Chapter Twelve
Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese! Dear Lord! She glanced up at the sign and then at Ethan as he reached to open the door. “I…I cannot go in,” she said. What if Reggie was inside?
He shrugged. “Then wait out here. Try to find shelter. Looks like rain.” He stepped inside.
Sarah peered over her shoulder and shivered. The air had grown heavy and humid and she pulled her jacket collar up to shield her neck against the wind. A spike of fear stabbed through her when she heard a rustling sound from around the corner. Anxiety sent her across the threshold and into the dim interior on Ethan’s heels.
His lips twitched suspiciously and he nodded toward a table near the fireplace. “There’s our man. Find a place where we can watch him. I’ll get us a bit o’ the barley.”
She headed for the back of the main room where an empty table was pushed against the wall. Sitting facing the door, she pulled her cap a little lower to hide her features and then studied the room. Several smaller rooms adjoined the main room, and a corridor led toward the rear of the establishment. There were, perhaps, thirty men in various states of inebriation at tables and on benches along the walls or in front of the fire. None of them were her brothers.
Breathing a little easier, Sarah turned her attention to Harold Whitlock. His hunched posture indicated that he was either drugged or drunk. He spoke in a slurred mumble to a man who sat with his back to Sarah. There was something familiar in the set of the man’s shoulders. Where had she seen that before?
Ethan joined her, carrying two overfilled tankards. “The publican says he has been drinking steadily. Who is he with?”
She shook her head. “He has not turned. I believe they are arguing.”
“Do you?” Ethan asked, interest quirking one eyebrow. “Why?”
She tilted her head toward their quarry. Mr. Whitlock pounded the table with his fist. The other man grew still, then shook his head emphatically. She and Ethan strained to make out the words, but Sarah had chosen a table too far away to hear hushed tones. Another mistake.
Two men burst into the tavern, laughing uproariously. Sarah cringed. Reggie and James! Could it get any worse?
Ethan noticed her distraction and followed her line of vision. “Ah! The Hunter brothers. I believe I have seen you dance with them. Shall I ask them to join us?”
“No!” she gasped. “They must not know I am here.”
“Afraid they might not find you so appealing in boys’ clothes? Aye.” He appraised her with a critical eye. “Not as fetching as when you are all done up like a lady.” Ethan lifted her to her feet by her shoulders and reseated her in a chair with her back to the center of the room. He took the chair she had vacated and settled himself in comfortably. After a deep drink from his tankard, he crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back, watching the room.
The fire in her stomach flared up and nearly doubled her over with a stab of pain. She’d find herself in a convent by sundown tomorrow if Reggie recognized her. She hunched lower and watched Ethan’s face for any clue as to what was going on.
“Well, that is interesting,” he murmured in an undertone. “Our friend is quite agitated. I believe you are correct. There is a disagreement, and Whitlock appears to be winning. Now, where have I seen that man’s back before? Did you recognize his companion, Sadie?”
She shook her head, afraid to use her voice lest Reggie or James hear and recognize it.
“Hmm. Guess we will have to wait until he turns around. His collar is up and his cap is down though, so it may not be possible to get a good look. Go stand by the door, Sadie, so you can have a clear line of sight.”
She swallowed hard, shaking her head. She was too terrified to even stand, let alone walk past Reggie and James. They would know her for certain! At the very least, they might recognize Andrew’s old jacket.
“What happened to ‘Lay on Macduff’? I thought you were game for anything. Why so timid, little sparrow?”
“Tired,” she whispered, gritting her teeth.
Ethan’s deep hazel eyes glittered in the dim light. “Yes, you are looking a little peaked. Are you feeling well, Sadie?”
“Just tired,” she repeated.
“Shall I hire a private room?”
She considered that invitation barely more than three seconds before shaking her head. If she thought she was in danger now, there was greater danger in being alone with Ethan, and with the potential to be even more devastating.
