by Amy Corwin
“You’re lucky he stayed with you,” William commented. “A bright lad can get softer work than bricklaying.”
“Yes, we're lucky. Though I don’t depend upon luck, myself. Hope to bind him to me permanent-like, soon. Next week, in fact.”
While William studied Sam Sanderson, a dull gleam caught his eye. One of the windows in the townhouse beyond the rear wall of the Archers’ grounds opened. The room beyond the window was lost in shadows. He could make out nothing until a slow movement arrested his attention. An odd, thin shadow grew, cast over the bricks under the glass as if something protruded from the window.
At this distance and angle, and against the darkness of the room, it was hard to be sure. But it looked like the barrel of a rifle. When the barrel moved slightly, pointing down at the men working on the garden wall, he knew for certain.
He ran forward, knowing he was already too late. A loud report echoed off the walls of the brick houses, reverberating sharply.
Simultaneously, a large white object sailed out of the sky. It arced downward in front of his face. Before he could catch it, the object shattered against Sanderson’s head, just as the lad flipped his hat up again to reset it on his head.
Sanderson collapsed against the half-formed wall. His body knocked off the most recent row of bricks as he fell, seconds before William reached him.
“God almighty!” Hawkins yelled. “What in blazes are you about?” Three of the other men stood back, tools in hands, mouths agape.
Reaching Sanderson, William rolled him over. The young man’s face was covered with blood. Bits of white crockery clung to his blond-streaked hair, darkly saturated with water and blood. Broken pottery shards littered his shoulders and the ground around him.
A pool of water glittered under the midday sun as the dry dirt greedily absorbed the liquid.
Someone in the Archer house had thrown a water jug at Sanderson’s head.
William glanced up at the rear townhouse. The rifle was gone, and the window was demurely shut.
When he looked over his shoulder at the Archer’s townhouse, pale draperies fluttered around an open window. No one stood there. But even as he watched, the kitchen door burst open. A slender man ran out.
“Is he alive?” the man called, pushing past the workers standing around staring at Sanderson and William.
“I don’t rightly know, Mr. Archer, sir,” Hawkins replied, trying to pull William out of the way.
Shrugging Hawkins’s grip off his shoulder, William ran a hand over the lad’s head. A large gash sluggishly bled where the jug had hit him. But there was no bullet wound. He pulled the hat out of Sanderson’s limp hand. One hole ran through the crown and exited out another hole, torn through the rear brim.
He glanced up at the back of the other townhouse again, conscious of their vulnerable, exposed. The shadow in the window had been a rifle. And rifles could be reloaded. The yard penned them in, making the lad an easy target.
“He’s alive. I’m taking him inside,” William said curtly, grabbing Sanderson’s right arm and hoisting him over his shoulder.
“You are, are you?” Archer asked. His brown eyes caught William’s gaze. The disconcerting glitter of amused excitement shone in their depths.
The muscles in William’s jaw tightened with anger. He shifted his burden.
“There’s no need,” Hawkins said, hastily stepping between the two men. “Lay him here. ’Twas an accident, nothing more. He’ll be right enough in a minute.” He turned to the slender man. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Archer.”
“Is this your house?” William asked.
“Yes, it is. Though I fail to see how it’s any of your affair,” Archer answered with admirable sangfroid.
“Then send for the doctor. I’m taking him inside.” William couldn’t prevent his gaze from slipping back toward the window at the rear of the yard. While it was shut, there was a controlled movement within the shadows beyond the glass. “Now.”
Archer, noting the direction of William’s gaze, flicked a quick glance at the townhouse before striding off with a peremptory wave. “Come, then.”
“But, sir!” Hawkins protested. “But, sir, you can’t—”
“Don’t be an ass,” William replied, using Sanderson’s dangling legs to push Hawkins out of the way. “You can’t leave an injured man lying in the dirt.”
