“Aye, sir.”
He hailed a passing coach and gave the address of his warehouse in the old Alsatia district—the one believed to be the hub of his criminal activities. Warehouse “R.”
He had not been able to devote more than token time to his business since accepting Lord Kilgrew’s request. This business of guarding Harold Whitlock was taking more of his time and resources than he could spare. Add to the mix his preoccupation with Miss Hunt, and it was a wonder he had any time at all for business. It had taken all his resources tonight to keep from asking her the fatal question yet again. How much, Miss Hunt? Dear God, how he wanted her! More than he’d ever wanted Amelia.
His former fiancée had been untouchable and ephemeral and all he’d thought a woman should be. But Sadie was life and vitality and grit and laughter. She was earthy and honest and a survivor at the most fundamental level. Sadie Hunt, for all her odd prudishness, was passion personified. He doubted she would ever betray him, as Amelia had.
The coach drew up and Ethan pulled himself back to the present with a start. Momentary inattention could jeopardize everything. He surveyed the surroundings, looking for movement in shadows or anything out of place. Nothing.
The driver’s voice called down to him. “’Ere we are, gov’ner. One schilling, six pence. An’ watch ye’self. This ain’t the best part o’ town.”
Ethan tossed the coins up to the driver and smiled when the man snatched them out of midair without missing one. Native caution made him wait until the coach was well away before he unlocked the reinforced warehouse door and bolted it again behind him. The sharp sound of his footsteps echoed in the silence as he crossed the long open room to a flight of narrow stairs leading to the second floor.
Bales of Egyptian cotton were stacked floor to ceiling, front wall to back wall, in half the structure. The other half contained wooden casks and crates bearing exotic spices and dyes for use in the wholesale market. Valuable, but nothing to draw unwarranted attention. The strong smells of the spices masked other odors, merging into a confusing but not unpleasant blend. There was nothing to betray the secret the warehouse held and the urgent business that awaited him.
Upstairs, in his office, he lit the wick of a small oil lantern. Removing a book from the shelves behind his desk, he tripped a hidden spring that swung the shelf outward. Not original, he acknowledged, but effective. He stepped around the hidden door to the other side and pulled it closed behind him.
He was now in an identical office, the mirror image of the one he’d left, but with a window overlooking a space below. The atmosphere on this side, however, was decidedly different.
A soft murmur of voices and the warm glow of lanterns greeted him. He looked down over the scene, thinking how like an exotic hotel lobby it appeared instead of a way station for returning hostages. The few men and women were dressed in everything from English garb to Algerian caftans.
He sat at his desk, removed a bottle and glass from the bottom drawer and poured himself a stiff whiskey. God knows he needed it after the episode with Sadie. Then, to work.
“Ah, here you are, Travis. I had begun to think you’d shun us again this evening.”
Ethan glanced to the doorway at his second in command, Robert McHugh. “Have I been negligent, Mc-Hugh?”
“Our agent is due back from Algiers tomorrow night. Will you be here?”
“Ayers? Is something afoot?”
McHugh shrugged and stepped into the office, taking the chair opposite Ethan’s. “There was a time when you wouldn’t have asked that question. Does this have anything to do with the little prostitute you’ve been sporting with?”
Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an impending headache. “Do not prick me tonight, McHugh. I am not in the mood.”
“Nor am I,” McHugh said, his brogue heavier than usual. He reached for the bottle and took a healthy swig.
“Very well, McHugh. I am not ‘sporting’ with the woman in question. She asked my assistance in a matter, and I agreed to give it, as it does not take me out of my way or divert my attention from my task. There is no recreational involvement whatsoever. She has not distracted me from my business. Kilgrew did that when he diverted me to guard Harold Whitlock’s back. If there ever comes a time when ‘the little prostitute’ jeopardizes our operation, you may rest assured that I will put her out of the way posthaste.”
McHugh raised the bottle in a salute before drinking again. “I shall hope it does not come to that.”
