A Lady in Hiding

by Amy Corwin

  “I am sorry, John. It is just so difficult…”

  “I understand you were not present at Elderwood when the fire broke out?” William asked.

  “No, we were not,” Archer replied firmly. “It was a terrible tragedy, one that affects my wife to this day. So you can understand, surely, if we wish to find this Samuel Sanderson.”

  “Sanderson is a common enough name. So is Samuel. What makes you believe he's your nephew? Wouldn’t he have gone to you after losing his parents, if you were indeed his family?”

  “There was a great deal of confusion after the fire. It wasn’t immediately known that we were not caught in the blaze. Who can say what a nine-year-old boy would do? We are simply relieved he survived.”

  “If he is your nephew.”

  Archer snorted and fidgeted in his seat. He put his right foot back on the floor and changed to cross his left ankle over his knee. “He is the right age. I’ve spoken to Mr. Hawkins—Mr. Sanderson made his acquaintance in Clapham just a few weeks after the fire. When the lad was nine.” He gestured toward his wife. “He has the Sanderson eyes. Gray.”

  “There are a great many people with gray eyes. And I would imagine a significant number of them may even be named Sanderson. I repeat, it is not an uncommon name.”

  “He is my nephew! I know it!” Lady Victoria said, rising to her feet. Her entire body trembled as she stared at William. “Please, I beg of you! You must tell me where he is!”

  “I understand he has a room nearby—”

  “At that Pochard creature’s rooming house. Yes, yes, we’ve been there. He hasn’t returned there. Although I understand from Hawkins that he was working today on the wall. The young fool,” Mr. Archer said, clearly proud of the “lad’s” determination.

  William rubbed his temple. Finally, he met Archer’s level gaze. “May I ask where you were this evening?”

  “This evening?” Archer repeated.

  “Yes. Between six and seven, to be precise.”

  Archer glanced at his wife.

  She simply stared at William, a confused look on her face.

  Archer put both feet on the floor and stood up to pace the area behind his wife. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, but we were visiting my nephew, the Duke of Peckham. I don’t suppose he’d object to signing a statement to that effect. If it’ll be any comfort to you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” William replied coolly. “I’ll accept his word of honor, if he’ll give it.”

  Lady Victoria’s lips trembled before she covered her face with her hands.

  Archer rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he gave William a hard look. “Young man, that's a poor hand you're gambling with. Where is Mr. Sanderson?”

  William stood, unimpressed despite the steel-edged threat running through Archer’s words. “So you can finish what was started in 1806? No. I don’t think so.”

  “John?” Lady Victoria asked. She gripped her husband’s wrist and stared up at him with damp cheeks and reddened eyes. The strained, exhausted look on her face made William glance away.

  “Do not cross me, young man.”

  “I suggest you leave, Mr. Archer,” William replied unwilling to be pushed. “If I should happen to see Mr. Sanderson, I’ll certainly tell him you’re looking for him.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Archer put an arm around his wife and helped her out of the chair. She gazed at William, her gray eyes imploring him to relent. But before she could say anything, her husband escorted her through the door.

  William leaned against the edge of the desk, watching them go. Despite Archer's excuse, it was entirely possible he had arranged for Sarah to be murdered while the duke served as a convenient alibi. The Archers had experience with that ruse. They had certainly arranged for an alibi during the fire.

  And telling Archer that Sarah Sanderson was lying upstairs would have been a mistake.

  Lady Victoria’s tears still disturbed him, though. Had they been sincere worry or guilt over the events in 1806?

  If it were guilt, she might be vulnerable. If he could get her alone, she might break down and confess. She certainly seemed close to the breaking point.

  In the meantime, he had to retrieve Sarah’s box. And he couldn’t do that in his elegant, form-fitting jacket. On his way back to his bedchamber, he stopped and knocked at the guest room door.

  He was surprised when Sarah replied, “Enter!”

