by Brenda Hiatt
"And what will you wear?" she asked, with the first show of humor he'd seen from her all day. "Have you a lilac waistcoat to complement my gown?"
"As it happens, I do," he replied with a grin. "We'll have to have Holmes work with your maid to coordinate our future ensembles. Which reminds me—you do not have a maid yet, do you?"
Sarah shook her head. "In truth, the idea of a maid of my very own will take getting used to as well. I suppose you are right that I will need one, however." She thought for a moment, then said, "Miss Fanny Mountheath's maid is cheerful and competent, but dreadfully put-upon. Do you suppose we might induce her to come to us?"
"It is certainly worth a try, if you like her. I'll look into it tomorrow."
They lapsed into silence and Peter glanced at Sarah's profile, thinking again about the life she must have led, orphaned, homeless, then shipped off to a school hundreds of miles from anyone she knew. Perhaps it was not luxury she had longed for so much as security.
On that thought, he signaled the driver to make a detour to Curzon Street. Sarah looked at him questioningly, but he only smiled, hoping that her reaction to this surprise might be all he he could desire.
* * *
Sarah hoped that Peter did not intend to take her to yet another shop. She had plans to make for the evening and had counted on an hour or so of solitude to give thought to them. Remembering her pleasant new chamber, she smiled. The colors weren't exactly what she'd have chosen, but already she regarded it as a retreat of sorts.
Peter called for the driver to stop and she peered out. They were on Curzon Street, before a row of exceptionally fine town houses. "What—?"
"Come. I'll show you." The suppressed eagerness in his expression heightened her curiosity.
He helped her from the carriage, then escorted her to the door of a lovely double house of mellow brick with diamond-paned windows. Someone must live here that he wished her to meet. With her free hand, she smoothed her second-hand skirts, hoping he would not be disappointed by their reception of her.
Then, to her surprise, instead of knocking at the door he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Pushing it wide, he motioned for her to enter. With an even more curious glance, she complied.
Their footsteps echoed in the empty foyer, bare of carpets or furniture, though still beautiful with its richly colored marble floor and graceful curving staircase.
"Do you like it?" Peter asked.
Sudden understanding broke upon her and she whirled to face him. His eyes held an almost boyish eagerness, tinged by a hint of apprehension.
"Is this— Do you mean— This is the place you found for us to live?" She couldn't believe it, even when he nodded. Slowly, she turned to examine her surroundings more closely, taking in every exquisite detail.
"It's the most beautiful house I've ever seen," she finally said. "But . . . it must cost a fortune. How—?"
"Did I not ask you to trust me on such matters? I won't pauper us, Sarah, I promise."
Again she felt a prickle of irritation that he seemed not to trust her enough to reveal the details of his finances. Clearly he was much, much wealthier than he had led her to believe, if he was able to afford this house. Still, looking around, imagining herself mistress of this lovely place, she could not find it in her to be too angry at him.
"So it is really ours?"
He nodded, that trace of anxiety leaving his eyes. "I'm ready to sign the papers, pending your approval. I wouldn't, of course, force you to live in a place you disliked. But I take it you approve?"
"If, as you claim, we can afford it, I very much approve."
"Then come, let me show you the rest before it grows dark." Like a child anxious to show off a new treasure, he led her up the beautiful oaken staircase.
Ten minutes later, Sarah had to confess herself thoroughly satisfied, though still overwhelmed. The house was everything she could have dreamed, and far, far more than she had ever expected. Not only that, it seemed to welcome her, inviting her to make it hers, to put her own stamp upon it. Never had any place felt so much like home.
"When can we move in?" she asked as they left the dining room. The sun was near to setting, but she had no trouble imagining the artistic chandelier filled with blazing candles, a long table centered beneath it, surrounded by a large family . . .
"There is paperwork yet to complete, but I was told we may have possession at once. If you'd like, we can begin shopping for furniture tomorrow."
