“It would seem that, um . . .” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, although the morning air was cool. “It would seem that there’s going to be a baby.”
“Oh!” It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the staid vicar and planting a congratulatory kiss on his cheek. To Sarah alone had Abby confessed her fear that such an event might never come to pass. “Abby must be beside herself. I have to go to her this instant.”
“No, no.” He held up a staying hand. “I don’t think I’m meant to have told anyone yet. But as you are her friend . . .”
“And yours too, I hope.”
“Oh, indeed. It’s just that I felt you deserved an explanation for Abby’s absence and, well”—he paused to give a sheepish grin—“I’m not very good at telling fibs.”
Sarah smiled. “An occupational hazard, no doubt. But is Abby truly all right? Mr. Kittery has seen her—she is healthy?”
“Yes, yes. All is well. I suspect she’ll come down-along a bit later. Mornings are—”
“Difficult,” Sarah supplied with a nod, remembering all too well the queasiness and fatigue. “And when can we expect the happy event?”
“A bit before Easter, I’m told. A proper season for such a blessing.”
“None better.”
Just then, Mr. Gaffard motioned her over to the stalls. Turning toward Mr. Norris, she urged him to go home. “You should be with her. Come back later today, when she’s feeling better.”
He gave another nervous smile, nodded, and excused himself. Only as she made her way to Mr. Gaffard’s side did she realize she had no idea where she would be when baby Norris made his—or her—appearance in the world. St. John’s promise on the quay had secured her place until the festival. But what happened after today?
“Good morning, Mrs. Fairfax. And don’t you look as lovely as the day in that new dress? Why, I hardly recognized you,” Mr. Gaffard said with an old-fashioned bow. “So that’s what Miss Emily was up to.”
In the same playful spirit, Sarah bobbed a quick curtsy. “Why, thank you, Mr. Gaffard. Isn’t it wonderful to see the sun again?”
As the merchant drew her attention to the position of one of the stalls, Sarah turned her back to the water. She did not see Fanny Kittery arrive, nor Mr. Beals and Mrs. Dawlish, each with items to sell.
Nor had they seen her, it seemed—or if they had, like Mr. Gaffard, they had not recognized her. They were standing to her left just a few feet away when Mrs. Kittery’s voice reached Sarah’s ear.
“That’s right—a thief. I told everyone in Haverhythe there was something suspicious about Sarah Fairfax the moment she stepped foot in this village. Perhaps next time, people will listen.”
“It just don’ seem possible,” insisted Mrs. Dawlish as she began arranging a selection of handkerchiefs and embroidered needle cases. “Why, look at all she’s done here!”
“Humph,” snorted Mrs. Kittery. “I’ll wager that if folks got their hands on the record of donations made to the Fishermen’s Relief, they’d find more than a few irregularities. Once a thief, always a thief.” Stacks of paper-wrapped cubes of soap rose beneath her hands. “I’m just glad I never trusted her with any of my money for this little scheme of hers.”
“Yet you’re here today . . .” Mr. Beals’s deep voice cut through the noise of the growing crowd, although he had spoken the words under his breath.
“Yes, well, I promised Mrs. Norris—and it’s to her I intend to make my contribution.”
“Still, it don’ seem possible,” Mrs. Dawlish said again. “I’d like to know who’d say such a thing.”
A pregnant pause to whet the listeners’ appetite. Sarah’s skin prickled.
“Lieutenant Fairfax.”
“No!”
Sarah jumped, fearful that the exclamation had escaped her own lips. But Mr. Gaffard droned on as if nothing was amiss.
“God’s truth.” Mrs. Kittery’s nasal tones cut through the pounding in Sarah’s head. “This festival wasn’t the only topic of conversation when he paid that call up at the court. Lord Haverty and Lieutenant Fairfax had some prior acquaintance, you see, and his lordship mentioned the lieutenant’s wife, who stole some valuables . . . and ran off with another man!” She waited, allowing the full import of her words to sink in. “Everyone, even Lord Haverty, believes she died. But we know better, don’t we? That’s how Sarah Fairfax came to Haverhythe, and why Lieutenant Fairfax tracked her here.” Her audience’s faces must have expressed some doubt, for Fanny Kittery’s voice rose when she continued. “It’s true, I say. Lady Haverty’s maid came into the shop after a tonic for her mistress, and she had it from a footman who overheard the whole thing.”
“Perhaps his lordship needs to keep a sharper eye on his servants,” rumbled Mr. Beals.
“Oh, posh. Why shouldn’t it come out that we’ve a viper in our midst?”
“We’ve that, right enough.”
Sarah heard Mr. Beals’s heavy step as he strode away, and the women’s voices were lost amid the rising chatter surrounding them.
“But if we moved it over here—” Mr. Gaffard was saying.
“I’m sure you know best,” Sarah interrupted. “Will you excuse me?”
Startled, Mr. Gaffard blinked at her. “Of course.”
Sarah bowed her head and ducked between the two nearest stalls. She knew there was nowhere to run, but run she must, for she was dreadfully afraid she was about to be sick.