  “How are you?” He opened the door and stepped halfway over the threshold. Then he stopped and stared at her. “What are you doing?”

  She was standing in the middle of the room in stocking feet, clad only in her trousers and his linen shirt. “Where is my smock? My shirt?”

  “Past repair. As you shall be if you don’t get back into bed.”

  “Past repair? From just a little blood loss? I'm not such a weakling. Give me my smock,” she demanded, holding a hand out.

  “Get back into bed, or I’ll put you there.”

  Her eyes turned silver as she studied him, her head cocked to one side. “If you think you can, try.”

  “I don’t foresee any difficulties,” he said, striding toward her. After all the stabbing and head bashing, he’d have thought she’d have enough sense to stay abed.

  Obviously, he was wrong.

  He came to a stop mere inches from her, hoping to discomfort her at least half as much as she had discomforted him since their first meeting.

  She stared at him, her chin thrust out at a mutinous angle. Although she blinked a few times, she didn’t back away.

  He frowned.

  Her eyes blinked more rapidly.

  So he did the only thing he could think of that would put the fear of God into her soul.

  He leaned nearer and kissed her.

  She gasped, her warm lips opening with surprise. When she started to pull away, he clasped her shoulders. Gently and slowly, he pulled her closer. Her frame felt unbearably fragile beneath his hands. Her heady scent and the taste of her mouth filled him.

  But his deep awareness and growing need was not what he expected—or wanted. She was too feminine to the touch, too much a desirable woman.

  Then she stomped on his toes.

  “Ow!” He let her go. “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing? The question is what are you doing, you big lout! What do you mean by pawing me about?”

  “Pawing you about?” He couldn’t recall any other female having had quite that same reaction to a kiss. He had never been quite that unskilled.

  “Yes, pawing me.” Her flushed cheeks and bright eyes made him wonder if the warmth he’d felt was a reaction she wanted to deny, or the beginnings of a fever. Then, a cunning look passed over her face. “You’ve not got a fancy for boys, have you?” She started stuffing her shirt into the waist of her trousers, glancing around for her smock. “Some sort of Molly—”

  “You’re no boy,” William drawled although a flare of tension at the sight of her body moving beneath the thin shirt turned his voice to gravel. He swallowed. “And you’re not going anywhere. Even if I have to lock you in leg irons.”

  She snorted. “Don’t be a horse’s ass.”

  “Have you no finer feelings, whatsoever?”

  Her expression was so similar to the one he had seen on John Archer’s face once or twice. It made him even more sure that he had done the right thing in hiding her.

  “Feelings? I haven’t got the time, or inclination, for feelings.” Her gaze searched the room. However, the rosiness of her cheeks and shaky voice indicated she was not as unaffected by him as she pretended.

  She refused to meet his glance. And when she spied her heavy shoes on the floor near the wardrobe, she sprinted over and grabbed them. She held them up against her chest like a shield. Then, a wave of dizziness must have hit her. She paled, closed her eyes, and pressed a hand against the wardrobe door to steady herself.

  Before he could move, she took a deep breath
and opened her eyes. With admirable self-control, she walked over and perched on the edge of the bed. She threw her shoes onto the floor.

  As she thrust her feet into the shoes, she asked, “Have you gotten my box, yet?”

  “No.” William fixed a cold eye on her face. “I visited the current owner. He intends to open the box tomorrow. After that, he’s willing to discuss selling the contents.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Sarah’s expressive face. He felt a twinge of guilt at the bruised circles around her eyes and her wan appearance. She looked ill-used and barely on the edge of consciousness.

  What possessed me to kiss her?

  She was undoubtedly correct. He was a horse’s ass to embrace her against her will. He’d never done it before and couldn’t imagine what had possessed him.

  “Too bad. I was just beginning to think you were competent.” She shook her head and stood, wandering about the room, pulling open the wardrobe and drawers. “I’ve got to steal it, then. Tonight. I’d like my smock back, if you please.”

