by Wendy Vella
He should have tried more vigorously to stop her from going to work. She was strong, but no longer strong enough to take care of herself. Even he had proven himself stronger during their brief struggle that morning when she’d tried so desperately to refuse the comfort he offered. She was not as fierce as she pretended. He had held her—at least for a moment.
And he was glad of it. He remembered the soft texture of her tousled hair when he rested his chin on the top of her head. The feeling that she belonged there, leaning against him.
“Is Mr. Carnaby at home?” he asked when the butler opened the door at the address the clerk had given him.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No, but I only need a few moments of his time.” William pulled out a calling card and handed it to him.
He read it before gazing even more coldly at William. “And inquiry agent?”
“Yes. A small matter. It won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe Mr. Carnaby is at home.”
“Not at home at all? Or not at home to an inquiry agent?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Perhaps I may leave a message?” William asked.
“I will relay it for you.”
William shook his head. “No, it’s a delicate matter. If you would allow me to write him a brief note, I would be very appreciative.”
Another gold sovereign escaped from William’s pocket. The coin landed in the butler’s gloved hand. Thank goodness Sarah was not there to complain of the expense.
At this rate, her five pounds wouldn’t even cover the bribes.
The butler escorted him to a small antechamber with a tiny desk tucked beneath a shelf bearing an assortment of hats and gloves. After providing him with a quill and bottle of ink, the butler stood in the door with his back to him.
After a brief review of his alternatives, William decided to appeal to Mr. Carnaby’s sympathy. He requested an interview with him to buy back the box, claiming it had a great deal of sentimental value as it was all he had left of his late mother.
He sanded the paper and folded it with one of his calling cards inside. Standing up, he handed it to the butler, who carefully placed it on a silver tray in the hallway.
“I will ensure Mr. Carnaby receives this, sir,” he said as he escorted William to the door.
At loose ends, he wandered back to Second Sons, virtuously avoiding the use of a hackney coach.
Chapter Eleven
Sarah immediately regretted her insistence on returning to work on foot. She should not have been so proud. The pain in her head redoubled and throbbed with each jarring step.
Nonetheless, she had made an important discovery. William Trenchard was more competent than she credited him. In fact, she hadn’t lied when she claimed to trust him. She did, except, perhaps, with money.
“Mr. Sanderson!” Mr. Hawkins greeted her with a relieved smile.
She gave him a weary grin in return. “I’m sorry I’m late, sir.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he blustered. “We never expected to see you today, after all. Not after that accident.” He gestured toward the wall that had grown at least one foot since she saw it last. “Why didn’t you stay abed?”
“No need. I’m well and ready to work, sir.”
He glanced over his thick shoulder at the house behind them, as if expecting to see another jug come flying out the window while they stood talking.
“If you’re sure, Mr. Sanderson.” He dug into a pocket and extracted his wallet. “And of course here’s your wages. The others were paid yesterday. It’ll be a bit short, you understand, what with the accident and loss of time.”
“Of course, sir,” she replied, forcing a smile. “And I’d best be getting to work today, hadn’t I? I don’t want to miss another day’s wages.”
“That’s the lad!” he said, patting her shoulder with approval. “You’ve a great deal of sand, I always say.”
She nodded, pleased with the compliment, and joined the other men, who seemed glad to see her. It rather touched and surprised her when they took pains to keep the wheelbarrow closest to her well filled with bricks so she could avoid repeatedly bending over. Her pace was slower than usual, but by 6:00 p.m., she had added another foot to the wall. Three more days and they’d be finished with the low, waist-high wall and arched gateway.
“Will you be joining us tonight at the Bull and Feathers?” one of the fellows asked as he wiped off their tools with oil and rags before locking them in Hawkins’s tool chest. “Seeing as how it’s Friday and all.”
Shaking her head, she cleaned her hands with a scrap of cloth and pried out the gritty mortar from under her nails.
“Not tonight,” she replied. “Half day tomorrow. I’d be glad to share a pint or more with you then.” She chuckled and added, “I’m seeing double already. Like as not, I’d mistake your pint for mine and never make it home again.”
One of the lads poked her in the ribs with his elbow and winked. “Oh, we’d see you back home, right enough. Unless you’d rather another night with old Peg. Won’t be many more of those when you’re shackled to the master’s daughter.” He grinned and scratched his groin. “You’ve got plenty o’ ash and sulfur from what I hear, so what’s one more tumble with Peg?”
Sarah gave him a sharp jab right back and laughed, helping the others pack up the cart. “As if you don’t have your own supply of ash and sulfur, you lout. And you’d best be using it before you maul poor Sally tonight. God knows she’s a tolerant wench to tolerate the likes of you. I’ve often thought of giving her the blessing of my company to let her know all men aren’t such nodcocks as you lot. Waste of good ale and willing women, you are.”
They snorted and traded a few more good-natured insults before the men wandered off in the direction of the tavern.
“Climb up, my boy,” Hawkins said from atop the cart. He already held the leather reins in his hands.
About to clamber into the vehicle, Sarah was distracted by a man singing loudly at the mouth of the alley.
