“What state was she in?” James asked.
“Mrs. Hester came and got me. By the time I got to the cottage, Georgia said her belly hurt so fiercely she couldn’t walk. I carried her back to the house,” he said, memories firing across his face, “her losing her stomach on herself—and me. I got herup to her room, then Mother and Father came up and Father told me to go clean myself up and get out of the house. I came here,” he admitted, looking around at the familiar insides of the Sheep’s Head.
“How long did you stay here?” James asked.
“At least four hours. I didn’t leave until a servant came to tell me my sister had died. I knew our father was behind it,” he said bitterly. “I knew Georgia didn’t want to die or even take any pennyroyal concoction. I suspected by her manner that she had already lost the child she carried. He wanted her dead.”
Cecilia gasped, this wasn’t something she had considered; however, it made a twisted form of sense. “Why would he want his own daughter’s death?”
“Because he couldn’t control her,” George said sadly.
“Does he control you?” Cecilia asked gently.
“He thinks he does, but I don’t throw my rebellious feelings in his face.”
“You do things like quietly learn to be a ship’s captain.”
He looked at her. “Yes. I tried to tell Georgia that she would do better being subtle, but there wasn’t a subtle bone in Georgia’s body.”
“No, I can see that,” Cecilia said sadly.
“Pardon, Sir James,” said their footman, Daniel, coming up to them in the tavern. He held out a cream-colored invitation. “Mr. Coggins felt this might be important and asked me to seek you out,” he said.
Cecilia took the invitation from him, her expression skewed into confusion. She slid a fingernail under the lightly sealed envelope. She pulled out a handwritten note to join the Mortlakes for dinner that night to welcome home both of the Jones daughters.
“Well,” said Cecilia as she handed the card to James, “I hope the vicar is invited.”
“I do as well,” he stated after reading the card. “Please excuse us, Mr. Inglewood. We need to return to our home to prepare for another engagement this evening. And allow me to say once again, congratulations with your success in your sailing.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” said Inglewood, not looking up at them, his sad attention fixed upon his beer.
“Do you suppose he’ll be all right?” Cecilia asked James softly as they left the tavern. “He’d been in such high spirits, and I’m afraid we dashed him to the ground. I hate to leave him like that.”
“I agree; however, I also deem it is time he acknowledges to himself—really acknowledges—what his father has done.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said his father wanted her dead, but I don’t feel he has accepted that belief in his heart, in his soul.”
“He may not have; however, I do. His father,ourmagistrate, deliberately killed his daughter, Georgia Inglewood.”
Cecilia tucked her arm through her husband’s and leaned her head against his shoulder. “But there is no proof.”
“No, and it doesn’t bring us any closer to knowing what happened to Mrs. Jones.”
Coggins metJames and Cecilia at the door to Summerworth Park. “You have visitors, my lady,” Coggins intoned formally.
Cecilia cocked her head. “Who?” she asked as they entered.
“A Miss Broadbank and a Miss Sandiford. I have taken the liberty of escorting them to the morning room and supplying them with lemonade and biscuits as I knew with the invitation from the Mortlakes, you would be returning shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coggins,” Cecilia said. She turned to James. “I wonder what these young women want?”
“Most likely something about Miss Inglewood.”
“Yes, I’d best not keep them waiting lest they become doubtful of their errand and seek to leave. Do you wish to join me?”
“No, I’m sure the young ladies will talk more freely with you if I am not around. I’ll go upstairs to tell my valet and your maid we shall be going out tonight so they may take out and press appropriate attire.”
