by Amy Corwin
After a few years as an indolent rake, he had decided he was not cut out to be at the beck-and-call of every beauteous lady who wanted a handsome gallant with no opinions of his own to escort her when her husband was unavailable. The church and the military held equally small appeal, although his family had encouraged him to pursue one or the other. Those careers were appropriate for a younger son.
William, however, failed to appreciate the suitability of either selection. So he ignored their gasps of horror and told them he had made a quite different decision.
He had joined Second Sons.
At first blush, it seemed to be a reasonable way to exercise his intellect. However, finding stray, light-fingered maidservants had not been the challenging sort of assignment he hoped to receive. And he spent considerably more time staring at the nymphs on the ceiling than doing anything even remotely interesting.
He was beginning to wonder if this “career” was not yet another blind alley, leading nowhere but down.
“About this 1806 fire?” William prompted his visitor.
“Yes, sir. It was a fire down Longmoor-way. The Marquess of Longmoor’s place. Elderwood it was called back then, while it still existed.”
“And what is this matter to you?”
“I was orphaned by the fire.”
“I see,” William said. “And you would have been, what? About nine at the time?”
“More or less,” Sanderson replied. His glance moved restlessly, focusing on the bookcase on William’s right. There was a brief gleam of interest in the gray eyes before he blinked and caught William’s gaze again. “This major had information about it. I want to know what.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you conducted your own inquiries?” William asked.
Five pounds would not cover his expenses. Mr. Gaunt would not be pleased, either. However, William was bored, and he had a small income of his own. He wasn’t averse to spending a few shillings if the prospect was intriguing enough.
Murder was oft-times of compelling interest.
There was also the lure of finally showing that he had an ounce or two of brain matter, which most of his acquaintances laughingly refused to acknowledge.
“I thought this place belonged to a gent named Mr. Gaunt,” Mr. Sanderson asked in an abrupt change of subject. “Do you work for him?”
William’s mouth twisted wryly. “We are associates.”
“Then you work for him. Perhaps you don’t have the authority to take on new cases? Where is Mr. Gaunt?”
So his client was sharper than his appearance suggested.
William revised his previous favorable opinion of Mr. Sanderson downward as his voice hardened with the steel snap of determination. “Mr. Gaunt is away. On another case. I assure you, I have complete discretion in the matter of accepting new cases.”
“Then you’re afraid?” There was something in his tone that suggested what he really meant was that he thought William was an idiot.
“I beg your pardon?” William asked, forcing his face into a bland mask as his annoyance blistered with low-burning anger.
“Well, you’re dithering, aren’t you?” Sanderson asked.
He wanted to reply that it wasn’t the danger in trying to find a killer that bothered him. It was the ridiculously low payment Mr. Sanderson offered.
However, when William gazed into those gray eyes, he found his anger ebbing and flowing away into sheepishness.
Only a low cit would haggle over money when someone obviously needed help.
The lurking fear in Sanderson’s gray eyes stirred a deep sense of gallantry in William.
Mr. Sanderson stood and thrust his hand out. “If you can’t make up your mind, then I’ve no need of your services. Good night to you, sir.”
William waved at the chair. “Sit down. I never said I wouldn’t take your case.”
“But you don’t want to, do you?” His shaggy head lifted at the sound of bells in the distance. “And I am missing my supper.”
“In fact, I do,” William said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk. “Now, let’s start again and never mind your supper.” After another glance at Mr. Sanderson’s thin face, he reached back to pull a bell rope dangling down in the corner behind him.
When Sotheby answered, William ordered a tray with a suitable meal for the both of them. Sotheby’s prim mouth pursed at the request, but he departed without lowering himself to the indignity of argument.
Facing his client, William found the young man had remained standing. He waved again at him to sit and grew impatient when Sanderson studied him thoughtfully before complying.
“Then start,” Sanderson said with startling frankness. “What do you want to know?”
Nonplussed, William stared back before forcing a smile. “Tell me about the fire. That is as good a place to begin as any.”
“I can only tell you what I remember,” Mr. Sanderson replied. “And that isn’t much. If I could remember everything, I wouldn’t need you, now, would I?”
William didn’t reply, thinking the remark fairly undeserving of any direct acknowledgement. After a suppressed sigh, he said, “Since you do appear to need me, I recommend you provide me with some information. And do so now—if it isn’t too much trouble.”
As William waited, Sanderson shifted in his seat. Then the lad reluctantly raised one hand to pull back the ragged brown hair hanging over his forehead. On the left temple, an old star-shaped scar puckered the skin.
“Yes, it appears I do need your services.” Sanderson’s brows rose briefly as if he had been about to add something cutting. Apparently, he thought better of it. “I don’t remember much.”
“You lived there? On the Elderwood estate?” William asked.
“Yes.”
“You must have been very young at the time, the child of a servant, I suppose.” William waited for a response, half-expecting an angry denial at his casual decision to cast Mr. Sanderson in the role of a servant’s child.
Mr. Sanderson shrugged and then glanced over his shoulder as Sotheby returned with a maid. They carried heavy wooden trays covered with squares of linen that draped over the sides. William pushed a few papers over to the corner of his desk and leaned back in his chair while Sotheby unloaded their steaming meal.
