He’d seen earlier the way the man touched her. The gesture was too familiar, as if he had touched her before. That possibility disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
He stopped himself. Theirs was not a courtship, for God’s sake, and the little Cyprian could take care of herself quite well! He and Sadie had a business arrangement, which he honored for sole reason of keeping her from running afoul of his real occupation. He had no time for a dalliance, purchased or otherwise. Sadie was right. Why should he care who she solicited or whose pocket she picked?
Locked in the Webster library, Sarah wrung her hands and paced in front of Annica. “…and when he looks at me, I have a peculiar feeling in my stomach. Nausea, I think. The closer he comes to me, the more befuddled I grow. I swear, Nica, I do not know myself these days.”
“Oh! This is dreadful!” Annica agreed.
“Yes! Yes, it is. And when he kisses me—” She pressed her forehead with her fingertips and moaned, “Dear Lord! I want him to kiss me. I crave it and fear it at the same time.”
Sarah thought she saw a gleam of amusement in Annica’s dark green eyes. “What do you think it is?” she asked.
“Love.”
She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at her friend. “Do not tease me, Nica. This is serious. I think I am losing my mind.”
“You are. There is nothing rational or sane about love.”
“I cannot believe that. Surely you are mistaken.”
“Possibly,” Annica admitted. “But I do not think so. And, evidently, you have indulged in a few stolen kisses. I cannot believe you would allow just any man that liberty. What surprises me, Sarah, is that you managed to fall in love without any of us noticing. Come. Tell me. Who is it? Lord Cedric? I have long noted his interest.”
“Do not be absurd. Lord Cedric is…” She shrugged.
“He is quite handsome, Sarah. There are at least a dozen debutantes who court his attention. And I think Lady Jane Perrin has something of an tendress for him.”
“Well, warn her away,” she snapped.
“Warn her away? What an odd way to phrase it. If you have an interest in him, I am certain Jane will step aside.”
“I do not have an interest in Cedric Broxton, and neither should Jane. Mr. Travis said he is not to be trusted, and I have never much cared for him. He let Reggie take the blame for something he did at school. Reggie did not care, but I thought it showed a lack of honor. I would be loathe to see anyone tied to a man like that.”
Annica’s expression sobered, and she nodded her agreement. “A man reveals his true nature in the little things, Sarah. I am inclined to think you are right about Lord Cedric. But who is Mr. Travis? I do not believe I have heard that name before. Is he a new acquaintance?”
She cursed herself for letting the name slip. If Annica or her husband found out that Mr. Travis was the Demon of Alsatia, and that Sarah was prowling the dark London streets with him nightly, she would never hear the end of it. And if Annica found out it was Mr. Travis who had caused her current state, she would commit Sarah to a convent. She shook her head vigorously. “Not so new, Nica. But that is beside the point.”
“What is the point?”
“That I am confused. Why should one person have such a devastating effect on me? Why can I not think of anyone else? Why does his name leap to mind whenever I think of….”
“Yes.” Annica nodded and sighed. “I very much fear we have gone beyond infatuation and are now dealing with a rather nasty case of love here.”
Sarah collapsed onto the settee and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, this is appalling! This is beyond enduring! I cannot be in love, Nica. That has never been a possibility. You know I cannot marry.”
“Sarah, any man worthy of your love will not care what was done to you. He would be sad for you, or angry at the men who did such a thing, but he would not hold you responsible.”
“Oh, I know well enough that men do not require virginity from women they would consort with, else how would prostitutes make a living. But for a man to want a woman for any honorable purpose…”
Annica patted her shoulder comfortingly. “Dear Sarah, do not be distraught. Love is not the end of the world. In many ways, it is the beginning.”
“I do not want to begin anything,” she snapped. “I want to be cured.”
“There is no potion or poultice for this. I am afraid you will have to weather it, my dear. If it is love, you are stuck with it. But you will survive. Now come and tell me who your paramour is. Geoffrey Morgan? Oh, I know. ’Tis Lord Nigel!”
