Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  “Indeed. I find it enormously comforting that your Herculean labors can support my indolent ways. Whatever would I do if I actually had to work to pay for my miserable bread, marmalade, and the naked ladies on the ceiling?”

  His blue eyes sparkled in such a deplorable way that Sarah had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Her insides fluttered. Suddenly, she felt shy and tongue-tied. She looked down at her heavy boots and sighed.

  I’m a regular lackwit when he catches me in that blue gaze of his.

  And yet, despite her awareness of him, a trickle of annoyance arose within her breast. She felt indebted to him for taking care of her when she was struck unconscious. However, he had also taken foul advantage of the situation to discover things about her person that ought to have remained private.

  As a result, when she passed him into the hallway, she couldn’t resist flinging one final needling remark at him. “‘Tis fine, then, that you’ve got such paintings. It’s doubtful you’ll ever have the energy, or opportunity, to view such fine ladies as those in the flesh.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder as Sotheby opened the door. “Seeing as how you’re only a younger son. And next to unemployed.”

  Trenchard’s blue eyes flashed silver at her remark. However, he managed a cynical smile before Sotheby smartly slammed the door shut in her face.

  The sun was well over the roofs of the townhouses when she stepped down the stairs, wincing as the light hit her eyes. She’d been a fool to start this inquiry. It was likely to result in her lying in a pauper’s grave if she wasn’t more careful. And Mr. Trenchard’s careless attitude upset her. She was paying him every shilling she had saved, and to the best of her knowledge, all he had done was stroll down to the newspaper offices on Strand and read a few articles.

  Nothing she could not have done herself.

  The news he gave her was not welcome, either. What was she to do with the information that the Archers were alive after all this time? Vague memories stirred, painful feelings she had tried to forget. She could not go to them. Not after thirteen years of living as a man.

  She was ruined as a female. No way back along that road.

  Her heart quivered at the thought. She couldn’t help a quick glance over her shoulder at Second Sons’ imposing façade.

  Well, even if she had known in 1806 that the Archers survived, she would have hesitated about going to them. She remembered only too vividly the desperate order to run and hide. If she had gone to the Archers, it would have placed them in jeopardy. Just as she was in danger, now, thanks to Major Pickering and her own ill-conceived notion to hire an inquiry agent.

  Why hadn’t she left well enough alone? Her life, though hard, was uneventful. Except, of course, for Mr. Hawkins’s recent notion to have Samuel Sanderson marry his daughter. And he was so insistent upon opening new offices in London under the management of his extended family. He wanted to return to his original business in Clapham and leave his son-in-law in charge of the London office.

  How she wished she could refuse and return to Clapham.

  Sarah was a skilled craftsman because she loved the uneventful, methodical work. It suited her to spend the day placing one brick upon another, neatly aligned to form regular patterns. English, Flemish bond, or rat trap—she knew all of them—although she didn’t care for rat trap. It wasn’t as strong as the others, it used fewer bricks, but it was all the poor could afford. Backbreaking work sometimes, work that frequently left her too exhausted to eat. But she savored that, too. During the first few years, it was only her exhaustion that let her rest at all when the nightmares burned through her sleep, filling her mind with smoke and screams.

  Why had it all jumped up again? Why had Hawkins, in a sudden surge of expansionism, begun to accept jobs in distant London?

  If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. There was no point in worrying. What was done was done.

  She could only hope Mr. Trenchard would bestir himself to discover who had been responsible for the fire at Elderwood. Then she could put an end to this, once and for all.

  In the meantime, Sarah Sanderson had to forget. And Samuel Sanderson had work to do.

  She opened the door to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse, pausing in the entrance to listen. The girl who did for them was singing off-key as usual, as she cleaned the rooms on the first floor. Sarah didn’t see anyone else. Perhaps Mrs. Pochard had gone shopping with her daughter.

  Moving as silently as a feather on the wind, Sarah glided to the stairway. She stayed as close as possible to the wall where the stairs creaked less as she climbed. She set foot on the first-floor landing and sighed with relief. Then she cringed at the sound of Mrs. Pochard’s harsh voice.

