by Brenda Hiatt
And she was. For now she knew she must keep the truth from him at all costs.
* * *
Finishing his breakfast with only a newspaper for company, Peter wondered for the hundredth time if he had erred in telling Sarah about that wartime experience last night. Had he given her an irrevocable disgust of him? It seemed all too likely. A light footstep heralded her arrival and he summoned a smile to hide his concern.
"Good morning, Sarah. You were so tired last night, I didn't wish to wake you this morning. I trust you slept well?"
She smiled back, a trace of reserve in her eyes, but no censure. "Yes, I feel quite rested," she said, going to the sideboard to fill a plate. Then, "My, what a lot of food! Never tell me that whatever we do not eat is thrown away?"
In his relief, he answered almost at random. "I believe leftovers that the servants do not want are often given away to beggars and such." He was struck again by how privileged his life had always been —a marked contrast to Sarah's.
Apparently satisfied, she spooned eggs, ham and creamed sole onto her plate and sat across from him, smiling up at the footman who poured her coffee. "I apologize for being so . . . dull last night. I have yet to get used to the whirl of Society."
"Dull?" He chuckled, the last of his worries dissipating. "Not a bit of it, I assure you. My life is immeasurably more interesting —and pleasant —with you in it."
"I'm glad." She sounded doubtful, but he knew he would convince her in time how much she meant to him. After a lingering look at her, he returned to his paper.
"There is a new melodrama opening at the Strand Theater next week," he commented after a few moments. "Perhaps we will go. Have you ever been to the theatre?"
Sarah shook her head. "I've always wished to, however."
"Then I shall take you—as often as you like." He continued to the bottom, mentally ticking off which shows she might like most, then turned the page.
His eye was arrested by a headline halfway down the page:
Noble Guest or Enterprising Footman?
"What—?" he murmured, and began reading the story that followed.
Authorities believe that the Saint of Seven Dials has struck yet again. Some three hundred pounds, in notes, were stolen from Lord Harrington's home late last night. It is perhaps not coincidental that, this same night, two different guests attending Lord and Lady Wittington's ball, in the house next door to the Harrington's, had money taken from their very pockets.
"I can't imagine how he managed it," Lord Ribbleton was heard to say.
Peter slowly lowered the paper, unable to read on, a sick suspicion knotting his stomach.
CHAPTER 17
Sarah glanced up from her plate to find Peter regarding her strangely. "What?" she asked. "Have I smudged food on my face?" She picked up her serviette and dabbed at her mouth self-consciously.
He stared at her for another long moment, then belatedly shook his head. "No, no. That is, you have remedied it."
"Peter?" Clearly something else was wrong, but she had no idea what.
"My apologies, Sarah," he said, finally smiling. "I was merely abstracted, thinking about a few matters of business I need to attend to today. If you'll excuse me?"
Though still startled by his odd manner, she nodded. "Of course."
"I'll be in the library," he said, picking up the paper he'd been reading and taking it with him.
Perhaps it was something to do with the house he'd taken, Sarah thought, returning to her breakfast. Perhaps, as she'd feared, it was indeed more than he could afford. She tried not to feel regret, for even though she'd loved the house at once, she knew she wasn't made for such riches.
When she finished eating, Sarah debated joining Peter in the library. Deciding that he might want more time to deal with whatever business he'd mentioned, she went upstairs instead, intending to tidy her chamber —only to find that a maid had already done so in her absence.
"I will never get used to this," she muttered, resenting the invasion of her privacy even as she appreciated not having to do the work herself.
Suddenly recalling the money she'd stolen last night, she hurried to her dressing table and pulled out the right-hand drawer. Yes, it was still there at the back, but better concealment would be prudent.
In another drawer she found an empty box, fitted to the drawer, no doubt intended to hold ribbons or something similar. She removed the lid, the same width as the drawer, and wedged it an inch or two from the back of the right-hand drawer so that it served as a sort of false back.
There! Now any seeking fingers would only encounter wood and not her secret treasures. Satisfied, she stood and glanced around the room again. It seemed ungrateful to be bored amid such luxury, but she had nothing to do or to read. She decided to join Peter in the library after all.
He smiled when she entered, though she thought he still seemed distracted —or, perhaps, disturbed. "Is everything all right?" she could not help asking.
"I hope so," was his cryptic answer. Then, focusing on her more keenly, he said, "Sarah, you know that you can trust me to provide anything you might need, don't you?"
Her earlier suspicion revived. "Of course," she said reassuringly. "As I've said, however, my needs are few. I hope you will not, ah, overextend yourself in an effort to provide more than I need."
"More— No, no. Pray do not trouble yourself on that head." If anything, he seemed confused.
"Then . . . we will still be moving into the house you showed me yesterday?" She was surprised to discover the answer mattered more than she'd thought it would.
His brows rose. "Of course. Why should you think otherwise?"
Suddenly embarrassed, she shrugged. "You seemed so distracted, almost worried. It was all I could think of to account for it."
To her surprise, he laughed, his expression suddenly relaxed. "So you imagined I'd spent my fortune at the shops yesterday and could no longer afford the rent? Sarah, please believe that I will never allow you to feel want again."