Ethan’s gaze shifted slightly in acknowledgement of someone. He nodded once, cordial but cool. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face and he murmured, “Lord Reginald looks as if he will come over to pay his respects.”
Sarah felt dizzy. She pictured herself as Reggie would see her, unchaperoned, bent over a tankard of ale, sitting across the table from the Demon of Alsatia, dressed in Andrew’s old clothes, and was appalled.
Ethan stood quickly and came around the table to block her from Reggie’s view. “’Lo, Lockwood,” he said, addressing Reggie by his title. “Out gaming?”
Reggie’s speech was slightly thick. “Aye. I haven’t seen you in a good long while. Keeping well, Travis?”
“Well enough.”
Sarah concluded that they had an acquaintance but were not friendly. What did Reggie have against Ethan? Or was it the other way around? Did Ethan bear her brother some grudge?
“Who’s your friend? I like to know trouble when I see it coming.”
Panic clogged Sarah’s throat and she braced herself for exposure. She had better start accustoming herself to black and white robes and learning the mass.
“No trouble here, Lockwood,” Ethan said. “We were just waiting for a friend, but it looks as if he will not make it tonight.” The toe of his boot tapped the leg of Sarah’s chair. “Allow me to offer my regards to Lord James.”
A slight rustle and the fading of their voices indicated that Ethan had taken Reggie by the arm and was leading him away. Sarah waited for a count of five, stood, and walked briskly for the door, looking neither right nor left.
None the worse from her flight from Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, Sarah hummed the newest little ditty about the Prince Regent and Mrs. Fitzherbert on her way to the kitchen. As she passed the morning room doors, Reggie called out to her.
Confident that he had not recognized her the night before, she peeked around the corner. “Yes, Reggie?”
Eyes reddened and looking a little haggard from lack of sleep, Reggie squinted in the morning light streaming through the east windows and gestured to the chair across the table from him. “Sit a moment, Sadie. We need to chat.”
The hair on the back of Sarah’s neck prickled. Not that Reggie never wanted to talk to her—just that he was so obviously suffering the consequences of last night’s carousing. Yes, he had something specific in mind, and she feared she knew what it was. She kept her smile in place as she slipped into the chair opposite him and poured a cup of tea.
“No eggs, Reggie?” she asked, looking pointedly at his empty plate. “Shall I ask Cook to bring a black pudding?”
He groaned and his complexion took on a greenish cast. “No, sweetling. Toast will do me well enough. I just wanted to have a word with you.”
She searched for a diversion. “What a happy coincidence. I needed to talk to you, too, Reggie.”
“Good. I shall go first, then you shall have your turn.”
Sarah shook her head. “Please let me go first. You know how easily I forget things.” She stirred a small spoonful of sugar into her tea, speculating on how quickly she would have to leave the room once she had him properly diverted.
He raised one hand in surrender and let it drop to the table. “You first, Sarah.”
“Um, I needed your advice about your event. I was on my way to the kitchen to discuss menu with Cook when you called to me. I cannot decide upon a theme. Help me, Reggie.”
“Theme? Why do we need a theme?”
“’Tis all the rage. Have you n
ot noted how Henrietta Fletcher decorated with palm trees and fronds and then served pineapple ladyfingers and coconut cakes?”
“No, I—”
“And I have yet to decide upon a theme, let alone a menu. Perhaps we could arrange an Egyptian theme. We could rent four or five mummies from the museum, some statuary, but I cannot think of any Egyptian foods. Do you know of any? Did they not invent bread and beer?”
As she had hoped, Reggie looked slightly bewildered. “Mummies? Oh, I think you have gone too far, Sadie. Surely there must be something more simple.”
“Shall we go at it from the other side?” she asked, leaving Reggie to figure it out.
He knit his brow in a frown. “You mean…menu?”
“Exactly! Menu. Let us decide upon food, and the decorations can be chosen to fit that.”
“Wine. Punch. And a light cider?”
Sarah grinned. How like a man! “Food, Reggie.”
“Fruit and cheese?”