More money to be spent! Money that could pay for William's safety. Her heart twisted within her, a full confession trembling on her lips.
"I fear I have no furniture of my own," he continued. "Everything in the Grosvenor Street house was purchased by my father —or his father. I'm looking forward to a home of my own as much as you must be, Sarah."
She swallowed the words that had nearly escaped her. Of course! The money for all of this must be coming from the duke. Peter had no job, no lands. He had served in the army, yes, but half-pay officers did not live in houses like this one.
Now she remembered how the Duke of Marland had looked at her yesterday, as though forced to acknowledge her against his will and better judgment. Imagine if he'd known the whole truth! No, she refused to put herself in his debt, even if she was ready to accept being in Peter's.
Accompanying him back through the front door, watching him relock it, she longed to ask him how far they must depend on his father's goodwill, but of course she could not. He would not wish to confess his dependency —which no doubt explained his reluctance to discuss the details of his finances.
Peter helped her back into the carriage, his eyes searching her face. She smiled, striving to appear content. Perhaps, once she had redeemed her brother, they could work together to achieve true independence from the duke. Until then, she would do nothing to make Peter feel inadequate —to include asking him for money to help William.
At least, not until she had tried everything else.
On their return, they had a hurried tea, then repaired upstairs to change. Sarah was assisted by Millie, one of the upstairs maids, whose enthusiasm compensated for her lack of experience in such matters.
"What a lovely frock, my lady," she exclaimed as she helped Sarah into the new lilac gown. "Oh! I'm sorry —I did not mean to prick you. So many pins! You'll have a seamstress in to finish the seams before you wear it again, I'm thinking? Now, will you wear your hair up or down?"
Though Millie did not possess Libby's skill, she was able to pull Sarah's hair back into a simple yet elegant style, brushing her curls about her shoulders. Sarah herself arranged the silk lilacs in her hair, as the poor maid seemed at a loss.
Peter's eyes lit up most gratifyingly as she descended the stairs to where he awaited her in the front hall. "I see my taste in women's clothing is nearly as impeccable as my taste in women," he said, taking her hand when she reached the bottom. "You do me credit, my dear."
She dipped a quick curtsey to hide her sudden nervousness, for his words served to remind her that this ball would be her first public appearance as Lady Peter Northrup. Everyone there would likely be watching her, evaluating her, wondering whether she could live up to the role.
Sarah prayed she would not let Peter down.
"You look rather splendid yourself, my lord," she said, rising. And he did, with his silver-embroidered lavender waistcoat and jacket of such a deep purple it was almost black. "I will be honored to appear on your arm."
During the short drive to the Wittington house, Sarah's nervousness increased, for a greater challenge faced her tonight than the stares and whispers that were sure to be directed her way. If she were to have any chance at all of amassing five thousand pounds in less than a week's time, she could not afford to waste a single evening.
Nor could she worry about such niceties as whether any given target "deserved" his or her fate. No, she would simply have to seize whatever opportunities presented: an empty room, an unwatched pocket or reticule, an un
guarded carriage. Without William, she had no way to convert jewels or plate into currency, so it would no doubt be best to limit her takings to cash.
She was so busy with such thoughts, the carriage seemed to stop almost as soon as it started. Stepping down, she took Peter's arm and gazed up at the house before them, her looming social trial abruptly crowding out thoughts of larceny.
As they followed the throng of guests through the foyer, Sarah tried to distract herself by comparing this house to her own home-to-be. This hall was not so wide, nor the staircase they mounted so graceful. The observation steadied her somewhat. Then they were announced.
"Lord Peter Northrup, Lady Peter Northrup," intoned the majordomo as they reached Lord and Lady Wittington at the entrance to the ballroom.
Sarah felt that every eye in the room was upon her as she greeted her hosts with a curtsey. For a terrifying instant, she wobbled and nearly lost her balance, but then Peter steadied her with a hand on her elbow and she was able to rise, the vision of landing on her backside receding.
