Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  “So, you trust Mr. Archer?”

  “I would not say I trust him.” The doctor chuckled as he closed his bag. “In fact, you would be wise not to gamble against him.”

  “He cheats?”

  “Oh, no, not precisely cheats, no. But he is certainly a difficult man to beat. Now, if there is nothing more pressing?”

  “No.” William tossed the vial in the air and caught it in one hand. “And thanks for this. I’m sure it’s just the thing.”

  “Well, get some rest. You look like an apparition after too many years a-haunting, Mr. Trenchard.”

  “You’re too kind,” William drawled.

  After the doctor left, William returned to the guest room. He stared down at Sarah’s pale face, praying he had not made a tragic mistake. He’d sent away the doctor, so he’d just have to take care of her without a physician’s assistance.

  And if his sewing skills were not at the level of Dr. Barker’s, then she was getting no more than she deserved. If she had listened to him and remained abed, or even put on skirts like a normal woman, she wouldn’t have had to endure his crooked stitches.

  So she could hardly complain about his less than tender care after refusing his advice.

  Thankful that she remained unconscious, he sutured the wound as best he could. After binding the injury, he sacrificed one of his linen shirts and draped it over Sarah’s head, settling it around her slim body. The voluminous garment went well past her knees and served as an excellent nightgown.

  Then, not taking any chances, he had the maid leave a full pitcher of water and glass beside Sarah’s bed. She might wake up thirsty and go wandering around the house, causing more difficulties. To be doubly sure, he locked the bedroom door. Finally, he gave the maid and Sotheby strict instructions not to open the door until he returned, no matter how loudly Mr. Sanderson protested.

  He changed jackets and waistcoats, regretting the ruin of one more handsome outfit. This case was becoming outrageously expensive.

  “Oh, sir,” his valet exclaimed when he saw the condition of his employer’s clothing, left on the floor next to the bed. “Whatever have you been doing?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” William answered cheerfully.

  “But this is blood, sir!”

  “Thankfully, not mine. Will it come out?” He glanced at his cerulean-and-silver waistcoat with sorrow. It had always been his favorite.

  “I don’t know, sir. I can but try.”

  “Do your best. I suppose it will have to be the black and gold this evening.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lindley opened the wardrobe and pulled out a brocade waistcoat along with a severely cut black jacket. “Is it too much to hope that you will allow me to assist you with your neckcloth? The waterfall or mathematical would be appropriate, if you would permit me…”

  William laughed at the pinched expression on Lindley’s long face. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. Do whatever you think best. I warn you, however, that I insist I be able to turn my head comfortably.”

  “Of course, sir,” Lindley said, trying to suppress the smug smile that nearly broke through the deeply ingrained lines of severe disapproval he normally wore.

  By 9:00 p.m. Lindley declared that William was as beautiful as any valet could make him and was therefore at liberty to leave the house. Instead of going to his club, however, he ordered the hackney coach driver to take him to Mr. Carnaby’s house. With luck, he would finally get the box.

  And he might find the solution to Sarah Sanderson’s problems locked inside, hidden beneath the false bottom.

  To his surprise, Mr. Carnaby’s butler allowed William to enter. The butler escorted him to a small library and instructed him to wait. Quickly bored, William walked over to the bookcase and studied the conventional works. After a few cursory glances, he decided Mr. Carnaby had purchased the entire collection because their identical green and gold leather bindings looked so very elegant on the pale oak shelves.

  “Mr. Trenchard?” a voice asked from the door.

  William turned. “Mr. Carnaby?”

  A short, stout gentleman with a fringe of sandy hair surrounding his pink pate entered through the double doors. Something about him reminded William of a stout, jolly friar. All that was missing was the brown robe.

  “Yes.” Carnaby held out a chubby hand.

  They shook hands. Mr. Carnaby’s grip was soft and unpleasantly damp. William surreptitiously wiped his palm off on his black breeches while his host strolled over to a pair of green velvet wing chairs flanking the fireplace.