"Then what—?"
"Never mind. It was nothing, as it turns out. Now, go fetch your parasol. I thought we'd visit a few furniture shops, and then I'll see about hiring Miss Fanny's maid away from the Mountheaths for you. And tonight I will take you to see your first opera."
* * *
Peter examined Sarah's rapt face in profile as she watched the singers and dancers upon the stage. All day he had been alert for anything in her voice or expression that might indicate her guilt in last night's thefts, but he'd detected nothing but an occasional shadow in her eyes when he'd bought her one or two particularly expensive trinkets.
As she had yesterday, she had protested such excess, claiming not to need such things, but he had bought them anyway. If there was any chance that she had played the Saint again last night, he needed to convince her that she no longer had any need to steal.
Several times he'd come close to asking her outright, but then remembered the promise she'd given him. How would she feel if he were mistaken? She would see the question as proof he did not trust her, which would undermine the sense of security he was trying to instill in her.
No, he would keep his suspicions to himself until he had more evidence, one way or the other. If another theft occurred tonight, while she was safely with him, he would know it was someone else playing the Saint of Seven Dials, and not Sarah. He couldn't help hoping that some great house was being robbed even as they watched the show.
"That was amazing," Sarah exclaimed when the final curtain descended. "Thank you so much for bringing me."
Peter gazed down at her upturned face, all thoughts of thievery banished. "There are many amazing things I hope to show you," he said with a wink. "Shall we go home so I can begin?"
Though she blushed, her eyes twinkled. "If you insist, my lord."
"I do." Placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, he led her from the box, already anticipating an evening of delights. When they reached Grosvenor Street, however, his eagernes
s received a setback when he found Harry Thatcher waiting for him.
"Need to have a word with you, Pete," he said apologetically, glancing past him at Sarah. "A, er, private word."
Peter reined in his frustration. He and Sarah would have all night, after all— and every night following. "Very well. Sarah, why don't you go on upstairs? Your new maid should be here by now. I'll be up shortly."
Though she shot Harry a curious glance, she went without protest. Once she was gone, Peter led Harry into the library, then turned to face him. "Well?"
"Sorry, Pete. I know you have more, ah, pleasant things to do, but I'm badly dipped and m' father won't advance me a groat. I was rather hoping—"
With an exasperated sigh, Peter pulled a few guineas from his pocket. "How much do you need?" Perhaps it was time he told Harry the truth and turned his fortune over to him. It was a responsibility he no longer had time for.
"Fifty. I lost a bet to Caperton. Stupid thing, really —how many times Sherbourne would use his quizzing glass in an hour."
"Fifty! And on something like that? I don't have fifty pounds at the ready, I'm afraid, Harry." That probably wasn't quite true, but he didn't want Harry to know otherwise.
"Don't you?" Harry regarded him shrewdly. "You haven't been completely honest with me, have you, Pete?"
Though he feared he knew what was coming, Peter said, "What do you mean?"
Before answering, Harry crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. Peter thought longingly of Sarah, waiting upstairs, but knew he had to get through this first.
"Ferny saw you on Bond Street yesterday, going in and out of some of the more expensive shops. I wandered in today to chat up a few of the shopgirls —they're always willing to oblige a war hero, you know —and I discovered you've been showering quite a lot of lucre on your new bride."
Peter had known word would get around to Harry eventually, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon. "She's had little enough her whole life," he said, avoiding the real issue. "I enjoy giving her some of the things she's lacked."
"Not the point, Pete, and you know it. Never tell me the duke settled that kind of money on her—or that you'd be spending it all at once, even if he had. And I know the Mountheaths won't have provided her with any kind of dowry. Where's it coming from?"
"Very well," Peter snapped. "I've laid a bit by— more than I've let on. I knew if I told you, you'd be continually touching me for loans —just as you're doing now. Can you blame me for keeping it to myself?"
Harry scowled. "Thought I was your friend. Hell, I had your back at Orthez! Yet you don't trust me?"
Again Peter's thoughts went to Sarah, but this time he was considering the matter of trust. It was far more complicated a matter than he'd realized. It was quite true that he'd trust his life to Harry without hesitation —but not his money. How did that parallel his situation with Sarah?
Realizing that Harry was still frowning at him, he said, "That was different. I know your weaknesses, Harry, and money is one of them. I could give you two hundred pounds a week, and you'd still run through every bit of it and come back to me for more. Can you deny it?"
"Not the point," Harry said again. "You've—"
"I think it is," Peter interrupted. "What kind of friend would I be to let you run yourself into debt, even with me as your banker? It would have destroyed our friendship, at the very least."
Now Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, taking a gulp of brandy that should have burned his throat raw before answering. "So you think if I'd known . . ." He broke off, then sighed heavily. "Damn it, Pete, don't you ever get tired of being right?"
Peter relaxed, almost limp with relief. Only now did he realize how worried he'd been that he would lose his best friend over this matter. "It's served me pretty well so far," he said with forced lightness.
"It's probably true I'd never have made that bet with Caperton if I hadn't heard about you spending so freely," Harry said ruefully. "Counted on you to bail me out if I lost."
