“Of course,” he agreed. “But tomorrow, we shall talk. I need to know about Farmingdale and the others. I need to know that there is nothing more to fear from that quarter. The men who did that to you must be dealt with.”
She nodded, stood and went to the library door, wanting nothing more than to escape her brothers’ questions.
Cedric was waiting outside the library door, and came forward. “Sarah? You have been crying. Are you well?”
Remembering her promise to be kind and respectful, she smiled at Cedric. “’Twas just such a shock, m’lord. I really had no idea what was afoot.”
“Quite all right, m’dear,” he said in a clipped voice. “We shall go back to the ballroom and seal our bargain with a dance for all to see.”
“I have a crushing headache, my lord. I must go to my room to lie down with a cold compress. Tomorrow?”
An expression of annoyance crossed his face, quickly replaced with a bland smile. “I have some business I should take care of tonight, anyway. One little detail to be put out of the way so that we may enjoy our wedding.”
She forced herself to remain still as Cedric leaned forward to skim her cheek with a proprietary kiss. Just over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Ethan’s face as he passed in the corridor. Controlled fury looked back at her, and she swallowed hard. He was not going to be an easy enemy.
Ethan gritted his teeth. Less than forty-eight hours ago, he and Sarah had lain in each other’s arms. She had wanted him. He could have sworn she hadn’t just used him to conquer her fear. What they had done went deeper than that.
And now he could not tell if her hand on Broxton’s chest was a gesture of affection or to hold him at bay. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had a look of expectancy about her, and he realized she was waiting for him to denounce her. Well, she could relax on that score. If Sarah regretted their interlude, he would not force her to acknowledge her momentary weakness.
But what of the vows her body had made to him? Sweet heaven, what of her greedy little moan when he had tried to withdraw before spilling his seed within her? She had clutched at his buttocks and held him inside, and he had gloried in it! He’d been fool enough to believe she’d never let him go.
Ethan’s stomach clenched. His seed! Bloody hell! How had he forgotten that? The possibility that she could be breeding even now threatened his sanity, and the mere prospect that Broxton could play father to his child enraged him. He took a step forward, an objection on his tongue, but the desperate plea in Sarah’s eyes stopped him.
As he stood there, frozen with rage, he saw Cedric release Sarah’s hand and she backed away. She spun on her heel and fled down the corridor toward the back of the house. She could not escape him so easily. They would discuss this debacle in private. Soon. Very soon. Tonight, if he had anything to say about it.
Heading up the servant’s stairs at the back of the house, Sarah wavered between screaming her frustration and crying. Ethan had witnessed her darkest moment. He knew her weakness, her every secret, and he knew how to destroy her. Her standing in society and her reputation were all she had left, and he could end it all with a few well chosen words.
She slipped through her bedroom door and locked it behind her. For good measure, she pushed the back of a chair beneath the knob. Safe at last, she felt the tension drain out of her. The light of a single candle lit her room and she crossed to her bedside to blow it out. The glow of the fireplace was all she needed to accomplish her purpose.
She unwound the ribbons from her hair and removed her emerald ear bobs. Her overdress was next, and then the silk sheath beneath it. She went to her wardrobe and removed her brother’s castoffs: shirt, trousers, jacket and boots.
She had to finish what she had started. She had meant to find a moment with the Wednesday League to tell them that Mr. Renquist had failed to find Benjamin last night.
And since Mr. Renquist had failed to find Benjamin, she only had tonight and tomorrow to find the lad. As she changed her clothes, the enormity of that task hit her with breathtaking suddenness. By the time she could button her shirt and push her hair into the soft cap, a deep prickling of fear and self-doubt raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She had been over and over her strategy for finding Benjamin, and she could only think of one remaining source of information.
