Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  Stripping down to her long linen shirt, she climbed into the hard bed, using her elbows to smooth out the worst of the lumps. With a full stomach, she ought to sleep well tonight, despite her worries. Hard physical labor made an effective soporific. She rarely had trouble sleeping, even when nightmares of flames and crashing timbers woke her, rigid and trembling, in the coldest hours before morning.

  She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, wishing the nights would turn warmer. Mrs. Pochard was no great believer in fires, and Sam couldn’t afford a room with its own fireplace—even if she could pay extra for the wood. But considering her nightmares, the lack of a fire could only be considered a blessing. And given Mrs. Pochard’s reluctance to spend money on firewood, this house was unlikely to burn down like Elderwood had. So Sam didn’t mind the cold so much, despite a sudden, teeth-rattling shiver. Her situation could be worse.

  Rolling over, she tried to get comfortable in the worn hollow at the center of the narrow cot. The ropes beneath the lumpy mattress creaked in protest. She stilled, listening. The frayed rope at the head of the bed twanged—one more strand snapped—but it held.

  At least for now. Just like her safety.

  Everything was temporary.

  Finally, when her bed did not collapse beneath her, she relaxed again. Her thoughts turned inevitably to the Major Pickering and the sight of a man bending over him, patting his pockets.

  Her eyelids fluttered with sleep. With an effort at confidence, she tried to believe the murderer had found nothing in Pickering’s coat. No one would strangle her in the wee hours of the night, at least not here in Mrs. Pochard’s dingy, sagging townhouse.

  And William Trenchard would soon find the murderer.

  For her part, she could remain safe in comfortable obscurity until hard labor and near starvation took their toll.

  Unfortunately, as she fell asleep, her dreams swirled into the familiar nightmare of flames, smoke, and the terrified screams of death. She moaned and twitched, crying in her sleep, unable to wake up and save anyone, including herself.

  Chapter Four

  When Sam got up at half past five, she was disgusted to find her belly growling hollowly. She rubbed it, trying not to think about Mr. Trenchard’s twinkling eyes or his excellent larder. She got dressed quickly, listening to the sounds of fellow boarders beginning to stir in the cool, predawn darkness.

  She opened the door. “Shush,” she warned her belly when it rumbled. “I suppose now that you’ve had a taste of beef, you’ll want it every day. It was a treat, last night, and one you’re not likely to get again. And you can just stop mooning over that Trenchard fellow like any silly schoolgirl, too. You’re a working lad, and there’s an end to it. He’d die laughing if he knew you’d gone all soft-headed over his lazy good looks.” She thrust her misshapen hat on her head and started down the stairs, eager to be out of the house.

  Halfway down, she paused, caught in the glow of an old carriage lamp lighting the hallway below.

  “Mr. Sanderson!” Mrs. Pochard called up to Sam. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pochard,” Sam replied, tramping down the last few steps. “How are you today?”

  “As right as can be expected when half my lodgers seem to believe they own the right to come and go as they please without a shilling of their rent paid.” She held the light up, frowning at Sam.

  Sam smiled and attempted to circle around the plump lady.

  Mrs. Pochard’s dress had a few stains on the bosom and the faint odor of cabbage still clung to her. Either she had slept in her clothing or hadn’t noticed they were not as fresh as they might have been. “Not so fast, Mr. Sanderson. You’ve rent to pay.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Sam said, doffing her hat, trying not to think about how much Mrs. Pochard’s rather square nose and her heavy jowls resting on her massive chest gave her the appearance of a pig on a platter. All she needed was an apple in her mouth and a wreath of parsley around her stout neck.

  Mrs. Pochard’s jowls wobbled in the wavering light. She thrust out a damp palm. “Then I’d be obliged if you’d pay it, sir.”

  The emphasis on the word “sir” did not escape Sam’s notice. She stilled for a moment. Had her landlady had seen through her disguise, or was she merely impugning Sam’s ability to pay on time?

  Mrs. Pochard certainly ought to know better. Sam had been renting her room for two months now and had never failed to pay. Eventually.

