Grace leaned toward the group and whispered, “I have hired a companion. She should be arriving from the country in the next few weeks.”
“Did you check her references, Grace?” Annica asked.
“I do not need to. She was my husband’s niece. I am afraid her family has fallen on hard times, and she is too proud to accept my help. She was very firm that she wants employment, not charity.”
“We shall have great fun showing her the sites,” Sarah offered. “Perhaps she will want to join the Wednesday League.”
“Hmm,” Grace hedged. “We must first be certain of her discretion. ’Twould never do to…” Grace let her words trail off as her eyes traveled upward behind Sarah’s chair.
Sarah turned and found Ethan in the process of bending near her ear. “I must speak with you at once, Lady Sarah. The matter is of grave import,” he said in a hushed tone.
She glanced at her companions. Ethan must be desperate indeed to approach her like this. Annica covered a slight smile behind her fan, but Grace and Charity could not hide their astonishment. “Of course, Lord Ethan,” she murmured.
“Now. Privately.”
Standing and stepping around Annica’s chair to join him, she pointed toward a curtained alcove along the back wall. If they whispered, they would not be overheard. Just then, the musicians struck a chord and began their first selection. All attention was focused upon the dais, and no one noticed as Ethan seized her hand and led her to the terrace doors.
Once outside he dropped her hand and turned her to face him. “I cannot find Harold Whitlock. We’ve been looking for him all day. Last night, whilst McHugh and I were liberating Benjamin, someone knocked my man, Peters, unconscious. When he came ‘round, Whitlock was gone. I remembered that you said you had a plan for Whitlock. Would you know anything about this?”
Sarah swallowed hard and braced her courage. A clean split would be best for her breaking heart. “Harold Whitlock will not be found, Ethan. Not for several years, if my plan goes well. I arranged for him to be conscripted. He was put aboard a ship bound for Java last night.”
“Why the hell would you—”
“To buy Mrs. Whitlock time to escape and build a new life before Mr. Whitlock could stop her. I did not know until it was too late that your purpose was to keep him safe.”
Ethan ran his fingers through his hair—a sure sign of frustration. “You swore you’d leave him alone if I helped you find Benjamin. Because of you…”
Sarah’s heart dropped. “How can I make it up to you, Ethan? I will do anything you ask.”
“My friend, Sarah,” he said angrily. “How will you make it up to my friend? Now the blackmail will surface, and he will be ruined. He was depending upon me, and I let him down.” His wounded eyes met hers and he shook his head. “You’ve made a liar of me.”
She swallowed her little moan of despair. “I shall tell him it wasn’t your fault. I shall confess all I did to get in your way, Ethan. I will not let him judge you for this.”
“You will do nothing of the sort. Such a confession would ruin you, and would not help me. It was my responsibility to see that the task was faithfully performed, and I was the one who allowed you to get in the way.”
“If I could take it back, I would.”
He stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his tortured gaze. “I expected too much of you. I forgot who you were.”
Too much? Had it really been too much to expect honesty from her? A lump formed in her throat. “There is more.”
He groaned. “What more could there be?”
“I…I was wrong about you, Ethan. I am so sorry. I was wrong to have judged you by what others said or thought.”
His eyes bored into her soul, but he said nothing. She could see his distrust and suspicion, and did not know how to repair the damage she’d done.
“You were much better than I ever deserved,” she confessed.
He gave a choked sound that was half laugh, half ridicule. “How could you possibly know such things?”
She lifted her right hand and placed it over his heart. The heat and the steady, rhythmic thumping against her palm brought tears to her eyes. “This is the truth, Ethan. It is all the truth I need. It is all that matters.”
“Is this some sort of new trick? A new game for the spoiled little dilettante?”
She ignored the insult in her desperation to make him understand. “It was me I doubted, Ethan. I see that clearly now—my own fears, my own distrust of myself—and never really you at all.”
“How have you found proof for that?”