The butler set down a huge platter of roast beef, surrounded by new potatoes, peas, carrots, and browned onions in the center of the desk while the maid placed a dish of butter and loaf of fresh, fragrant bread at the corner, near Mr. Sanderson’s elbow. She gave a flirtatious glance and smile at him as she edged the pot of butter closer to him. The scent of warm yeast and richly browned meat filled the air of the small office. William’s appetite sharpened in response.
Although it was obvious the lad was exerting a great deal of willpower, Sanderson could not prevent his eyes from growing round with hunger. William pressed his lips together to keep from smiling and leisurely cut the roast, feeling Sanderson’s intense gaze watching him. When Sotheby and the maid left, William took the fork and placed two large slabs of beef on Sanderson’s plate, along with a huge mound of vegetables.
Sanderson waited, his hands knotted so tightly in his lap that the knuckles grew white under the pressure.
William transferred a slice to his own plate. Then he glanced at Sanderson and said, “Go on.”
There was no argument. Sanderson pulled his chair forward and draped one of the napkins over his lap before picking up his silverware. After a few minutes, William joined him, selecting a well-browned roast potato.
The lad ate quickly and neatly, with surprisingly good manners despite his obvious near-starvation. Again, William’s curiosity flickered.
Had Mr. Sanderson really been the child of a servant as he supposed, or something else entirely?
He had remarkably clean habits for a servant’s child who worked now as a common laborer. He knew which piece of silver to use and when. And his accent was an odd blend, as well. In fact, Sanderson presented a b
izarre mixture of incongruities as he sat opposite William, eating roast beef as if it was the last meal he would ever have.
When Sanderson’s plate was empty, he delicately picked up the serving fork and poised it over the roast beef until he caught William’s eyes. When William nodded, Sanderson took another large slice, along with a potato and onion.
“What do you do now?” William asked conversationally, trying to suppress his completely inappropriate feelings of satisfaction at providing Sanderson with the good, hearty meal he obviously needed.
The dietary habits of his clients were not his concern.
Sanderson chewed methodically and swallowed with his eyes half-closed in bliss before answering. “I’m a bricklayer. For Hawkins and Hawkins.”
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“They work out of Clapham.”
“Then why are you in London?”
“We’ve a job here. Laying a garden wall for one of the nobs near Portman Square.”
“Whose wall are you building?”
Sanderson shrugged, taking a long sip of the rich claret before cutting another piece of beef. “Don’t know their name. Doesn’t matter. Mr. Hawkins said they’re related to some duke, though. It’s of no importance.”
When Sanderson finally finished and drained the last of his wine, he wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and leaned back. His eyelids fluttered and drooped as if too tired to stay alert.
William stared, curious to see the area around the lad’s mouth finally clean and free of dust. He scratched his own chin. The stiff bristles made him aware of the late hour. After nine, surely.
Why didn’t Sanderson’s chin show the shadow of a beard, too? Trying to gauge his age obsessed him.
It was late in the day, and there was still a lot of brick dust over the lad’s face. However, unless he shaved before coming here, there was something very odd about him. And if he had shaved, where had all the grit on his face come from?
However, there was the scar on Sanderson’s forehead. Perhaps the head injury was not the only wound the lad had sustained in the fire. The fire might be responsible for Mr. Sanderson’s downy cheeks by robbing of him of his manhood as well as his parents.
The notion turned William’s thoughts down a less happy path. He liked Sanderson. The lad showed courage and a great deal of sense by coming here when he could obviously ill afford it. He had backbone and integrity.
And William was damned if he was going to let anything happen to the young man for want of trying.
In the end, he decided perhaps this was the case he had been waiting for. This inquiry could prove he was not just another idle lay-about with nothing to do but gamble and lift aging ladies’ skirts.
Agreeably replete, William rubbed the back of his neck before ringing for Sotheby to clear away the debris from their meal. He studied Sanderson, trying to evaluate his client. Despite the clatter of dishes, Sanderson’s head nodded. His chin hit his narrow chest once before he sat up, obviously struggling to stay awake against the exhaustion that smudged blue hollows around his eyes.
With the desk clear again, William leaned forward. “Tell me about this fire. What do you think this Major Pickering meant to tell you?”
“That fire could have been set. Deliberately. I didn’t think so until now.” He frowned, his eyes staring over William’s shoulder to the window behind him.
Night had fallen and passersby could see them clearly through the glass. A chill draft swirled over his shoulders. William felt the sudden urge to get up and close the dark green drapes at his back.
He resisted and drummed his fingers on his desk, instead. “Why?”
Sanderson shrugged. “I don’t know. But why else would the Major wish to speak to me about it? There’s no other reason. And he was killed before he could say.”
“Tell me what happened when you went to meet him.”
“Nothing. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I received that note from a child last night. This morning, I was late. I was a block away when I saw a man I assumed to be Major Pickering stabbed. So, I went on to work.” He shrugged. “What else could I do? I couldn’t help him.”
“You’re sure he was this Major Pickering?”
