Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

Finally, the box fit, tucked into a shallow grave. She brushed the bricks and leaves back over it, hoping it would escape detection until they could come back to reclaim it.

  If she lived long enough to tell William where it was.

  The hue and cry continued down the alleys. Everyone chased William, driving him further and further away from the Carnaby townhouse. As the sounds diminished, she eased around the tree and followed the wall, hoping to lose herself in the side streets until she could find her way back to Second Sons. She stumbled tiredly along the walk, too weary to run.

  “There’s the other one!” a man shouted behind her.

  The street that had seemed so empty mere seconds before came alive with men carrying cudgels and pistols. She heard the sound of heavy boots closing in on her from behind. Running, she turned down a side street, only to find herself in a blind alley.

  “Ah, there you are, my lad,” a coarse voice said.

  She spun to find a heavyset man blocking the alley, a thick, knobby stick clutched in his fist.

  “I’ve got one of ‘em!” he announced, turning his head slightly. Several more men joined him, staring at her, trapping her in the alley.

  Sagging, Sarah raised her hands palm upward to show she carried nothing. “What do you want?”

  “What do we want?” he jeered. The others laughed, their chuckles edged with meanness. “Why, what do you think we would want, you thief? We’ve caught you right enough. Now the question is, how much of a beating is it going to take before we convince you to go peaceable-like?”

  “Why do you want to arrest me? I haven’t done anything.”

  “You haven’t? Well, let’s just see.” He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulder, still waving his stick as if wishing she would give him the chance to use it.

  She shrugged fatalistically and let him push her forward.

  He didn’t loosen his grip until he had marched her to the front of Mr. Carnaby’s house. A few servants stood clustered in the hallway, whispering amongst themselves. A man in a burgundy silk robe with a nightcap perched amidst a fringe of gray hair strode forward as the watch officer dragged her up to the stairs.

  “Is this one of ‘em?” the officer asked.

  “I didn’t see them clearly,” Mr. Carnaby said, studying Sarah. “However, this lad certainly is the right height and general build.”

  “What did they steal?”

  “I haven’t any idea. We shall have to take an inventory. However, I don’t think they could have taken much. I am a very light sleeper. I believe I awoke the instant they entered.”

  “Was there more than one?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned to a man clad in a plain woolen robe. “Smith, how many were there?”

  Smith rubbed his bruised jaw. “At least two, sir. They attacked me in the hallway before I had a chance.”

  “Well, then his associate escaped, although we’ve managed to catch this lad,” Mr. Carnaby said. He turned on his heel. “Take him away with you. I’ll file charges in the morning and supply you with an inventory of what was stolen.”

  Relief flooded Sarah. William had eluded them!

  “Certainly, Mr. Carnaby, sir.” The hand on Sarah’s shoulder bit deeply into her collarbone. “Come alone, lad. We’ve got lovely accommodations just awaiting you at Newgate. You’ve heard of it, no doubt.” He poked her side with his stick. “And perhaps this isn’t your first such visit, eh, lad?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The watch officer and his compatriots, all eager to be credited with the arrest of such a dangerous evildoer, harassed and pushed Sarah along the street. For her part, she slid into her role with exhausted wariness. She had no wish to be beaten further. The ill effects of her concussion and stab wound, compounded by her exertions, made her feel despondent to the point of hopelessness.

  She could only pray that William would rescue her.

  Then she almost glanced back, terrified that someone would find the box she had hidden between the tree’s roots. Or that her heroic captors would bludgeon her to death before granting her the luxury of a trial.

  Some of the men hailed the officer herding her as John Harker. He enthusiastically prodded her kidneys with his club whenever she lagged. Bleary-eyed and barely conscious, she stumbled along.

  When they finally reached Newgate, it was something of a relief to be shoved into a narrow, dingy room. She tripped over the threshold and fell to the floor, only to have Harker drag her back up to her feet by the collar.

  He shook her and batted her on the shoulder with his stick.

  “Clumsy napper,” he said. “Stand up there, steady-like. Now answer me true, or you’ll be worse off than just a few bruises.”

