Page 74 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“He drove away! He didn’t stop. He just left that man there in the road. Poor Simpson! To think that he adored Papa so, when all that time Papa had killed Simpson’s father. And all this time, he’s held Papa’s confession, not knowing what it said. Never knowing the truth. Oh, Sloane!”

She burst into tears and Sloane quickly gathered her in his arms. He held her close as she sobbed, stroking her back and murmuring soft words of comfort. Finally her tears dwindled to a stop. For a moment she stood there, drawing strength from his solid warmth, then pulled back with a sigh.

“I knew Papa was...not a strong character. That he was impulsive and foolish with money—one could hardly live with Grandmother without hearing his weaknesses and failures. But I thought it was more than made up for by all his good qualities. The man I saw was the father who always had time for me and answered my questions and built me a dollhouse with a little dumbwaiter that actually moved. We’d make up stories about the people that lived in that dollhouse.”

“Your father was all those things as well,” Sloane told her. “And he provided for the man’s family as best he could, hiring the man’s son.”

“You’re standing up for him now?”

“No. But I hate for this to tarnish every memory you have of your father. I hate that it hurts you so deeply. I’m sorry that you had to see it.”

“Life would be easier if I hadn’t, but I’d rather know the truth.” Annabeth sighed, finally sitting down as weariness overtook her. Sloane sat across from her, holding her hand until she finally said, “Well, there’s nothing else to be found here. We should start back to London.”

“I’ll have the team harnessed and brought round.”

Annabeth spent most of the trip in silence, too tired and disillusioned to speak, her thoughts chaotic, but as the day wore on, her mind began to clear. That evening, sitting in the private room where they ate, she said, “I still don’t see how Papa’s confession connects to what Mr. Asquith is seeking. How could that terrible wreck have anything to do with the war or France or this spymaster Mr. Asquith wants to expose?”

She looked at Sloane, but he just shook his head. “Annabeth, please, don’t dwell on this. You’ll only make it worse. Just put it out of your mind.”

“How could I possibly do that?” Annabeth replied. “I want to read the rest of that letter. I only glimpsed the beginning. I didn’t—I couldn’t read on. Not with Simpson there so blissfully unaware of the awfulness contained in that letter.”

“Anna...” Sloane looked pained. “There’s no need for you to read it all, surely.”

“Are you refusing to give it to me?” Annabeth asked, astonished. “Are you hiding something else from me?”

“It’s just...government secrets...things no one should know about.” For once, the imperturbable Sloane was obviously rattled.

She stared. “You’re going to tell me I can’t see this when I have been running about all over the place trying to find it? You wouldn’t have even located that note without me.”

“Anna,” he said pleadingly. “You don’t want to see it. There could be things in there...”

“You said you would not lie to me. Are you going to break that promise already?”

Sloane let out a curse, but reached inside his jacket and pulled out the letter. He held it out to her, his face resigned and his eyes filled with misery. “Here.”

The look on Sloane’s face was so unhappy, even despairing, that Annabeth almost didn’t take the letter. But, surely, what could be worse in this letter than what she had already read?

She took the paper from him, unfolded it, and began to read her father’s words:

I committed an unforgivable act during my youth, which I have kept hidden for all this time. That initial sin has caused me to commit other wrongs, for which I am deeply sorry.

In the course of an evening of drinking, I drove my curricle in a race with a companion. Intent on winning, I did not slow my pace through the village of Billingscote, and I did not see a man step into the road. My vehicle struck him, killing him. As it was late at night, no one saw the accident, and in a moment of cowardice, I returned home and kept silent about what I had done.

I will not name my competitor in this race, for I was the one who killed the man, not he, and I bear full responsibility for what happened.

It deepens my shame and regret that this incident was used to compel me to betray my country by giving information to the French. I was able to free myself of this blackmail through the intervention of another, but the knowledge of what I have done has haunted my thoughts since.

I have decided that I can no longer remain silent. I can only beg my beloved family’s forgiveness for the shame this revelation will undoubtedly cause them.

William Hunter Winfield Jr.

Annabeth stared at the paper, unable to move or speak, a buzz filling her ears. She felt strangely detached, as if she were not really there, as if all around her, the world was receding from her.

“Annabeth!” Sloane said sharply, rising to go to her. “Put your head down. Don’t faint.”

“No,” she said, finally finding her voice, though it hardly felt like her speaking. “I’m not fainting. I just...can’t...” She stood, thrusting the paper at Sloane, and walked away.

“Anna... I’m sorry.” Sloane followed, reaching out to her.