"And if I'd lent you so much you could never repay it, you'd have started avoiding me," Peter added. "Just as you avoided your father for years."
"You know me far too well— and a good thing it is, too, though I hate to admit it." Harry tossed off the rest of his brandy, making Peter wince. "But now, what about the fifty I owe Caperton?"
Though it went against his better judgment, Peter relented—partially. "I'll give you twenty-five. You can pay him the rest when your cheque comes in two weeks. I know you're expert at putting off creditors for at least that long."
Harry started to frown again, but then grinned. "Fair enough. And I won't come to you for money again, Pete. Or, at least," he amended, "I'll try not to. A leopard can't change his spots overnight, you know."
"It's enough to know you're going to try." Crossing to the desk, he pulled out a few notes and handed them to Harry. "I'm always here for advice, if you want it."
His friend chuckled. "And even if I don't. I'm well aware of it. But thank you, Pete —for everything. You really are the best of good fellows."
They shook hands, then Harry headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, "Go on upstairs to your wife, old boy. Now that you've gone and got yourself leg-shackled, you might as well enjoy the benefits."
Peter waited until the front door closed behind him, then headed up the stairs to take one of the best pieces of advice Harry had ever given him. When he reached Sarah's room, however, her new maid, Libby, was just leaving it, closing the door behind her.
"Her ladyship is sleeping," she whispered to him. "She wanted I should tell you she's sorry, but she was that tired."
Irritated afresh at Harry's timing, Peter nodded. "Very well. Thank you." Frustrated, he retired to his chamber, wondering as he divested himself of his coat why Sarah had given him no such indication earlier. He didn't feel at all sleepy, so sat down at his writing desk to answer some correspondence.
It must have been an hour later when a sound from Sarah's room next door caught his attention. Had she perhaps awakened? He moved to the door separating the rooms to listen at the panels. Yes, someone was definitely moving about in there. Would she tap at the dressing room door? Should he?
Then, to his surprise, he heard her chamber door open and close— softly, as though whoever had done it did not wish to be heard. The maid again?
Suddenly hopeful that he might get Sarah into his bed that night after all, he quietly opened his own door to peer into the hall— only to see Sarah herself, garbed in her old gray gown and cloak, tiptoeing toward the servants' staircase.
It was true, then, he thought with a sick lurch of his stomach. Quickly pulling on a dark furze coat, he crept into the hallway himself just as she disappeared down the back stairs. He thought for a moment, then hurried toward the front stairs so that he could slip around the house and cut her off. Then, they would have this matter out once and for all.
* * *
Sarah knew she was taking a terrible risk sneaking out of the house so early, but if she waited, she would have to break into houses to which the inhabitants had already returned for the night. Now, while some would still be out at various amusements, was surely the best time.
Now, before she could lose her nerve.
She thought she heard a creak in the hallway above her and glanced back, but no one was visible. Suppose Peter decided to come into her chamber, despite Libby's message? He'd seemed eager— deliciously eager —to be with her again.
A sudden surge of longing stopped her in her tracks. Surely tomorrow night would be soon enough for her next attempt at robbery? Perhaps she would just . . . No! Peter was surely asleep by now. Besides, she had only four more nights before that odious Ickle said he would turn William over to the Runners. She had to obtain more money toward his ransom.
Rather than risk going through the kitchen, she went to the garden door on the ground floor and quietly unlocked it, hoping no servant would notice and lock it behind h
er before she returned. Stepping into the chill night air, she pulled her cloak more tightly about her. She would go at least two streets away, she decided, so that no suspicion could possibly fall on Peter.
Hurrying across the garden, she pushed open the gate and turned to the right. She'd taken only a few steps along the mews, however, when a dark shaped loomed up right in front of her. Frightened, she shrank back with a gasp, but not until the figure spoke did she realize her true danger.
"Out for an evening stroll, my lady?" Peter asked blandly.
Sarah stared, her mind a blank. "No! Yes. That is, I—"
"Why, Sarah?" The gentleness in his voice was far worse than anger.
She swallowed, frantically trying to devise an excuse. "There was someone I wanted to see. An . . . an old friend," she offered.
But he was shaking his head already. "I know, Sarah. I know what you did last night."
Impossible! Wasn't it? "I don't know what you mean," she said, her voice high and unnatural, a betrayal in itself. "I was with you last night."
"Not every moment. You had ample opportunity to pick a few pockets, to break into the house next to the Wittingtons'."
Now she stared. "How can you possibly—?"
"It was in this morning's paper," he explained, his voice now bleak, defeated. "I suspected, but I didn't want to believe it could be you. Why, Sarah?" he repeated.
For a long moment she hesitated, struggling with conflicting loyalties, the overwhelming urge to tell him all the truth warring with her fear of what might result.
When she did not reply, he said, "You must know that if you need money, you need only ask me. And if you're in any sort of trouble, I will take care of it for you."
"I know." And she did believe he meant it. But he had no idea that the person she was helping was one of the very ones he had sworn to see hang. Even if she could conceal that connection from him, or if could bring himself to forgive it, he might attempt to rescue her brother —which could lead to Peter's death as well as William's. No, she dared not risk it.