  Sarah wavered but managed to stand, holding her hands out in hopes of fending off the worst of his blows.

  “Leave off—I’ll answer,” she replied, slipping more firmly into the role of the cocky Tyburn blossom they took her to be. “What’cher want to know?”

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Why ‘tis Sam…Pochard, sir.”

  “Did you willfully break into Mr. Carnaby’s house this night?”

  She nodded. “That I did, sir. And I had as good a reason as any. Better in fact.”

  Harker laughed and poked his cudgel into her stomach. “You’ve all gots yer reasons, don’t you? Enlighten us poor souls, lad. What’s yer tale ‘o woe?”

  “That Mr. Carnaby—him as owns the house—took advantage of me sister, sir. He promises her this necklace, didn’t he? But after he had his way with her, he laughed and scampered off with nary a fare-thee-well. So I came to his house to get what’s deservin’ to her. That’s the tale, sir, true as I can say.”

  “And did you get this here necklace?” Harker asked, thumping the end of the stick into the palm of his greasy hand.

  “No, sir. I was in his honor’s bedroom, right enough. But when he hears me, he lets out a holler as would wake the dead under the stones of Canterbury’s floor. I ran, fearing for my very soul. That’s a fact, sir.”

  He eyed her with a squint. “Empty out your pockets, there, lad.”

  Sarah complied quickly enough. There was little enough. A few pence, a wrinkled handkerchief, and several balls of lint. Harker took the copper coins and dropped them into his own pocket, before studying Sarah. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. She admitted what he wanted to hear, but he appeared disappointed by her quick capitulation.

  He’d obviously desired an excuse to use his knobby cudgel.

  Sweat trickled down her sides. She wavered, dead on her feet. He examined her, methodically smacking the stick into his palm as the silence lengthened between them. Finally, just when she was about to faint, he made a decision. He yanked her roughly by the shoulder and pushed her out of the room. Prodding and pushing, he forced her ahead of him down a narrow hallway. When they came to an intersection, he hit her shoulder—hard—to indicate which direction she should take.

  The place was a warren of dank corridors lined with locked doors. Moaning, and the occasional agonized scream, reverberated through the halls. The sounds were interspersed with the fleshy, muted noise of someone, somewhere, being soundly beaten.

  Finally, they came to a heavy door identical to all the other doors.

  Harker unlocked it and thrust her inside. “Sleep well, my lad. Maybe I’ll take a fancy and visit yer sister, myself. So I can hear about this here necklace she was a-promised.”

  A spurt of defiance made Sarah turn toward the door. In a ringing voice, she yelled out the street and address of Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse. She could hear Harker’s chuckles as the lock clicked shut and the key turned.

  Glancing around the tiny room, she wearily noted a pile of blankets on the floor in the far corner opposite the stone ledge that served as a bed. So she had company. At least he seemed to prefer the floor. She curled up on the ledge and shivered as the chill of stone and cold bricks filtered through her thin clothing. The hard, icy surface made h
er side ache dully. She shivered again and wrapped her arms over her belly, aware of the profound cold that sank into her very bones and a dragging sense of exhaustion.

  The pile of blankets near the opposite wall trembled with the sounds of a hacking cough.

  Gaol fever.

  She curled tighter and brought her fists up to her face, breathing through her fingers and wishing for William’s comforting presence.

  Deportation or prison? How was she going to survive?

  Chapter Fifteen

  William ran, slipping through alleys and between buildings, until the sounds of the chase faded away. He’d lost them. He stopped, hands propped against his burning thighs as he caught his breath. With any luck, Sarah had also escaped with the box.

  He straightened. Walking briskly, he glanced around to get his bearings. A few streets ahead, he recognized Bloomsbury Square with relief. From there, he was able to make his way back to Second Sons without any difficulties.

  The townhouse was quiet when he entered. Even the venerable Sotheby appeared to be deep in slumber somewhere, dreaming pleasant butler dreams of generous bribes and pretty parlor maids.