There was more on McHugh’s mind, Ethan knew. After a moment, the man rubbed his left arm where a ball meant for Ethan had ripped through it. That was an old argument—who had saved the other’s life. Rob had stepped in front of a bullet meant for Ethan, but Ethan had risked his life, and yes, even the mission, to save the wounded Scot. Rob was his staunchest friend and had stood by Ethan through scandal and disgrace.
“I trust you with my life, Travis,” Rob began. “’Tis just that I’m terrified at the snail’s pace with which we are moving and our lack of results. I’d give my life and all I own to buy back the day I put Maeve and Hamish on a ship bound for Venice. I knew the waters were dangerous, and that the Barbary pirates were out of control. But she begged to visit her sister, said some fortune teller ‘saw’ that her sister needed her, and I could not dissuade her. We should have found them within a few months. ’Tis near two years now, and we are no further ahead.”
Ethan sighed, familiar with that frustration. The Dey, the ruling official of Algiers, had got wind of their activities through the same unknown man for whose treason Ethan had been accused. And still, the driving question had not been answered. Who had informed the Dey of the impending British attack? Who had framed Ethan for leaking that information? And who was still feeding the Dey information? Ethan would give everything he owned for that name.
In their search for Rob’s wife and son, they had come across a handful of British men and women. Wherever and whenever they encountered them, they had rescued them and brought them home, making them swear to keep their operation secret. Even those few were becoming scarce.
Rob shook his head. “Blast Kilgrew,” he muttered. “His little assignment is a complication we did not need.”
“I had no choice, Rob. I owe him my life.”
“Owe him? Are you mad? He damned you with his silence.” Rob looked down at his boots and sighed. “Is he not Cedric Broxton’s uncle? I’ve never liked that little weasel.”
Ethan ignored Rob’s digression. “Kilgrew kept me out of court. Without evidence to clear me, I’d have been convicted.” He put his glass down and raked his fingers through his hair. “Kilgrew saved me from hanging.” He watched as Rob took another deep drink from the bottle. The Scot could hold his liquor, he’d give him that.
Rob gazed into the candle flame. “Aye, you cozy up to Kilgrew, then, but when Maeve and Hamish come home, we’ll go back to the Highlands. I want to sit in my castle, drink a decent malt whiskey, watch my son grow and pat my wife’s arse. Maeve and Hamish will be in the lot tomorrow. Aye, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Ethan raised his glass. He permitted himself a small smile. He’d wager there was still more than one Highland lass who murmured Rob’s name in her sleep from the days before he and Maeve said their vows. Aye. Bonnie Laird Robert McHugh.
Although Ethan had no duty to launch this search—or to continue it—he had a moral imperative. And, without the structure Ethan imposed, Rob would have slashed his way through Algiers in search of his family and been killed for his trouble.
He shook his head to clear it of the past. “So, Ayers is due tomorrow night? Are we prepared for him?”
“Providing he does not have too many in tow. This lot,” he nodded to the group below, “will be gone tomorrow. I’ve banked them all fifty pounds, and they are headed home with the story of their miraculous escape. All but Miss Ballard. She swears she cannot go back to Yorkshire a tarnished woman. She has no trade but that of lady’s maid. Her former employer
has died and, without references, she cannot obtain another position. What do you say? Cut her adrift or let her stay on?”
Ethan shrugged. “Does she have any other skills?”
“I gather the position of lady’s maid requires some rather specialized skills, but none she can use in another trade. She has made some delicious pastries since her arrival, but I cannot find a position for her in a bakery. Her choices are limited, Travis. I fear she will have to become a prostitute if we put her out now. ’Tis all she has known for the past two years.”
Ethan thought of Sadie. What had driven her to the streets? Why had no one helped her? How might her life be different if someone had? “Buy Miss Ballard a bakeshop,” he said, “and let her stay until she can begin making it pay. We will find the money somewhere.”
McHugh grinned. “Travis, the reluctant hero?”
Ethan ignored him. “As for tomorrow, McHugh, I will be here. I want to know what Ayers may have discovered.”
“And I still want to know who really betrayed the Algerian mission two years ago,” McHugh said.
Ethan lifted his glass in a silent toast.