“You are proof enough.” She placed her left hand over her own heart and felt it skip a beat as a little shock of electricity raced through her to connect with his. “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point,” she quoted. The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.
“God, what I would give to believe you,” he said with a quick shake of his head.
“I love you. I cannot say it any plainer than that.”
He pulled her into his arms with a low moan.
She lifted her face to his. “I’ll do anything to make this up to you, Ethan.”
He lowered his lips to hers. “Will you…”
“Yes?” she asked breathlessly.
“ Not help me?”
Sarah frowned, trying to collect her wits. Not help? “But—”
“No, not another word,” he rasped as he released her and stepped back. “You and I will settle accounts in full when this is done—you can count on that. But not now. Now I need to see if I can salvage anything from your machinations.”
In her darkened room, Sarah pulled her reading chair to the window and drew her knees up, hugging them against her chest. She gazed out at the moon-dappled lawn toward the willow tree.
An almost desperate need to make amends burned in her. Ethan’s honor had suffered enough, and she had made it worse. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she had failed Annica, Charity or Grace. Devastated.
But what could she possibly do? Ethan had been quite explicit about not wanting her help. Ethan’s honor would be beyond redemption once the blackmail surfaced, and his friend would be finished.
Blackmail! That was the thought that had been troubling her since last night in the coach with Ethan! She pressed her fingertips to her temples and closed her eyes. An image of Mr. Whitlock with Mrs. Carmichael, holding a locked metal box, rose before her. The box, now, that’s a separate matter. Keep that safe, mind you, and keep your mouth shut. I’ll be back for it one day soon.
The box had been of the size that would hold a packet of letters or even a pouch filled with jewelry. Reggie had a strongbox just like it where he kept their mother’s jewels and emergency cash. Could Mr. Whitlock have hidden his blackmail evidence in that box and given it to Mrs. Carmichael to hide? Could that be the reason she was murdered?
She hurried to her writing desk and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer, intending to write a quick note to Ethan. He should know about this. But then she recalled how distrustful of her he had become. She left her desk and went to her closet. She would have to do this herself.
Well past midnight, Sarah rapped on the kitchen door of the orphanage. She lifted the collar of her jacket and hunched into the woolen warmth. Her heart hammered nervously. She had no idea what she’d say to whoever answered the door, but she knew she wouldn’t give up until she’d looked for that metal box.
A pretty miss in a shawl and nightgown opened the door and the light of a single lantern shone behind her. “Who is it?”
Sarah looked closer. The girl’s waist-length red hair tumbled down her back and it was obvious that she had been wakened from her sleep.
“Are you Bridey?” Sarah asked.
“Aye, mum,” she answered. “An’ ‘oo are you?”
“I am Sadie Hunt. Sticky Joe’s friend. I was here with him several weeks past. Do you remember?”
The girl blushed. “I reme
mber.”
“May I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”
The door opened wide enough for Sarah to slip through. She glanced involuntarily toward the chair before the fire, unable to shake the memory of the last time she had been in this room. “Bridey, did the constables question you about Mrs. Carmichael?”
“Aye, miss. An’ they put me in charge until they can find a replacement,” she said with a proud lift of her chin.
“Did they search for clues to her murder?”
Bridey frowned. “Aye. They took away anything they thought might have something to do with it.”
“A box, Bridey? Did you see a small metal strongbox with a lock?”
“No, miss. Nothing like that. They took a cap, a knife, the account books, and all Mrs. Carmichael’s personal papers, but I didn’t see a strongbox.”
“About so big?” she asked, indicating a small rectangle with her hands. “It belonged to me. I only want what’s rightfully mine,” she lied, and she’d lie again for Ethan.
“I’m sorry, miss.” The girl shook her head. “If that’s what the murderer came for, he likely took it with him.”
“Maybe he couldn’t find it,” Sarah said. “If the killer didn’t know where Mrs. Carmichael hid the box, maybe he didn’t find it. The watch came very quickly, I’m told.”
