by Amy Corwin
“Why, he be a brickmaker,” she said. When he frowned at her, she blurted out, “From the Isle of Wight.”
“Of course,” he replied. Then his tired mind absorbed her words. “Of course. The Isle of Wight. Of course. Thank you.”
“Were there a message, sir? Do you know where Miss Hawkins went?”
“Not the slightest idea,” William replied happily. “Thank you.”
“But, sir!” she called as William strode away. “Why—”
William climbed back onto Hunter, his muscles protesting. He rubbed his palm along the horse’s long, sleek neck. “Back to the tavern, my lad. Then we’ll see about getting rid of Archer so I can carry on to the Isle of Wight. I’ll wager I find Sarah before anyone else—I’m beginning to understand the tortuous way she thinks, God help me.”
The same stable boy came sauntering out of the stables when William returned to the Plough. He tossed Hunter’s reins to the lad and entered the tavern. There were only a few patrons, weary-looking souls clustered around scarred wooden tables staring at their plates of cheese and bread as if too fatigued to lift a slice to their lips.
“Hey!” William called, pulling off his leather gloves. He tried not to stand still too long for fear of falling into an exhausted stupor like the rest of the patrons. The cool night air held an oddly soporific quality. “Is anyone here?”
“Can I help you, sir?” the barkeep asked, coming through the kitchen door, rolling up his sleeves.
“Yes, Mr. Archer rented one of your rooms an hour ago. I wish to see him.”
“Mr. Archer?”
“A moderately tall man. Graying brown hair. Surely, you remember.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Rented a few rooms yesterday, but nothing this evening. Not yet.”
“I left him here, outside! Your lad stabled his horse.”
“I daresay he did, but he’s not here, now. Now, if you'd like a room—”
“Never mind. Thank you, but never mind.” William strode out and called for the stable lad. “That man who rode in with me, did you see him leave?”
The boy cocked his head to the right and held out his hand. William flipped another half-crown into the palm.
“Aye, sir.”
“Where did he go?”
“Back on the London road.”
“Was he alone?”
Holding his hand out again, the lad stared idly over William’s shoulder. Swearing softly, William dug out another coin and tossed it to him.
“Well?” William asked impatiently.
“He and another gent left a little after you.”
“Did you recognize the other man? Was it Mr. Sanderson?”
“Might have. Hard to say exactly.”
“I’m not giving you another coin, you scamp, though I’d be happy to teach you a thing or two about greed. Now answer my question. Did the gentleman leave with Mr. Sanderson?”
“Aye,” the boy agreed sulkily. As William turned, he caught the lad sticking his tongue out at him.
William did his best to control his laughter.
The news that Archer had Sarah sobered him. She was in the hands of the enemy. Perhaps. At least she didn’t have the papers with her.
William could use the documents to ransom her, if necessary.
He focused on the stable boy who stared at him expectantly. “There’s another half-crown if you’ll saddle my horse and bring it here within the next five minutes.”
Hunter was still chewing a mouthful of oats when the lad led him out of the stable. His hooves barely cleared the dusty ground. Feeling just as energetic as his horse, William climbed into the saddle. After a deep breath, he turned northeast toward London. Both horse and rider stumbled along the edge of the road for a few moments, contemplating the long journey ahead of them. Then, they fell gratefully into that empty-minded state known mostly to those suffering from acute sleeplessness.
“Sorry, Hunter, but Archer has kidnapped my love—uh, client,” William apologized when he briefly awoke. He patted the horse’s neck. It felt warm and damp with sweat. “You can sleep for a week once we get back. I just hope Mr. Gaunt still has that set of leg irons. I was obviously remiss in not using them on Sarah earlier. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Four a.m. came and went before William entered the outskirts of London alone and dreaming about chaining Sarah to his bed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When William crossed Westminster Bridge, he hesitated midway across. He nodded, almost falling asleep in the saddle, before making a decision. He couldn’t abandon the chase. He needed to find Sarah.
