Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  There was no sign of Archer outside. Their hackney coach was gone, as well. The officer who escorted them through the gate abandoned them on the sidewalk. He turned abruptly to the left, shoving his hat onto his head and striding off. He whistled as he jammed his hands into his pockets, on his way home, or to a nearby tavern.

  “Thank God,” Sarah said, breathing deeply and coughing as if to expel the foul air of prison. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, rubbing her foot. “These shoes are too thin.”

  He pulled her along, glancing around for a hackney for hire. There didn’t seem to be any available in the vicinity of the prison. Determined to complete their escape, William hurried them down the street. And along the way, Sarah exclaimed and hopped every few feet as she stepped on other pebbles. Finally, she tried to shrug him off.

  His grip tightened, and he hurried her forward.

  “Hey!” he called, spotting a coach.

  The vehicle stopped in front of them. The door opened and to their surprise, Mr. Archer pushed his head out.

  “Get in!” He grinned at them, his eyes gleaming.

  William flung an arm around Sarah’s waist and hauled her forward. He shoved her into the carriage ahead of him. When she settled inside, he climbed up and took the seat facing backward.

  Lady Victoria sat next to her husband, smiling brilliantly.

  “How did you get out?” William asked.

  “I asked the administrator what he had done with my wife,” Archer replied archly. “I can’t tolerate incompetence, you know. When she never returned, I demanded to be taken to Mr. Pochard’s cell. A good thing I did, too. He was quite dead. My beautiful wife was distraught.”

  “I see,” William replied, grinning. “And since the guard who took us to the cell left after his shift change, he was not there to say he had already escorted a lady and gentleman out of Newgate.”

  “There, you see? The rules of the game are not difficult to follow.”

  “Child’s play,” William drawled, wanting to punch Archer in his smug eye.

  Archer grinned more broadly. “And I hear we have a niece instead of a nephew.”

  Despite the evening gloom, William could make out a warm, pink flush rising up Sarah’s exposed neck to her tanned cheeks. His eyes strayed to her chest. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably aware of her.

  She must have caught the direction of his glance because her right hand rose. She rested it protectively over her bosom. His gaze lingered on her smooth skin. He remembered the taste of her lips and lithe, warm body.

  “So you’re little Sarah,” Archer said. “After all these years.”

  “Years older, in fact. And not so little,” she replied. The shadows in the coach made it difficult to see her expression, but her strained voice revealed her struggle to maintain a cheerful tone. “Did you get the box?”

  “The box?” William asked, diverted by the warmth of her thigh. It pressed against his through the thin material of a gown, without the benefit of a petticoat.

  “Did you get the box?” she repeated.

  “No,” he replied. “Where is it?”

  She turned toward him, her hand finally moving away from the soft mounds of flesh that glowed palely in the dim evening light. Hard work had not diminished her beauty. Far from it.

  “I left it between the roots of the oak tree,” she said. “I thought you would go there once you knew they had caught me. You told me to hide there.”

  “Oak tree?” Even to his ears, he sounded like a blithering idiot. He frowned as he caught her meaning.

  “In front of Mr. Carnaby’s townhouse. The tree by the brick wall.” She enunciated clearly as if talking to a rather slow child.

  “What box?” Archer asked.

  William caught Sarah’s glance, although it was now too dark to see her gray eyes clearly.

  “Come,” Archer said. “You must trust us by now. We’re your family.”

  Again, Sarah looked at William. He could feel her indecision and part of him flared with triumph. She trusted him.

  He turned to Archer. “It’s just a box of trinkets, really. Just a few things she managed to save when Elderwood burned. I told her I’d help her retrieve it.”

  “I see.” Archer rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “Perhaps we should nip over and visit this remarkable tree?” He thumped the roof of the carriage with his walking stick and yelled directions. “Now, Sarah,” he said, resting his hands on the stick. He studied her with a cool gaze. “I should dearly love to hear how you became a bricklayer.”