* * *
Although he’d been looking for over an hour, St. John had still seen no sign of Sarah when he came upon a weary-looking Mrs. Potts being dragged along the foot of the quay by Clarissa.
“Good morning,” he said with a tip of his hat. “Is Mrs. Fairfax not with you?”
“Nay. I’ve been lookin’ for her meself. ’Course, she’ll be tough to spot in all this.” The woman glanced about her uncertainly.
“Indeed.” St. John wondered if Haverhythe had ever seen so many strangers. “She and Mrs. Norris must be pleased with their triumph. What a crowd!”
“I figured the rain would keep folks away.”
“The roads are still good—or so I’ve heard.” The crowd at the pub—locals gathering to pay their rent to Haverty’s steward and visitors clamoring for a pint or a bed—had nearly overset poor Colin Mackey. St. John had thought it wise to leave before the man asked him to share his room with another guest or two. “The storm settled right along the coast, it seems, and didn’t reach far inland.”
“Clarissa!” Mrs. Potts admonished. “Stop a-tuggin’ on my arm.” Clarissa relented for a moment, but the sights and sounds of the festival proved too strong a lure. “Can’t you see I’m talking to your—to the lieutenant?” Mrs. Potts caught herself, but her lips pursed in a frown of disapproval at this continued deception.
St. John laid his palm on the top of Clarissa’s head, and the girl stopped moving long enough to look up and smile.
He still did not know what he meant to do on the morrow.
Oh, it was easy enough to vow to be ruthless when confronting Haverty’s sneer of contempt. More difficult when he looked into Clarissa’s dancing violet eyes. Nigh impossible when he recalled the silk-soft skin of Sarah’s thighs.
“I want Mama,” the child announced.
“I know, poppet,” replied Mrs. Potts, her tone gentler. “Mrs. Fairfax left bright and early,” she explained to St. John. “I told her I’d bring the wee one along after a bit, but . . .”
“I imagine she and Mrs. Norris are off somewhere, for I haven’t seen either of them. Some crisis to be averted, perhaps.”
Mrs. Potts looked into the sea of unfamiliar faces. “Mebee.”
But St. John had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Potts suspected an entirely different reason lay behind Sarah’s absence.
He wished to God he had never come to Haverhythe. If he had just misinterpreted his stepmother’s note—or pretended to—he might still be ignorant of Mad Martha, little Miss
Clarissa, and the Fishermen’s Relief Fund.
But he had read the note. He had come to Haverhythe. He had found his wife.
His allegedly duplicitous, surprisingly determined, undeniably desirable wife.
Damn.
“May I take Clarissa and help her look for her mother?” he offered, wondering just what the widow gathered—or knew—about the state of affairs between him and Sarah. “That way, you can walk along the quay and enjoy the sights.”
Although he had expected her to reject his suggestion, Mrs. Potts gratefully set Clarissa’s sweaty palm in his. “Aye. Keep a good grip on ’er. She’s quick.”
Hardly had St. John time to laugh at her admonition when Clarissa jerked his arm with surprising strength, and they were off through the crowds. He soon understood the reason for Mrs. Potts’s fatigue. The girl could dart easily where an adult could not pass, and in a blink, she had slipped from his hand and was lost to sight.
His height and bearing proved a distinct advantage over Mrs. Potts’s efforts to keep Clarissa in check, however. Knots of people parted to let him pass, and he could see far enough into the crowd that her course was not difficult to track.
He found her in front of Mr. Beals’s stall, eyeing a bun dotted with currants.
“You and your ma,” Beals marveled, wrapping the treat in paper and handing it to her with a smile. “My best customers. Speaking of—”
“Say ‘thank you,’ Clarissa.” St. John stepped up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder, looking down with what he hoped was a stern frown at a face already covered in sticky crumbs.
“Why, good morning, Lieutenant. I was just saying that I hadn’t yet seen Mrs. Fairfax today.”
“We’re on a quest, Mr. Beals—if she can be found in this mass of humanity, we mean to do it.”
Clarissa giggled and tugged on Mr. Beals’s apron. “Meg ’n’ Thomas?”
“What’s that, child? Bright Meg? Why, she’s just fine—I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“An’ Thomas?”
Beals sent St. John a puzzled glance.
“The gray kitten,” he supplied.
“Ah, of course. Why, he’s growin’ bigger every day. Won’t be long before you can take him home with you.”
Clarissa beamed. “Thank you.”
While he rather thought Clarissa was thanking the baker for the kitten and not the bun as she had been prompted, St. John opted not to press the matter. Instead, he scooped her up and settled her on his shoulder. Perhaps a better view of the crowds would make her less tempted to escape.
“You’re welcome, little miss,” chuckled Beals. “Though I can’t say as I think Mrs. Potts’ll take kindly to a kitten scamperin’ around underfoot,” he added with a confidential wink.
St. John managed a wry smile, although the baker’s words raised an uncomfortable question in his mind.
What sort of future did he imagine for this child who might be his?