  Sam reseated her hat on her head and ruthlessly circled her landlady. “I’m paid today. You know that almost as well as I do. You’ll have your money by supper. Tonight.”

  “See that I do. I’ve a list of fine young men—gentlemen of breeding—wanting that room. I’ve no mind to let it go for a few sweet words and promises.”

  “Understandable, my dear lady. And who could blame a gentleman for desiring rooms with such a lovely landlady?”

  Mrs. Pochard’s plump hand fluttered over her breast. “Indeed, sir, you flatter me.”

  With a swagger and a wink, Sam managed to get around Mrs. Pochard and escape into the street. She raced around the corner, pulling sixpence out of her pocket as she went. Every morning, a young lass strolled down the next street over with a tray of fresh, warm rolls from the baker. For a single silver coin, Sam could grab one to eat before collecting the cart and Mr. Hawkins.

  “Betsy!” Sam called, running when she recognized the red-striped dress of the baker’s daughter swaying through the misty blue shadows.

  Betsy swirled around with a smile. “Mr. Sanderson, late again?”

  “Not this time.” Sam tossed her coin into the girl’s outstretched hand. Grabbing a yeasty roll, still hot with a browned top oily from rich melted butter, Sam bit into it. This morning she felt twice as hungry despite her heavy meal the previous night. She started to turn away, one hand on her rumbling stomach when the girl called her back.

  “Wait,” Betsy said, a hand on Sam’s arm. Her dark eyes flashed as she glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected her father to appear behind her, hands on his hips and brows beetling over frowning eyes. “Have another.” Her slim fingers hovered over the tray and plucked out the largest bun.

  Sam shook her head, her mouth full. “Mmm, sorry, no. Can’t spare another sixpence.”

  Pushing the roll into Sam’s hand, Betsy laughed. “You’re my best customer, Mr. Sanderson. Consider it my gift. To you.”

  “Thanks!” She took the proffered roll and winked at Betsy before running off without another thought about the baker’s girl or Mrs. Pochard.

  By seven, Sam had loaded the cart with the help of a stable boy, hitched up the horse, and was waiting, reins in her hands, when Mr. Hawkins kissed his wife and bustled down the stairs.

  “Mending your ways, I see,” Hawkins commented as he arranged himself in the seat next to Sam. “Here by seven as you should be. Did you do what I said?”

  “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The sulfur and ash.” Hawkins shook his head. “Did you get the right mix from your apothecary?”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks to you.”

  “And did you use it? Every night and every morn. Don’t forget, or you’ll be spending a miserable honeymoon with poor Kitty.” He chuckled and slapped his knees. “She might not be as understanding of men’s ways as her papa, you understand. So you’d best do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir. Every night and every morning,” Sam repeated dutifully, wondering if a bad case of crabs could be turned to her advantage. Would it, for example, be sufficient reason to delay an unwanted and undoubtedly illegal wedding? “If you think Miss Hawkins will be upset, perhaps we should delay—”

  “Delay?” Hawkins hooted, grabbing the hat off his head and swatting Sam with it. “Why, a little case of the crabs is no reason to delay. No. You do as I say. You’ll be well enough to make Kitty right pleased with you on your wedding night.”

  A flush of queasiness made the two buns in Sam’s stomach feel like a pair of bricks
lodged under her heart. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry Miss Kitty Hawkins, and she absolutely could not sit there discussing their wedding night with Miss Hawkins’s father. It offended every shred of decency left in Sam’s practical soul.

  How was she going to escape this quagmire? Show up as herself, Miss Sarah Sanderson? That would certainly stop the wedding.

  If only she could appear as a fashionable young lady, escorted by Mr. Trenchard. Well, that was certainly wishful thinking. With her sunburned cheeks, calloused hands, and straggly hair, it was more likely that Mr. Trenchard would run away with the baker’s daughter than be seen with the likes of Sam, or Sarah.

  If wishes were horses, they’d all be riders.