  “Chilly for April, isn’t it?” he asked. He gestured to the chair opposite him.

  Sitting down, William agreed. They made idle conversation about the weather for a few minutes before William brought the subject around to the box.

  “I presume you received the letter I left this afternoon?” William leaned back and stretched his legs out towards the fire. The air had grown decidedly cool since the sun slipped below the horizon. The fire’s warmth was very welcome.

  Mr. Carnaby smiled. “Yes, I did. Curious thing, that box. You’re not the only gentleman who has expressed an interest in it. I would almost think it contained gold.”

  “If you open it, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I’m here representing the interests of a client to whom the box belonged. It contains nothing more interesting than some papers, letters actually, involving his deceased mother. They are of no interest, except to him.”

  “Or some scandalmongers?” Mr. Carnaby asked, his left eyelid drooping in a sly half wink. “I suppose they mention some indiscretion.” He paused delicately.

  William laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. His mother wrote them to his father when they were engaged to be married. They were a trifle risqué, perhaps, but since the two formalized their arrangement with their subsequent marriage, the letters can be of no interest except to the family.”

  “Odd, then, that another gentleman would express an interest.”

  “Did that gentleman leave a name?”

  “No. Only you were honest enough to do that.”

  William smiled before gazing into the depths of the fire. One burning log cracked and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. The flames and smoke brought Sarah to mind. He shifted uneasily in his chair, worried about her condition.

  “It must have been the uncle, then,” William said. “I understand the mother’s brother has also expressed an interest in obtaining a memento. However, the children, who I represent, wish to make that decision themselves. You understand.”

  “Ah, yes. Families.” Mr. Carnaby shook his head, staring into the flames. “What is their offer?”

  “What do you believe the box is worth?” He shrugged. “Or the contents, if you wish to keep the box.”

  “I paid fifteen pounds,” Mr. Carnaby said.

  Liar. Mr. Carnaby had paid only two. William kept his face pleasant and unconcerned. His hands relaxed, resting on his thighs. “That is a great deal for a plain wooden box. But I would agree to reimburse you the amount you paid.”

  “What? And no profit? I can’t see any advantage to let it go for that.”

  “But you’ll have the gratitude of the heirs.”

  “Which is a nice thing, I’m sure, but not very convincing. I’m sorry. No.”

  “I would have to get approval from the heirs to go much higher.”

  Mr. Carnaby shrugged his sloping shoulders.

  William sat forward as if about to get up. He glanced over at Mr. Carnaby. “As I mentioned, I would need to get approval. However, I believe twenty would be fair, under the circumstances.”

  “Twenty would be fair, but I confess I am inclined to wait,” Mr. Carnaby said. “A locksmith is arriving tomorrow morning. The box has a lovely lock. I didn’t want to ruin it by forcing the lid open. However, I’ll give you my word I won’t sell the contents after I open the box until I speak to you again. Is that agreeable?”

  “I have your word of honor?”

&nbs
p; “That is what I said,” Mr. Carnaby replied stiffly, standing.

  William rose to his feet smoothly and shook hands. “Thank you. I’m sure the heirs will be pleased to hear you intend to give them the opportunity to regain their mother’s effects without a great deal of awkward bargaining.”

  “To be sure,” Mr. Carnaby said, following William to the door. “I will send word tomorrow after the box is opened.”

  Damnation! William swore with frustration as he walked away.

  He hailed a hackney to return him to Second Sons, too aggravated and worried about Sarah to take the time to walk.

  The money inside Sarah’s box was irrelevant—but the documents… William had only Sarah’s faulty memory to rely on concerning the contents. He had no way of knowing how important the papers were, or if they would increase the danger to Sarah if Mr. Carnaby should read them.

  Or would Mr. Carnaby suddenly find himself caught in a burning house if the killer discovered he had the papers?

