by Amy Corwin
William picked up the box only to realize the lock was an eagle, not a gryphon. And it was not bird’s eye, just ordinary, although very beautiful, maple.
“That’s not—” Sarah frowned.
“No, I’m sorry,” William said, keeping his voice casual despite his irritation with her interruption. “This isn’t the box I want.”
“But it will do, won’t it?” The clerk opened the container, revealing a padded lining of pale blue velvet upon which rested a key. “Look at the craftsmanship.” He picked up the key and closed the box, locking it as William watched. “You see, sir? Beautiful mechanism. Complete with key, you could have it for two pounds.”
“That isn’t the box I want.” William gripped Sarah’s wrist and pulled her behind him. He would obtain no information if she angered the touchy clerk.
The man leaned forward, pushing the maple box toward William. “Just examine it yourself. I could see my way to selling it for, let’s say, one pound. Mr. Manfred’ll be displeased, sir, but I can see you appreciate the fine craftsmanship. Come, what do you say? One pound?”
“No. The box I want is bird’s eye maple. Did you sell such a box this morning?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve sold many items this morning—”
“Where are your records?”
“Records? What records?”
Sarah leaned around him. “Your records of sales—”
“Quiet,” William said. “One more word, and you’ll go wait by the door.”
Sarah glared at him and clamped her mouth into a thin line. Pressing his hands down on the counter, William said slowly, “I wish to see your sales records for this morning. For the maple box you sold.”
The clerk wasn’t immediately amenable to the idea of allowing him to view his business records. Finally, William made it perfectly clear that there would be no more sales made that day until his requirement was met.
“We sold it to this gentleman,” the clerk pointed at the entry in the book. It listed the bird’s eye maple box and a price of two pounds.
“Did you open it?”
“The key was missing, sir. Mr. Manfred felt it might damage the lock if we was to force it.” When William continued to stare at him, he rubbed the knuckles of his right hand nervously. “Mr. Carnaby knew there was no key when he purchased the item. It was done all right and proper.”
“I’m sure it was. Do you have Mr. Carnaby’s address?”
“Well…”
William flipped a sovereign onto the counter. It spun on its rim, not even completing one revolution before the clerk snapped it up in his thin, damp fingers and tucked it in his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Sarah sounded shocked.
“Door, Mr. Sanderson.” He waited until she took a step back before he glanced at the clerk.
“We don’t normally give out our customers’ addresses, you understand. This is highly irregular.”
“Give me the address.” William suppressed the urge to jump over the counter and beat the clerk senseless. He was growing very tired of bribing clerks.
“I can’t afford—” Sarah whispered into the nape of his neck.
“Sanderson…” He growled.
Fortunately, the wiry man finally did as he was bid and gave William the address. And Mr. Carnaby lived not too far distant from Bond Street.
“You gave him a sovereign!” Sarah complained as they exited the shop.
“Indeed.”
“I can’t afford that!”
“No one asked you to.”
Sarah’s lips trembled as if she were about to cry. “I pay my debts.”
“Sar—Sanderson, we can discuss this when we settle our accounts. Now why don’t you go home and get some rest?”
“Rest?” She snorted. “I’ve work to do—especially if you make a habit of wasting my money on every weasely clerk in London!”
A twinge of guilt flashed over him. “You need rest—you’re worrying over nothing.”
“I need to work. And I’ve plenty to fret over as you well know!” She turned on her worn heel and abruptly stalked off, her back stiff with anger.
William almost ran after her before prudence returned. They both had work to do.
He paused, trying to decide if he should take a hackney or walk. Sheer exhaustion made him raise his arm to hail a coach. Then, before it came to a complete halt in front of him, he waved it on with a sense of shame at his laziness.
He couldn’t quite forget a pair of gleaming gray eyes with a hint of disdain in their depths. Sarah Sanderson wouldn’t dream of squandering a few shillings on a coach to take her less than eight blocks. And she was on her way to build a brick wall despite the gash on her head.
Someone was trying to kill her.
He wondered uneasily how she would cope with today’s labors. Her slender body had felt so fragile when he held her in his arms yesterday. He should not have pressed her so hard. The horror in her eyes as she remembered that terrifying night so long ago would not leave him alone.
He should have tried more vigorously to stop her from going to work. She was strong, but no longer strong enough to take care of herself. Even he had proven himself stronger during their brief struggle that morning when she’d tried so desperately to refuse the comfort he offered. She was not as fierce as she pretended. He had held her—at least for a moment.
And he was glad of it. He remembered the soft texture of her tousled hair when he rested his chin on the top of her head. The feeling that she belonged there, leaning against him.
“Is Mr. Carnaby at home?” he asked when the butler opened the door at the address the clerk had given him.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, but I only need a few moments of his time.” William pulled out a calling card and handed it to him.
He read it before gazing even more coldly at William. “And inquiry agent?”
“Yes. A small matter. It won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe Mr. Carnaby is at home.”
“Not at home at all? Or not at home to an inquiry agent?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Perhaps I may leave a message?” William asked.