“Hey!” he yelled as he veered toward them, stumbling against the wall a few yards away. “You got a pint o’ knock-me-down?” He fell and then pulled himself up, giggling. Facing the wall, he mumbled a few words, his hands feeling along the bricks. “Lovely, solid wall, lovely.”
“Here, now,” Hawkins called to him in a sharp voice. “You stay away, you hear? You’re top-heavy as a Frenchman. Come on Sanderson, up you go.”
Sarah gripped the edge of the seat and was hoisting herself up when the drunk reeled into her. He caught her, one hand around her middle, and knocked her off the cart. Both of them tumbled into the rubble in the alleyway.
Dazed, she tried to push him off. He lay like a dead weight on her back. She couldn’t move. Pulling her arms under her chest, she struggled to find enough leverage to roll him off.
Above, she heard Hawkins swear. “Be off with you, you sot!” He climbed down and picked the drunk up by the collar, tossing him toward the wall.
“Mr. Sanderson, are you injured?”
“Fine,” she said. She staggered to her feet and brushed the dust off her smock.
Hawkins grabbed her chin to get a better look at her head. “Well, you look right enough.” He glanced over at the drunk, who leaned against the building, his broad-brimmed hat slouching over his eyes. “Be off with you!” Hawkins yelled before climbing back into the cart.
The drunk tottered a few feet and slid to the ground, singing softly to himself.
Climbing into the seat next to Hawkins, Sarah felt a tearing sensation deep inside. It shivered over her ribs on the left side, and she flinched.
Hawkins didn’t notice. He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, encouraging the horse to trot forward. The jarring movement made her sick with pain.
Sarah slipped her fingers under her arm. Something warm and sticky seeped through her smock. A strange, whirling sensation spun through her.
Th
e drunk stabbed me!
She pressed her hand against her side with her arm, unwilling to alert Mr. Hawkins to her new injury. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, but… She felt confused and more than a little frightened.
She had to find Mr. Trenchard.
She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder, almost too afraid to look for fear of seeing a rifle pointed at her back. The drunkard had stumbled away into the shadows of the alley and disappeared from sight. Tightening her arm, she prayed the wrappings she wore around her chest to disguise her femaleness would at least staunch the flow of blood.
She bit the inside of her mouth with pain and exasperation. The tight linen had proved utterly useless for their real purpose, at least as far as Mr. Trenchard had been concerned.
“You look a mite pale, lad,” Hawkins said as he brought the cart to a halt in front of Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse. “You get a good night’s sleep. You’ll be sound as a trivet tomorrow.” He slapped Sarah’s thigh. “Now don’t you worry about putting the cart away tonight, or the loading tomorrow. I’ll send for one of the other lads. We’ll see you at half past seven, sharp.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sarah jumped down. Suddenly dizzy, she stumbled and gripped the side of the cart. Her side throbbed. The street bobbed and buckled beneath her feet.
“Are you well, lad?”
“Yes.” She touched her head. “My head’s aching, that’s all.”
“You get right to bed, then. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
She nodded and stepped up the few steps to the shallow stoop in front of the townhouse. Opening the door, she hesitated, watching Mr. Hawkins drive the cart away.
One thought obsessed her, giving her abnormal, shivering energy. She needed William Trenchard. Then she amended the thought hastily. She had to find out if he had managed to obtain the box. Because, despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t sleep until she had seen him and knew if he succeeded.
When Mr. Hawkins disappeared around the corner, Sarah wearily made her way across the street, dodging the carriages and horses moving past in a constant noisy stream. Her side burned as she stumbled up the steps to Second Sons. She tripped on the middle step and caught the railing, slowly crumbling.
“Mr. Sanderson!” Sotheby opened the door. He took one look at her and ushered her into Trenchard’s office.
Rude though it was, she sat without being asked. She shut her eyes and let her head bob forward until her chin rested against her chest.
Just a minute—just a few seconds of rest. The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her shoulder.
“Sarah,” Mr. Trenchard said.
She glanced over at the door, afraid the butler would hear. The door was mercifully closed. When she looked at Mr. Trenchard, his gold hair was tousled, and he still wore his abominable dressing gown.
“So, you’ve slept all day?” She struggled to remain alert and focused her gaze on his chest in disbelief.
He ran a hand through his disordered locks. “No, I haven’t slept the entire day. Although you do have a way of arriving at exceptionally awkward times.”
“You’ve just awakened!” she said, tired and aggrieved. She was injured and had worked all day while he had done nothing but loll around in his no doubt vast bed, most likely with some low woman.
“Yes, I have—”
“Well, go back to your ladybird if that’s how you want to spend your time. I should have known better than to trust a handsome face.” Annoyance granted her a brief surge of energy.
Instead of an angry retort, he just sat on the edge of his desk. His gleaming blue eyes studied her as a slow grin twisted his mouth. “I’ll have you know I’ve had exactly one hour of rest in the last two days.”
He had been with a woman! He couldn’t even be bothered to deny it.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Yours, I’m afraid.” His foot began swinging in a maddeningly irritating way. “I haven’t had time for any other females. Very distressing, really.”