“No. But he had the bearing of a military man. He was waiting for someone at the appointed time and place. He—he started to wave when he saw me.”
“Was that when he was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone?”
The gray eyes flickered. Sanderson’s gaze shifted to the bookcase, again. Then he shrugged.
“Come, if you want me to help you, you must be honest,” William said. “What did you see?”
“Nothing for certain. A man in a black coat bent over him, seeming to search his pockets. I didn’t see who killed the Major. Or if the man in black took anything.”
“Then it could have been a footpad?”
“Perhaps.”
“But you think differently?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I—” He broke off, his lips compressed in a firm line.
“What?” William prompted. His client’s reluctance to speak grated on his nerves. How could he help Sanderson if the lad insisted on keeping secrets? If he had so little confidence in William, then why was he still sitting there?
“I believe I’ve been followed. For a week or more.” Sanderson’s cheeks flushed under the layer of dust.
William suppressed the urge to laugh.
“Followed?”
“Maybe,” he replied with a sulky tone. “And I’ve got to ask, sir, a favor if you take this case.” He waved at the wall separating William’s office from the hallway. “Your sign says discreet. That’s why I’m here and no other reason. You can nose around and find out what Major Pickering knew about that fire, but you must not mention my name. Not down past Clapham way and not in Longmoor.”
William felt a frisson of excitement. He sat up straighter, staring into the worried gray eyes of the lad in front of him. “Are you afraid you’ll be next, then? Is that why you’re here?”
“I know there was a fire in 1806, and I was the only one to escape with my life. I know I’ve felt eyes on the back of my neck since we came to London. And I know Major Pickering died before he could tell me what he wanted to say. That’s all I know, Mr. Trenchard, except one last thing. Don’t use my name when you go to Longmoor. Everyone believes I died in that fire. I’d be pleased to leave it that way.”
Although Sanderson tried to control it, fear rolled off him like black, acrid smoke, filling the shadowed corners of the room. Staring into his eyes, William had to fight the urge to order him to stay at the townhouse where he would be safe. He had a sudden, fleeting image of himself on a white horse, holding up a lance and shield to defend Sam Sanderson while the lad nodded and snored in the saddle behind him.
“Then why ask me to investigate?” William asked gently, trying to understand his client and yet maintain his careful distance.
His father used to complain William thought with his heart instead of his head. It was a trait William tried his utmost to quell, though he usually failed. Even Mr. Gaunt had warned him. Once one got emotionally involved, it became impossible to investigate properly—one began ignoring vital factors. Particularly if they lead to uncomfortable conclusions.
“Because I don’t want to end up like Major Pickering, that’s why. Now do we have a contract, sir?”
William stood up and stretched his hand across the desk. Mr. Sanderson rose, his gaze honest and direct as he shook hands.
“Yes, Mr. Sanderson. I’ll accept your guinea as a down payment, with the rest due upon completion. Is that agreeable?”
“It is, sir. You do your part, and you’ll get fair recompense. You have my word on it.”
William doubted that they would agree on what constituted fair recompense. But he shook hands, nonetheless, thinking about the tragic futility of knighthood.
Chapter Three
After politely bidd
ing Mr. Trenchard goodnight, Sam shoved her hat back on her head and left, glad to escape. Once or twice, she had debated revealing she was a woman, but in the end, there seemed little point. It would only complicate matters.
The inquiry agent had not been what she had expected. He was far too handsome, for one thing. In her experience, beautiful men scarcely had enough wit to keep from drowning in shallow puddles after a decent rain.
However, Mr. Trenchard caught on quickly—too quickly at times—and once or twice she had found herself wanting to rest her head on his shoulder and pour out her entire story to him. Let him defend her, if he would, or could.
And he had such beautiful eyes, blue as the summer sky, and warm with sympathy. Or so it seemed. However, he also thought she was a boy, or rather a young man. No doubt if he knew what she had been thinking about his blue eyes, he would have beaten her and tossed her out on her ear for her unwholesome and unnatural feelings.
In any event, she had grown too used to thinking of herself as a man to change now.
The decision to become a boy had been easy. Orphaned girls didn’t fare as well as males, unless they had a fancy to lift their skirts to make a living. And she had been fortunate to find Hawkins. He proved to be a tough but fair employer, and he treated her well enough.
Over time, he’d accepted Samuel and since in his limited experience little boys generally grew into men, he never questioned that his “Samuel” might actually be a “Sarah.”
He saw what he expected to see, just like everyone else.
So Sarah remained hidden and perfectly safe until Mr. Hawkins expanded his business into the very heart of London.
With the night pressing around her, Sam stepped down the front walk, feeling alone and vulnerable. Could Trenchard really help her? She wasn’t convinced, despite their agreement.
She had seen the proprietor, Mr. Gaunt, going in and out of the building many times. Once or twice, he had nodded at her when their paths crossed at the corner. It was him she had sought.
Sam’s landlady, Mrs. Pochard, adored gossiping about Mr. Gaunt so Sam knew he had solved at least two murders. He was intelligent and knew what he was about. It was said there was not a case he could not resolve.