  Were they that important?

  An intelligent eleven-year-old girl might not understand their significance, but they had to have some meaning. Her father had given them to her while the house was burning around them. Major Pickering had been murdered, and two attempts had been made on Sarah’s life. Another person was trying to obtain the box containing them.

  They couldn’t wait. He had to get the box back, no matter what he had to do to get it.

  As for Sarah, would she be in more danger, or less, if Samuel Sanderson disappeared and Sarah Sanderson reappeared? He examined the possibilities without coming to a firm conclusion.

  With a sense of relief, William saw the narrow townhouse used by Second Sons come into view. But when Sotheby opened the door, William’s stomach curled into a tense ball. The house seemed ominously quiet.

  He tossed his hat to the butler and kept his tone calm as he asked, “Is Mr. Sanderson still here, or has he escaped your clutches?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Sanderson is upstairs to the best of my knowledge.” Sotheby hesitated, running his hands around the brim of William’s hat.

  William watched uneasily, hoping the butler didn’t forget himself and squeeze. The hat was one of William’s favorites and his wardrobe had suffered quite enough damage since meeting Mr. Sanderson. “Then what’s wrong?” William asked.

  “You have visitors, sir. In your office.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sotheby replied miserably, his gaze flickering down toward his glossy shoes.

  William sauntered across the wide hallway and flung open the door. A slender man rose to face him. Mr. Archer. William glanced beyond him and noticed Lady Victoria seated in a second chair pulled nearer to the desk.

  “Mr. Archer, Lady Victoria,” William said, shaking Archer’s hand before circling around the desk to his chair. “Please be seated. How may I be of assistance?”

  Mr. Archer sat down, propping one foot on his knee and drumming his fingers on the ankle. “We’re searching for Mr. Sanderson. He left rather abruptly, as you must know.”

  “I see. Why do you wish to find him? Surely your garden wall will get completed with or without him.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Mr. Archer replied. “I could not care less about that wall. I want to know where the lad can be found.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “It occurred to me that he may have left in your company. You seemed concerned about him the other night.” Archer shrugged. “You may have escorted him home.”

  William picked up a quill with a split and furred tip and took his pocketknife out of the top desk drawer to trim the end. “What is your interest in him?”

  “He is our nephew!” Lady Victoria blurted out, leaning forward. Her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. The lids were reddened and puffy as if she had spent the night weeping. “I must know if he is well.”

  Since it seemed likely that Archer had tried to slide a knife between Sarah’s ribs earlier today, William remained unmoved by the agonized tears in Lady Victoria’s eyes.

  “Indeed?” William leaned back in his chair, studying the fresh tip on the quill. “I had no idea the Archer family was involved in the bricklaying trade.”

  Archer laughed. His brown eyes glittered as if he sensed a challenge he was eager to meet. “My wife’s family name is Sanderson. We suffered a tragedy thirteen years ago. We feared our niece and nephew died in a fire.”

  Lady Victoria choked back a sob. Studying the strain on her patrician features, William wondered if it was due more to guilt than a frantic desire to find her nephew. He flicked a measuring glance at her husband.

  Mr. Archer clutched his wife’s arm. He suddenly frowned with concern. “Vee, dearest…”

  “I am sorry, John. It is just so difficult…”

  “I understand you were not present at Elderwood when the fire broke out?” William asked.

  “No, we were not,” Archer replied firmly. “It was a terrible tragedy, one that affects my wife to this day. So you can understand, surely, if we wish to find this Samuel Sanderson.”

  “Sanderson is a common enough name. So is Samuel. What makes you believe he’s your nephew? Wouldn’t he have gone to you after losing his parents, if you were indeed his family?”

  “There was a great deal of confusion after the fire. It wasn’t immediately known that we were not caught in the blaze. Who can say what a nine-year-old boy would do? We are simply relieved he survived.”

  “If he is your nephew.”