  “You there! Mr. Sanderson!” Mrs. Pochard called, her heels clicking sharply on the bare wooden floor. “Where are you sneaking off to?”

  “I was just going to my room,” Sarah replied, placing a foot on the stairway leading to the second floor. “I wanted to make sure you got the rent today.”

  Mrs. Pochard waved at her, her heavy face red as raw beef. “I warned you yesterday, Mr. Sanderson. You promised me my money last night. Where were you, hmm? I run a decent boardinghouse. I’ve a long list of gentlemen of better means than yourself wanting a room here.”

  “I know—and I appreciate your forbearance—”

  “Forbearance? Ha!” she interrupted, striding forward to grab Sarah’s arm. “You’d best be on your way, there’s no room for you here.”

  “What? What do you mean?” Sarah asked, shaking her arm. Mrs. Pochard’s grip tightened.

  “I told you—pay up last night, or you’d be out. You never came home—so I had to make do and assume you’d gone. I’ve rented your room already to a fine gentleman just come lately from Folkestone. So get on with you before I send for the constable.”

  “You’ve rented my room? You can’t!”

  “I can and did. I warned you about being late. None of my borders are late and stay.”

  Sarah twisted her arm out of Mrs. Pochard’s grasp and climbed another step. “Then I’ll just get my belongings.”

  “You’ve got no belongings in this house. I sold ‘em to pay your rent.”

  “You sold my property?”

  “That’s right.” A crafty look sharpened Mrs. Pochard’s brown eyes. “They’re gone, so there’s no need to go up there.”

  “Who did you sell them to? Where are they? There was a box—”

  “That’s right, the little wooden box as was locked. I sold it for a sovereign to a gent down the street.”

  “What gent? A sovereign? I only owed a crown—give me the rest.” She thrust out her hand, fighting back the urge to thrash Mrs. Pochard soundly. “And I know you’d never have given it up without opening it—there was money in that box. My money.”

  “Oh, no. If you had money, you’d have paid the rent,” she said. Then she chuckled and partially turned, gesturing down the hall. “But if you wish to discuss the matter like a gentleman, I’d be happy to invite you into my sitting room.”

  “I’ve no wish to discuss anything with you. Give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box.”

  “The sitting room, if you please, Mr. Sanderson.” She walked away, her skirts swaying with each brisk click-clacking step.

  Sarah swore as thoroughly as any good bricklayer. She reluctantly followed, wondering what Mrs. Pochard could possibly have to say.

  No one was ever allowed into Mrs. Pochard’s private sanctum. Sarah glanced around curiously.

  The sitting room was as gaudy as an Oriental harem. Red velvet drapes, edged with gold trim, cascaded down a background of gold-and-red flocked wallpaper. The legs of the tables and chairs were carved like palm fronds and then gilded, making the room look more like some far-eastern opium addict’s nightmare than a sitting room in an English boardinghouse.

  Several large peacock feathers emerged lavishly from tall vases, resting on pedestals on either side of the sofa.

  Sarah stood in t
he doorway and shook her head when Mrs. Pochard waved to the chair next to her. Mrs. Pochard sat and arranged herself on a red sofa with gold tassels and pillows striped in gold-and green velvet.

  “Close the door,” she said when Sarah remained where she was.

  “No need.”

  “Be it on your head, then, if your business gets spread the length and breadth of London.”

  “We have no private business, madam. Just give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box from my room. That’s all I want from you.”

  “Perhaps so, but I want something from you. So perhaps you ought to close the door after all.”

  Sarah hesitated. Then she kicked the door shut with her heel before crossing her arms over her chest. “There. Now give me the address of the man who purchased my box.”

  “Not so quick, Mr. Sanderson. You’re quite the most peculiar young man I’ve ever had here. But I’m willing to overlook a bit of oddness and give you back your room if you do me one small favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “Marry my lovely daughter, Letty. You’ll have free room and board and never a worry in the world.”

  Sarah laughed. “Marry your daughter? I’ve no mind to marry her, or any other. Where’s her beau, Mr. Edwards?”