It was a measure of her desperation that the activity in the stables and carriage house did not even cause her to hesitate as she lifted the sash of her window. As she climbed down the trellis, the distant music from the ballroom floated through the night air. A couple was strolling along the path beneath her, and she held her breath. Ethan was right—people never looked up. When they were out of sight, she lowered herself the rest of the way and made a mad dash across the lawns for the safety of the shadows.
The Wednesday League believed that if their investigations went wrong, it was always best to go back to the beginning. That was where Sarah headed now, but this time she would make the conscienceless woman tell her what she’d done with Benjamin.
Sarah wasted precious time looking for Dicken and Joe. They were not at any of their usual haunts. She suspected she should go home rather than continue on her own, but time was of the essence. She would be safe enough dressed as a lad.
She glanced toward St. Paul’s as she skirted Cannon Street on her way to the orphanage. It was past midnight, and Ethan would not be there in any case. She could still see the look on his face when Reggie had made the announcement of her engagement, and the fury in his eyes when he saw Cedric kiss her cheek.
She turned her jacket collar up as she passed Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital and veered down a side lane. The buildings were closer together now and the lane was narrow. She thought she heard a sound behind her and stopped, fading into the darkness of a recessed doorway.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she waited. The moments lengthened while she watched the sinister shadows cast by the moonlight, but no movement or sound betrayed another presence. She released her breath in a long sigh and stepped into the lane again. When she came to the gate of the orphanage, she paused to look over her shoulder. She saw nothing, but she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Footsteps echoed on distant cobblestones, retreating, not advancing. She breathed a little easier.
At the orphanage, she slipped through the gate and made her way across the narrow courtyard. The kitchen door was ajar and a faint light shone from within. A shiver raced up her spine. Why would the kitchen door be open this time of night? Was Mrs. Carmichael expecting someone?
Sarah announced her presence with three soft raps, and waited impatiently. When no one answered, she called out. “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello? Mrs. Carmichael?”
She pushed the door open with one finger and peeked around it. A woman wearing a nightgown and nightcap sat before the dying fire with her back to the door, her head tilted to one side. The old woman must have fallen asleep. She would have a stiff neck in the morning.
“Mrs. Carmichael?” she called. No answer.
She advanced a few more steps and tried again, louder this time. “Mrs. Carmichael? I believe you know the whereabouts of boy I have been looking for. I am willing to pay…”
Over the woman’s shoulder, she caught a glint from the edge of a knife on the stone hearth. She swallowed her rising terror and tiptoed around the chair to face the woman.
A wash of red covered the front of the woman’s white nightgown and still trickling down from her neck to collect in her lap. Buzzing filled Sarah’s ears and she grew dizzy with shock. Her knees turned to butter. She sank to the hearth attempting to comprehend the horror of what was before her. Her cap fell off and her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She reached out to brace herself, and her hand grazed the handle of the knife. She picked it up and stared at it as if it held the answer to this incomprehensible riddle.
“Christ’s blood!”
Sarah’s gaze snapped up to the doorway. A tall stranger, a man possesse
d of a desolate dark beauty, stood there, studying her with eyes the color of glacial moss.
“What were you thinking, madam?” he asked in a faint Scottish brogue.
She looked down at the knife in her hand, at Mrs. Carmichael and back to the stranger. Heavens! He thought she had killed the woman. She dropped the knife with a clatter and shook her head. “No,” she said.
The man came into the room and circled them. He knelt and felt Mrs. Carmichael’s wrist for a pulse, then dropped it. “She’s dead, madam, and you were holding the knife. There is blood on your hands. What would you have me think?”
“But I…” She shook her head helplessly and looked down at her hands. They were red and sticky with Mrs. Carmichael’s life force. Gagging, she tried to wipe her hands on her jacket. “I found her this way,” she choked. “I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“Did you see anyone?” the man asked.
“I heard footsteps. I think, yes—footsteps.”
The shrill sound of a watchman’s whistle carried from down the street. Sarah stumbled to her feet and glanced up into the cold green eyes. “How…did they find out so fast?”