Chapter Eight
Sarah stepped out of her bath and toweled herself dry before shrugging into her wrapper. She sat down at her vanity and tugged at the tangles in her wet hair. If she did not hurry, she would be late meeting Charity and Grace for the Gordon affair. She was anxious to tell them that Araminta was safely ensconced at the Aubervilles’.
And perhaps tonight she’d see Mr. Travis again. Annica’s words came back to her in a heated rush. But Annica had to be wrong. Love, the kind of love that involved marriage and intimacy, had not been possible for her since that long ago night in Vauxhall Gardens.
She dropped her brush on the vanity and stood, her mind in turmoil. In fact, she had not felt peaceful since meeting Ethan. Why did he unsettle her so? Could it actually be love?
No. Absurd. Completely ridiculous. Out of the question.
The memory of his words prickled at the back of her mind. How much, Sadie? How much to sate my hunger? How much to taste your charms? How much to…satisfy my curiosity?
How much? What was the price for her pride? Was she willing to risk his scorn? Was she willing to undergo the humiliation of any man’s physical attentions at any price? One thing was certain. She had better decide how to handle the situation before it got entirely out of hand. The tension between them was becoming unbearable.
She shrugged out of her damp silk wrapper and stood in front of the tall cheval looking glass. She had not looked at her body since the attack. Glimpsing herself naked reminded her of what those men had done, so she always turned quickly away from mirrors.
But Ethan wanted her—had been willing to pay for her—if only for one night. What had he seen in her? She turned from side to side, studying her reflection, trying to see what Ethan saw. She judged her form to be a trifle slender. Her breasts were adequate to her size and well shaped; her waist was little more than a man’s hand span; her hips were softly curved and her legs were long and shapely. On the other hand, she lacked the voluptuousness of a Rubens model; she was neither pale nor fair haired as was currently in vogue; she was too short to be statuesque, and her hair had a mind of its own.
She flattened her hand against her heart and slid it downward over her belly. The bruises had faded years ago. The scars had healed and were gone now. No trace of the attack remained. No trace, that is, that was visible.
What scars still lurked beneath the unblemished skin? What had those men taken from her that she had been unable to reclaim? Could anyone who saw her as she saw herself now ever understand the depth of the wounds that had been inflicted? Because of those wounds she dreaded and feared intimacy.
And yet…of late, she had begun to wonder if she could be wrong about the marriage act. Would so many people do it if it were so awful? The keen edge of desire in Ethan’s kiss had awakened something long dormant and stunted, almost as if her frozen emotions had begun to thaw and grow.
She shivered in the cool air and her nipples firmed. She touched them and was startled at the bittersweet aching that action evoked. What would Ethan’s hand brushing her flesh cause in her? She closed her eyes to see his face and a sweet throbbing began at her core. Her knees went suddenly weak and spongy, but guilt squelched the sensations as quickly as they had come.
She swept her wrapper up and shrugged into it, pulling it tightly around her with a vicious jerk of the sash. She could not think straight where Ethan was involved. He would eventually give up his interest in her, just as all her other suitors had. She prayed it would be soon.
“Oh, Sarah! You are a marvel!” Charity exclaimed when the Wednesday League was able to hold a hurried conference during the orchestra’s intermission. “To have found Araminta and spirited her out of her captivity in the middle of the night! It takes my breath away!”
Grace nodded. “What can we do to help?”
“Nothing, really,” Sarah said. “’Tis all very boring. I just follow Mr. Whitlock and see where he goes.”
She dared not involve them in the following because she did not want to explain her relationship with Ethan Travis. She needed him. He had taught her more about following people unseen in a few short nights than she had gleaned by herself in the past two years. Dicken and Sticky Joe were rank amateurs next to the Demon of Alsatia.
Annica cleared her throat. “As you know, Auberville and I are hosting a ball in two weeks. We sent an invitation to the Whitlocks and Mr. Whitlock has sent his acceptance. I intend to call upon Mrs. Whitlock to express my delight in their acceptance. I would be glad of company.”
“You mean actually go in that house?” Charity gasped, her voice catching on a tiny sob.
