by Amy Corwin
“Archer!” a very tall, dark-haired gentleman exclaimed as they entered the room. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Archer pushed William forward and slapped him on the shoulder. “Have a few questions to put to you. A mystery, in fact.”
A loud sigh escaped Lord Dacy before he focused on William. William was surprised to see a scar bisecting Lord Dacy’s left brow and ending on his sharp cheekbone. The man stood straight and moved easily, so the injury had only affected his appearance. Mercifully, it had not damaged his gray eyes that studied William just as assiduously as he was examining Dacy.
After introductions, Dacy turned to Archer with a cynical smile twisting his mouth. “You haven’t been gambling again, have you?”
Archer laughed and shook his head. “No. However, we’ve had a surprise turn up. Little Sarah Sanderson.”
“Your niece?” Dacy asked, his brows arched in surprise. “I don't suppose she's happily married, is she? Since you can’t be overjoyed at the prospect of supervising another unmarried relative. Not if it means you’ll be required to escort her instead of visiting your clubs.”
Archer drew himself up and frowned. “She is unmarried, and we are delighted. Of course. And it shall have no impact, whatsoever, on my ability to enjoy the comforts of White’s.”
Turning to William, Dacy explained, “Archer’s wife has a habit of assigning her unmarried nieces and nephews to accompany her husband in an attempt to curb his overly adventurous spirit. My wife was one of the unfortunate chosen ones, until I rescued her. I suppose poor Miss Sanderson will be next. Bound to put a damper on your activities, Archer.”
“Unlikely,” Archer replied. “And we’re all relieved the girl survived.”
“Is that your news, then?”
“No,” William said. “Miss Sanderson managed to save a box from the fire. It contains some papers I’d like you to review. I was also hoping you might remember a man in the Rifle Corps called Carnaby. Anthony Carnaby.”
“Lt. Carnaby?” Dacy asked, his scar puckering as he frowned. “Yes. I remember him. Why?”
“He might be part of this mystery,” Archer interjected. “Show Dacy your papers. I still think they’re just ordinary household bills and the like.”
William withdrew the packet from the box and handed the bundle to Dacy. “What do you remember about Lt. Carnaby?”
“Excellent marksman with the 95th,” Dacy commented, unfolding the sheets. His lips twisted. “Almost lost a wager to him. But I managed to hit the playing card dead center. His shot was a fraction of an inch to the left. Blew the nose off the queen of diamonds, however.” He chuckled, still glancing through the sheets. “Why?”
“Do you remember what happened to him?”
“Yes. I do.” Dacy raised one long-fingered hand and briefly touched the white scar on his forehead. His face grew grim. “We were overrun by the French. I was one of the lucky ones. He was not.”
“He died?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“If you were injured badly in the fighting, wasn’t it possible that he was also wounded? That he survived?”
“No. The men dragged us both off the field. But the doctors could do nothing for him. His throat was cut.”
“You saw the body?”
“I saw them stitch him into a shroud to be sent home. Yes,” he replied, his voice harsh. “Is that proof enough? Surely, his family can confirm this. Why ask me?”
“Sorry, I’m merely trying to understand the situation. There is something odd here—some hidden deviltry,” William said. “Did you know a man named Major Pickering?”
“Major Pickering? No—not directly. I recall a sergeant, however, who knew him at one time.”
“And these papers don’t have any significance for you?”
“I’m sorry, no.” Lord Dacy refolded the sheets and handed them to William. “Do you suspect pay irregularities?”
“It crossed my mind when I saw the paper listing the names and amounts. What was your experience as far as pay?”
“Not what you’d believe if that is the road you’re following. We were paid properly.” He stopped with a dark chuckle. “Just too bad the men couldn’t have eaten better under the circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” William’s blood tingled. There had been invoices for grain in the packet. “Surely you were given sufficient supplies?”
“Certainly, the officers were. But there were rumors, as you must be aware. And after the war, several men were brought to justice for selling moldered, spoiled grain. You must have read about it.”
William nodded. “So it's possible that the extent of the conspiracy was not uncovered?”
“Possible? Of course.” Lord Dacy pulled a thick, creamy piece of paper out of a nearby writing table. He picked up a quill and dipped it in a crystal pot of ink before tapping the surplus ink off the tip. His dark eyes flickered over William’s face before he started to write. “Here are a few men you may wish to contact. They would know more than I.”
When Dacy handed him the list, William glanced at it briefly. He was about to fold it and place it in his pocket when Archer plucked it out of his fingers. The older man had been so quiet that William had nearly forgotten him.
Archer's quick gaze flicked over the list. He handed it back to William before turning to Dacy.
“The Duke of Rother?” Archer asked, fidgeting in his seat. He always seemed to have an excess of energy and an inability to sit still for any length of time.
“Yes,” Dacy said. “His southern estate supplied a great deal of our food. He, or rather his man of business, may have heard if there were any irregularities. He was never involved in any scandal. However, he may know something that was not brought out.”
Studying Archer’s tense face, William realized that Archer wasn’t listening. He stared at the letter in William’s hand and moved restlessly, his feet tapping the floor.