  William dashed up the stairs and around the corner. He burst into Sarah’s bedchamber. The room was dark and empty.

  “Sarah?” he called, going back out into the hallway. “Sarah, are you here?” He ran down to his office. It was also empty.

  “Sir?” a ghostly voice spoke behind him.

  William jumped and turned in one motion. “Sotheby! You startled me. Isn’t Mr. Sanderson here?”

  “Mr. Sanderson, sir?” Sotheby repeated, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “Yes, Mr. Sanderson. Hasn’t he returned yet?”

  “No, sir. May I be of assistance, perhaps?”

  William yanked off the ill-fitting jacket. “Get Lindley, will you? I need to change.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Climbing the stairs once more, William felt his stomach tighten into a painful ball of lead. If Sarah had gotten away, wouldn’t she return here? She wouldn’t have gone back to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse, would she?

  “Lindley!” he yelled at the door to his room. “Where are my clothes?”

  The glow of a lamp shone over William’s shoulder. He turned to find his valet standing directly behind him.

  “You wish to change your attire, sir?” Lindley asked as if the clock chimed two in the afternoon instead of dark morning.

  “I’ve got to go out. The black I think.”

  “If I may be so bold as to point out that you are already clad in black—”

  “My black jacket—the wool one.”

  Lindley opened the wardrobe and began to extract garments. “Mr. Sotheby indicated you were anxious about the whereabouts of Mr. Sanderson. Is the lad missing, sir?”

  “Yes. I hope to God the watch—never mind.”

  “I see, sir. There is the possibility, then, that Mr. Sanderson may have had an unlucky brush with an officer of the law?”

  “It’s possible.” William tore off his waistcoat.

  “May I suggest, sir, that you wait until morning?”

  “Wait until morning? Have you gone mad? I can’t wait until morning!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except Mr. Gaunt has been—well…” He coughed delicately. “Mr. Gaunt is exceedingly particular about his interaction with the watch, sir.”

  William eyed Lindley, wondering what brushes his employer, Mr. Gaunt, could possibly have had with the law. His fingers picked at the rough wool of his breeches as he imagined the exceedingly respectable Mr. Gaunt wearing the moth-eaten, wretched clothing that Lindley miraculously “managed” to find.

  “And what would Mr. Gaunt recommend?” William asked in a deceptively mild voice.

  “Mr. Gaunt, sir, would wait until morning to visit Newgate—that is, the workhouse. With the explanation that his young nephew had been out the previous night playing a prank and may have been accidentally apprehended.”

  “I can’t leave him in Newgate all night.”

  “Perhaps not. But he won’t be in the gaol, proper, until after his trial. He’ll be in the workhouse, now. And if the watch has been searching for two individuals and only apprehended one, they may wish to believe that anyone asking after Mr. Sanderson tonight may also have been involved in the…precipitating events.”

  “Would they really?” William replied dryly. “You don’t think they may believe that any associate of Mr. Sanderson would be glad to have evaded capture and would hardly risk showing up at a prison asking for their unfortunate compatriot?”

  Lindley coughed again. “That is certainly another perspective, sir.”

  Odd ideas flickered through William’s mind as he studied his valet’s long face. Lindley hadn’t been in his employ long. In fact, he had only hired him on Gaunt’s recommendation when William accepted the position as an inquiry agent for Second Sons.

  “You almost sound as if you have some experience with this sort of thing, Lindley,” William said, examining a fingernail with elaborate carelessness. Clearly, his education in criminal proceedings left much to be desired.

  “Indeed, sir,” Lindley equivocated. “Are you still desirous of changing into your black jacket?”

  “Is there any chance of retrieving Mr. Sanderson from the workhouse tonight?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, but no. Not if that is where he is residing.”

  There was always the possibility that he escaped and was making his way home. Or he could have become lost. William gave a sharp node. “I will remain here, then. It may be that he may still escape and return here.” Then he frowned. Sarah might need his assistance. However, he could do little unless he knew where she was.