"We are honored to have you both here only a day after your wedding," Lady Wittington was saying, her expression kind, though she could not quite conceal her curiosity. "Weren't you the sly ones, keeping your courtship a secret? Lady Peter, have you met my daughter?"
She was introduced to Miss Chalmers, then she and Peter progressed into the room. As she'd feared, more than a few ladies were regarding her with raised eyebrows or even hostility, though others smiled pleasantly enough.
"Would you care for a glass of something before the dancing begins?" Peter asked. "It promises to become quite warm in here."
Sarah nodded, grateful for his attempt to divert her. Now that the first hurdle was past, however, she recalled what must be her main goal for the evening. "I believe I will locate the ladies' withdrawing room while you fetch it," she said. "Shall I meet you here in five minutes?"
"Of course." With an encouraging smile, he went in search of a footman.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah headed toward an alcove off to her right. If she moved quickly, she might be able to take a first step toward her goal before Peter returned.
CHAPTER 16
As Sarah had hoped, everyone was still congregating in the small ballroom, ladies and gentlemen alike vying for dance partners for the evening. The short hallway beyond the alcove was deserted. The door on the right did indeed lead to the ladies' withdrawing room, judging by the two women who had disappeared through it a moment before. The French door in front of her, however, opened onto a balcony overlooking the street below.
She glanced over her shoulder to discover more than one pair of eyes turned her way. Smiling, she moved to the balcony door at a leisurely pace, as though simply exploring which was exactly what she was doing. The door was closed against the October evening chill but not locked, so she stepped through to glance down at the busy street, then along the front of the house.
The balcony ran the length of the row of houses, with two other doors opening to the Wittington's before the low wall that separated this portion of the balcony from that fronting the next house along the row. A wall Sarah could easily climb.
Making a show of breathing the cool air, she then pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and headed back inside, mulling over the possibilities. Perhaps later, when people had tired of watching for any faux pas she might make, she would be able to slip back out here and use the balcony to gain entry to other houses.
So deep in thought was she that she failed to notice Lady Mountheath's approach. "Why, Sarah!" she exclaimed loudly, apparently unable to bring herself to use Sarah's new title. "How nice. I confess I did not expect to see you out in Society quite so soon. Have the novelties of marriage paled so quickly?"
Sarah made certain her smile encompassed both of the Mountheath daughters as well as their mother, whom they hovered behind, tittering. "Not in the least, my lady!" she replied at similar volume. "However, Lord Peter was embarrassingly anxious to show me off, properly attired."
Lady Mountheath reddened, her eyes flicking about at the dozen or more people within earshot, some of whom were showing signs of amusement.
"Yes, that is a most becoming gown," she said placatingly, before lowering her voice. "I am delighted, of course, that I was able to marry you off so creditably. I trust you will remember the role I played in helping you to your new status."
"I'm certain I will remember every detail of your charity to me, my lady," Sarah told her. "Never fear."
Her erstwhile benefactress seemed so satisfied with this response that she merely nodded her feathered headdress and turned away, beckoning her daughters to follow her.
"Here you are." Peter came up just then carrying two glasses as Sarah basked in her unexpected victory. He glanced at the rigid, departing backs of the Mountheath ladies. "Were they rude to you?" he asked in an undertone.
"Only moderately," Sarah replied, taking a glass from him with a grin. "I believe they regret it now, however."
Peter chuckled. "That's my girl. You can take care of yourself, can't you?"
"As I reminded you today, I've done so for many years." She sipped from her glass. "Oh! Is this champagne? I've never tasted it before."
"Yet another new experience I can show you," he said with a wink. "Do you like it?"
She took another small sip. "I'm not certain yet. I believe so. It . . . fizzes."
"Drink it slowly," he cautioned. "It can sneak up on the unwary. Speaking of new experiences, I should warn you that I plan to teach you to waltz tonight."