“That is a question worth posing.” He held out one hand to her. “I do not want to be here when the charleys arrive. If you’re smart, you won’t be here either.”
She hesitated, not knowing whether to trust the stranger or the municipal police. The realization that the evidence would point to her and the knowledge of what her arrest would cost her brothers decided her. She took his hand. He led her out of the kitchen and headed southwest at a full run, pulling her along with him. Half a mile later, muscles burning and out of breath from trying to keep up with the stranger’s long stride, she pulled her hand away and doubled over, her hands upon her knees.
“I have a stitch in my side,” she panted. “I cannot go on. Please, save yourself.”
His low laugh gave her his answer. “Save myself? Too late for that, madam.” He bent, threw her over his shoulder and continued at the same brutal pace.
She braced her arms against his back to keep her stomach from bouncing against his shoulder. By the time he finally stopped and put her on her feet again in front of a warehouse door, she marveled at his stamina. While he fumbled with the key, she noted the lapping of water against wood—the only sound in the still night.
The gravity of her situation struck her, and she couldn’t believe she had trusted a stranger. He could be a murderer. He could be planning to…“Who are you and where are we?”
“Too late for second thoughts now, miss.”
As if to punctuate his words, the echo of a penetrating scream from a nearby street rent the air. He opened the door and stepped inside. “In or out?” he asked, opening the door.
She glanced over her shoulder. A lock of hair brushed her cheek and she reached up. Her hat was gone. She had a quick flash of running from the authorities—dressed in Andrew’s clothes, covered in blood, and her hair falling down her back in a bold proclamation of her gender. “In,” she said, stepping across the threshold.
A narrow band of windows high along the outside wall afforded them scarcely enough light to prevent them from bumping into boxes and bales of cotton.
“Shh,” he warned her. “Follow me.”
Tensed to bolt at the slightest cause for alarm, she followed him through the maze of rows and stacks and then up a narrow stairway. He opened another door and stood aside. She entered the room, temporarily blinded by the light. She squinted and blinked, trying to focus.
“The Carmichael woman was dead—throat slit ear to ear—and this little pigeon was holding the knife,” the stranger said. “The watch was coming. I thought I’d better bring her to you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ethan glanced up to see Sarah standing in front of his desk, her glorious chestnut curls tumbling about her shoulders, rubbing her eyes and shrugging Rob’s hand off her shoulder. Well, well. The worm had turned. How convenient to have the little charlatan delivered to his doorstep, as it were. Now he would not have to climb through her window to get some answers.
He dropped his pen on the ledger and sat back in his chair. “Sit down, Lady Sarah. I think ’tis time we had a chat.”
Focusing, her gaze snapped up to meet his. He could not say who looked more dumbfounded—Sarah or Rob McHugh.
Rob was the first to recover his composure. He laughed and looked meaningfully at Sarah. “And would Lady Sarah also be known as Sadie Hunt?”
“Aye,” Ethan admitted.
“Well done, Travis,” Rob said, sizing Sarah up with an appraising glance. “She’s a gritty little baggage. She killed the Carmichael woman. Not that the woman didn’t deserve it, selling children and all, but murder is murder. She’d be sitting in Newgate right now if I hadn’t dragged her away.”
Just when he thought Sarah could no longer surprise him—“Is that so, Sarah?” he asked.
She shook her head and narrowed her violet eyes at him. “I did not murder Mrs. Carmichael. I had only just got there, and then this great hulk of a man came immediately after.” She turned to Rob and glared at him. “Were you following me?”
Rob raised his hands and laughed. “No, Lady Sarah. You will have to forgive my conclusions. I walk through an already-open door and you are standing over a body holding a knife dripping blood. What else should I think?”
“I was not standing. I—”
“Enough!” Ethan commanded. “Rob, could you go back and find out what is happening? Lady Sarah will tell me her part in all this, and we shall look for a way out later.”
