Persuasion by Brenda Joyce Page B

William, hard. When he released him and straightened, he was still smiling.
    “I broke my horse,” John told him.
    “Miss Greystone wants to take us on a picnic,” William said eagerly. “Can we go, Father?”
    “Can we? Can we?” John cried, hopping up and down.
    His hand on William’s shoulder, Grenville turned and looked at her. Then his gaze moved behind her to Mrs. Murdock, who carried the baby. A chilling expression crossed his face.
    Alarm began. He did not want to see his daughter.
    He hadn’t looked at her at the funeral.
    But he quickly turned to both boys. “We will discuss the possibility of a picnic after you tell me all about your lessons.” And as both boys tried to speak at once, explaining why they had not been doing their lessons, he glanced up at Amelia.
    His face dark, he said, “I will see the child another time.” And he moved, putting his back between them and his sons.
    No action could have been as clear. They had been dismissed.
    Amelia took Mrs. Murdock’s arm in disbelief. As they stepped into the hallway, the governess looked at her, wide-eyed.
    He would not look at his own child, she thought, torn between anger and sorrow. How could he be so callous, so cold?
    “Oh, Miss Greystone,” Mrs. Murdock whispered. “I know you despise gossip, but I fear that this time, the gossip is true.”
    Amelia stared at her, then quickly turned and closed the dining-room doors. A terrible thought had occurred to her. “He blames this poor baby for his wife’s death,” she managed to say.
    “I do not think that is the case,” Mrs. Murdock said unevenly.
    “If you have another explanation, I should like to hear it!”
    “The child isn’t his.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    S OMEONE WAS KNOCKING on the door.
    He could not imagine who was there, in the middle of the night. The knocking became louder. It became insistent.
    And suddenly he knew who was at his front door and he sat up. Terror consumed him.
    “St. Just! Open up! We know who you are and what you have done!” a man shouted.
    They had discovered his identity, they knew he was playing both sides against one another, they meant to seize him, imprison him and return him to France!
    The memories—of women begging for the lives of their children, grown men weeping, of Danton so courageously standing before the guillotine, addressing the crowd—whirled and rioted in his mind.
    Thump. Aahhhh! Thump. Aahhhhh!
    He was going to be sick. He could not stand that sound, followed by those cheers....
    He looked down and saw the blood covering his body. Panic claimed him.
    And then he realized he was gripping the cold iron bars of his cell. He had already been returned to France—he was back in that prison—that place of no escape!
    Except the knocking was even louder now.
    Simon gasped, sitting bolt upright. Bright sunlight blinded him and he blinked. He was sitting on a magnificent gold-and-white brocade sofa, in a gold library, and it was the arm of the couch he held, not iron bars. He was drenched in sweat, not blood. A liveried servant was at the door of the library, with his luncheon tray.
    He was in his home at St. Just Hall, not in a prison in France.
    He slumped against the back of the sofa, gasping for breath. Would these nightmares never cease? They were becoming worse and worse. Not a night went by that he did not dream of being seized, imprisoned and sent to the guillotine. He had begun to avoid going to bed—he had begun to sleep as few hours as possible—all in the desperate hope of avoiding these terribly vivid nightmares.
    But he wasn’t in Paris now. Warlock meant to send him back, and he would probably have to go, but until then he was safe—as safe as someone in his position could possibly be.
    He closed his eyes, willing away the last remnants of terror and fear. And as he tried to regain his composure, so many jumbled-up pieces of his life assailed him. He saw his brother, Will, smiling at him as they stood on the beach, preparing