  “Gone from London, it appears. Leastways that’s what my Letty says. Gone to the Colonies, I suppose. So there’s no fear Mr. Edwards would want a fight over her.”

  “I’ve no fear on that score,” Sarah said, chuckling. “Left her with a little parting gift, did he?”

  Mrs. Pochard’s eyes grew as hard and sly as a weasel’s. “What if he did? Your sheets have had blood on them two months in a row, Mr. Sanderson. I guess we both know the meaning of that.”

  “Yes,” Sarah replied sweetly. “I work hard laying bricks.” She pushed aside her hair so Mrs. Pochard could see the fresh stitches. “I bleed often enough. And I’ve plenty on my hands already without your breeding daughter.”

  Mrs. Pochard’s face grew even more mottled red as she gripped the arm of the sofa. “Not like the stains I’ve seen in your bed. And not regular-like each month. We both know you’re not a man, despite your pretense otherwise.”

  “Madame, you are suffering from some pernicious form of hysteria. I suggest you speak to a doctor. Now, the name and address, if you please. Keep the money you stole for all I care. I’ve no wish to marry Letty, though I thank you for thinking of me.”

  “You wish to speak plainly, so let me make this as plain as I can. If you want this little box so badly, you’ll agree to marry my Letty. I won’t have her bearing a child out of wedlock. I run a decent establishment. A boardinghouse for gentlemen. I won’t have it, do you understand?”

  “Indeed, I do. But it’s no concern of mine. Find another gentleman who needs a comfortable berth.”

  “I’ve found you. You’ll marry her, or the newspapers will discover that Mr. Samuel Sanderson is not a man, but a woman. How would your employer like that, Mr. Sanderson? How would you like it, eh?”

  Despite her bravura, Sarah felt the blood drain from her face. Too many specters from the past had already been raised. She did not want her name announced in the newspapers under any circumstances.

  “Who has my box?”

  “Agree to marry my Letty, and I will tell you.”

  “This is ludicrous. You believe I’m a woman, so you know any marriage would be a fraud and illegal. Why even suggest such a thing?”

  “Because I will not have it believed Letty is with child out of wedlock. All of my guests here are gentlemen. Except you. And I made an exception for you, fool that I was, when you was so soft-spoken. Now I see you was so because in truth you’re a woman. So you’ve something to hide, yourself. That Letty is a feckless girl and will doubtless find more trouble before she’s through, but as long as she’s Mrs. Sanderson with the marriage lines to prove it, she can have as many children as she likes. And married to you, you’ll keep your mouth shut if she does as she pleases, for it will suit you both. You’ll be a man with a breeding wife, and she’ll have a husband. And I’ll have a respectable boardinghouse with none the wiser.”

  Except Sarah was already betrothed to Kitty Hawkins, whose family knew a great deal less about Sarah’s circumstances than they realized.

  And all Sarah wanted was escape.

  “I can’t, and that’s a fact. I work for Mr. Hawkins, and he already expects me to marry his daughter. The banns have been read twice.”

  “And what would he think if he was to read in the newspaper that you’re a woman? Would that please him, do you think? Make his business prosper?” Mrs. Pochard’s gaze flickered around the room as she considered the matter. “You will marry them both, then, and live here.”

  “How am I to do that?” Sarah laughed. “It will all end in disaster—as soon as Mr. Hawkins and his daughter discover the truth.”

  “No, no. I tell you, you’ll think of something to keep the women separate. You’re a smart lad—er, woman. Think on it. We’ll find a way for you to keep your employment and make a decent, married woman out of my Letty.”

  Sarah shrugged. At the moment, she could think of nothing except how her head ached and how tortuous her life had become. “Agreed. Now, may I have the address of the man who acquired my box?”

  Mrs. Pochard smiled, her ferret eyes gleaming. “That would be Mr. Manfred on Bond Street.”

  “The shopkeeper?” Sarah asked, aghast. She had walked by Mr. Manfred’s establishment before, drawn to his bow windows displaying endless rows of silver candlesticks, crystal goblets, and other trinkets. Nothing ever stayed more than a few days in the window. “What if he’s sold it already?”