If she was still alive after a night spent in the company of John Archer.
The need to discover her whereabouts and protect her—partially from herself—drove him forward. Hardly aware of his surroundings, he swayed as the horse plodded through the streets. He almost rode past the Archer townhouse before he remembered to stop.
“Is Miss Sanderson here?” he asked the butler who opened the door.
“Yes, sir,” he replied majestically, offering nothing else.
William leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes closed. His eyelids felt gritty. A smile tried to curve his mouth, but exhaustion drained it away.
“Sir?” the butler asked. “Would you care to enter?”
“What?” William replied, rubbing his jaw. The rasp of his unshaven whiskers sounded abnormally loud. “Oh, yes.” He stumbled inside and stood staring at the lamp gracing a table in the center of the hallway.
“If you would follow me, sir, I believe they are at breakfast.”
“I shouldn’t intrude.” He straightened.
“It presents no difficulty. I believe you are expected.” He led the way to the dining room where he firmly escorted William to a seat at Lady Victoria’s right hand.
William glanced around, noting that Mr. Archer was missing. Sarah sat on her aunt’s left. He paused in the act of sitting and focused his attention on her, feeling a sense of unfamiliarity. She was Sarah, and she wasn’t.
A lacy cap hid most of her blond-streaked hair. And from the amount of exposed bosom showing, she appeared to be clad in a very modish gown of the palest green. She looked very beautiful in the soft, early morning light.
“Mr. Trenchard, how good to see you,” Lady Victoria greeted him.
“Lady Victoria.” He nodded at her. He caught Sarah’s gaze. “Miss Sanderson.”
A warm flush rose over her cheeks. Noting his gaze, she self-consciously rested a hand at the base of her bare neck. His body tightened.
“Mr. Trenchard,” she said, her flush deepening prettily.
He cast a sardonic smile in her direction, enjoying her evident discomfort.
Her pale face and the dark hollows around her eyes increased her fragile, uncertain air. If she hadn’t run off, she could have had a decent night’s sleep.
He clenched his jaw against the tug of sympathy.
“I’m afraid my husband is indisposed,” Lady Victoria said as the butler scooped fluffy yellow scrambled eggs onto their plates.
“Indisposed?” William repeated.
“He was shot!” Sarah leaned forward, almost hitting the butler as he refilled her plate.
The footman, seeing this, stood back a moment before offering a plate of kippers.
“Shot? Is he injured badly?” William half stood, staring at Sarah. “Are you hurt?”
She cast a quick glance at Lady Victoria before answering, “No, I’m quite well.”
“My husband says he was only grazed. The ball went through a muscle in his upper shoulder. He is tired, but should not suffer any lasting harm.” Lady Victoria allowed the butler to refill her cup of coffee before continuing, “If you would like to speak to him, we can see if he is awake when we conclude our meal.”
“Thank you.” William plowed through the food on his plate.
After a few moments, he noticed that for once, Sarah only pushed her eggs around her plate. Was she finally real
izing the seriousness of her position, or was she worried about her uncle?
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said abruptly while the footman cleared away his plate in preparation to serve a sliver of fruit in a crystal bowl.
“Of course not,” Lady Victoria agreed, although her eyes were grave.
Sarah glanced at him. He fancied there was a small flicker of gratitude in her gaze. Nonetheless, she said, “If I hadn’t gone—”
“Yes. However you were only doing what you thought best, my dear,” her aunt interrupted. “You did not expect my husband to come after you.”
“I should have, though.” Sarah turned to look at William. “But why did you? Why couldn’t you just let me go?”
“Because you’re paying me to keep you out of danger,” he answered smoothly.
“I would have been safe,” she objected, tired strain showing on her white face. “You should be looking for the man responsible for Major Pickering’s murder.”
“The Isle of Wight—is that where you intended to hide?” William laughed harshly. “If I figured out where you were headed, don’t you think a clever murderer might?”