Sarah studied her. This was the first potentially dangerous case the Wednesday League had taken since Constance had been killed. She wondered if Charity had the fortitude for what lay ahead. Annica caught her eye and nodded. She was thinking the same thing.
Grace lifted her chin and waved one gloved hand. “Yes, Charity, we must actually go inside. Mr. Whitlock must be made aware that his wife has allies. He’d never dare harm any of us in his own home, but if the uncertainty is too much for you—”
Charity looked pensive, as if she wanted to confess to a lack of nerves but was afraid to risk the good opinion of her friends. “I keep thinking of Constance Bennington and how she was killed while investigating your case, Sarah.”
The group fell silent until Annica finally spoke. “Constance made only one mistake, Charity. She did not tell us what she was doing. None of us knew where she was bound that night, or who she set out to meet. Had we known, we could have taken precautions. We could have kept her safe.”
That was what Sarah was doing! Working without the full knowledge of the group. Keeping secrets from them. Venturing forth with a man known to be dangerous and disreputable.
Soon after, Sarah pleaded a headache and Charles escorted her home. She had hoped she would have time to meet Sticky Joe and Dicken before meeting Mr. Travis, but the latter was waiting on the steps of St. Paul’s. Her heart did a weak flutter, and she gave him a tentative smile.
“Good evening, Miss Hunt. I am glad you had the sense to come early. I cannot spare much time tonight. There is somewhere I must be later. One of my men has followed Whitlock to Vauxhall. Shall we?” He gestured toward the street.
Vauxhall! Surely he meant the district of Vauxhall, not the gardens. She hadn’t been back there since…since the attack. Just the thought of it caused her heart to pound. She could not catch her breath as she followed Ethan down Creed Lane toward Black Friars Bridge.
When they reached the bridge, he hailed a coach and propelled her through the door, calling directions to the driver. Pure, unreasoned fear raced through her mind. She thought of Constance and wondered if she were being abducted. She slid across the leather seat and cowered in the far corner.
As Ethan settled himself beside her, he took his cap of
f and ran his fingers through his hair. “We shall save some time by taking a coach, Miss Hunt. I hope you do not mind.”
“No. No, I…” Sarah took a deep breath and tried to steady her raw nerves. “Where are we going, exactly, Mr. Travis? Are we going to the gardens? I did not bring the price of admission. In fact, I cannot pay for the coach. You may have the driver pull over and leave me. I shall find my own way back,” she offered in a rush, praying the coins in her pocket would not jingle and give her away.
“I have enough for both of us,” he said.
On the other side of the Thames, the coach turned right and proceeded westward.
“Perhaps we should wait until another night. I would not want to make you late for your appointment.”
He peered at her through the dim light of the coach’s interior. “Is something amiss?”
Sarah clenched her hands into fists to steady them. She knew her panic was showing. “I do not like Vauxhall, Mr. Travis,” she confessed. “I cannot go there.”
“Why is that, Miss Hunt?”
The speculative tone of his voice annoyed her, as if he found something interesting. Good Lord. Could she ever explain her fears to a man who was fearless? “Do I need a reason, Mr. Travis?”
His pause set Sarah’s nerves on edge. When he finally spoke, his words suggested that he knew more than he was saying. “Not for me, Miss Hunt, but I find it curious that you could be daunted by something so mundane as geography.”
“I did not say I was daunted,” she grumbled. “I said I do not like Vauxhall.”
“Hmm,” he said.
She gritted her teeth. She hated his hmms. They suggested disbelief.
“Then you are prepared to continue?” he asked.
No, she was not, but Teddy and Benjamin were at stake. She squared her shoulders and fought a spike of panic. She was being silly, and she would not allow an event that had taken place years ago to control her now. “‘Lay on, Macduff,”’ she said with a determined lift of her chin.
Ethan laughed. “‘And damn’d be him that first cries, Hold, enough!”’ He finished the quote from MacBeth. “I see you are a scholar, Miss Hunt. Very well, then. I shall wait for you to call ‘Hold, enough,’ before I turn back. For the moment, you owe me a report of last night.”
Saving Sarah Page 9