  “Then you’d best be getting to his shop, hadn’t you?” She smoothed her dark green skirts. “The banns will be read this Sunday and twice thereafter. The wedding will take place April 25, agreed?”

  “Yes, yes,” Sarah replied, yanking the door open and striding into the hallway. “It’s as good a day as any—though you’d best make sure Mr. Hawkins doesn’t find out. In any event, I doubt I’ll live long enough to worry overmuch about it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Manfred’s establishment on Bond Street was already overflowing with customers when Sarah arrived. A sheet of paper in the window declared that Mr. Manfred was pleased to offer the contents of Mr. James Wesley’s estate for sale that very day. A man carrying a small writing table pushed past her as she stood next to the door, trying to bring her disordered thoughts under control.

  Sighing fatalistically, she went deeper into the shop. After slipping past a few customers conferring over a battered chest, she edged up to the counter. She waited patiently for the clerk to conclude his business with a plump lady clutching a brass bowl. Finally, the clerk pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to Sarah.

  “May I be of assistance?” he asked. His thick glasses slid down his shiny, sloping nose. He pushed them up again, peering at her as if trying to gauge the likelihood of her purchasing something.

  “A wooden box. Mr. Manfred purchased a wooden box this morning. I’d like to get it back.”

  “A box? Wooden box? Oh, yes. We’ve many of those.” He dived behind a counter and started pulling out various containers, placing them on the countertop. Cherry boxes, mahogany boxes, silver boxes, maple boxes, and even a red Chinese lacquer box with a phoenix of gold on the lid. Sarah almost picked up the last item, thinking of Mrs. Pochard’s Oriental room. The woman would adore it.

  With firm determination, Sarah pushed the box away and leaned over. “It’s a plain box with a brass lock.” She considered for a moment and added. “It’s made out of maple, bird’s-eye maple, about twelve inches by six.”

  He pulled the rest of the boxes out of the bin and arrayed them on the counter in front of her. After examining them, he pushed the cherry one toward her. “Now, this is a fine box. Excellent craftsmanship.”

  Sarah eyed him with disgust. His sparse gray hair stuck up like weeds growing ove
r a splotchy marsh of skin. She wanted to grab a few strands and shake him until he listened. “I don’t want any of these. I don’t want any boxes except the one Mr. Manfred acquired this morning. It’s mine. I want it back.” She pulled the string around her neck until the brass key came free of her collar. “I’ve the key for it, you see. It was sold accidentally.”

  He shook his head and waved away one of the customers crowding the counter. “I’m sorry, sir, but these are the only boxes we have. Are you sure I can’t interest you in this fine mahogany box?” He opened it so that she could see the red felt lining the inside. “Or perhaps the Chinese lacquer?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Is Mr. Manfred here? Perhaps I could speak to him?”

  “He’s not here. There was a tragic event just an hour ago. He felt his presence might be required.”

  Sarah’s dislike for the shopkeeper deepened. Apparently, someone else had died. Mr. Manfred did not want to miss the opportunity of picking over the household inventory before the other jackals scented the heavy perfume of death.

  “Could he have put the box elsewhere?” she asked.

  “All the boxes are kept in this bin. If you aren’t interested in them, perhaps something else?”

  “No, I’m sorry. When do you expect Mr. Manfred to return?”

  He shrugged, his eyes already peering over her shoulder in search of another customer. A portly gentleman pushed her aside and leaned on the counter, asking about a small three-cornered chair sitting by the door. Sarah stepped away, searching the room, but she couldn’t find the bird’s-eye maple box anywhere.

  Where was Mr. Manfred? Had it already been sold?

  Her heart pounded at the thought. That box was important—perhaps the only clue left to her past. Suddenly, she felt as if her life depended upon the contents of that small box.

  She pushed her way out, unable to breathe in the close confines of the stuffy shop. The sidewalk outside was, if anything, even busier than the shop. London had awakened to another day, and the streets were thronging with hawkers yelling, gentlemen and ladies strolling, and the impoverished searching the gutters for anything the others had missed.