Even Lord Dacy noted it with a touched of annoyance. “Is that all?”
“Yes, thank you,” William replied.
Rising to their feet, Archer and William took their leave. William was conscious of an air of distraction winding around Archer. The older man hummed in a low monotone while they walked briskly toward Pall Mall.
“Shall we split the list?” Archer asked abruptly. He took a rapid step back from the curb as a curricle, drawn by a gaudy pair of bays, barreled past them. The wheels scraped the curbstone near their feet.
“I appreciate the offer, but I won’t impose,” William replied. “It is, after all, my purpose at Second Sons.”
Archer’s low hum grew slightly louder. Finally, he said, “The duke may be reluctant to meet with you. Or answer questions. He has no reason to do so.”
“Perhaps,” William replied, perfectly aware of the difficulties. “I’ll manage.”
“If you need my assistance, you will let me know?”
“Most assuredly.” William wondered again if he could trust Archer. The man had been fretful, almost nervous, when Dacy had mentioned the duke.
Was Archer afraid of what William would discover if he questioned him?
The duke had lost a daughter in the fire. He might not think too highly of Mr. Archer, since he and his wife alone had survived.
The humming rose and fell as they turned right onto Pall Mall.
“The duke was a neighbor of my wife’s brother, the marquess. The closest neighbor, although that was a good five miles away,” Archer commented, almost as if speaking to himself. He glanced down the street and then over to William. “Would you join me at my club?”
“No,” William said abruptly. “Sorry, but no. I’m afraid I’ve pressing business elsewhere.” While he appreciated Archer’s apparent lack of class distinction, William was very aware of it. The fact that he was employed at all made joining Archer at his club unsuitable. And he had no urgent desire to see the frowns on the faces of his former
friends when they saw him in their exclusive territory.
Not that he cared. He had made his decision, though to be honest, he ached when he thought of Sarah.
“You'll allow me to assist you?” Archer stopped as they rounded the corner to St. James. “Sarah is my niece. Lady Victoria is anxious for her to join us.”
“When this is over. When it’s safe.”
“She’d be just as safe with us. If not more so.”
“Consider this. Whoever tried to kill Miss Sanderson could easily mistake their target and injure Lady Victoria, instead. Is it worth the risk?” He could not let her go, not yet.
“That would never happen under my care. You must see that for Sarah to become Miss Sanderson would be the best protection. After all, the murderer believes her to be a male. A bricklayer, in fact.”
“I don’t think the change of sex will confuse him, or her, for long. No. Until I’m sure who is responsible, she’ll be safest at Second Sons.”
Chapter Twenty
Leaving Archer at the entrance to White’s, William walked a short way to a coffee house where he ordered a meat pie and coffee. As he settled back in his wooden chair, he pulled out the packet of papers to read through them again. The more he studied them, the more puzzled he grew. The amounts listed next to the names seemed too small to be pay, although it could be some other reimbursement. The invoices and bills of lading detailed items including salt pork and various grains, listed as corn.
Nothing unusual.
Then again, how much could he trust Dacy, or the men on Dacy’s list? Archer and Dacy were related. After considering this, William realized that he still didn’t have an answer about where Archer and his wife had been on the night of the fire. They might have escaped by having something as innocent as dinner with a neighbor. Archer had indicated the duke was a neighbor, so Lady Victoria and her husband could have been there.
It should be easy enough to verify, independently.
As he sipped his coffee, William eyed the other occupants of the cramped shop, thinking he might have been better off elsewhere. Most of the customers bent over their tables scowling at their food and picking at it as they suspected it was poisoned. He had never seen a more dispirited assortment of Londoners in his life.
The whole place stank of burnt potato and despair.
To his right, a thin voice rose plaintively. “Just a small slice of shepherd’s pie—anything you have,” an old man begged an overworked serving maid.
The elderly man, dressed in a blue coat with frayed cuffs, gripped the edge of his table. His large, blue-veined hands trembled. Long, wispy strands of white hair floated around his huge, reddened ears as he leaned forward. His eyes watered and blinked continually with nervousness.
“What?” the waitress scoffed. She pushed back her thick black hair from her damp forehead with a meaty forearm. “And who’ll pay, I’d like to know?”
“I-I—”
“There now, get along with you,” the proprietor called from behind his counter. He frowned at the waitress and shook his head. “No begging.”
Eyeing the old man’s desperate face, William reached into his pocket.
Before he could draw out a coin, the door opened. A gust of fresh, April air whirled through the room, blowing away some of the dank odors.
Sarah Sanderson walked inside. She wore the moth-eaten black clothing William had donned the night of their abortive adventure to retrieve her box. She slapped several men on their broad backs as she strode through the room, exchanging cheerful insults with them.
“Sam!” a man called. “Over here!”
“Alan, my lad,” she replied. “Hawkins said he let the lot of you go early today—what was it? You blockheads couldn’t lay a square wall without me?”
“Truth be told, we’d finished it,” Alan replied. Several other men guffawed and nudged each other. “Didn’t have you there picking at each grain of sand in the mortar.”