“Of course, not! But there’s the cart—”
The kitchen door was already open, held by Archer. He stood to one side as William carried Sanderson’s limp form into the kitchen. Archer’s wiry body was taut, humming with tension like a violin string as he passed him.
“Just a moment,” John Archer said, slipping back out the kitchen door.
William stood there briefly before pushing open the door with his foot and gazing outside after Archer. The man had jumped down the steps and was going along the wall of the townhouse, running his hands over the bricks. Near the alleyway, he paused, his fingers poking at the bricks about waist-high. Then he stood, brushed his hands off on his fawn-colored breeches, and dashed back to the kitchen.
“Come alone.” Archer passed William and led the way up a narrow staircase. “Lady Vee will never forgive me if I let blood drip all over the main stairs. These will have to do.” He paused at the turn to a second flight. “Do you want me to take him?”
“No,” William replied. The body was not as light as he expected, but he was damned if he’d let Archer carry Sanderson.
“One more flight.” Archer leapt up the stairs ahead of him, taking two steps with each stride.
On the third floor, Archer guided them through a series of corridors. They finally moved into the wider hallway where the family’s apartments would normally be situated. William glanced at him in surprise but followed, struggling to catch his breath.
“Here we are. The blue room. Not one of the larger suites, I’m afraid, but it should do for our guest.” Archer swept back a pale blue velvet bed cover with a flourish. “Well, come on, man, put him down. You can’t carry the lad all day.”
Hand cradling Mr. Sanderson’s head, William bent over the bed and placed his burden down. Sanderson’s face dripped blood and water over the white linen pillow. Under the layer of brick dust, his skin was gray. William held his hand briefly over his nose and mouth, relieved to feel a damply warm puff of air move over his fingers.
“John!” a lady’s voice called from the doorway. “What happened? Nash said there was an accident of some sort—is that blood?” She rushed into the room and clutched Archer’s arm as she stared down at Sanderson.
“It’s quite all right, Lady Vee, dearest,” Archer said, patting his wife’s hand. “But you might send for the doctor.”
“Nash already sent for him.” The lady moved to stand closer to the bed. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” William answered, eyeing Archer. “Someone threw a jug of water out the window. Jug and all.”
A half-smile flickered over Archer’s lips. “Would you rather I yelled?” he asked, his voice soft.
“I—”
“And with what result?” Archer asked, cutting him off. “Your friend would have stood and turned around to face me.”
A shock shivered through William. Archer was right. If Sanderson had been standing straight instead of partially bent over the wall, the bullet would have passed through his head instead of his hat.
“You threw a jug at one of the workman?” The lady stared at her husband. “Oh, John, how could you?”
“It slipped,” Archer lied while sliding an arm around her waist. He gave her a squeeze and grinned.
She gazed at Archer as if in disbelief for a few moments before she seemed to realize William was there. When she turned to face him, another jolt of surprise coursed through him. The lady had very familiar cool, gray eyes.
“Do we know you, sir?” she asked.
He sketched a bow. “Mr. William Trenchard.”
The lady waited. When her husband didn’t sa
y anything, she nudged him with her elbow.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Trenchard, this lady is my wife, Lady Victoria.”
According to the broadsheets, Lady Victoria was the sister of the dead Marquess of Longmoor. Her eyes were softer and somehow sadder than Mr. Sanderson’s, but there was no denying their similarities. Mr. Sanderson’s jaw was a little squarer, and he didn’t have the long, aristocratic face of his aunt, but there were definite signs of kinship. Sanderson’s hair was bleached in blond streaks, and Lady Victoria’s thick tresses were streaked with gray, however the basic underlying color was an identical warm brown.
The definite family resemblance prodded William to pick up Sanderson and get him out of the Archer’s townhouse.
Now.
“How did you happen to be present during this dreadful accident, Mr. Trenchard?” Lady Victoria bent to brush the wet hair off Mr. Sanderson’s face. Then, she rested the back of her hand against his forehead and frowned with concern.
“I was coming to see Mr. Hawkins about some business,” he lied just as easily as Archer.
