by Amy Corwin
She’d found it!
Her body trembled with relief and excitement. Then with sudden awareness, she realized how exhausted she truly was. She was nearing the limits of her endurance. The door—and William—seemed impossibly far away.
The bed behind her creaked. The man turned over, or sat up, behind the curtains. She padded quickly to the door. But just as she reached it, a movement caught the corner of her eye. One of the doors of the wardrobe slowly, inexorably, started to swing shut. The floor must have been slightly uneven, or a mischievous draft caught the panel.
She was too far away to stop it. The wardrobe closed with a soft snap.
“What are you doing out there?” the voice from the bed asked in an irritated tone.
“Come on!” William yanked her through the door.
Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of the curtain rings sliding along the rod above the bed.
“What the—who’s there?” Mr. Carnaby asked. His voice reverberated through the room. “Who’s in the wardrobe? Smith? Is that you? Smith?”
Sarah didn’t stop to glance back. She clutched William’s hand, glad for the strength and warmth of his clasp. They ran for the stairs.
A distant bell clamored in the belly of the house, alerting the servants.
“Thieves!” The yell seemed to come from right behind them.
A wavering light appeared at the end of the hallway, coming from the direction of the servant’s quarters. Questioning voices arose through the darkness, following the lamplight.
“Who’s there? Mr. Smith?” a female voice asked.
“Thieves!” Mr. Carnaby answered. “Send for the watch.”
“Damn,” William said as they reached the head of the servants’ stairs.
Some thoughtful servant lit a lantern and strode toward them.
Sarah darted for the main staircase. “Come on,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Their best chance was the front door. The servants would come from the back of the house. Clattering down the stairs, Sarah forged ahead, taking two steps at a stride. She could feel the edges of William’s cloak slapping her legs as he followed behind her.
By the time they skidded onto the marble of the grand entryway, a man was standing there, holding a lantern at shoulder height.
“The watch is coming. Stop where you are!” he announced, blocking the door.
Sarah kept moving forward at a run, the box tucked tightly under her arm. She barreled into the servant, shoving him out of the way. The lantern went flying, smashing against the cold marble floor. The impact knocked the breath out of her, and she gasped, the pain in her side preventing her from breathing.
She gripped the doorknob, trying to push back the dizziness.
The door was locked. Frantically, she felt for a key. Her fingers found the lock, but no way to open it.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes searching out the broken lantern for fear of what she might see. In her mind, she could already envision the flames and feel the heat. But there were only twisting shadows.
The lantern had gone out when it fell. Thank God!
While she stared, William grabbed the man by the lapels. He swung him around and hit him with a right hook that made a cracking noise. The shocked man crumpled. Then William charged to the door and rattled the handle.
“It’s locked,” she said. “No key.”
He pushed her aside, drew back and then slammed his foot against the door. It splintered, but did not open. Behind them, she could see the wavering light of other candles.
“There they are! In the front hall!”
William shifted and drove his foot again into the window next to the door. The glass burst into fragments, and wrapping his arm in his cloak, William cleared away the broken glass and framing. He grabbed Sarah’s arm and pushed her outside, following closely.
They ran down the walk and dashed through the gates to find men with clubs running toward the house.
The watch!
Behind them, the servants spilled outside, carrying lamps and candles.
Suddenly, the world went dark. William flung his cloak over her and dragged her after him. They stumbled along the brick wall at the front of the house.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to breathe through the thick, woolen folds. The choking scent of cedar filled her head.
“When we get to the tree, hide. I’ll lead them away.”
“You can’t—“
“Be quiet!” He shoved her down.
The harsh bark of the oak scraped her face as he forced her into the shadows between the tree and the wall. When he released her, she peered around the thick trunk. William was running directly through the pool of light cast by the nearby street lamp.
“There he is!” A mad, whirling crowd dashed after him.
Digging frantically, she pulled up the debris between the roots of the tree. Old broken chunks of bricks, leaves, and clods of wet earth ground into her hands, scraping them raw. She couldn’t see clearly.
Her eyes darted wildly, trying to focus on what was happening in the street while she dug a hole large enough to wedge the box between two gnarled roots.
Finally, the box fit, tucked into a shallow grave. She brushed the bricks and leaves back over it, hoping it would escape detection until they could come back to reclaim it.
If she lived long enough to tell William where it was.
The hue and cry continued down the alleys. Everyone chased William, driving him further and further away from the Carnaby townhouse. As the sounds diminished, she eased around the tree and followed the wall, hoping to lose herself in the side streets until she could find her way back to Second Sons. She stumbled tiredly along the walk, too weary to run.
“There’s the other one!” a man shouted behind her.
The street that had seemed so empty mere seconds before came alive with men carrying cudgels and pistols. She heard the sound of heavy boots closing in on her from behind. Running, she turned down a side street, only to find herself in a blind alley.
“Ah, there you are, my lad,” a coarse voice said.
She spun to find a heavy-set man blocking the alley, a thick, knobby stick clutched in his fist.
“I’ve got one of ‘em!” he announced, turning his head slightly. Several more men joined him, staring at her, trapping her in the alley.
