by Amy Corwin
“You almost sound as if you have some experience with this sort of thing, Lindley,” William said, examining a fingernail with elaborate carelessness. Clearly, his education in criminal proceedings left much to be desired.
“Indeed, sir,” Lindley equivocated. “Are you still desirous of changing into your black jacket?”
“Is there any chance of retrieving Mr. Sanderson from the workhouse tonight?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but no. Not if that is where he is residing.”
There was always the possibility that he escaped and was making his way home. Or he could have become lost. Trenchard gave a sharp node. “I will remain here, then. It may be that he may still escape and return here.” Then he frowned. Sarah might need his assistance. However, he could do little unless he knew where she was.
Frustrated, he watched Lindley fold back the covers, exposing an inviting nest of clean, white linen sheets and a deep pile of pillows. A bees-wax candle sat on a low table next to the bed, filling the air with a warm scent redolent of wax and honey.
“Very good, sir. I am sure you can assist him in the morning, sir. Much more ably, in fact, after a good night’s sleep.”
William took a step toward the bed, his eyelids already heavy. Halfway across the room, a twinge of guilt and the memory of twinkling gray eyes snagged him.
Where was she?
As if divining the cause of William’s distraction, Lindley gently pulled his employer's shirt over his head. As he folded it over his arm, he said, “There’s nothing you can do, tonight, sir. Trust me. What purpose will it serve if you both end up in gaol?”
“The workhouse. And no purpose, I suppose.” William sighed. “Someone has to remain free to get her—him—out of prison.”
“Precisely, sir,” Lindley replied in a soothing voice. “I applaud your wisdom.”
“Let’s just hope I still look wise tomorrow.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, William didn’t awaken until Lindley flung open the drapes and slid back the bed-curtains. Blinding light burned William’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lindley announced. He picked up a tray laden with coffee and buns from the table near the door. Then he held the tray and stood at the side of the bed while William struggled and punched the pillows behind him to allow him to sit upright.
“What time is it?”
“After ten, sir.”
“Ten? You let me sleep until ten?” William filled his cup with the steaming coffee and took a brief, searing sip before adding a touch of milk and sugar. “I’ve got to get to Newgate—”
“I’m sorry, sir. But they are more amenable later in the day. And unfortunately, you have a visitor.”
“A visitor? A client?”
“Perhaps. He didn’t say, sir.”
“Send him away.” William applied a thick layer of butter to the bun and bit into it. “I’ve got to rescue Mr. Sanderson.”
“We already attempted to inform your client that you were regrettably busy. However, he seemed most insistent.”
“Then he can just wait until I’ve finished breakfast and dressed.”
“Very good, sir.” Lindley opened the wardrobe and fingered the sleeves of William’s jackets. “What shall I prepare?”
If he had to visit the workhouse, he wanted to look as rich and influential as possible. “The blue wool with the silver waistcoat. And add one or two of those damned fobs to my watch chain. Particularly the diamond one.”
“Very good, sir,” Lindley replied, his voice deepening with pleasure. “Black trousers, I presume?”
“Yes.” William polished off the bun and remaining coffee before swinging his legs out of bed. He washed quickly with the cold water from the jug and basin near his bed. Icy drops dribbled onto his bare feet. “Use the bay tonic,” he ordered when Lindley opened the shaving kit and began sharpening the razor.
Despite his attempts to hurry Lindley, it was nearly eleven before William entered his office. A slender man sat in the chair in front of William’s desk, twirling an ebony cane.
“Mr. Archer,” William said as he strolled around the desk. He shook hands briefly before sitting down and gesturing for Archer to resume his seat. “What are you doing here?”
“I could not let the matter of Mr. Sanderson rest,” he declared. “It should be obvious, even to you, that the lad must be restored to the bosom of his family.”
“And I believe I mentioned to you during our previous interview that I will certainly let him know. If I should chance to meet him.”
Archer’s brown eyes grew hard. He slapped his cane on the edge of the desk before leaning forward. “He’s in trouble, as you very well know. I visited that Pochard creature’s house this morning. She has not seen Mr. Sanderson. She claims a police officer was there this morning. He asked questions about a man they have in custody who gave them her address as his abode. Said the miscreant’s name was Samuel Pochard. He claimed to be her son.”
William shrugged, trying to hide his anxiety. “What is that to me?”
“I believe this Samuel Pochard is Samuel Sanderson. He's been missing for two days. Now, he is in that infernal Newgate Prison—or workhouse. You may choose to let him rot there, but I don’t!” Archer slapped the desk again with his cane and stood. “He was fortunate they took him to Newgate and didn’t throw him down into the lowest deck of one of those damn prison ships stranded and rotting on the Thames.”
Something in William hardened at the thought of the overcrowded hulks. They threw prisoners, old and young alike, into the dark and screwed down the hatches at night. The unfortunate inmates were abandoned to fight for their lives the best they could in the foul air and sickness below decks.
Regardless, he didn’t trust Archer and disliked his attempt to scare him into revealing the information Archer wanted about Samuel Sanderson.