  While the carriage rattled over the streets of London, Sarah told her tale again in her usual plain style. The description of her escape from the flames left Lady Victoria wiping the tears from her cheeks. Even Mr. Archer seemed disturbed enough to put an arm around his wife’s shaking shoulders and cough to cover his own reaction.

  Despite William’s suspicion that the Archers might have engineered the fatal fire, he could not help but notice their closeness. Their years of marriage and even the loss of their child had not dimmed the harmony between them. There was the sense that no matter what occurred, each partner could rely absolutely on the other.

  With bitter longing, he realized how alone he was, and how Sarah must have felt all those years.

  When the carriage slowed, William glanced out the window. They were in front of Carnaby’s house. Roused to action, William pounded the roof above his head and ordered the driver to continue around the corner. No sense in alerting the occupants of the house.

  “I’ll get it,” Sarah said when the motion of the carriage ceased.

  “No.” He pushed her back into the seat and climbed down, thankful that the sun had set. The lamplighters had not managed to light the lamp by Carnaby’s house yet. Darkness swathed the area with shadows. He slipped around the back of the tree and kicked the piles of rubbish. Then he used the toe of his boot to dig into the dirt. Nothing.

  Nothing but a few half bricks, leaves, and clods of clayish soil.

  He felt around with his hands, but the hollow between the roots was empty. He returned to the carriage with a sharp sense of disappointment.

  “It’s not there,” he said.

  Sarah pulled off her gloves. She threw them onto the seat before she pushed him backward and clambered down.

  “Get back inside,” he said, glancing around. “What if someone should see you?”

  “What if they do? I’m a woman. Apparently.” She strode over to the tree, kicking her skirts out of the way as she went. Wedging herself between the brick wall and the oak, she bent down and scrabbled through the dirt. With increasing impatience, she tore away the debris, pushing her fingers down into the soil.

  “Where is it?” she muttered. “It has to be here!”

  William caught sight of the lamplighter. He was a few blocks away, but making his way slowly to where they stood. “Come on, Sarah. It’s gone.”

  “It can’t be gone!”

  He grabbed her arm. He pulled her to her feet before hauling her back to the carriage. Jerking open the door, he gave orders to the driver to take them to Second Sons. To his irritation, Archer stuck his head out and countermanded the order, telling the driver to take them to Archer’s townhouse.

  “Did you get it?” Archer asked as William climbed into the coach after Sarah.

  He shook his head. “It’s gone.”

  “I see.” Archer rubbed his nose again.

  “All my money was in that box,” Sarah said suddenly. “Everything I own.”

  Lady Victoria leaned forward and patted her on the knee. “Nonsense. You don’t need to worry about money, dear. You will live with us, now. We are your family, and we shall take care of you.”

  “You don’t understand.” Sarah’s voice shook, and William almost made the mistake of putting an arm around her stiff shoulders. He watched her struggle for control. “I have responsibilities. Mr. Hawkins, for one. I’ve got to help him finish that wall. And he was planning to expand his bus
iness with a London office. What will he do now?”

  “Hire someone else,” Archer replied, airily.

  “Yes, but—”

  “You are exhausted, my dear,” Lady Victoria interrupted her. “You must rest. I promise you, things will look better in the morning. Let us fret over you for a change.”

  William, listening to them, wanted to believe the Archers’ interest in Sarah was benign. However, he couldn’t forget that someone was trying to kill her, and the murderer might just be Archer. He had to wrest her away where he could keep her safe.

  “I need to get back to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse. I gave her my word,” Sarah argued.

  “But, Sarah, you cannot go back there. Surely you see that?” Lady Victoria asked. “Don’t you wish to live with us?”

  “I, uh—” Her words stumbled to a halt.

  William felt her tremble. He slid his hand over and caught her cold fingers. Suddenly, he had the sense there was more to her panic than her elevation in social status. Was she just tired, or did she remember something about the fire she wasn’t telling them?