Sarah wiped her eyes and sniffled. “I wish it were Lord Nigel. He’d, at least, be kind, and I’ve heard it whispered that he is impotent.”
Annica chuckled. “Then who might Mr. Travis be? Does he have a title, because I know your brother has his heart set on an important match for you.”
A title? Important? Would “the Demon of Alsatia” qualify? Oh, no doubt, but not in any way that Reggie ever dreamed. “Bloody hell,” she sniffled. How was she going to get out of this?
Chapter Seven
It seemed to Sarah that hours passed as she crouched in the shadows of St. Paul’s. Disappointment grew in her like a palpable thing. She had not realized how much she was hoping the Demon of Alsatia would not abandon her. She had avoided Mr. Travis completely the night before. She had been too raw, too emotional, to expose herself to another of his gentle assaults. He must think her a complete idiot for running from him, for telling him that she feared being with him and could never surrender. Good heavens! All she wanted in the world was to be able to surrender! She finally squared her shoulders and resolved to find Dicken. She would not sleep if she went home anyway.
A light touch on her shoulder made her gasp and whirl to face Ethan Travis. “How do you do that?” she asked. “I did not even hear you.”
“It comes with practice.” He looked her up and down, noting her compliance with his rules, nodded his approval and then reached across the distance to rub her lapel between his fingers. “This is finer trim than you could buy from a ragpicker, Sadie. Where did you come by them?”
“I…know people, Mr. Travis.”
He gave her a sardonic grin. “You do indeed, Miss Hunt. Quite a few of them, if I understand correctly.”
“Wh-what I said before, about preferring many, Mr. Travis, was not meant as an insult to you. It is…it is…who and what I am.” Words failed her. How could she explain an irrational fear? How could she confess to the absolute and unreasoning terror that there would be nothing left of her if someone used her so again?
He released her lapel and stepped around her. “Never mind, Miss Hunt. I have been rejected erenow. I shall survive it.”
“But I—”
“Forget it, Miss Hunt. Now pay attention, and keep up. I do not have time to coddle a novice tonight. I have had one of my men locate our target again.”
Effectively cut off, she fell into step behind him. If she had thought he was driving a relentless pace before, she now had cause to think he had gone easy on her. Although he never ran, his long strides outpaced her easily. Thankfully, the soft leather heels of Andrew’s worn riding boots made little sound on the cobbled streets.
He stopped across the street from Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and, although she knew her brother was attending the prince regent at a private party, she was about to tell him she’d wait outside when the door flew open and Harold Whitlock stumbled out. If they had not arrived that very moment, they would have missed him completely. “Game’s begun,” he whispered over his shoulder without breaking stride.
She nodded and pressed her lips together, determined to remain silent according to his instructions. Over the ensuing hour, she imitated his every move, followed his every step. Twice he glanced over his shoulder and gave her an approving nod. Those nods were like gold, to be held and treasured—all the more so because she knew she had earned them.
The fog thickened, muffling sound as well as sight and for
cing them to follow Whitlock more closely than they had before. When Whitlock disappeared into a small tavern in a narrow lane, Ethan turned and whispered, “He’s carousing tonight, Miss Hunt. It is not likely anything important will happen.”
She shrugged. Dawn was hours away and she did not want to go home to lie awake until light. “Just the same, I think I’ll stay. You may go, if you wish.”
“No,” he said. “I’ve begun to wonder if there is a pattern in his meanderings. I wanted to go to the roofs, but I do not think you are ready for them.”
“The roofs?” she asked, her interest piqued.
“When the lanes are long and narrow and the buildings are joined, one can follow by walking along the eaves. People seldom look up, especially at night. You need a good stride, Miss Hunt, and the ability to jump a fair distance if you must.”
She wet her lips. The endeavor sounded wonderfully dangerous and exciting. She wanted—no, needed—to challenge herself. “I am ready, Mr. Travis. Lead on.”