  Frustrated, he watched Lindley fold back the covers, exposing an inviting nest of clean white linen sheets and a deep pile of pillows. A beeswax candle sat on a low table next to the bed, filling the air with a warm scent redolent of wax and honey.

  “Very good, sir. I am sure you can assist him in the morning, sir. Much more ably, in fact, after a good night’s sleep.”

  William took a step toward the bed, his eyelids already heavy. Halfway across the room, a twinge of guilt and the memory of twinkling gray eyes snagged him.

  Where was she?

  As if divining the cause of William’s distraction, Lindley gently pulled his employer’s shirt over his head. As he folded it over his arm, he said, “There’s nothing you can do, tonight, sir. Trust me. What purpose will it serve if you both end up in gaol?”

  “The workhouse. And no purpose, I suppose.” William sighed. “Someone has to remain free to get her—him—out of prison.”

  “Precisely, sir,” Lindley replied in a soothing voice. “I applaud your wisdom.”

  “Let’s just hope I still look wise tomorrow.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, William didn’t awaken until Lindley flung open the drapes and slid back the bed-curtains. Blinding light burned William’s face.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Lindley announced. He picked up a tray laden with coffee and buns from the table near the door. Then he held the tray and stood at the side of the bed while William struggled and punched the pillows behind him to allow him to sit upright.

  “What time is it?”

  “After ten, sir.”

  “Ten? You let me sleep until ten?” William filled his cup with the steaming coffee and took a brief, searing sip before adding a touch of milk and sugar. “I’ve got to get to Newgate—”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But they are more amenable later in the day. And unfortunately, you have a visitor.”

  “A visitor? A client?”

  “Perhaps. He didn’t say, sir.”

  “Send him away.” William applied a thick layer of butter to the bun and bit into it. “I’ve got to rescue Mr. Sanderson.”

  “We already attempted to inform your client that you were regrettably busy. However, he seemed most insi
stent.”

  “Then he can just wait until I’ve finished breakfast and dressed.”

  “Very good, sir.” Lindley opened the wardrobe and fingered the sleeves of William’s jackets. “What shall I prepare?”

  If he had to visit the workhouse, he wanted to look as rich and influential as possible. “The blue wool with the silver waistcoat. And add one or two of those damned fobs to my watch chain. Particularly the diamond one.”

  “Very good, sir,” Lindley replied, his voice deepening with pleasure. “Black trousers, I presume?”

  “Yes.” William polished off the bun and remaining coffee before swinging his legs out of bed. He washed quickly with the cold water from the jug and basin near his bed. Icy drops dribbled onto his bare feet. “Use the bay tonic,” he ordered when Lindley opened the shaving kit and began sharpening the razor.

  Despite his attempts to hurry Lindley, it was nearly eleven before William entered his office. A slender man sat in the chair in front of William’s desk, twirling an ebony cane.

  “Mr. Archer,” William said as he strolled around the desk. He shook hands briefly before sitting down and gesturing for Archer to resume his seat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could not let the matter of Mr. Sanderson rest,” he declared. “It should be obvious, even to you, that the lad must be restored to the bosom of his family.”

  “And I believe I mentioned to you during our previous interview that I will certainly let him know. If I should chance to meet him.”

  Archer’s brown eyes grew hard. He slapped his cane on the edge of the desk before leaning forward. “He’s in trouble, as you very well know. I visited that Pochard creature’s house this morning. She has not seen Mr. Sanderson. She claims a police officer was there this morning. He asked questions about a man they have in custody who gave them her address as his abode. Said the miscreant’s name was Samuel Pochard. He claimed to be her son.”

  William shrugged, trying to hide his anxiety. “What is that to me?”

  “I believe this Samuel Pochard is Samuel Sanderson. He’s been missing for two days. Now, he is in that infernal Newgate Prison—or workhouse. You may choose to let him rot there, but I don’t!” Archer slapped the desk again with his cane and stood. “He was fortunate they took him to Newgate and didn’t throw him down into the lowest deck of one of those damn prison ships stranded and rotting on the Thames.”