Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  As the silence lengthened, William collected the papers and slid them into an inner pocket of his coat. Athelby’s gaze followed the movement and rested briefly on William’s chest.

  “Very well. Nonetheless, I don’t understand what you believe he will make of them,” Athelby remarked.

  “What do you make of them?”

  “The list of names? Nothing. Unless it is some sort of pay schedule—field hands or some such, perhaps.”

  “What of the invoices?”

  “We supplied grain and other provender, just like many other estates in Britain. Is that why you came here?”

  William almost made the mistake of answering “no” before he realized what Athelby’s question meant. The secretary recognized the invoices. The grain and salt pork must have come from the duke’s estates, or were at least acquired by him, and then resold to the military. With time and a little effort, he should be able to trace the invoices back to the Duke of Rother. This slight bit of knowledge put him a few miles further down the road.

  William nodded. “Of course. I suppose you have records of the supplies you sold during that period? To compare against the invoices.”

  “That was eleven years ago. I doubt we still have them. And I fail to see why it should matter.”

  “I understand, but I would appreciate it if you could locate them.” William stood. “I’d like to compare these invoices to your records, if you don’t mind. And arrange an appointment with the duke.”

  Athelby frowned and opened the appointment book on the desk. “Perhaps some time next week,” he said. “Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  “Is there nothing earlier?”

  “I fear not. The duke is a very busy man.”

  “Tuesday, then.”

  “Will Tuesday afternoon at two suit you?”

  “It will have to, won’t it? And do you think you could find what records may remain from that period, as well?”

  “I will try,” Athelby replied, although his bored voice made his promise sound insincere.

  There was nothing more William could do but bid the secretary good day.

  Hesitating on the street outside the duke’s townhouse, William pulled out Lord Dacy’s list and glanced through it. Many of the men listed were still members of the military. There was a good possibility that one of their commanding officers might be in London. He should check at the Guards’ club, or one of the other clubs favored by the military.

  Before tackling that line of inquiry, William decided to relieve his nagging worry about Sarah and ensure she had not managed to escape once more and get herself killed. Or, worse, arrested. He walked homeward, feeling shockingly healthy when he ignored at least two empty hacks that passed him along the way.

  The townhouse door opened as William set foot on the top step.

  “Mr. Trenchard, sir,” Sotheby intoned in deep, round accents as he bowed.

  “Is Mr. Sanderson still here?” he asked, handing his hat and walking stick to the butler.

  Sotheby’s brows rose. “Of course. Didn’t you give orders that he was to remain?”

  William bit off a scathing remark that his orders hadn’t prevented Sarah from leaving earlier. “Yes. Can you request him to join me?”

  Inside his office, William unlocked the cabinet where he had placed the box after escorting Sarah home.

  He flipped open the lid and studied the broken false bottom. Hesitating only briefly, he went once more to the locking cabinet and pulled out a strong box. Inside were a few bank notes. When he counted them, they amounted to only four pounds. However, he had a few sovereigns rattling around in his pocket.

  At least the box didn’t seem quite so empty when he stuffed the notes and coins inside. He had just shut the cabinet door when he heard a step behind him.

  “Will—Mr. Trenchard, you wanted to see me?” Sarah asked from the door.

  He turned to find her standing there, wrapped in a toga made from a bed sheet. Her mulish expression suggested that she felt ill-used and put upon.

  Biting the inside of his mouth, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. As she settled in the chair, he sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his foot slightly. He pushed the box toward her.

  “So you’re finally going to give it back to me, are you?” Sarah exclaimed. “Where was it, anyway?”

  “Mr. Carnaby found it after you were escorted away.”

  “Did he open it? Did he find what was inside?” She fumbled with it a moment before lifting the lid. “The bottom’s broken—and the papers are gone!”

  “He didn’t take anything. Your money is still there. I’m the one who removed the papers.”

  “Damn it—why didn’t you let me? You’ve broken the bottom.”

  “Sorry.” He folded his arms over his chest, not feeling the least bit apologetic despite his remark. Then he remembered the locket. “Here—your locket.”

  She grabbed the cotton bundle and tucked it under a fold of her sheet. Ignoring him, she pulled the bank notes and coins out of the box, carefully stacking them in front of her. As she counted, her quick motions gradually slowed.

  When she reached five pounds, she raised her eyes to his face. “This isn’t my money.”

  “It’s five pounds. That’s what you had in there, isn’t it?”

  “I had one sovereign, four crowns, eight half crowns, and fifty-eight shillings. Which was about eighteen shillings over.”

  “Well, if you’re worried about the eighteen shillings—”

  “I don’t care about the shillings. The point is—this isn’t my money.”

  “Of course it is! I, uh, I exchanged your coins for notes. I was dragging that box all over London. It was heavy enough without having all those coins rattling about inside.”

  Her unfathomable gray gaze studied him. He suppressed the urge to thrust a finger under his neckcloth and yank. The tightly wound material was about to strangle him, and his foot seemed to have a mind of its own. It swung rapidly back and forth, several times hitting his desk.