“You sound precisely like Mr. Archer,” Sarah replied, her tone redolent with bitterness. “I hadn’t realized I was so predictable.”
“Uncle John, dear,” Lady Victoria corrected her gently. She reached over and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “I know it is difficult after all these years, but please try. We are your family.”
Sarah’s mouth compressed into a straight line. William had the notion that she was holding back what she wanted to say. However, she did turn her hand to clasp her aunt’s fingers and press them with tentative affection.
Showing a great deal of grace, Lady Victoria changed the topic of conversation to other less emotional subjects. When they finally concluded their meal, William followed the two women upstairs to Archer’s bedchamber.
“John, dear, are you awake?” Lady Victoria asked in a soft voice as they stood in the doorway.
“Yes! What the blazes is it now?” he replied in a peevish tone.
William entered behind Lady Victoria. Archer was propped up against a vast pile of pillows. Heavy curtains of navy and gold brocade draped the large bed.
“You're quite the hero, Archer,” William said, rubbing the back of his neck. He rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness. His recent meal filled his stomach comfortably, but the food was also making him sluggish.
Archer shifted uncomfortably and frowned, although William thought he detected a gleam of satisfaction in Archer’s brown eyes.
“A very tired one—if I am a hero. Which I doubt,” Archer said gruffly. “Stop swarming about the door. Come in or stay out, one or the other. So, what did you discover?”
The two women advanced, skirting William to stand closer to Archer’s bed. Sarah awkwardly smoothed her skirts as she studied her uncle with an uncertain look on her face.
“Only that your niece has been playing matchmaker,” William said, belatedly guessing the extent of Sarah’s plans. “She seems to suffer from the delusion that convincing Miss Hawkins and Mr. Bingham to elope to Gretna Green is more important than her life.”
“I do not,” Sarah said.
“No matter,” Archer said, waving a hand. “We did get our opponents to show one more card.”
“That bullet in your shoulder?”
“It may disappoint you to know there is no bullet in my shoulder. It went clean through.” Archer’s eyes strayed to on his niece when she made a soft, sad noise.
“Did you recognize him?” William asked.
“Sadly, no,” Archer said.
When Sarah caught William’s gaze, she shook her head and shrugged.
“Then there is no advantage for us,” William said.
“Tell me, Mr. Trenchard, did you return to the tavern after going to Hawkins’s house?” Archer asked instead of responding to his statement.
“Yes,” William replied shortly, cursing his slowness.
“Did you notice any carriages in the courtyard?” Archer asked.
William moved closer to the door. “There were any number of conveyances.”
“Did you notice a green one with a crest?” Archer asked.
“There were none by that description. Why?”
“I suppose we can hardly blame you, then, if it was gone by the time you returned.”
So that was it. Archer had seen the murderer’s coach and recognized it.
“What did you see?”
“The Duke of Rother’s carriage. We managed to slip away—I thought before they saw us—but apparently not. Someone subsequently followed us on horseback.”
“I see. So the duke is responsible?” That would certainly make matters much more complex and difficult.
Archer nodded. “It is certainly a possibility.”
“Other than this coincidence, do you have any basis for your conclusions?”
“Your invoices.”
“Certainly, he may be implicated,” William acknowledged, his mind flashing over what he knew. “However, you’re as aware as I, that invoices are not proof. And he is a duke. Definite proof is required.”
“Have you made inquiries into his finances?” Archer shifted restlessly beneath his covers. One thin hand plucked at the edge of the coverlet.
“I—” William stopped with a tired sigh. He hadn’t had time. “What do you know about his financial matters?”
“In 1803, and again in 1804, there were rumors that the duke was having difficulties meeting his bills. Lady Vee’s brother, in fact, hired several of the duke’s servants who left his service when he neglected to pay them as much, or as frequently, as agreed. Then, I think in 1805, or certainly by 1806, these difficulties seemed to diminish. Then, disappear entirely. I find those circumstances extraordinarily compelling.”