“Hmm, would that be provincial France? Or Switzerland?”
“Does it matter?” Reggie asked, looking ill at ease.
“Of course. Oh! Greece! Mutton, olives, baklava—”
“And Grecian statuary and columns,” he finished. “Rent a ruined temple for the gardens. That should complete the list.”
She judged Reggie to be nearly misdirected. One last gambit should do it. “I wonder if the orchestra I’ve hired will know any Greek arrangements. But do the men not all dance with each other?”
“What is Lady Annica’s theme?” He sighed, fatigue showing.
Sarah could almost taste victory. “She said she wanted it to be a surprise, but I saw her shopping for potted flowers and greenery. What do you think she will do with them?”
He smiled warmly, the dimple in his chin deepening. “I knew you were equal to the task, Sadie. You always accomplish everything with such style and grace.”
“Did you find the time to go over the guest list?”
“Oh, about that.” He rubbed his temples as if to ease a headache. “I’ve issued one or two invitations to people who were not on your list. Andrew and James have done likewise. I apologize for not informing you.”
“Not Charlie?” she asked in feigned surprise. “Well, never mind. I suspect there will be a good many guests without invitations. Do not worry, they will not be turned away.”
“Wouldn’t want a scene.” Reginald tapped one finger against the side of his cup thoughtfully. “It must be a very special night. No breath of scandal must mar the event.”
“Certainly not,” she agreed, wondering why this was so important to Reggie. She stood, breathing relief. She was seconds from escape when little Teddy, squealing with laughter, ran past the window, chased by the cook’s daughter. She took another step toward the door when Reggie blinked and came back to himself with a start.
“That’s the new lad, is it not? Teddy? What does he do?”
She cleared her throat. “He helps clean the pots and—”
“Where did you get him?” he interrupted.
“He…he had been abandoned,” she said truthfully.
“And you could not leave him on the street with the hundreds of other children abandoned by mothers sunk in blue ruin? Or did you find him at that orphanage where you help?”
Sarah chose her words carefully. “No, Reggie. Not at Saint Anne’s. But he was alone and crying. How could I leave him in such dire straits? He is so small and…and vulnerable.”
His brow cleared as if he had remembered something. “There. You see. You have such a tender heart, m’dear. You will make such a good little mother.”
A pang of suppressed yearning made her heart ache. How she would have longed to be a mother had things been different. “Do not put the cart before the horse, Reggie.”
“Exactly, Sarah. ’Tis time to harness the horse. The question is, which horse?”
She almost groaned as the trap sprang shut. After all her care and preparation, and after being so close to escape, she had walked right into it. “No, Reggie. I am not about to choose a horse, let alone harness one.”
“You cannot put it off any longer,” he said. “The blush is nearly off the rose, if you catch my drift.”
“Spare me the clichés, Lockwood,” she said, giving her brother his title.
“Sit down. We are not done here.”
“We are quite done,” she contradicted.
“Sit down,” he said again with cold emphasis.
Sarah narrowed her eyes and perched on the edge of her chair, ready to bolt if things got out of hand.
“We’ve had these discussions before,” Reginald began, “and I have been remiss in not bringing it to a conclusion. Father would have had you wed by now, and I will have failed in my duty if I allow this to go any further. I have been sensitive to your mourning of our father’s death, and tried to honor your maidenly modesty, but you must make a choice, and make it now.”
“Now?” Quick tears stung her eyes. “Now? I have so much to do at the moment, so many details to attend, how can I give proper attention to this now, Reggie?”
“You must, Sarah. I want your future settled.”
She had never seen her brother so resolute. She had come to the end of her amnesty. Reggie would have to know about that night in Vauxhall Gardens. He would have to know that there was no honorable way for her to ever marry. But not yet. Please, God, not yet. She could not face hostessing a party with the stain of ruination and scandal tainting her in Reggie’s eyes. “Reggie, you have my oath I shall give you an answer soon.”
“By the night of our soiree?”