Sagging, Sarah raised her hands palm upward to show she carried nothing. “What do you want?”
“What do we want?” he jeered. The others laughed, their chuckles edged with meanness. “Why, what do you think we would want, you thief? We’ve caught you right enough. Now the question is, how much of a beating is it going to take before we convince you to go peaceable-like?”
“Why do you want to arrest me? I haven’t done anything.”
“You haven’t? Well, let’s just see.” He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulder, still waving his stick as if wishing she would give him the chance to use it.
She shrugged fatalistically and let him push her forward.
He didn’t loosen his grip until he had marched her to the front of Mr. Carnaby’s house. A few servants stood clustered in the hallway, whispering among themselves. A man in a burgundy silk robe with a nightcap perched amidst a fringe of gray hair strode forward as the watch officer dragged her up to the stairs.
“Is this one of ’em?” the officer asked.
“I didn’t see them clearly,” Mr. Carnaby said, studying Sarah. “However, this lad certainly is the right height and general build.”
“What did they steal?”
“I haven’t any idea. We shall have to take an inventory. However, I don’t think they could have taken much. I am a very light sleeper. I believe I awoke the instant they entered.”
“Was there more than one?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to a man clad in a plain woolen robe. “Smith, how many were there?”
Smith rubbed his bruised jaw. “At least two, sir. The
y attacked me in the hallway before I had a chance.”
“Well, then his associate escaped, although we’ve managed to catch this lad,” Mr. Carnaby said. He turned on his heel. “Take him away with you. I’ll file charges in the morning and supply you with an inventory of what was stolen.”
Relief flooded Sarah. William had eluded them!
“Certainly, Mr. Carnaby, sir.” The hand on Sarah’s shoulder bit deeply into her collarbone. “Come alone, lad. We’ve got lovely accommodations just a-waiting you at Newgate. You’ve heard of it, no doubt.” He poked her side with his stick. “And perhaps this isn’t your first such visit, eh, lad?”
Chapter Fourteen
The watch officer and his compatriots, all eager to be credited with the arrest of such a dangerous evildoer, harassed and pushed Sarah along the street. For her part, she slid into her role with exhausted wariness. She had no wish to be beaten further. The ill effects of her concussion and stab wound, compounded by her exertions, made her feel despondent to the point of hopelessness.
She could only pray that William would rescue her.
Then she almost glanced back, terrified that someone would find the box she had hidden between the tree-roots. Or that her heroic captors would bludgeon her to death before granting her the luxury of a trial.
Some of the men hailed the officer herding her as John Harker. He enthusiastically prodded her kidneys with his club whenever she lagged. Bleary-eyed and barely conscious, she stumbled along.
When they finally reached Newgate, it was something of a relief to be shoved into a narrow, dingy room. She tripped over the threshold and fell to the floor, only to have Harker drag her back up to her feet by the collar.
He shook her and batted her on the shoulder with his stick.
“Clumsy napper,” he said. “Stand up there, steady-like. Now answer me true, or you’ll be worse off than just a few bruises.”
Sarah wavered but managed to stand, holding her hands out in hopes of fending off the worst of his blows.
“Leave off—I’ll answer,” she replied, slipping more firmly into the role of the cocky Tyburn blossom they took her to be. “What’cher want to know?”
“What’s yer name?”
“Why ’tis Sam…Pochard, sir.”
“Did you willfully break into Mr. Carnaby’s house this night?”
She nodded. “That I did, sir. And I had as good a reason as any. Better in fact.”
Harker laughed and poked his cudgel into her stomach. “You’ve all gots yer reasons, don't you? Enlighten us poor souls, lad. What’s yer tale ’o woe?”
“That Mr. Carnaby—him as owns the house—took advantage of me sister, sir. He promises her this necklace, didn't he? But after he had his way with her, he laughed and scampered off with nary a fare-thee-well. So I came to his house to get what’s deservin’ to her. That’s the tale, sir, true as I can say.”
“And did you get this here necklace?” Harker asked, thumping the end of the stick into the palm of his greasy hand.
“No, sir. I was in his honor’s bedroom, right enough. But when he hears me, he lets out a holler as would wake the dead under the stones of Canterbury’s floor. I ran, fearing for my very soul. That’s a fact, sir.”
He eyed her with a squint. “Empty out your pockets, there, lad.”
Sarah complied quickly enough. There was little enough. A few pence, a wrinkled handkerchief, and several balls of lint. Harker took the copper coins and dropped them into his own pocket, before studying Sarah. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. She admitted what he wanted to hear, but he appeared disappointed by her quick capitulation.
He’d obviously desired an excuse to use his knobby cudgel.
Sweat trickled down her sides. She wavered, dead on her feet. He examined her, methodically smacking the stick into his palm as the silence lengthened between them. Finally, just when she was about to faint, he made a decision. He yanked her roughly by the shoulder and pushed her out of the room. Prodding and pushing, he forced her ahead of him down a narrow hallway. When they came to an intersection, he hit her shoulder—hard—to indicate which direction she should take.