  Was she afraid of the Archers?

  “This has been very confusing for Miss Sanderson,” William said. “I agree it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to return to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse. Perhaps she would be safer at Second Sons.”

  “Second Sons?” Archer asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

  “Consider the fact that she was nearly shot while working on the garden wall behind your house. Obviously, someone has seen her there and is trying to kill her. She would not be safe in your house.”

  “As a man,” Archer replied smoothly. “But she is a woman. There is no danger, now. We will protect her.”

  “I disagree. She came to me to find the answer to this mystery. Until I do so, she’d be safer at Second Sons.”

  “Oh, John,” Lady Victoria said, her thin hands twisting in her lap. “They don’t trust us—she thinks we tried—”

  “Hush, Lady Vee,” Archer said, cutting her off and covering her hands with his. “They think nothing of the sort.”

  “Then why—”

  Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It is not a matter of trust, Lady Victoria,” William said smoothly. “I merely want to protect Miss Sanderson. And because of the previous events, it’s wise to keep her existence secret for the time being.”

  “A bit late for that,” Archer replied. “Your cards are already on the table. No use trying to hide your hand now.”

  “The important point is that we need to ensure Miss Sanderson’s safety. Do you at least agree with that?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then I must insist she stay at Second Sons until I can determine who is behind the attempts upon her life.”

  After a glance at William’s implacable expression, the Archers tried to convince Sarah to go with them when the carriage stopped in front of their home. They climbed out, but she refused to descend. She clung to William’s hand and shook her head, staring out the window with her jaw set at a mulish angle. To his relief, the Archers gave up, and Sarah stayed next to him, at least until they arrived at Second Sons.

  William got out of the carriage and held out his hand to help her down. Preoccupied, she ignored him and jumped, stumbling over her skirts.

  “You’ll be safe, here,” he said. Perversely, when she had been dressed as a man, it seemed less risqué to have her stay with him, unchaperoned. Now…

  She stared at him before climbing the stairs.

  While they stood dithering in the hallway, she said. “I would have been safe with the Archers. That wasn’t why I didn’t go with them.”

  “You didn’t want them to know about the box?” he supplied helpfully, struggling with a dark desire to kiss her. Right there in the main hallway.

  “No. Not that. Though I fear if we, or they, ever find it and discover what the papers mean, they may face the same danger as I.”

  “You wanted to protect them?”

  A frown wrinkled her forehead. He could sense her anxiety, and once again he felt a deep, aching need to enfold her in his arms.

  “No—yes. Yes, of course. Do you think I want them murdered like everyone else?”

  “No. I understand, but—”

  “But I can’t be what they expect me to be,” she blurted out, her eyes fixed on his face as if fearful of his reaction.

  He was about to smile and reply with a witticism when her expression made him stop. Very carefully, he asked, “What do you think they expect?”

  A sad, half smile flickered over her face. “They expect me to be a woman.”

  “But you are a woman.”

  “Not like they believe. Not like you mean. Do you think clothing makes a woman? I can’t put on a dress after thirteen years of living like a man. Relying on myself.” Her hands plucked at a fold of her skirt, twisting it between her fingers. “You must think I’m foolish, but I wanted to manage the new London office for Mr. Hawkins. I liked building walls. It didn’t matter that it ruined my hands and tanned my face. And I never minded when I went to bed so hungry and exhausted I thought I should die before morning. Those walls were important to someone, somewhere. Important to me. They kept everyone inside safe.

  “It satisfies me to know that after I’m long dead, the brick walls and buildings I built will still be standing tall. I helped to create—oh—” She stopped and studied his face, her eyes glazed with anguish. “Never mind. I know I’m not talking sensibly.” She transferred her gaze to the marble floor, and her voice grew low as if she didn’t want him to hear her. “But brick walls don’t burn.”