“Yes. Yes, by the soiree,” she agreed, desperate for any reprieve at all. But, the night of their soiree, after all the guests had departed, she would sit down with Reggie and tell him her secret. Her chief—nay, her only—consolation was that she had not left anyone for her brothers to challenge on the field of honor. They might be disappointed, but they would be alive.
Reggie cleared his throat, reclaiming her attention. “Very well, Sarah. I will not bring this up again. But if you do not make your choice by then I shall make it for you.”
There was no choice to make. There would be no marriage for Lady Sarah Hunter.
Ethan led the way east on Cannon Street toward the Tower. He had no time to indulge the little adventuress. He needed to find Whitlock’s blackmail evidence so he could eliminate the risk to Rob McHugh’s coming mission and pay his debt of honor to Kilgrew. Sarah would just have to keep up or go back to one of her fancy dress balls.
“What happened after I left last night?” she asked as she followed him into the night. “Did Lockwood quiz you about me? Where did Mr. Whitlock go? And who was the man he was with? I vow I knew the set of his shoulders. Did—”
Ethan waved her to silence, not wanting to slow down to answer her questions. She deserved to suffer a little uncertainty in view of her deception.
He kept track of the soft tread of her boots behind him though he did turn to check on her. He did not need to. Ever since she’d been attacked, Ethan had assigned Peters to watch their backs. The man was so good at his job that Sarah hadn’t the slightest notion he was there. If, for some reason, she fell behind, Peters would follow her until she got safely home. Likewise, if Ethan and Sarah were diverted in another direction, Peters would continue the Whitlock chase.
Within ten minutes they came to one of the many small taverns dotting the lanes off main thoroughfares. Ethan gestured her to silence and stepped into the shadows to wait. She followed his lead, careful to take a position that would not put her in physical contact with him. She did not have to touch him for him to be uncomfortably aware of her nearness. And he despised himself for that weakness.
Unbelievably, his desire had grown since learning her true identity. Knowing now that she was completely unattainable, and that he would never stroke that soft, warm, silken flesh again, only served to intensify his lust. He could smell the subtle scent of lilacs and something
green, the soap she had washed with. He could feel the heat of her body. He could hear her soft sighing and the easy rise and fall of her breathing, and he remembered the sweet little mewling sounds she made when he had taught her the secrets of her own body. She surrounded him, enveloped him, without even touching him. He clenched his jaw and forced his mind away from Lady Sarah Hunter.
Twenty minutes lapsed before Harold Whitlock exited the pub and paused to turn his collar up against the rising wind. After glancing right and left, he headed eastward, and Ethan suspected he would visit the opium dens of Whitechapel near the London Docks. Another wasted night. Another night Whitlock did not give up the secret of where the blackmail evidence was hidden.
He gave the man a slight lead as he entered Rood Lane. The street was narrow and dark, lending a claustrophobic feeling to the chase. When lightning slashed the sky overhead and thunder broke almost on top of it, he heard a frightened squeak behind him. Sarah’s footsteps did not falter, and he fought the impulse to turn to her and gather her beneath his coat. She might be a liar, but she had no deficit of courage.
As they turned onto Fenchurch Street, the sky opened and loosened a violent torrent of cold drops that shattered against the cobblestones and stirred the dirt into a slick mud. Ethan looked back in time to see Sarah slip and land on one elbow with a sickening crack. Instinctively, he turned in midstep to hurry back to her side. The cold feeling of fear surprised and annoyed him. He was prepared to see to her safety, but he was not prepared to care so damned much.
He tilted his head toward Whitlock’s route and caught a flash of Peters’s coat as he stepped into the chase. If he could not get Sarah into a coach for home, he would be finished for the night. There would be no way to catch up to Peters or find Whitlock among the bordellos and opium dens.
Cupping her left elbow in her right palm, Sarah staggered to her feet. A little frown knit her brow as she gingerly tried to flex it.
“Are you injured?” he called above the wind and rain.
Saving Sarah Page 15