  For now, changing the subject seemed to be in order. “Sir, have we another job after this one? We’ll finish this week if all goes well.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Hawkins flushed with pleasure. “I heard there may be a bit more work if we finish the wall to their liking. The owner’s nephew is a duke, you know,” he repeated, although Sam had not forgotten this obscure and completely irrelevant information. Clearly, Mr. Hawkins enjoyed repeating it. He smacked his lips over the word “duke” just as if he had eaten a very large spoonful of his favorite suet-and-raisin pudding. “There’ll be more work from that quarter if we look sharp. Yes, indeed. The uncle of a duke—now there’s a good employer to have.”

  When they arrived at the duke’s uncle’s house, Sam unhitched the horse, wiped it down, and tried to believe she didn’t actually feel anyone’s eyes boring into her back as she wheeled loads of bricks from the cart to the base of the garden wall. Despite her resolve, each time she approached the mouth of the alley, she had to concentrate on her task to keep from scanning the sidewalks and road beyond.

  There was never anyone staring that she could see. Except for the legless soldier sitting on a small wheeled platform across the way, begging for a few coins. And, of course, the peddlers hoping to sell the workmen a few odds and ends. And the fruit seller ambling by with a tray of withered apples from last fall. And of course the rag pickers and urchins who searched the gutters, hoping for a few lost coins or something they could sell—or eat.

  In fact, there were any number of people who routinely littered the streets, alleys, and sidewalks for obscene lengths of time, all of whom thought nothing of staring at the bricklayers doing an honest bit of labor in the pale April sunshine. Any one of them could be responsible for the itch between Sam’s shoulder blades.

  And for anyone else, the sensation of being observed might be considered quite normal in the teeming streets of London. Quite innocent.

  But not for Sam.

  Chapter Five

  William allowed one of the elderly maids that Gaunt had unaccountably hired to serve him a leisurely breakfast in bed. He opened the newspaper and spread it out over his knees while he chewed on a piece of toast lavishly covered with orange marmalade. There was a small report on the bottom of page one. A man identified as Major John Pickering of Longmoor had been fatally stabbed Wednesday morning, April 7, 1819.

  The motive was reported as robbery. The man’s wallet was found a few feet away, emptied of money but containing a number of calling cards that allowed for his speedy identification. He left behind no widow or children.

  Throwing the paper to the floor, William leaned back on a veritable mountain of down pillows to finish his toast and coffee. At least Mr. Sanderson hadn’t been lying about Major Pickering, even if William strongly suspected the lad of lying about almost everything else.

  Last night, he had been led astray by Sanderson’s clear gray eyes. He’d appeared so honest, so utterly decent, that William had felt an immediate need to offer him assistance and protection.

  What utter rot.

  It wasn’t until Sanderson left that William realized how little he’d actually been told. While it was possible that Sanderson simply didn’t know anything else, William thought this unlikely. Even if the scar on Sanderson’s forehead indicated some degree of memory loss, far too many blank spaces lingered in his brief story.

  Obviously, William would have to fight this nauseating tendency to grow maudlin over some client’s sad story, even if that client did have the most amazing eyes he had ever seen. On a boy.

  If he was a boy. The question lingered.

  Disgusted, he rang for his valet and waited, stretched out in bed. Thinking about newspapers and ways to get information that didn’t require vast amounts of useless sweat and toil, he decided that fires, at least, were easy enough to verify.

  Even his family, who generally held William to be a pretty but empty-headed wastrel, would agree he was not lazy. But there was no point in ruining expensive clothes with unnecessary perspiration. If one had even an ounce of gray matter, one ought to use it, he reasoned as his valet inserted William’s arms into the exceedingly tight armholes of a very form-fitting deep blue jacket.

  He was going to prove, once and for all, that one could be intelligent and dress well, too. After all, one did not exclude the other. After looping his neckcloth around his neck a few times, he carelessly knotted it and thrust the ends through a buttonhole. He rather liked the effect of the well-tailored jacket and tan breeches coupled with the loose, informal neckcloth.

  It also had the effect of making him seem less muscular than he was, and he rather liked that slight deception, too. If he needed strength, he preferred it to be a surprise to his opponent.

  “Will that be all, sir?” His valet stared at William’s boots with half-closed eyes and a terminally bored expression.