  He’d been an idiot to replace the money. He should have known better. She read him too well, and she was too honest to just take the money without comment.

  “And you just kept eighteen shillings for your troubles?” Her eyes were hard with anger.

  He shrugged, although he couldn’t keep his foot from kicking a bit faster. She wasn’t the only one irritated.

  “Never mind,” she said at last, pushing the box toward him. “Most of the money’s yours, anyway. It’s what I promised. And when I earn more, you’ll have that, too. Double your fee, if you like, for all your difficulties.”

  “Sarah—”

  “I pay my debts.” Her jaw jutted out in her familiar mulish expression.

  “Sarah, I don’t care about the money.”

  “Well, that’s splendid. Because I don’t know when I’ll get more since I don’t even have a pair of trousers anymore. Did Mr. Carnaby take my money?”

  “Yes.” William pulled the bundle of letters out of his pocket, contemplating her lack of trust. “But I have these. Or at least I think I do. Would you care to confirm whether these are the documents you remember?”

  She took the packet and carefully unfolded it, smoothing the sheets out on the desk. Running a finger along the torn edges of the page listing the names, she read through each paper, even turning them over to study the backs.

  “They appear as I remember. But as I mentioned before, it’s been a while since I looked at them.”

  “Are any missing?”

  She counted them and then shook her head. “No. The genealogy, the list of names torn from some book, and those four invoices. I’ve never seen that new list, though.”

  “Oh, sorry,” William said, picking up the letter Lord Dacy wrote. “That’s mine.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just some people who may be able to help us.”

  Her head jerked up. “Have you spoken to any of them?”

  “No. I tr
ied to get an appointment with the Duke of Rother; however, his secretary was the only one I saw.” He barely managed to keep from calling Athelby an officious little pimple of a man.

  From the half smile on Sarah’s face, she seemed to know what he had been thinking. “Shall I interview the men on your list while you try to speak with His Grace?”

  “Absolutely not. You’re to stay here.”

  “I still have one or two errands I must take care of. I can’t loll around here for days on end or traipse after you.”

  “Why not?” William replied, his tone light. “I don’t see why you can’t take a well-deserved holiday until we can get to the bottom of this. Then you can go to your aunt and uncle. There must be something of your family’s estate left. Most likely, you’re a rich heiress and have no need to worry about working any longer. By this time next year, you’ll be married and starting a family of your own.” His gut twisted sharply at the thought. He glanced away.

  “What? And lay about, getting soft?” she scoffed before holding out her hands. “With these mitts and what’s left of my face, it would take more than a marquess’s fortune to acquire a husband. Besides, I’ve no manners.”

  William studied her reddened nose and cheeks and laughed. He’d never seen a face more dear or prettier than the one in front of him. “Nonsense. I’ve seen worse. Several ladies of my acquaintance ride to the hounds. They have faces as brown as yours, or browner.”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “I can teach you. These objections are useless, Sarah, as you well know.” He leaned forward and rested his hand over her twisting fingers. “You’re just frightened—anyone would be. Starting a new life is difficult. But at least you have an aunt and uncle who love you.” Presumably. If they aren’t trying to kill you. “Now what about a bite to eat before I go to find the men on this list?”

  At the mention of food, Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s one thing I won’t object to. I never object to food.”

  Relieved to get a few minutes of peace, William ordered a quick meal. After they were served, he questioned Sarah casually while they ate.

  One of the first names on Dacy’s list was Major Pickering’s sergeant, a man by the name of Howard.

  “Never heard of him,” Sarah commented, meditatively chewing a piece of ham. “No Sergeant Howard that I know of.”

  “Then I’ll return to the War Office again. Don’t expect me back before nightfall.”

  “What am I to do in the meantime?”

  “Read a book. In fact, I believe we have a copy of The Mirror of Graces you might find instructional.”

  She snorted and gulped down half of her pint of brown ale. “A book on etiquette?”

  “You were the one worried about manners. It’ll give you something to do.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Sarah! I’m shocked!” he replied in his most cultured, languid voice.

  Laughing, she leaned across the table and cut another thick slice of ham. Then she scooped up a lavish portion of potatoes and peas in cream sauce. “You see? And if I can shock you, how would Society take me? No, you’d best find the man responsible for the major’s death and let me handle my own affairs.”

  He studied her face. “Am I going to have to remove even the sheets? Despite what you think, you are not leaving this place except properly chaperoned in the company of your aunt and uncle.”

  “If you say so.” She looked back at him with twinkling eyes. “But I’m not properly chaperoned now, you know.”

  He grimaced and got up to ring for Sotheby. “Mr. Sanderson will be remaining with us. I leave it in your hands to see to his comfort. Under no circumstances may he leave. For his own protection, of course.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “If he wishes anything, such as reading material, you may send someone to fetch whatever he requests. Except for those items that would enable him to leave our protection. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a final warning glance at Sarah’s laughing face, William took his hat and walking stick from Sotheby and departed with an unsettled feeling tickling the back of his neck. Despite his orders, Sarah was unlikely to do as commanded, and he wasn’t convinced Sotheby was up to the challenge.