The place was a warren of dank corridors lined with locked doors. Moaning, and the occasional agonized scream, reverberated through the halls. The sounds were interspersed with the fleshy, muted noise of someone, somewhere, being soundly beaten.
Finally, they came to a heavy door identical to all the other doors.
Harker unlocked it and thrust her inside. “Sleep well, my lad. Maybe I’ll take a fancy and visit yer sister, myself. So I can hear about this here necklace she was a-promised.”
A spurt of defiance made Sarah turn toward the door. In a ringing voice, she yelled out the street and address of Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house. She could hear Harker’s chuckles as the lock clicked shut and the key turned.
Glancing around the tiny room, she wearily noted a pile of blankets on the floor in the far corner opposite the stone ledge that served as a bed. So she had company. At least he seemed to prefer the floor. She curled up on the ledge and shivered as the chill of stone and cold bricks filtered through her thin clothing. The hard, icy surface made her side ache dully. She shivered again and wrapped her arms over her belly, aware of the profound cold that sank into her very bones and a dragging sense of exhaustion.
The pile of blankets near the opposite wall trembled with the sounds of a hacking cough.
Gaol fever.
She curled tighter and brought her fists up to her face, breathing through her fingers and wishing for William’s comforting presence.
Deportation or prison? How was she going to survive?
Chapter Fifteen
William ran, slipping through alleys and between buildings, until the sounds of the chase faded away. He’d lost them. He stopped, hands propped against his burning thighs as he caught his breath. With any luck, Sarah had also escaped with the box.
He straightened. Walking briskly, he glanced around to get his bearings. A few streets ahead, he recognized Bloomsbury Square with relief. From there, he was able to make his way back to Second Sons without any difficulties.
The townhouse was quiet when he entered. Even the venerable Sotheby appeared to be deep in slumber somewhere, dreaming pleasant, butler dreams of generous bribes and pretty parlor maids.
William dashed up the stairs and around the corner. He burst into Sarah’s bedchamber. The room was dark and empty.
“Sarah?” he called, going back out into the hallway. “Sarah, are you here?” He ran down to his office. It was also empty.
“Sir?” a ghostly voice spoke behind him.
William jumped and turned in one motion. “Sotheby! You startled me. Isn’t Mr. Sanderson here?”
“Mr. Sanderson, sir?” Sotheby repeated, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Yes, Mr. Sanderson. Hasn’t he returned yet?”
“No, sir. May I be of assistance, perhaps?”
William yanked off the ill-fitting jacket. “Get Lindley, will you? I need to change.”
“Very good, sir.”
Climbing the stairs once more, William felt his stomach tighten into a painful ball of lead. If Sarah had gotten away, wouldn’t she return here? She wouldn’t have gone back to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, would she?
“Lindley!” he yelled at the door to his room. “Where are my clothes?”
The glow of a lamp shone over William’s shoulder. He turned to find his valet standing directly behind him.
“You wish to change your attire, sir?” Lindley asked as if the clock chimed two in the afternoon instead of dark morning.
“I’ve got to go out. The black I think.”
“If I may be so bold as to point out that you are already clad in black—”
“My black jacket—the wool one.”
Lindley opened the wardrobe and began to extract garments. “Mr. Sotheby indicated you were anxious about the whereabouts of Mr. Sanderson. Is the lad missing,
sir?”
“Yes. I hope to God the watch—never mind.”
“I see, sir. There is the possibility, then, that Mr. Sanderson may have had an unlucky brush with an officer of the law?”
“It’s possible.” William tore off his waistcoat.
“May I suggest, sir, that you wait until morning?”
“Wait until morning? Have you gone mad? I can’t wait until morning!”
“I beg your pardon, sir. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except Mr. Gaunt has been—well…” He coughed delicately. “Mr. Gaunt is exceedingly particular about his interaction with the watch, sir.”
William eyed Lindley, wondering what brushes his employer, Mr. Gaunt, could possibly have had with the law. His fingers picked at the rough wool of his breeches as he imagined the exceedingly respectable Mr. Gaunt wearing the moth-eaten, wretched clothing that Lindley miraculously “managed” to find.
“And what would Mr. Gaunt recommend?” William asked in a deceptively mild voice.
“Mr. Gaunt, sir, would wait until morning to visit Newgate—that is, the workhouse. With the explanation that his young nephew had been out the previous night playing a prank and may have been accidentally apprehended.”
“I can’t leave him in Newgate all night.”
“Perhaps not. But he won't be in the gaol, proper, until after his trial. He'll be in the workhouse, now. And if the watch has been searching for two individuals and only apprehended one, they may wish to believe that anyone asking after Mr. Sanderson tonight may also have been involved in the…precipitating events.”
“Would they really?” William replied dryly. “You don’t think they may believe that any associate of Mr. Sanderson would be glad to have evaded capture and would hardly risk showing up at a prison asking for their unfortunate compatriot?”
Lindley coughed again. “That is certainly another perspective, sir.”
Odd ideas flickered through William’s mind as he studied his valet’s long face. Lindley hadn’t been in his employ long. In fact, he had only hired him on Gaunt’s recommendation when William accepted the position as an inquiry agent for Second Sons.