She snorted to cover her relief, although she still felt aggrieved that he had been relaxing while someone tried to kill her. She eyed him and took a deep breath, flinching when her side burned. The bright room dimmed, and before she could speak, the combined forces of nausea and dizziness nearly made her slip out of her chair.
“Sarah, what’s wrong?” He stood up and gripped her shoulder.
“Nothing,” she whispered. She was so tired. Exhausted. It was an effort just to speak. “Did you get the box, then?” The words dragged out slowly.
“Not yet.” He gripped her chin and raised her face. “Sarah!”
“What?” She tried to summon up the energy to express her outrage at his failure. But there wasn’t enough blood in her to burn with rage.
Her veins felt empty and cold, filled with gray ash. She closed her eyes and gave in to the overpowering urge to relinquish control and sleep.
Chapter Twelve
“Sarah!” William watched as she slid bonelessly to the floor. He knelt and rolled her over on her back.
Her left side was stained red with blood.
“Sotheby!” William yelled. “Fetch Dr. Barker!” He lifted Sarah and held her against his chest. Her body felt cold and light as a feather.
“Sir!” Sotheby exclaimed as William passed him on the way to the stairs.
“Did you send for the doctor?” he asked, climbing the stairs.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send up some water and rags to the spare bedroom.”
“Very good, sir.”
The bed wasn’t as large as the one at Archer’s townhouse, but gilt crown moldings still graced the high walls and dark green velvet curtains draped the windows. It was certainly better than anything she must have been used to for the last thirteen years.
He stripped back the bedcovers before gently laying her down. A maid followed him into the room with a ewer of water, a bowl, and a bundle of rags.
He nodded at her and unlaced Sarah’s shoes while the maid set the things on a dresser before leaving. When they were alone, William pulled off her smock and shirt, hesitating before cutting away the sweat and bloodstained linen strips she’d used to bind her chest. The pale skin beneath the wrappings was creamy and white, as soft to the touch as satin. Her ribs and collarbone showed clearly beneath the fine, thin skin. Not an ounce of womanly plumpness covered her ribs.
Her body was almost painfully thin. He remembered the way she ate, as if she existed on the verge of starvation. And yet despite her slenderness, she had to bind her breasts, for she did have them, large enough to fill a man’s hand. He glanced away, his pulse throbbing.
Suddenly uncomfortable, he was reminded of the fact that Sarah Sanderson had been born the daughter of a marquess. He had no business acting as her nursemaid.
And to his further discomfort, for the first time since he had come to work at Second Sons, William suffered regret. Socially, he was no longer a gentleman, despite being the son of a peer. He had elected to join the ranks of the working class. He would be viewed as an upstart now if he had the gall to saunter into one of the drawing rooms that had previously welcomed him.
And despite her difficult life as a man, in her proper guise as Sarah Sanderson, she was quite literally above his touch.
Shrugging away his regret, he gently moved her to examine the wound.
A nasty slash between two of the ribs on her left side bled sluggishly. The area was bruised and reddening. He poured a small amount of water in the bowl and dampened a rag to wipe away the blood. The gash was only about two inches long, but he could not tell how deep it went.
If it had pierced a vital organ or severed an artery… He shook off the thought.
Her breathing was strong and even. The bleeding had already mostly stopped.
She had to survive.
Gently prodding the wound, he realized it might not be as bad as he feared. The knife had not slipped between her ribs. The rib cage had deflected her assailant’
s aim.
A gentle knock rattled the door. “Sir, Dr. Barker is here.”
William hastily covered Sarah and opened the door. He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.
Dr. Barker waited at the head of the stairs. “So, Mr. Trenchard, you have need of my services for a second time in twenty-four hours?”
“No, I—”
“You certainly appear as if you have been up far too late,” he said with a smile. “Dancing with death, again? Have you considered getting a reasonable night’s sleep?”
William tried to smile, but failed. His hand gripped the cold doorknob to Sarah’s room. Suddenly, the situation seemed not only awkward but dangerous as well.
Last night, Dr. Barker had treated a young man for a head wound. How would he react today when he treated the same person for a stab wound and saw “he” was actually a “she”? The stitches on Sarah’s scalp would give her away, even if Barker didn’t recognize her face.
“That’s root of the problem, Doctor,” William said, abruptly making a decision. He hoped it was the right one and would not cost Sarah her life. “I’m having difficulties sleeping.”
“I see. Something on your mind?” The good doctor’s alert eyes bored into him.
“I’m worried about the young man you treated yesterday.”
“Have you been to see him today?” His gray brows wrinkled together as he frowned. “Did he develop a fever? I knew I should have bled him. Lady Victoria has an unreasonable fear of blood, I’m afraid. I should have insisted she leave the room so I could treat the lad properly.”
“He hasn’t developed a fever, at least not to my knowledge.”
Dr. Barker laughed and braced his black bag on the newel post in order to open it. “Then don’t worry, the Archers will take good care of him.”
“That’s the crux of the matter.”
“You don’t trust Mr. Archer?” He pulled out a blue vial and tossed it to William. “He is not a bad sort, just a trifle, um, energetic. He will look after your friend well enough. But if a decent glass of brandy won’t help you sleep, try that laudanum. Just be careful with it.”