She laughed and hit him on the back. Then she elbowed another man. “Like as not, it’ll fall before tomorrow. And we’ll be back rebuilding it the morning after.”
“And even more likely, you’ll be seeing old Peg tonight. Then the apothecary even later.” Alan kicked the chair opposite his and gestured to it.
“Now, there’s no call to be anxious about your chances with Peg,” Sarah said as she sat in the proffered chair. “There’s plenty of ash and sulfur to be had—if you’re lucky. Though with your way with the women, I've doubts you’ll need it.” She glanced around. “So, lads, where’s the next job?”
William shifted back in his seat, slipping into the shadows.
Sarah had obviously tried to return to work. Thankfully, the men had already finished the wall so she had not been exposed in the Archer’s garden.
A movement at the next table distracted him. The old man had not left. He sat in a rickety chair and grinned at William, still blinking rapidly.
Reminded of the old man’s predicament, William pulled out a coin. Before he could hand it to him, though, the serving maid returned. She carried a plate of Shepherd’s pie and tankard of ale, clutched in a grimy hand.
“Now just eat up quietly and leave,” she muttered to the shabby man in a low voice. She glanced over her shoulder at the proprietor before setting down the tankard on the table. “Not a word, you hear? I don’t fancy losing my job.”
The plate never touched the table. The old man grabbed it, nestling it into the crook of his arm. Then he took a piece of the pie and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing rapidly, he nodded at her before he took a swallow of ale to wash the food down.
“Not a word, love,” he replied with a chuckle.
She gave him a hurried smile before strolling back to the narrow bar at the end of the room. Surprised at her risky generosity, William watched as she slipped a coin out of her apron and added it to the till.
And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. The proprietor watched her from the kitchen door, his arms crossed over his barrel-like chest.
“Just a minute there, May,” he said, moving to block the waitress’ escape from behind the bar.
“He paid, sir!” May replied, holding her tray in front of her chest. Her glance darted to the old man and then back to her employer’s scowling face.
“Too much.” The proprietor opened the till and pulled the coin out. “You put too much in.” He held the coin out to her. “Here, you daft cow, put it back in your apron. And for God’s sake learn to count,” he said in a gruff voice.
May bobbed a hurried curtsey before she grabbed the coin from his thick fingers. Then she breathlessly escaped before he could change his mind. Noticing William watching her, she gave him a wink before dodging back into the kitchen.
Feeling as if he had fallen asleep and awakened in some strange fairy tale, William glanced around the room. There was still the same horrible smell of burnt potato, but the rank smell of despair had disappeared. The men laughed and cursed each other, telling ribald stories and flinging about lurid insults with complete abandon.
In the center of it all, Sarah Sanderson sat wrong-way-’round on her chair, with her arms folded across the chair’s back and her chin resting on her wrists. Her eyes glowed with laughter. The area around her sparkled with light as if a shaft of pale, April sunshine followed her inside.
Her mere presence eased the tension and brought a bit of relief from the desperate reality of their lives. Much of the anger and sense of futility seemed temporarily banished. For a few shining moments, the hopeful feeling that maybe tomorrow would be just a little better than today, reigned supreme.
At that instant, William realized he could not imagine a world without Sarah Sanderson. Life would be insupportable without the smile on her merry face and her gleaming eyes. Like a cork that forcefully rose to the surface when pressed beneath the dark water, she simply refused to give up.
His gut twisted. He loved her with a force and depth that took his breath away.
How can anyon
e kill a woman who makes life worth living just by walking into a room?
The gulf between them yawned even wider. She was the daughter of a marquess. But even if he never held her in his arms again, he could perform one task. He could protect her and discover who had tried to murder her.
Finishing a second cup of coffee, he folded the papers and tucked them into his pocket. Time to dig in and do what he did best, inquire. And he would start with the War Office.
He stood and reluctantly threaded his way through the coffee house.
“Mr. Sanderson,” he said, unhappy at the need to end Sarah’s brief moment of freedom. “I’d like to speak with you. About that job I mentioned earlier.”
Sarah glanced up at him in surprise, blanching. “Mr. Trenchard!” When she caught the curious gaze of her friends, her face reddened slightly.
“It would be better if we spoke in private,” he said, aware of the roles they were playing. “Now.”
She scrambled out of her chair hastily and nodded at her companions. “Yes, sir.”
Once outside, he pushed her in front of him. “Not a word,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t have time to take you back to Second Sons, and you’re not safe alone. Just come with me and remain silent.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in a meek voice.
He gave her a sharp glance, but her bland expression gave nothing away. “We’re going to the War Office.”
“Lovely,” Sarah replied.
“Be quiet.”
Within minutes of their arrival, the already gloomy clerk grew truculent with irritation at William’s lack of information and his raggedy companion. Tracing the names on the list was nearly impossible, particularly since most of them were just surnames and an initial.
“Take this one. There tweren’t no Telford in the Rifle Corps in 1805, sir. And I have to say this list seems nonsensical to me. No rhyme nor reason.” The clerk stabbed a thin finger at one of the names. “This Telford lad, for starters, why I remember a lad by that name who were killed in December of 1805 in north Germany. How could he be paid when he were already dead?”