  “Well, you can’t have it. I burned the damn thing.”

  She gave him a long look, hands on her hips. “Liar.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Then I’ll have to acquire a new one.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  “Of course I do. I can’t arrive at work tomorrow in nothing but a linen shirt, now can I?”

  “Will you forget this bricklaying charade? You’re not going back to the Archer establishment, or any other work site in London. Not unless you’re suicidal.”

  “I’m not suicidal,” she said, holding his gaze. “Just poor. Now get out of my way.”

  “I will not. You're not leaving this room.” He stared at her, getting angrier by the minute. “You hired me. Allow me to do my job, if you please!”

  She actually laughed at him and shook her head. “Or what? Kiss me again? Ravish me senseless? Be reasonable and step aside.”

  “I’m perfectly reasonable. In fact, I’m nothing if not the very essence of a reasonable man.”

  Her gaze drifted from the top of his head to his feet. Then her eyes rose to linger pointedly on his elegant black-and-gold vest.

  “This much is true—you’re a fine popinjay. And I’ve rarely seen a better pair of shoulders. I’m sure you have a multitude of woman daft over you. However, I’ve got an aching head and a box to acquire. So, forgive me my plain words and let me pass.”

  “And you’ll have to forgive me if I lock you in for a few moments while I change my attire. I won’t be long.” William stepped outside before she could escape. The doorknob rattled in his hand, but he turned the key in the lock and dropped it into his pocket before striding to his bedroom. She pounded on the door and swore before lapsing into ominous silence.

  Sarah was obviously going to be completely unreasonable, and he had the onerous duty of accompanying her in her lunacy.

  Unfortunately, glancing in his armoire, he realized his wardrobe was equally unreasonable.

  While he had always felt he had a very diverse and excellent choice of all the latest fashions, he now realized he suffered from a peculiar delusion about the diversity. All his jackets were of very fine quality wool, satin, or velvet, in shades ranging from deep blue to black. However, there was not a single garment loose enough, or shabby enough, for the night’s activities.

  His waistcoats were similarly unacceptable. Now that he studied them more closely, every garment had gold or silver embroidery, or gleaming buttons, or some other fanciful decoration that made them entirely unsuitable. All his shirts were white.

  “Haven’t we anything less…formal?” William asked his valet, throwing the plainest black waistcoat he owned onto the bed. Gold buttons winked at him in the candlelight.

  Damn it. This was preposterous. He was a popinjay.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Lindley replied, picking up the waistcoat and brushing it. “While your current attire is not formal—”

  “Something without those infernal gold buttons!”

  “You have a black waistcoat, sir, with silver—”

  “Or silver buttons! Something subdued. Something you might wear to a duel, for example.”

  Lindley eyed him. Disapproval pinched his thin mouth even tighter. “You are not intending to indulge in a peccadillo of that sort, are you, sir?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I simply need to—well, I need something that won’t catch the light for a certain undertaking this evening.”

  “I see. Something involving a female, I suppose. With a husband.”

  “I—” William caught his valet’s eye. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I was merely trying to ascertain your purpose. So I might suggest suitable—”

  “I’ll tell you what is suitable and what is not. Now just find something unadorned by all this ridiculous embroidery or flashy buttons.”

  “Very good, sir.” Lindley left while William pulled garments out of his wardrobe and dropped them into a pile on the floor.

  He had managed to throw his entire wardrobe over his bed and most of the floor before Lindley returned with some coarse woolen garments hanging over one arm.

  “Will these do, sir?” he asked, holding them up.

  “Good God! You can’t expect me to wear those” William picked up the ratty jacket. There were several moth holes visible in the back and front, despite the redolent odor of cedar. And while the shirt might once have been plain, off-white linen, it had mysteriously become dyed in odd patches ranging from dark to light blue. However, the area around the frayed neck was mostly dark blue, which suited William’s purpose, although not his taste.