Sarah choked as a few drops of champagne went down the wrong way. "What?" she croaked, trying to get her breath back. "You can't be serious. I am enough of a cynosure without that."
"People watch you only because you are so lovely," he assured her, patting her back while she cleared her throat. She quirked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. "And because of our sudden marriage, I suppose. But not because there is anything the least bit wrong with you."
Thinking ahead to what she hoped to accomplish tonight, she could only wish that were true.
Soon, however, she discovered that Peter was at least partially correct. Her marriage seemed not to have hurt her popularity with the gentlemen. If anything, the opposite seemed to be the case, for those she already knew petitioned her for dances while those she did not asked Peter for an introduction. The ladies seemed marginally more cordial to her than they had been before, as well.
Though her inclination was to dance only with Peter, she agreed to a few with other gentlemen, realizing that it might be easier to slip away from one of them for "Saintly" business than from her too-perceptive husband. Her first two dances were with Peter, however, and she enjoyed them thoroughly.
"Remember," he said as Sir Cyril Weathers claimed her for the next set, "I mean to show you a waltz later. The supper dance, if not before."
Though still skeptical, she nodded, then turned to accompany Sir Cyril to the floor.
"That shade definitely becomes you, my lady," he said as they took their places. "It makes your eyes an even deeper blue. In fact, they look nearly violet, like Lady Pearl's eyes —or, I should say, Lady Hardwyck's. I have always been a great admirer of hers, you know."
"I have not yet had an opportunity to meet her," Sarah said, secretly amused at such a backhanded compliment. As at the embassy reception, he seemed to have drunk more than was good for him, even though it was yet early.
"Oh, she and Lord Hardwyck are out of Town." He bowed as the opening strains of the dance sounded. "Hope she'll be back before winter, however. It would be a fair treat to have the two of you grace the same room sometime. Why, you could almost be sisters."
That thought diverted Sarah for the next few minutes as she went through the movements of the dance. Hardwyck was the name Peter had mentioned in connection with her brother —the nobleman for whom he had acted as valet, at least briefly. A friend of Peter's own brother Marcus.
No doubt, given that connect
ion, she would meet this Lady Pearl at some point. Perhaps she could then convince Lord Hardwyck to give William another chance as his valet? But no— that might be inappropriate, now that William was brother-in-law to a duke's son. Still, it would be better than—
"You are a vision in the dance, my lady," Sir Cyril said as they met again to link arms and promenade. "Such grace!"
They reached the bottom of the set and he leaned in close. "Married women are the only ones worth knowing, in my opinion." Instead of releasing her arm as the dance required, he twined it against him, inclining his head toward her as though to steal a kiss.
Sarah stiffened, shocked. But even as she began to pull away, she realized her hand was against his coat pocket. Leaning her head away from his attempted kiss, fluttering her other hand in protest, she quickly dipped into that pocket and palmed the wadded papers she found there before pulling away from him entirely.
"Sir Cyril, you forget yourself!" she exclaimed, slipping the papers into her own pocket without a twinge of guilt.
He blinked. "My most abject apologies, my lady! You are right. I had no right— Pray do not mention this to Lord Peter. I'd be no match for him on the duelling field."
Now it was Sarah's turn to blink. Somehow, she could not imagine Peter in a duel— though, of course, he'd spent some years as a soldier and presumably had seen his share of battle. She could not quite imagine that, either.
"Very well, sir, but you must keep your hands to yourself," she said severely. "Mine is not the only husband likely to take offense if you persist in pursuing married women."
The dance ended a moment later and she took chilly leave of him, though in truth she was eager to find a quiet corner so that she could examine what she'd plucked from his pocket. Lord Ribbleton, her next partner, was not in evidence, so she retired to the edge of the room where she pretended to look out of a window while she pulled the wad of papers from her pocket.
As she'd hoped, they were notes from the Bank of England —twenty-pound notes totalling £280. A fortune —but still less than a tithe of what she needed to free William from his captor.