Studying William, Archer rested his walking stick against his chair and very carefully pressed his fingertips on the top of the desk. He leaned forward, his body taut as a racehorse. “You don’t trust me. No matter. I had thought to gain your assistance to rescue Mr. Sanderson. I can see we shall have to do without you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Was I unclear? My words vague? How odd.”
The muscles in William’s jaw tightened. “What are your intentions?”
“I’m going to rescue my nephew. Today, if possible.”
“How?”
Archer shrugged, a cat-like smile playing over his lips as he sat down again. He crossed his right ankle over his knee. Then he picked up his walking stick and ran his fingers up and down the smooth length.
“The question is,” Archer said, “Can I trust you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you will hire a hackney carriage and arrive at my townhouse at precisely five this afternoon. We shall make a brief visit to the workhouse and return with Mr. Sanderson in tow.”
“How?”
“Do not concern yourself over trivial details. I hold the cards of value in this game, although the watch may not know it yet. We shall have Mr. Sanderson by nightfall.”
Archer took his leave without revealing anything of use. William allowed it, knowing it would be better to work with the Archers than not. Keep your friends closer and your enemies closer, as the Chinese general, Sun-Tzu, was so fond of saying.
This way, he could keep them under observation and had a better chance of keeping Sarah safe.
He couldn't let the Archers finish what they had started thirteen years ago. If they had been involved in that tragedy. A niggling doubt made him wonder if his doubts about the pair were correct. Their desire to rescue Samuel seemed excessive if they just wanted to kill him. With the gaol fever, beatings, and other “accidents” common in penal institutions, it would have been ridiculously easy to let British Justice take care of their nephew for them.
Why sully their aristocratic hands? Unless they feared what might come out during a tr
ial.
The risk of exposure was small, however, and surely Archer knew it. Sarah had used the name of Samuel Pochard. She would be tried as a common thief. The most likely result would be deportation or a few years in Newgate or one of the rotting hulls on the Thames. If she lived long enough and wasn’t simply hung.
What would happen if they discovered she was a woman?
The thought infuriated and frustrated him.
The day seemed endless.
He paced and tried to concentrate on the other inquiries he had neglected since meeting Sarah, but his mind wasn’t on his work. He kept worrying about her. She had been injured and weakened, and now she was lying in goal.
He wrenched his thoughts back to work and managed to finish his report on a well-known peer’s runaway daughter. He had located her a week ago in a comfortable little cottage, living as Mrs. Charles Ratcliff with the peer’s previous head groom.
There were no legal ties binding the couple.
William wondered briefly as he signed the report if her father would simply kidnap his daughter and fling her at the head of some titled idiot hoping to prevent a scandal, or if he’d insist the lovebirds make their union legal. Maybe he’d just leave the girl to rot in her remote cottage by the sea. She’d soon find out that love wasn’t all roses and teacups when one didn’t have two shillings to rub together.
The thought brought Sarah to mind. Independent Sarah who worked for her living and refused help.
Except his. His hand clenched around his quill, breaking the fragile writing instrument. Last night, she had clung to him, showing the first chink in her armored independence. He rubbed his face wearily and picked up a new quill. She expected him to save her. He could not fail her.
She’d already performed miracles surviving on her own.
In fact, she’d ruined her hands laying bricks and trying to live a decent, honest life. And he understood the compulsion all too well, having had to do nearly the same thing himself as the youngest son with a very slim inheritance. He stared at his broad, uncallused hands and wondered what he would have done if his family had been murdered when he was eleven.
Somehow, he didn’t think he would have become a bricklayer. But females had few alternatives.
Finally, the clock chimed four. Close enough to the agreed time. He called for his cloak and flung it around his shoulders. When he emerged from the townhouse into the balmy air, he changed his mind and handed it back to Sotheby. He didn’t need it, and it might just get in the way.
Climbing into a hackney carriage, he gave the driver Archer’s address. Then he leaned back against the worn seats. He couldn't get Sarah's wan face out of his mind or forget the feel of her slim, callused hand in his.
He rolled his shoulders within the constraints of his tight jacket before he deliberately closed his eyes. Every few minutes, he jerked rigid in his seat, his pulse racing. Images of Sarah being beaten, or coughing with gaol fever, gave him no peace.
Finally, the coach came to a standstill. He leapt down and ordered the coachman to wait. His walking stick was raised to knock at the front door when it opened. Archer and his wife emerged.
At least William thought it was Lady Victoria. She looked…much heavier than the last time they had met. Plump, in fact.
Archer ushered her quickly into the carriage before he turned to William. “Are you coming?”
“Yes.” William stared at Lady Victoria.
She smiled at him and arranged her skirts on the worn, crackled leather seat.
William ordered the coachman to proceed to Newgate as he climbed into the coach. The vehicle was already jerking forward when he took the seat opposite the Archers, facing backward.
He studied Lady Victoria, guessing that her sudden increase in girth was related to whatever the Archers had planned.
Lady Victoria patted his knee. “Don’t worry, Mr. Trenchard. We’ve done this before.”
“I beg your pardon?” William asked.