“Leave it to me. There’s bound to be a charley who’ll sing for a pint,” Rob said. He bowed in Sarah’s direction. “A pleasure, Lady Sarah. And you’re welcome.”
Sarah looked slightly abashed. “Oh. Yes, thank you. I do not think I would like Newgate.”
“I can guarantee that,” Rob said, touching his finger to his brow in a salute.
When the door closed, Ethan folded his arms over his chest and turned his attention to Sarah. “Last I heard of you, Lady Sarah, you had gone to bed with a headache. I am told they can be murder.”
“Very amusing,” she said. But she did not look amused.
“Where shall we begin?”
“I…I do not know what you mean.”
“What were you doing at the orphanage?”
She sat in the chair in front of his desk and leaned forward with an ingenuous look on her face. “And what is this, Lord Ethan? Your lair? Is this what the proceeds of treason can buy?”
A cold, steely anger rose in him, and he did not speak until he had it well under control. “We shall get to that, Sarah. Believe me, I have my share of grievances. For the moment, we have more immediate concerns. Shall we discuss what could land you in Newgate or at the end of a rope?”
Sarah’s whole body shuddered. “It was ghastly,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Oh!” She glanced up with a stricken expression. “The children! How dreadful for them to discover her that way. We cannot allow them—”
He pressed his fingertips together, anything to prevent himself from going to her and comforting her. “Easy, Sarah. The watchmen and municipals will take care of it. Now, back to the subject at hand. What were you doing at the orphanage?”
“I wanted to question Mrs. Carmichael about where she sent the children.”
“What children? The orphans in her care?”
She glanced at him, a wary set to her features. He now recognized that look. She feared she had said too much and was considering a lie.
“The truth, Sarah. Not another of your convenient fairy tales,” he cautioned.
It took her a moment to mull that over before sighing deeply and admitting, “Mr. Whitlock’s stepchildren.”
So he’d been right. Sarah had her own agenda. Could she be the danger that he was supposed to guard Whitlock against? Almost as soon as the thought came to his mind, he dismissed it. Sarah was certainly not a professi
onal “follower” or an assassin. He could not think of a more unlikely candidate, and he knew Renquist would never condone such a matter. He studied her more closely, watching for any sign of deceit.
“Then you’ve been following Whitlock all along? That first night, when I intercepted you with Dicken and Sticky Joe, you’d been following him?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“And what makes you believe Whitlock’s stepchildren are at that orphanage?”
“He took them there to have Mrs. Carmichael dispose of them. We…I promised Mrs. Whitlock that I would find her children and take them to a safe place before we…”
“What, Sarah? Before you what? And who are ‘we’?”
“Mr. Whitlock commits violence upon Mrs. Whitlock.”
“That is unfortunate, but it does not surprise me. What did you think you could do about it? You have no right, legally or morally, to interfere in their marriage.”
“Not until Mrs. Whitlock asked our…my help. Since then I have had every right to help her. He stole her children, Ethan. He took them away and said she would never see them again if she did not obey him in all things. Holding her babies hostage, Ethan. That is too cruel to be borne.”
“If this is true, why were you following Whitlock? Why not search every workhouse, orphanage and sweat house for the children? Why waste your time at brothels, opium dens and taverns? Are you certain you don’t just have a taste for the low life, Sarah? Could that account for your behavior of late?”
Color high, she tilted her chin defiantly. “I felt my best chance of finding the children was to follow Mr. Whitlock.”
“Have you had success?”
“Some.”
“I am happy to hear that, because you will no longer follow him. Do you understand?”
“He has led me to two of the three children. He has proved our…my best lead.”
That was one too many slips for Ethan to ignore. If he was to keep Whitlock safe, he needed to know how many people were following the man, and if they presented a danger to him. “Who is helping you, Sarah? Who else is in on this scheme of yours?”
Saving Sarah Page 22