  “You did say unadorned, did you not?” Lindley asked.

  The buttons were simple horn rings covered by black thread. William held them up again before he sighed and nodded. Lindley helped him out of his well-fitting jacket and waistcoat before slipping the coarse, mottled shirt over his head.

  “Where did you get these?” William’s voice was muffled as he struggled to force his hands through the sleeves and get the garment over his head. The smell of cedar nearly choked him. The moths must have been seriously determined to have managed to chew through the fabric without suffocating.

  “Mr. Gaunt has occasionally had need for…plain clothing.” Lindley sneezed. His pink nose quivered like a sensitive mole’s as he held up the jacket for William.

  The jacket was tight across the shoulders. When he shrugged, he felt the left armhole give slightly. At least the torn seam made it more comfortable. The trousers were also coarse wool, but there were no moth holes, at least none visible. The thighs were slightly tight, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Lindley sighed as he brushed William’s shoulders. William glanced in the mirror and felt like sighing, himself.

  “Do you have an old cloak?” His hair would catch the light. And he’d have to rub soot on his face, as well.

  The last garment Lindley brought proved to be a stout cloak with a deep hood. It would look ridiculous, especially on a warm, April night. It would have been absolutely perfect for Sarah, he thought savagely.

  Ready at last, he counted from one to a hundred in an effort to control his aggravation. Then he strode down to Sarah’s door. When he unlocked and opened it, he nearly knocked her over. She had a letter opener in her hand and was crouching in front of the door.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back.” She stood and brushed off her knees. When he reached for the knife, she flung the slender blade onto the small writing desk in the corner by the door. She eyed him with disdain.

  “So you were going to pick the lock?”

  She shrugged, entirely too composed. “I can’t stay here all night.” She studied his clothing before she gave him a cocky grin that made him long to pop her in the mouth. Or kiss her. “Lovely togs, Mr. Trenchard. Going to visit one of your married lady friends?”

  “William,” he said. “Call me W
illiam. We’re likely to end up sharing the same cell in Newgate before long.”

  “Why certainly, sir.” She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, William, sir. And you can call me Mr. Sanderson. Or Samuel, if you follow orders well enough.”

  He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed her down the hall. They were at the head of the stairs before he realized she was still wearing his linen shirt with no jacket or cloak.

  “Lindley!” he yelled. “Fetch another jacket and cloak for Mr. Sanderson. Black. With plenty of moth holes, if you please.”

  Lindley managed to find another set of funereal black garb. He handed them to William with truly lofty silence.

  Thus suitably attired, William and Sarah wandered out into the soft, April night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You needn’t go with me, if you don’t want to,” Sarah said, watching William try to catch the attention of a passing hackney coach. She sighed. “They won’t stop, you know. Not dressed the way we are.” She started walking down the street, resigned to the ache in her head and the pulling pain in her side. “We’ll have to walk.”

  At the sound of his cursing, she bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from grinning. He deserved it, after kissing her.

  Why had he done that? A soft, hurt voice whispered inside her head.

  And why had she enjoyed it so much that she wanted him to do it again? For the first time in years, she had felt warm and safe with his arms around her. She had not realized how alone she had been. Or how lonely.

  A frisson of doubt trickled down her neck. She prayed he wasn't the sort to take advantage just because of how she lived. That had always been a danger, if anyone found out as Mrs. Pochard had. People always tried to work things to their advantage.

  Sarah shook her head. No. That hadn’t been his reason. He wasn’t the sort. Whatever else he was, she felt instinctively that she could trust him.

  She peered sideways at him, hoping he didn’t notice her concern.

  He was beautiful, if that phrase could be applied to someone so utterly masculine. She liked his square chin and the elusive dimple in his left cheek. She admired his broad shoulders and had to respect the strength he had exhibited. After working at bricklaying for so many years, she knew she was stronger than many of the brutish men in Hawkins’s employ. And William was stronger than any of them. And her.