Mr. Archer gave him a quick glance. William smiled blandly.
“But who is this poor lad?” Pulling a linen handkerchief out of her sleeve, she wiped the streaks of blood from Sanderson’s face. She gently threaded her fingers through the shaggy hair, searching for the injury. “He has a terrible gash on his head, John.” She glanced up at her husband, her mouth tight. “Oh, John, how could you be so clumsy?”
Archer shrugged. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His brown eyes watched William.
Instead of responding directly to his wife, he said, “So, Mr. Trenchard, you’re looking for a bricklayer, are you?”
“Apparently.”
“Then, I suppose you’ll want to return downstairs to speak to Mr. Hawkins.”
“Later perhaps. I’d like to know the lad is well before I leave.”
“Feel responsible for him, do you?”
William shrugged.
“Do I know any Trenchards?” Archer asked, pulling his lower lip in a considering way.
“My eldest brother is Lord Trenchard.”
Archer began rocking again, his lips curled into a smile. “Then you are the younger brother?”
“The youngest of four. Yes.”
“I see. How very interesting.” There was a moment of silence as Archer studied William. “You don’t happen to know this lad’s name, do you? I can’t help but wonder. Under the circumstances. You’re so solicitous of his well-being.”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Hawkins.”
“I believe I’ll do that. Excuse me, won’t you?” Archer strolled out, leaving William standing like a dolt in the middle of the room.
“Would you care to have a seat, Mr. Trenchard, while we wait for the physician?” Lady Victoria asked, still cleaning Sanderson’s face.
“Thank you.” He sat in a wing chair just as Lady Victoria rose from her perch on the side of the bed.
She pulled the bell rope dangling next to the headboard. “Would you care to assist me? I would, at least, like to remove his shoes.”
While Lady Victoria took possession of the left foot, William walked around the bed and took the right. The heavy leather shoes were tightly laced and covered with reddish brick dust like every other inch of Sanderson. They pulled off the shoes. The action raised a thick, vermillion cloud that Lady Victoria waved away, trying not to sneeze.
“Should we remove his smock? It’s dreadfully…well, messy.”
“Don’t you have a valet? Or a maid?” William asked.
She surprised him by laughing. “Yes, but they are awfully proud. They would most likely hand in their notices immediately if I were to ask them to remove this poor gentleman’s garments.”
“Then allow me.” William worked an arm behind Sanderson’s thin shoulders and tried to ease the smock upward without much success.
“Here,” Lady Victoria said, slipping her hand under Sanderson’s thighs. “Do allow me to assist.”
Between the two of them, they managed to pull the smock over Sanderson’s head, letting loose another thick fog of gritty dust. At least the trousers and linen shirt he wore under the smock were moderately clean and free of dirt. Lady Archer pulled the sheets up over Sanderson’s still form, gently placing each of his hands on top of his chest.
“He looks much more comfortable, now. Do take a seat, Mr. Trenchard.”
“Thank you.” William sat down, only to rise once more as Archer breezed back into the room.
“Sanderson,” Archer announced. “His name is Samuel Sanderson.”
“Samuel Sanderson?” Lady Victoria turned pale. She grasped the bedpost at the foot of the bed. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what Hawkins said. Samuel Sanderson.”
She gave a breathless laugh. “It must be a coincidence, mustn’t it?”
A maid chose that minute to come bustling into the room carrying a huge tray. There was a jug of water sitting in a heavy white basin, a pile of towels, as well as a coffee pot and several cups. Behind her was a middle-aged gentleman carrying a doctor’s bag.
“Archer!” the gentleman said, vigorously shaking hands with Archer. “You old reprobate! What is it this time?”
“A bump on the head. Nothing more serious.” Archer waved at William. “Dr. Barker, this is Mr. Trenchard. Our patient is the lad snoring comfortably in our bed.”
The doctor bustled over and dropped his bag on the blanket. “What happened?” He gripped Sanderson’s chin and rotated his head left and right before he began pushing the short hair out of the way.
