “I have been abrupt.”
“To say the least.”
“I mean no disrespect, but it is important I speak with someone who knew him.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” Simon hesitated. “I killed him.”
A breathless profanity breezed from the man’s lips. He turned to the bureau, seized a decanter and poured a glass, though the glass clinked against the decanter from the shaking of his hands.
Simon took a step closer. “I don’t know who he was to you, but I have reason to believe he was convicted here in London and sentenced to hang.”
“You are more than abrupt, Mr. Fancourt. You are savagely vulgar.”
“Reginald Brownlow did not expire on the gallows. He ended up in a settlement in America, and he attempted to murder my wife. I need to know how that happened.”
“And you think you shall find your answers here?” Mr. Brownlow slid a glance at Simon, hesitated for several ticktocks of the wall clock, as sweat formed along his brow. In one flashing second, he flung open a bureau drawer and lifted a dueling pistol. “I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Fancourt. I think you should leave.”
“You must have more answers than you’d like to admit.”
“Untrue, I fear. I have no answers, and I do not know anything. Reginald was my brother. I am only telling you as much because you may hear of the relation anywhere. If he attempted to kill your wife, I am sorry.” The gun quivered as he lifted it higher. “He killed my wife too.”
Simon’s jaw flexed. “Then I should think you would be equally eager to see whoever set him free is punished.”
“The only thing I am eager for is to be rid of his revolting memory.” Mr. Brownlow pointed his gun to the door. “Now leave my sight. If you ever bring my brother’s name into this house again, God forgive me for what I shall do.”
The kitchen door creaked shut behind Simon as he slipped through a servant’s entrance. The room was black, the hearth mere glowing embers as he felt his way through the kitchen and into quiet halls.
He reached the stairs by memory, boots thumping the carpeted steps—
“I knew you would not enter the front door.”
Simon gripped the banister and turned.
Without candle or lamp, Mother’s flowing white wrapper outlined her presence at the bottom of the stairs. “Sir Walter arrived for dinner. We both expected you would join us.”
“Other business needed my attention.”
“Business?”
“Yes.” He started back down the stairs. “You waited up for me?”