“I will relay it for you.”
William shook his head. “No, it’s a delicate matter. If you would allow me to write him a brief note, I would be very appreciative.”
Another gold sovereign escaped from William’s pocket. The coin landed in the butler’s gloved hand. Thank goodness Sarah was not there to complain of the expense.
At this rate, her five pounds wouldn’t even cover the bribes.
The butler escorted him to a small antechamber with a tiny desk tucked beneath a shelf bearing an assortment of hats and gloves. After providing him with a quill and bottle of ink, the butler stood in the door with his back to him.
After a brief review of his alternatives, William decided to appeal to Mr. Carnaby’s sympathy. He requested an interview with him to buy back the box, claiming it had a great deal of sentimental value as it was all he had left of his late mother.
He sanded the paper and folded it with one of his calling cards inside. Standing up, he handed it to the butler who carefully placed it on a silver tray in the hallway.
“I will ensure Mr. Carnaby receives this, sir,” he said as he escorted William to the door.
At loose ends, he wandered back to Second Sons, virtuously avoiding the use of a hackney coach.
Chapter Eleven
Sarah immediately regretted her insistence on returning to work on foot. She should not have been so proud. The pain in her head redoubled and throbbed with each jarring step.
Nonetheless, she had made an important discovery. William Trenchard was more competent than she credited him. In fact, she hadn’t lied when she claimed to trust him. She did, except, perhaps, with money.
“Mr. Sanderson!” Mr. Hawkins greeted her with a relieved smile.
She gave him a weary
grin in return. “I’m sorry I’m late, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he blustered. “We never expected to see you today, after all. Not after that accident.” He gestured toward the wall that had grown at least one foot since she saw it last. “Why didn’t you stay abed?”
“No need. I’m well and ready to work, sir.”
He glanced over his thick shoulder at the house behind them, as if expecting to see another jug come flying out the window while they stood talking.
“If you’re sure, Mr. Sanderson.” He dug into a pocket and extracted his wallet. “And of course here’s your wages. The others were paid yesterday. It’ll be a bit short, you understand, what with the accident and loss of time.”
“Of course, sir,” she replied, forcing a smile. “And I’d best be getting to work today, hadn’t I? I don’t want to miss another day’s wages.”
“That’s the lad!” he said, patting her shoulder with approval. “You’ve a great deal of sand, I always say.”
She nodded, pleased with the compliment, and joined the other men who seemed glad to see her. It rather touched and surprised her when they took pains to keep the wheel barrow closest to her well filled with bricks so she could avoid repeatedly bending over. Her pace was slower than usual, but by six p.m., she had added another foot to the wall. Three more days and they’d be finished with the low, waist-high wall and arched gateway.
“Will you be joining us tonight at the Bull and Feathers?” one of the fellows asked as he wiped off their tools with oil and rags before locking them in Hawkins’s tool chest. “Seeing as how it’s Friday and all.”
Shaking her head, she cleaned her hands with a scrap of cloth and pried out the gritty mortar from under her nails.
“Not tonight,” she replied. “Half-day tomorrow. I’d be glad to share a pint or more with you, then.” She chuckled and added, “I’m seeing double already. Like as not, I’d mistake your pint for mine and never make it home again.”
One of the lads poked her in the ribs with his elbow and winked. “Oh, we’d see you back home, right enough. Unless you’d rather another night with old Peg. Won’t be many more of those when you’re shackled to the master’s daughter.” He grinned and scratched his groin. “You’ve got plenty o’ ash and sulfur from what I hear, so what’s one more tumble with Peg?”
Sarah gave him a sharp jab right back and laughed, helping the others pack up the cart. “As if you don’t have your own supply of ash and sulfur, you lout. And you'd best be using it before you maul poor Sally tonight. God knows she’s a tolerant wench to tolerate the likes of you. I’ve often thought of giving her the blessing of my company to let her know all men aren’t such nodcocks as you lot. Waste of good ale and willing women, you are.”
They snorted and traded a few more good-natured insults before the men wandered off in the direction of the tavern.
“Climb up, my boy,” Hawkins said from atop the cart. He already held the leather reins in his hands.
About to clamber into the vehicle, Sarah was distracted by a man singing loudly at the mouth of the alley.
“Hey!” he yelled as he veered toward them, stumbling against the wall a few yards away. “You got a pint o’ knock-me-down?” He fell and then pulled himself up, giggling. Facing the wall, he mumbled a few words, his hands feeling along the bricks. “Lovely, solid wall, lovely.”
“Here, now,” Hawkins called to him in a sharp voice. “You stay away, you hear? You’re top heavy as a Frenchman. Come on Sanderson, up you go.”
Sarah gripped the edge of the seat and was hoisting herself up when the drunk reeled into her. He caught her, one hand around her middle, and knocked her off the cart. Both of them tumbled into the rubble in the alleyway.
Dazed, she tried to push him off. He lay like a dead weight on her back. She couldn't move. Pulling her arms under her chest, she struggled to find enough leverage to roll him off.