She shivered. If she had interrupted the murderer, there was still a chance that the strongbox was hidden somewhere. “Please, Bridey. May I look? I promise I won’t be long. Besides, ’tis after midnight. No one will ever know.”
The girl shrugged. “I suppose it could not hurt.” She led the way down a short hallway with a single door. “I don’t want to go in. I think her ghost is still there. That’s what folks say—that the spirit stays where sudden death happens.”
Sarah nodded and opened the door. A small bed stood in one corner and a bureau and wardrobe lined the far wall. The fireplace was upon a raised stone hearth, but the ashes had long grown cold since Mrs. Carmichael’s death. A small rocking chair sat near the fireplace, as if to catch the light for reading.
It did not take much time to search the meager contents of the room. As she suspected, nothing. She searched for any hidden panels or secret drawers in the wardrobe, then focused on the bed, turning the mattress up on end to see if anything lay hidden beneath. But—
“Nothing.” Her heart sank. She turned around slowly, scanning the room for any clue, any indication of anything out of place. She couldn’t give up. The authorities hadn’t found the metal box, and it was unlikely the murderer had found it so quickly.
Beginning at the wall behind the bed, she rapped the wooden panels on the wall, seeking a hollow spot. She worked her way around the room knocking and running her fingertips along the joints and raised panels. And still nothing.
She studied the pattern of blocks that formed the hearth, noting one block around which the mortar appeared to be crumbling. She wedged her fingertips in the crack and rocked it back and forth, working it until she could get a grip and lift it away.
Sarah didn’t want to put her hand into a dark hole where anything might be lurking, but she had no choice. Her fingers closed around something cold and smooth. She almost jumped when she heard the scraping of metal against stone, and then it was visible. The strongbox! The same one she had seen in Mr. Whitlock’s hands.
She examined it more closely. It did not weigh as much as she expected and, when she shook it, she heard paper shifting, but no rattle of coin or jewelry. She glanced over her shoulder. If this was the blackmail evidence, someone had already been killed for it.
Sunk in introspection, Ethan sat in the dark, warming his brandy between his palms. He had failed Lord Kilgrew. His honor and reputation were now beyond redemption. He had played the fool with Sarah Hunter. The trickle of hostages from Algiers had dried up entirely. Tonight Rob McHugh had boarded a ship bound for North Africa where he would launch his search for his missing wife and son. How had it all gone so wrong?
Wiley lifted his head from his paws and cocked it to one side. His ears twitched back and a low growl rumbled in his throat. He stood and looked toward the front door.
Ethan put his brandy aside and strained to hear whatever had alerted Wiley. A moment later, the faint sound of a timid thumping carried to him. Wiley started for the door at a run, his paws slipping as he rounded the corner into the hallway.
By the time Ethan came around the corner himself, Wiley was sniffing at the threshold and wagging his tail. Whoever was at his door had been here before. He glanced at the hall clock as he approached the door. Three in the morning. Not a time for a friendly call.
He opened the door to find Sarah, her hand raised and trembling as she prepared to knock again. He was angry at himself for the leap of excitement he felt at seeing her there, dressed in her usual disguise. True to form, a rebellious lock had escaped her cap and curled like a vine around her slender neck. A neck, he mused, that he alternately wanted to throttle, or nibble and kiss.
“Why am I not surprised?” he asked as he rubbed the stubble on his jaw.
Sarah took a deep breath and launched into quick, nonsensical speech. “I know you told me not to help you, Ethan, but I remembered seeing Mr. Whitlock with a strongbox when I first followed him to the orphanage. I—”
He leaned forward to glance into the street, checking for any followers or nosy neighbors. Seeing none, he seized her by the arm and pulled her inside, then closed the door with a sharp thud. “Have you no sense at all? Christ! Standing at my door at this time of night! You could be seen.”