“I dropped a jug of water on his head.”
“Is that all?” the doctor laughed. “I expected worse when I heard the Archers needed my assistance. No bullets to remove? Knife wounds? Slashes from a sword?”
Archer chuckled while Lady Victoria remained standing at the foot of the bed. She stared down at the unconscious man, her face tense with concern.
“Not this time,” Archer said. “Just a few stitches.”
“A few stitches, perhaps, but this is a serious concussion.” He raised Sanderson’s eyelids and peered down, studying the eyes before he picked up a thin wrist to measure the heartbeat. “Strong, steady pulse. He was lucky it happened here where he could get immediate care.”
“Yes, very,” Archer agreed.
The doctor wasted no time. He ordered the maid to wash out the blood matted in Sanderson’s hair while the physician organized his supplies. After threading a curved needle, he quickly stitched up the wound, biting off the white thread with his teeth when he was done.
To William’s surprise, the doctor chose to do the bandaging himself instead of asking the maid. He swathed long strips of linen around Sanderson’s skull until no hair was visible except a few pale blond-streaked strands sticking straight out of the top.
“I shouldn’t move him,” Dr. Barker said at last, straightening. “He may be unable to keep food down for a day, or so. Try a little broth. And perhaps some eggs. No fruit or vegetables—they’re too difficult to digest.” He felt the pulse again with one hand while he thoughtfully scratched his double chin with the other. “Perhaps I should bleed him to prevent a fever from taking hold.”
“No, please,” Lady Victoria said. “Let’s wait. Leave him alone for now.” Her voice shook with agitation.
William studied her, curious at her intensity.
Was it guilt that made Lady Victoria so pale? She studied the lad, twisting her thin hands around the bedpost, her eyes dark and troubled.
Did her reaction confirm William’s suspicion that the Archers had been deliberately absent during the fire? Perhaps Lady Victoria had not been overly fond of her brother and had hoped to inherit. Now, she might feel guilty about the children they had murdered.
Including her own daughter.
Archer glided over to put an arm around his wife’s trim waist. “Don’t worry, my love. He’
ll be right as a trivet in a day, or two.”
“Bleeding would be best. To prevent a fever,” the doctor repeated.
Archer shook his head. “Never mind. He’s a strong lad. There’s always tomorrow if you want a pint or so of his blood.”
Dr. Barker laughed and packed away his needles and thread. “There is that. And knowing you, Mr. Archer, by morning there may be a more interesting case here than this paltry injury. Good day to you, gentlemen. And Lady Victoria—a pleasure, as always.”
The maid picked up the basin of reddish water and the bundle of stained rags before following the doctor through the door. William waited quietly, watching Lady Victoria. Her lips trembled as she stared down at Sanderson.
“Oh, John,” she said at last, her voice quavering.
“Hush. You should lie down.” Archer gently removed his wife’s stiff, white fingers from the bedpost and guided her toward the door. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Trenchard,” he called over his shoulder.
Alone with Sanderson, William leaned over the bed, determined to know, one way or the other. Sanderson’s clean face looked unlined despite the tanned cheeks and sunburned, peeling nose. He appeared curiously child-like with his eyes closed. William ran his knuckles over the square chin. No stubble. In front of the ears were a few, soft strands of hair with no indication of whiskers.
He untied the string at the neck of Sanderson’s shirt and slipped his hand down the narrow chest. Tight bands of linen encased the ribcage. Despite that, William could feel the soft, barely-discernable swellings of breasts under his palms. He ran his hands lower still. There was a leather codpiece, but it protected nothing except a woman’s soft curves.
Not Samuel, but his older sister, Sarah.
His previous feeling of protectiveness grew triple-fold and swamped him with its intensity. She had suffered so much already and had miraculously survived. She deserved so much more than this hard life she lived. Admiration, respect—all the things she would not get if anyone discovered her history and sex.