  Archer snorted and fidgeted in his seat. He put his right foot back on the floor and changed to cross his left ankle over his knee. “He is the right age. I’ve spoken to Mr. Hawkins—Mr. Sanderson made his acquaintance in Clapham just a few weeks after the fire. When the lad was nine.” He gestured toward his wife. “He has the Sanderson eyes. Gray.”

  “There are a great many people with gray eyes. And I would imagine a significant number of them may even be named Sanderson. I repeat, it is not an uncommon name.”

  “He is my nephew! I know it!” Lady Victoria said, rising to her feet. Her entire body trembled as she stared at William. “Please, I beg of you! You must tell me where he is!”

  “I understand he has a room nearby—”

  “At that Pochard creature’s rooming house. Yes, yes, we’ve been there. He hasn’t returned there. Although I understand from Hawkins that he was working today on the wall. The young fool,” Mr. Archer said, clearly proud of the “lad’s” determination.

  William rubbed his temple. Finally, he met Archer’s level gaze. “May I ask where you were this evening?”

  “This evening?” Archer repeated.

  “Yes. Between six and seven, to be precise.”

  Archer glanced at his wife.

  She simply stared at William, a confused look on her face.

  Archer put both feet on the floor and stood up to pace the area behind his wife. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, but we were visiting my nephew, the Duke of Peckham. I don’t suppose he’d object to signing a statement to that effect. If it’ll be any comfort to you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” William replied coolly. “I’ll accept his word of honor, if he’ll give it.”

  Lady Victoria’s lips trembled before she covered her face with her hands.

  Archer rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he gave William a hard look. “Young man, that’s a poor hand you’re gambling with. Where is Mr. Sanderson?”

  William stood, unimpressed despite the steel-edged threat running through Archer’s words. “So you can finish what was started in 1806? No. I don’t think so.”

  “John?” Lady Victoria asked. She gripped her husband’s wrist and stared up at him with damp cheeks and reddened eyes. The strained, exhausted look on her face made William glance away.

  “Do not cross me, young man.”

  “I suggest you leave, Mr. Archer,” William replied, unwilling to be pushed. “If I should happen t
o see Mr. Sanderson, I’ll certainly tell him you’re looking for him.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Archer put an arm around his wife and helped her out of the chair. She gazed at William, her gray eyes imploring him to relent. But before she could say anything, her husband escorted her through the door.

  William leaned against the edge of the desk, watching them go. Despite Archer’s excuse, it was entirely possible he had arranged for Sarah to be murdered while the duke served as a convenient alibi. The Archers had experience with that ruse. They had certainly arranged for an alibi during the fire.

  And telling Archer that Sarah Sanderson was lying upstairs would have been a mistake.

  Lady Victoria’s tears still disturbed him, though. Had they been sincere worry or guilt over the events in 1806?

  If it were guilt, she might be vulnerable. If he could get her alone, she might break down and confess. She certainly seemed close to the breaking point.

  In the meantime, he had to retrieve Sarah’s box. And he couldn’t do that in his elegant, form-fitting jacket. On his way back to his bedchamber, he stopped and knocked at the guest room door.

  He was surprised when Sarah replied, “Enter!”

  “How are you?” He opened the door and stepped halfway over the threshold. Then he stopped and stared at her. “What are you doing?”

  She was standing in the middle of the room in stocking feet, clad only in her trousers and his linen shirt. “Where is my smock? My shirt?”

  “Past repair. As you shall be if you don’t get back into bed.”

  “Past repair? From just a little blood loss? I’m not such a weakling. Give me my smock,” she demanded, holding a hand out.

  “Get back into bed, or I’ll put you there.”

  Her eyes turned silver as she studied him, her head cocked to one side. “If you think you can, try.”

  “I don’t foresee any difficulties,” he said, striding toward her. After all the stabbing and head bashing, he’d have thought she’d have enough sense to stay abed.