Her violet eyes were enormous at his reaction, and she looked down at herself and frowned. “Who would know me?”
He backed her against the door until only the strongbox she held and an inch separated them. “Me.”
“Then I am in no danger.”
He almost laughed. She really had no idea of the force of his desire. He could easily ravish her standing up, pressed against the door. “Greater danger than you know,” he growled.
“Th-that is silly,” she said. “You’ve had ample opportunity to harm me before. Why would you do so now?”
He lowered his head to look in her eyes. “Why? A better question might be, why not? God knows I’m angry enough. I should devise a different torture. I’ve had you in my bed before. Perhaps I didn’t get enough. Perhaps I’ll carry you up there again.” He indicated the stairs to the second story with a nod of his head.
“Empty promises,” she murmured, and shouldered past him. She placed the strongbox on the hall table.
“By God, you tempt fate, Lady Sarah.” He shook his head and fought to hide his amusement. He wondered if she’d be so saucy if she knew how close he was to doing what he’d threatened. “What is this about?”
She gestured toward the strongbox. “I remembered seeing Mr. Whitlock give that to Mrs. Carmichael for safekeeping. I recovered it from Mrs. Carmichael’s bedchamber tonight. It was hidden beneath a stone in the hearth.”
Ethan lifted the box to examine it more carefully. He turned the lock and tugged experimentally. “What is in it?”
“I think it may contain the papers you thought could incriminate your friend.”
He shook it. His eyes glittered in the dim light. “Why didn’t you open it? Were you not curious?”
“No,” she said, then smiled. “Well, yes. But I did not want to violate your trust any further.”
He breathed a little easier. “Good. I would not want to go after you because you learned something you shouldn’t.”
She backed away, rubbing her arms as if suddenly chilled. “I hope your friend will forgive you, Ethan. And I hope you will forgive me someday.”
He turned toward her, forgetting the metal box in a deeper hunger than mere curiosity. Forgive her? His need was strong enough to swallow her whole. But forgive her? That was a stretch.
Loving her was another matter. When had that happened? When she had screamed his name in the throes of rapture? When she
had made certain that the entire ton witnessed Lady Sarah, the paragon, waltz with him? Or was it the first time she had challenged him with Sticky Joe and Dicken at her back? No, it went further back than that. He had loved Sarah ever since she had laughed and reminded him that life can be joyful. And when she placed her hand on his heart earlier tonight at Thackery’s musicale and said, “This is…all the truth I need. It is all that matters,” he knew his heart was lost forever. But could he trust her to be faithful and steadfast in the face of opposition? To trust him when all odds were against him?
Sarah’s eyes were enormous and she gazed at him with a wounded look. Something of the fierceness of his emotions must have reached her, because her hand came up to her throat and she stepped back.
He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and turned back to the strongbox. When he looked up again, Sarah was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Where did you find this?” Lord Kilgrew asked as he studied the lockbox on his desk. “Does it have a key?” he queried.
The image of Sarah standing at his door just hours ago flashed through Ethan’s mind. He shook his head. “The key, I gather, has disappeared with Whitlock.”
Kilgrew licked his lips nervously and glanced at the closed door of his office. “Have you looked inside?”
“No, sir. I brought it to you as it was delivered to me last night.”
“Who—”
Ethan held up one hand. “A confidential source.”
Kilgrew nodded. “Have it your way for now, but if this should become evidence of some kind, we will need the testimony of the finder as to the circumstances surrounding its recovery. We will have to establish authenticity.”
“I understand,” Ethan said. He would just have to make certain it never came to that.
Kilgrew nodded and turned his attention to the strongbox.
Ethan went to look out the window to a busy street washed in sunlight, thinking how far he’d come since that night Kilgrew had summoned him. “If it is all the same to you, I shall wait. If this is not the evidence you seek, I shall return it to Whitlock’s wife. She would be the rightful owner.”
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