“I have not observed your balance. Some women are afraid of heights and become dizzy. We should work the roofs in daylight before attempting it at night.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “I will never meet you in daylight, sir.”
He regarded her somberly, as if he wanted to ask her a question but decided against it. “It will be at your own risk.”
“Has the risk not always been mine?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “The fog has made the roofs slippery. Stay as far from the edge as possible. At the first sign of dizziness, sit down. Wait for me. I shall come back for you.”
“Sir, I walked on eaves this very night. I am not likely to have a dizzy spell now.”
“I hope this is not another of your little stories, Miss Hunt.”
He showed her how to use a drainpipe and the uneven surface of bricks and half-timbers to climb. Most important, he told her, was that she never use the roofs when there was rain or ice. Heavy fog could prove dangerous as well. Tiles and shingles were slippery and the eaves could be treacherous.
When, at last, they stood on the roof opposite the tavern, he studied her face as if looking for any sign of fear. She shook her head and smiled, loving the vantage and the freedom of the roofs. To demonstrate her ease, she spread her arms like wings and twirled, but the toe of her boot caught the edge of a shingle and she teetered precariously on the edge.
He grasped her hand and pulled her back from the precipice. She landed against his chest with a solid thump and looked up into eyes darkened with anger.
“Poorly done, Sadie! Your recklessness nearly killed you. This is not a lark, and I will not be a party to your suicide.”
Amazed by his reaction, Sarah frowned. “You are not responsible for me or my behavior in any way, Mr. Travis. You are not my father, my brother or my husband. You needn’t answer for me or excuse my behavior.”
He loomed over her like some dark avenging angel. “You are female, and I am male. Nature itself has decreed that the survival of the species depends upon my instinct to protect you. While you are in my care, Miss Hunt, I am still enough of a gentleman to take that seriously.”
“Have mercy, Mr. Travis. We are responsible for the survival of the species?” She chuckled merrily, completely disarmed by the thought of Ethan’s unwilling chivalry. “What a pretty explanation. I think you and Reggie would get on well.”
This time he did not stop himself. “Reggie?” he asked with the lift of an eyebrow.
She smiled and wagged one finger at him. “Uh-uh, Mr. Travis. Rule Two.”
Ethan was saved the necessity of a reply when the door to the tavern opened and Harold Whitlock exited. He paused only long enough to pull his coat tighter, glance in both directions and begin walking north.
Ethan took the lead again. Every few moments he paused to glance back, as if afraid that she had fallen to the cobblestones below and not made a sound. She smiled, pleased in spite of herself, that a man such as Mr. Travis was taking such care with her. Survival of the species, indeed. What a sorry world it would be if it depended upon her to propagate.
Not a quarter of a mile further, Whitlock halted before a private residence and rapped sharply on the door. A dim light grew brighter through the transom window before the door opened to reveal a man in a heavy woolen robe, his nightcap askew.
The voices were muffled over the distance, but Sarah caught the last words as Whitlock snarled, “Make the brat ready. I’ll be back for her in the morning.”
Her heart bumped painfully. Those were the very words Mr. Whitlock had used in reference to Araminta at the orphanage! He was going to move the child yet again!
She glanced at Ethan’s face to see if he understood the significance of the interchange. He seemed more intent on Whitlock’s behavior than his words.
“He is not being invited in,” he whispered. “Be ready to move.”
“I think I shall stay here,” she said, praying he would not quote one of his precious rules—the one about doing as she was told without question. Was that Two or Five?
He studied her through the darkness. “Why?”
“I would like to see what his business is at such a place.”
“I thought we only cared where he went. ‘Following,’ I believe you call it.”
He had her there. “Yes. But you were late tonight, and it will be growing light soon. I will have to be home.”
“Miss Hunt, there is a difference between surveillance and interrogation. You cannot simply knock on that door and ask the occupant what business Harold Whitlock had with them.”