“Interesting, though hardly conclusive. And we lack proof that he was involved in the murder of Major Pickering.”
“Do you agree that Sarah’s papers seem to be the impetus for the murders?” Archer asked.
“Perhaps. Although no one has attempted to kill me, and I’ve been flashing the papers left and right.”
Archer smiled. “Maybe because you appear so woefully ignorant of their importance.”
“Indeed,” William replied dryly, a slight smile warping his mouth. The long ride had provided him plenty of time to consider ways to flush the murderer out into the open. He wasn’t completely witless.
Without intending to, his eyes focused on Sarah, lingering on the long, slender curve of her neck.
“Therefore, we must use them to set a trap,” Archer said before William could continue. “Draw him out. Force him to admit the truth.”
“That would certainly help. However, I’d like the opportunity to strengthen our position with a few more inquiries.”
“If it makes you feel more assured, I see no objection,” Archer said magnanimously.
“What do you mean, draw him out?” Sarah asked, obviously unable to remain silent. Her thin body quivered with tension. And once again, William was struck by the strong familial resemblances. Sarah belonged with these two. She was at home, although she failed to realize it.
When she looked at him, he responded with a warm smile. Her tired eyes lit up in response.
“The papers may draw him out,” William suggested.
Archer nodded. “And Sarah can offer to meet him privately. To give them to him. If he's as desperate as he seems, he will rise to the bait.”
“Blackmail? You’re suggesting we try to blackmail a duke?” Sarah asked, her tone incredulous.
William smiled and shook his head. “No. Not blackmail. A simple offer to hand over the documents. Preferably during a suitably public event.”
“A ball,” Archer said, his eyes glowing with anticipation. “To introduce our niece to Society.” He gestured to Sarah. “That should do very nicely.”
“No!” Sarah replied emphatically. “No balls. N
o!”
“But Sarah, dear,” Lady Victoria said. “You—”
“No!” Sarah cut her off. “The entire notion is preposterous. I won’t do it.”
“Why? Do be reasonable,” Lady Victoria said. “You are the daughter of a marquess. You will have to be presented eventually.” She laid a soothing hand on Sarah’s arm. “You are just exhausted. In the morning, you will see the sense of it.”
“No! You can’t expect to pass off a common laborer, a bricklayer, as a lady of quality!” Sarah argued.
Her aunt refused to give up so easily. “Well, of course not. I have some wonderful creams, however, that will quite remove that slight touch of sun from your nose and cheeks. In a few weeks, you will be transformed, I assure you. You will see.”
“Have you all gone mad? I can’t dance. I have no accomplishments and no conversation. I can hardly go about the ballroom extolling on the virtues of English over rat trap bonds. I’m not a lady, and I doubt I ever will be!” Sarah’s gray eyes begged William to help her. He took an involuntary step in her direction before he caught himself.
“Sarah, stop this nonsense immediately,” her aunt said bracingly. “You are an absolutely wonderful girl. Is she not, Mr. Trenchard?”
“Wonderful,” William agreed, shrugging when Sarah frowned at him.
Then she stared at Lady Victoria and her uncle as if in angry disbelief. However, despite her protests, she did indeed look like a lady in her new clothes. And she would soon discover that she belonged here.
Overnight, she had slipped away from him to assume her rightful position.
“You believe everyone will accept me because I’m the daughter of a marquess,” she said in a dispirited voice. “You think they’ll have no choice.”
“You’re wrong, Sarah,” William said, longing to put an arm around her. “They’ll accept you because you’re a determined and resourceful woman. You’ve had to be to survive as you have. Just remember that. It’s all you need to make them love you.”
And with a painful sense of loss, William realized that the transformation of Samuel Sanderson into Sarah Sanderson, and finally, into Lady Sarah, had truly begun. He was losing his best, if most annoying, friend. Half of his heart.
My love. He hadn’t expected love to tear at him like a badger at his throat.