  Regardless, William couldn’t find any answers sitting around Second Sons.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As soon as William left, Sarah enthusiastically attacked the problem of escape. Time was passing and events tottered on the narrow brink of collapse. And she couldn’t allow William’s kindness to sway her. While her heart fluttered when she realized he had replaced the money in her box, it didn’t change the fact that the contents had been stolen by Mr. Carnaby.

  Or whoever had found the box first. So someone else might know about the papers.

  She had to stay the course, even if William thought she was mad. It would be worse to change her mind, although the thought of the Archers and “what might have been” caught at her with an intense longing that took her breath away.

  She couldn’t endanger them by seeking refuge at their home, even if she desperately wanted to be accepted in their family. The intensity of her emotion puzzled her, and her longing was mixed with darker feelings she could not understand. When she was with them, she couldn’t breathe for the terror that pressed down on her chest, a sensation of dread she hadn’t felt since the night of the fire.

  Why did they simultaneously frighten her and make her heart ache with the desire to stay with them? She had to assume the instincts that had kept her alive for thirteen years recognized some element of danger.

  Then her imagination brought up a vivid picture of William’s handsome face and the warmth of his kiss. How she wished she were a true woman and attractive enough to make him love her. She was well aware that his kisses held more aggravation than affection, and she was a fool to love him.

  How could any man find her attractive now? Proof of her ugliness came when the Archers blithely agreed to let her remain—unchaperoned—at Second Sons. They would have allowed that only if they knew she was too plain to be in any danger of ravishment.

  So, she had to leave. And as she did so, she would resolve some of her other difficulties, most notably with women. Her friend, Mr. Bingham, was due for his yearly visit. Last year, Kitty had expressed a warm regard for the dolt. Now, Sarah intended to make good use of his presence in Clapham.

  However, she had to have clothing. And William would just have to forgive her for taking two of his linen shirts and a few other articles of clothing to supplement her own meager wardrobe.

  She crept into William’s room and hurriedly changed into some comfortable, old clothes. Then she bundled a few items from his clothespress into the sheet she had worn and took a deep, calming breath.

  With a reckless grin at the thought of William’s reaction, she threw a chair out the window.

  While the servants investigated, she slipped cautiously down the staircase and entered his office. Her cold fingers shook as she picked the lock of his cabinet. Her smock and breeches lay on the bottom shelf. She took those. Then she chewed on her lower lip with a sense of guilt as she took a few pounds from the metal box she’d glimpsed earlier. She owed him five pounds, so another ten wouldn’t hurt.

  It would be years before she could repay him, anyway.

  An air of determination compressed her mouth, and she eased out the front door while the servants gasped over the broken window or returned to their mundane tasks. The sky was already crimson and deep blue when she struck out, trotting down the street. She flicked her gaze over the other pedestrians, searching for familiar faces. Her back felt cold and exposed despite the darkness settling around her.

  She missed the warmth of William’s hand enveloping hers and his good-humored smile, so she ran faster, trying to forget.

  If there had been time, she would have walked the few miles to Clapham. However, William had delayed her too long, and she was driven by a sense of
urgency. Giving in to temptation, she hired a hackney coach. With luck, she would reach Clapham before Mr. Bingham left and returned to the Isle of Wight.

  She chewed on her cuticles as the coach jolted over London’s rutted streets. Her side ached and relentless exhaustion pulled at her. Her arms and legs grew heavy as she tried to relax against the worn squabs. The conveyance rattled over Westminster Bridge before they headed along the southwest road at a smart pace.

  Propping her head against the corner, she leaned back. Her fingers clutched at the bundle in her lap. Over and over, she rehearsed what she was going to say to her “betrothed” when she arrived in Clapham. The interview was bound to be uncomfortable, no matter what she said.

  Another mile passed. Sarah nodded off, only to be awakened by a rough hand.

  “Clapham!”

  She rubbed her face and stared out the window. It was indeed Clapham. The wooden sign of the Plough tavern swung in a brisk breeze.

  “Thank you.” She paid the coachman, grabbed her belongings, and scrambled down. She stretched in the misty night air before hurrying inside the tavern for a cup of coffee to stave off the unwholesome damp of the British countryside.

  “Do you have a gig for hire?” Sarah asked the tavern owner after draining the thick white cup of bitter coffee.

  “Aye.”

  “I’d like to hire it for a few days.”

  “A few days? How long, precisely?” he asked, studying her smock and the bundle in her hand.

  “Two or three weeks. I need it for a journey north,” she lied airily.

  “North, eh?”

  “Well, can I hire it, or not?”

  “Aye.” He named a price that made Sarah’s heart skip a beat.

  However, she counted it out of the bills in her pocket and shoved them over the counter to him.

  “Do you want it now?”

  “Yes. Now,” she said.

  With a grunt, he turned and waved for her to follow him. They passed through the rear of the tavern and out a side door into the courtyard. He collared a stable lad and ordered him to get the contraption ready.