Her gray eyes shone with excitement, reminding him uncomfortably of Sarah. When he glanced at Archer, he realized that both the Archers were absolutely quivering with anticipation. The pair would hold hands for a few minutes, and then one or the other would pat their intertwined fingers and squeeze.
It appeared for all the world as if they sought to reassure themselves through touch. And once again, he remembered holding Sarah's fragile hand in his. Despite the calluses and years of work, her delicate bones made him aware that she was a woman—and a lady.
“Oh, yes,” Archer said. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been to Newgate. They don’t always catch the right man, you know.”
William sighed and started to run a hand over the back of his neck. When his chin hit the starched folds of his neckcloth, he stopped with frustration over the complicated knot. Thwarted, he folded his hands together in his lap, took a deep breath, and gazed out the window.
After the carriage lumbered forward a few blocks, William asked, “How do you intend to get Mr. Sanderson out?”
“It’s really quite simple,” Archer said, his voice almost disdainful. “I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it.”
Lady Victoria patted her husband's forearm, just above their clasped hands. “Don’t be cruel, John.” She faced William and smiled. Her lips trembled with suppressed exhilaration. “You must have noticed I’m a trifle heavier.” Her hand fluttered over her upper body. Her eyes twinkled with brilliant, silver light. “Or perhaps not.”
“I couldn’t help but notice you're not your usual slender self,” William replied smoothly.
She laughed, although the sound hit high notes just a breath away from hysteria. “Thank goodness. I try not to be a vain woman, Mr. Trenchard. However, it would have been very hard if no one noticed when I am nearly twice my normal size. You see, I'm wearing two entire costumes.”
“Two—are you planning to disguise him, then?”
“Yes.”
“But even the watch will notice if one woman goes in and two come out.”
“That’s the beauty of this game,” Archer said. “With any luck, they’ll never realize it. And this is the workhouse. Much easier.”
“That's it?” He felt vaguely disappointed. It would have been much easier simply to arrange with Carnaby for Sarah’s release.
The pair opposite shook their heads, apparently disinclined to enlighten him any further. They resolutely changed the subject to the unsettled April weather, remarking that it remained distinctly cool at night. Today, the afternoon sun remained hidden behind a gray bank of clouds, and it appeared as if rain were imminent. The dreary, dismal sky, hinting at terrible things to come, seemed to give the Archers an inordinate amount of pleasure. Archer angled his head out of the window several times, studying the overcast skies and then smiling at his wife.
When they finally arrived at the gray bulk of the prison, a chill settled in William’s gut. The sensation increased as they stepped through the main gates. It felt more like walking naked into the North Sea than sauntering casually down a stark hallway. Bringing his tension under control, he allowed the Archers to take the lead, staying back to examine their surroundings. The oppressive austerity of the prison increased his concern for Sarah ten-fold.
Mr. Archer hailed the first officer they encountered and requested an audience with the administrator. They were duly led to that august personage, and Mr. Archer promptly demanded permission to visit his young friend, Mr. Samuel Pochard. After a great deal of careful questioning, hemming, and hawing, the administrator found no reason to deny their request. He sent for one of the officers who agreed to escort them to Mr. Pochard.
Archer remained in his seat as Lady Victoria and William rose to go with the officer. “My wife has a soft spot for the scamp,” Archer said, shaking his head. “I can’t see it myself. Common criminal.”
“I agree, sir,” the administrator said, his eyes cold and stern. “The best thing we can do is deport the scoundrels. So many of these soft-hearte
d females get the notion fixed in their heads that they can reform them.” He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “When a man is born without the moral character to withstand temptation, no amount of education is going to change him. All you can do is lock him away so he can’t cause any more harm. Or deport him.”
William heard Archer agree before he turned down the corridor, following Lady Victoria and the officer. They seemed to walk miles through the pestilential warren, surrounded by the sounds of fighting and barely-controlled violence behind the endless stream of locked doors.
“Here we are, sir. And madam,” the officer said, unlocking a door midway down one dank corridor.
When he pulled it open, a puff of putrid air filled the hall. William nearly gagged. He held his handkerchief over his nose and mouth and was surprised to see Lady Victoria smile. She strolled inside without hesitation.
A bundle of blankets was balled in one dark corner. As William approached, he thought the stench emanated from that filthy pile. Fearing the worst, he glanced around. With relief, he recognized Sarah, perched on the tiled shelf that served as a bed, against the opposite wall.
Lady Victoria turned toward the officer in the doorway. “Can you give us five minutes to speak to him?”
“Five—no more,” the officer agreed before slamming the door.
The room had no window. A single candle flickered on the table near Sarah’s berth. With the door shut, the foul air was nearly overwhelming.
“He’s dead.” Sarah waved at the bundle in the corner. She looked pale and ill. “I think he died last night.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” William asked, breathing harshly through his mouth. The overwhelming odor of rot and decay filled the room.
“I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me,” she said, before adding, “You get used to the smell.”
Lady Victoria interrupted both of them by pulling off her bonnet. With quick fingers, she undid the myriad laces and straps that held her garments together. To William’s surprise, she had a smaller bonnet under the first. The inner one remained perched on her graying curls.