That was a sobering reminder. Still, she had a second chance at saving Araminta, and she would not squander it. She would get the lay of the land, memorize the address and see if there were any other ways into the house. She could return at dawn with Mr. Renquist. She would be prepared this time, and she would not be too late.
She looked up into Ethan’s eyes and lied without conscience. “Then I suppose I shall go home.”
“Perhaps you’d like to have a pint of ale with Dicken and Joe first.” He nodded toward a recessed doorway in the street below, a cynical look on his face.
Sarah could barely make out a figure in the shadows. “How long have they been following us?”
“They are not following us, Miss Hunt. They are following Whitlock. They have been on Whitlock’s coattails from the beginning. Why did you set them on him?”
“I did not. Perhaps they are following me,” she said, praying he would believe that subterfuge.
“They are not on to us, Miss Hunt. If you value their lives, warn them off.”
“I will,” she said, grasping at any excuse to escape Ethan. This must be the reason he preferred to follow on rooftops—the advantage of watching all directions at once. “Tomorrow?” she asked as she made for a corner drainpipe.
He nodded. “I will expect a report.”
She crouched on the eave until Whitlock snarled something at the man in the nightcap and stumbled off down a side street. The minute Ethan resumed his hunt, she scrambled down and sneaked up behind Dicken and Joe.
“Blimey!” Dicken exclaimed as he grasped his heart. “Ye gave me a scare to end me life! Where ye been?”
“Close by,” she told them. After Mr. Travis’s warning, she had decided not to tell them about her forays with him. Dicken, like Annica, would only warn her against dealings with the likes of Mr. Travis, and she had no intention of heeding those warnings. “Araminta is in that house. I overheard Mr. Whitlock talking about her. He intends to move her again tomorrow.”
“What d’ye think we should do, Sadie?” Sticky Joe asked.
“Go ’round back and see if you can pick the lock.” When there was a window to creep through or a lock to be picked, Sticky Joe was always their man. “Psst,” she whispered after him. “Softly, Joe. Araminta will be frightened and might balk at going with a stranger in the middle of the night.”
“I’ve got sisters, I ’ave,”
he grinned. “I’ll bribe ’er wi’ a sweet.”
She and Dicken crouched at the end of the mews to wait.
“Now what?” Dicken whispered.
“We will take her to Auberville’s at once. Mr. Hodgeson will protect her. Once Araminta steps through Auberville’s door, we needn’t worry about her ever again.”
“An’ then?”
“Then?” Sarah repeated numbly. “Then we find Teddy and Benjamin.”
Anxiety ate at Sarah’s nerves as they waited for what felt like an eternity. She stood and straightened her jacket. “I will go around front and knock on the door. Joe may be able to use the distraction to spirit Araminta out the back.”
The sound of running footsteps came to them through the fog and a moment later Sticky Joe materialized, holding the hand of a young girl. Her hair was tangled and she wore nothing but a nightgown. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she looked terrified, but she did not make a sound.
Exhilaration raced through Sarah. They had done it! They had found Araminta! She tried to give a reassuring smile as she took the little girl’s other hand and began running again.
A scream pierced the heavy air. “’Elp! Police! Kidnappers! ’Elp!”
The shrill pitch of a whistle sounded in the distance.
Ethan did not follow Whitlock for long. The man turned on Ludgate, headed for the wharves and disappeared into an opium den. No sense waiting until dawn. Whitlock would be occupied and insensible until then. He made a quick motion and was joined by his man, Peters.
“Keep him safe, Peters,” he said.
“Aye, sir, but the man’s a rotter.”
Ethan looked back. He had to be certain that Peters understood the importance of his task. “I am repaying a favor, Peters.”
“I know that, sir, but—”
“My honor depends upon it.” Ethan turned to go.
Peters nodded. “And the lady, sir?”
Ethan froze. Sadie had no part in this and he wanted to make sure she never did. “The lady is my business. Now settle in. I’ll send a replacement in a few hours.”
Saving Sarah Page 8