  He felt her anguish and wanted to hold her until it passed. She was a woman, and it didn’t matter what she wore. And he understood her desperate desire for some small sense of permanence amidst the transience and violence of the world.

  She seemed so alone and yet so determined to face life with her eyes wide open. An impossible combination of strength and frailty.

  What could he say to soothe her fears? How could he not love her?

  And in the midst of his realization, he focused on the proprieties, on Sarah’s future. “You’ll need a chaperone.”

  For a long time, there was nothing but silence, intermittently interrupted by the sound of William’s harsh breathing.

  Then Sarah laughed. “Wouldn’t it be easier if I simply changed into my trousers and shirt?”

  “No.”

  “It is awkward, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have gone…No.” She strode toward the door. “I should return to Mrs. Pochard’s boardinghouse.”

  “You can’t,” he replied grimly. “The watch was there earlier, confirming your story. That will be the first place they go when they discover you’re gone.”

  “Maybe they’ll think I’m dead. That man in the cell was barely recognizable. I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about him.”

  William’s stomach tightened. She must have been terrified to spend the night with a dead man. The thought filled him with rage.

  “I’m sorry.” He tried to put an arm around her.

  She shook him off in a desperate show of independence. “Actually, it was a relief. I was afraid I was going to have to give my cellmate a beating so he’d leave me alone.” A wolfish smile curled her lips. “I don’t fight fair. Just so you know.”

  With that, she tried to put him firmly in his place. Too bad it didn’t work.

  She glanced down at her dress, pinching the folds again. “I should change. I have to go to Mrs. Pochard’s in case she realizes I’m the Samuel Pochard the police asked about.”

  “You can’t.” He moved slightly to glance at the clock on the mantle in his office. “It’s nearly nine.”

  “Barely the shank of the evening.” She paused before asking, “Is there any chance you have trousers and a jacket I might wear?”

  “No, there is not,” he replied, revolted by the suggestion. “You’re not going to Mr
s. Pochard’s. The police will certainly be watching the area.”

  “Then I’d better go as I am.”

  He grabbed her arm. However, she shook him off easily. The determined expression in her gray eyes promised violence if he tried to stop her by force.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You?” she asked, her voice shaking with laughter. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Either I accompany you, or you won’t go at all.”

  “For such a frippery fellow, you’re certainly stubborn,” she commented. “Well, then come. The sooner I see her, the better.”

  They left the house swiftly and crossed the road, dodging carriages, horses, and people on foot heading to various entertainments. To William’s surprise, no one gave them a second glance. When they got to the boardinghouse, William stepped in front of Sarah to knock.

  A sullen maid opened the door. In exhausted silence, she escorted them to Mrs. Pochard’s overdone, Oriental drawing room. Mrs. Pochard sat sprawled on a red sofa, leafing through a tattered broadsheet.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Pochard greeted him. She eyed Sarah, who stood slightly behind William, with a frown. “What is it?”

  “Good day to you. May I introduce myself? I am Mr. Trenchard and this is Miss Sanderson,” William said. He moved aside to allow Mrs. Pochard to see Sarah more clearly.

  “Miss…Sanderson?” Mrs. Pochard replied. Her heavy mouth turned down. “Is that you, then, Mr. Sanderson? What are you about? The police have been here, you know, asking after my son, Samuel Pochard. We both know I haven’t got one.”

  “I know,” Sarah answered hurriedly. “That’s why I wanted to come and explain—”

  “I should think you would!”

  “That is, after I gave you my word, I felt I owed you an explanation.”

  “You owed me?” Mrs. Pochard appeared startled at Sarah’s statement. “You felt you owed me?”

  “Well, yes. I gave you my word and then disappeared.” Sarah gestured earnestly with her hands, palms facing upward. “I knew you were worried about your daughter.”

  Mrs. Pochard’s florid face trembled with emotion. William moved forward, afraid that the older woman might erupt into violence.