  “No. Catch one of those urchins always running about and send him—or her—to locate our Mr. Sanderson. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I want to know where he is working. The name of the firm, I believe, is Hawkins and Hawkins.”

  “Hawkins and Hawkins, sir?”

  “Yes. Bricklayers.”

  His valet sniffed. He was not used to dealing with urchins and obviously didn’t intend to start now.

  A profound silence settled around them.

  Finally, William waved his hand in a shooing motion and said, “Now.”

  The steely edge in his voice convinced his valet to comply without daring another comment.

  William collected a pocket watch from his dresser and carefully arranged the chain across his waistcoat before slipping the timepiece into his pocket. No fobs. No other jewelry to interfere with the effect of his smooth waistcoat and carelessly elegant cravat. Nothing to get lost in a fight, should one regretfully ensue.

  He was surprised to find he rather wished an altercation would ensue. In fact, he was less unsettled at the notion that Mr. Sanderson’s job might be a tad dangerous than he probably should have been. A small smile flickered across his face at the prospect.

  The butler obtained a hackney for William, and by the ungodly hour of ten, he was on his way to Strand. The British Press, the Globe, the Courier and Morning Chronicle were all located along that street, as well as unnumbered other broadsheets. It was as good a place to start as any, although he wondered if he ought to buy a pair of cotton gloves along the way to avoid the embarrassment of inky fingerprints on his neckcloth or breeches.

  When he arrived at the Globe, William strolled into the offices and leaned over the wooden counter. He eyed a slender white-haired clerk, who, in the dim light, might easily be mistaken for an elderly goblin. William almost expected to see cobwebs and small clouds of dust trailing from the clerk’s frayed sleeves.

  “Yes, sir?” the goblin asked, rubbing his gnarled nose.

  “I wish to read any articles you may have concerning a fire—”

  “A fire? Which fire, sir? We’ve many fires…” he said, interrupting irritably. He glanced back at his work and his frown deepened.

  William smiled pleasantly. “The 1806 fire in Longmoor. It involved an estate called Elderwood, I believe.”

  “Eighteen o’six?” He rubbed his red nose again, his rheumy blue eyes wandering over William�
�s jacket as if considering its worth.

  With an even broader smile, William flipped a shilling onto the counter.

  The old man leaned his bony elbows on the ancient wood and stared at the ceiling. William rolled two more shillings over to the first. When the clerk continued to contemplate the blackened plaster above his head, William reached over and tapped the coins.

  “If you don’t want them,” he said, his tone as careless as his cravat, “I can certainly find someone who does.”

  The clerk grabbed the coins, grunted, and wandered away through the cabinets behind him. There was a great deal of snorting and sneezing between the shelves, but eventually the clerk returned with several folded sheets.

  “These are them.” He slapped the papers down in front of William.

  William glanced around and raised his brows. “A table and chair?”

  “Ha!” The goblin laughed. The sound ended abruptly in a watery snort that made William back up a step. “Read ‘em on the counter or floor. Whichever you prefers.”

  “Thank you,” William replied sweetly before gingerly unfolding the sheets.

  There were several long articles about the Elderwood fire. All of them weeping with hysteria over the loss of the Marquess of Longmoor’s entire household, including the marquess, his wife, and two children on the night of March 17, 1806.

  There was even a tearful description of a birthday party for the oldest child, a girl named Sarah, who turned eleven the very day of the tragedy. A cousin named Mary, apparently the same age as Sarah, had been visiting as well to join in the celebration. Little Mary and her two parents were also listed as victims of the fire. The entire family had perished in a few hours, leaving no survivors.

  He read the article twice, looking for names of the servants who must also have perished. Unfortunately, they were deemed irrelevant in the initial tale of outraged horror.

  There was a second article in a paper a few days later, however, that took gruesome delight in listing every known soul who perished. It listed twenty-three servants in the household, along with the cousins, Mr. and Mrs. John Archer, and their daughter, Mary. The Marquess of Longmoor, his wife, Evelyn, and their two children, Sarah, age eleven, and Samuel, age nine, were again at the top of the list. After the immediate family, another visitor, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Duke of Rother, was also listed amongst the dead.