Above, she heard Hawkins swear. “Be off with you, you sot!” He climbed down and picked the drunk up by the collar, tossing him toward the wall.
“Mr. Sanderson, are you injured?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Fine,” she said. She staggered to her feet and brushed the dust off her smock.
Hawkins grabbed her chin to get a better look at her head. “Well, you look right enough.” He glanced over at the drunk who leaned against the building, his broad-brimmed hat slouching over his eyes. “Be off with you!” Hawkins yelled before climbing back into the cart.
The drunk tottered a few feet and slid to the ground, singing softly to himself.
Climbing into seat next to Hawkins, Sarah felt a tearing sensation deep inside. It shivered over her ribs on the left side, and she flinched.
Hawkins didn't notice. He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, encouraging the horse to trot forward. The jarring movement made her sick with pain.
Sarah slipped her fingers under her arm. Something warm and sticky seeped through her smock. A strange, whirling sensation spun through her.
The drunk stabbed me!
She pressed her hand against her side with her arm, unwilling to alert Mr. Hawkins to her new injury. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but… She felt confused and more than a little frightened.
She had to find Mr. Trenchard.
She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder, almost too afraid to look for fear of seeing a rifle pointed at her back. The drunkard had stumbled away into the shadows of the alley and disappeared from sight. Tightening her arm, she prayed the wrappings she wore around her chest to disguise her femaleness would at least staunch the flow of blood.
She bit the inside of her mouth with pain and exasperation. The tight linen had proved utterly useless for their real purpose, at least as far as Mr. Trenchard had been concerned.
“You look a mite pale, lad,” Hawkins said as he brought the cart to a halt in front of Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house. “You get a good night’s sleep. You’ll be sound as a trivet tomorrow.” He slapped Sarah’s thigh. “Now don’t you worry about putting the cart away tonight, or the loading tomorrow. I’ll send for one of the other lads. We’ll see you at half-past seven, sharp.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sarah jumped down. Suddenly dizzy, she stumbled and gripped the side of the cart. Her side throbbed. The street bobbed and buckled beneath her feet.
“Are you well, lad?”
“Yes.” She touched her head. “My head’s aching, that’s all.”
“You get right to bed, then. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
She nodded and stepped up the few steps to the shallow stoop in front of the townhouse. Opening the door, she hesitated, watching Mr. Hawkins drive the cart away.
One thought obsessed her, giving her abnormal, shivering energy. She needed William Trenchard. Then she amended the thought hastily. She had find out if he had managed to obtain the box. Because, despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t sleep until she had seen him and knew if he succeeded.
When Mr. Hawkins disappeared around the corner, Sarah wearily made her way across the street, dodging the carriages and horses moving past in a constant, noisy stream. Her side burned as she stumbled up the steps to Second Sons. She tripped on the middle step and caught the railing, slowly crumbling.
“Mr. Sanderson!” Sotheby opened the door. He took one look at her and ushered her into Trenchard’s office.
Rude though it was, she sat without being asked. She shut her eyes and let her head bob forward until her chin rested against her chest.
Just a minute—just a few seconds of rest. The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her shoulder.
“Sarah,” Mr. Trenchard said.
She glanced over at the door, afraid the butler would hear. The door was mercifully closed. When she looked at Mr. Trenchard, his gold hair was tousled, and he still wore his abominable dressing gown.
“So, you’ve slept all day?” She struggled to remain alert and focused her gaze on his chest in disbelief.
He ran a hand through his disordered locks. “No, I haven’t slept the entire day. Although you do have a way of arriving at exceptionally awkward times.”
“You’ve just awakened!” she said, tired and aggrieved. She was injured and had worked all day while he had done nothing but loll around in his no doubt vast bed, most likely with some low woman.
“Yes, I have—”
“Well, go back to your ladybird if that’s how you want to spend your time. I should have known better than to trust a handsome face.” Annoyance granted her a brief surge of energy.
Instead of an angry retort, he just sat on the edge of his desk. His gleaming blue eyes studied her as a slow grin twisted his mouth. “I’ll have you know I’ve had exactly one hour of rest in the last two days.”
He had been with a woman! He couldn’t even be bothered to deny it.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Yours, I’m afraid.” His foot began swinging in a maddeningly irritating way. “I haven’t had time for any other females. Very distressing, really.”
She snorted to cover her relief, although she still felt aggrieved that he had been relaxing while someone tried to kill her. She eyed him and took a deep breath, flinching when her side burned. The bright room dimmed, and before she could speak, the combined forces of nausea and dizziness nearly made her slip out of her chair.
“Sarah, what’s wrong?” He stood up and gripped her shoulder.
“Nothing,” she whispered. She was so tired. Exhausted. It was an effort just to speak. “Did you get the box, then?” The words dragged out slowly.
“Not yet.” He gripped her chin and raised her face. “Sarah!”
“What?” She tried to summon up the energy to express her outrage at his failure. But there wasn’t enough blood in her to burn with rage.