He could go back and tell his stepmother he had been unable to find Sarah or the Sutliffe sapphires. Immerse himself in London life—alone, for even if he pretended to accept the story of Sarah’s death, he could never marry another, knowing what he knew. Leave his wife and her daughter in Haverhythe, in Primrose Cottage, in peace, as she had once asked.
He wanted to believe his own peace would also be served by such an arrangement.
But he was beginning to wonder if it might not be destroyed.
Or, he could take his wife back and claim the child as his. But without proof of Sarah’s innocence, they would still have to contend with the wagging tongues of Mayfair. Whatever he did or said, there would always be questions, always be doubts.
Suddenly, he caught a whiff of Sarah’s scent on the air, slipping through the festival odors of food and ale and bodies. He turned sharply, a bloodhound on the trail of its quarry, and saw Mrs. Kittery standing nearby, unwrapping a pretty bar of soap to show to passersby.
Tightening his arm around Clarissa’s knees, he strode toward Mrs. Kittery, who greeted him with a smug smile.
“Why, Lieutenant, good day to you.” She acknowledged Clarissa with considerably less enthusiasm. “How generous you are with the child, sir. I do hope Mrs. Fairfax fully appreciates how fortunate she is. Few gentlemen would be willing to overlook certain—indiscretions.” One brow rose, and she gave a telling nod in Clarissa’s direction.
Although the woman had given voice to those dark suspicions in his hearing before, he had the distinct impression when she spoke now that something had changed. Or perhaps it was that he had at last come to understand the corrosive power of gossip where a small child was concerned. Glad for perhaps the first time in his life of the resemblance he shared with his father, St. John leveled his iciest glare on the woman.
The look set Fanny Kittery back on her heels, just as it had done to him countless times when he was a boy.
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you, ma’am,” he said stiffly.
But Mrs. Kittery, it seemed, perfectly understood him. She blanched. “I—er—that is, I was only thinking that there are those gentlemen who can’t abide to be around the little ones, more’s the pity.”
As if seeking some meager security against his wrath, she stepped around to the back of the stall and made a project of neatening the little pyramids of soap. St. John’s eyes fell on the stack nearest him, the one from which wafted the maddening scent of bluebells.
He fished in his coat pocket for a coin and snapped one golden guinea against the board he himself might have hammered into place just days ago. “I’ll take the lot, Mrs. Kittery.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“Every bar of the bluebell soap, if you please.”
He had no notion what he would do with it all. Pitch it off the quay, perhaps. He only knew he could not bear the thought of the scent on some other woman’s skin.
Even less did he want to contemplate the thought of another man smelling it on Sarah’s.
Clarissa squirmed and leaned forward, stretching out one chubby hand for the shining coin and knocking his hat askew. To placate her, he reached back into his pocket for another and gave it to her. Clarissa chortled, turning the gold disc into the sun and watching it sparkle.
Mrs. Kittery’s eager eyes followed the money.
“Have you any more of this soap at the shop?” he demanded.
“Why, I don’t recall,” she replied coyly.
“For that price, I believe I have a right to expect every bar, ma’am. Every bar. And,” he added, thrusting his hand once more into his pocket, “I’ll thank you never to make it again.”
“But it’s a favorite of so many of my customers—” she protested.
He laid a £10 note onto the makeshift counter. Fanny Kittery’s eyes goggled. “I think this should more than repay your losses.” As she reached greedily for the banknote, St. John pinned it in place with one long finger. “Just one more thing. After this, you will have no further need to speak to—or of—Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter again. Do we have an understanding, Mrs. Kittery?”
Her cheeks heated. “Of course, Lieutenant.”
“Very good.” He snatched up one of the bars and handed it to Clarissa, exchanging it for her other prize just before the coin made its way into her mouth.
Clarissa took the soap and gave it a noisy sniff. “Mmmm.”
St. John choked back a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Mmmm, indeed. Now,” he said, straightening his hat, “let’s go find her.”
Chapter 15
Dusk had settled over Haverhythe and the crowds had thinned considerably by the time he found her. She was standing to the side of the improvised open-air ballroom, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Norris, who was seated in a chair while Mr. Norris hovered nearby.
And St. John realized with a start that he might have glimpsed Sarah a half-dozen times that day and never recognized her.
It could have been the new dress. O
r the fashionable little hat perched jauntily atop a pile of loose curls. Perhaps even the air with which she carried herself. Whatever it was, she seemed transformed. It would not be difficult to imagine her in a London ballroom, surrounded by her peers.
Gerald Beals approached her, bowed his head, and held out his hand. To St. John’s surprise, Sarah smiled and took it, stepping onto the dance floor without hesitation. Tamping down a prickle of possessiveness, St. John scanned the other faces around him, searching for a partner of his own. But there were very few ladies of his acquaintance nearby. Mrs. Potts had long since taken Clarissa home. Clearly Mrs. Norris did not mean to dance. That left Mrs. Kittery and the ungainly Georgina Mackey.
St. John stepped across to the publican’s daughter and bowed. “Will you favor me in the dance, Miss Mackey?”
Georgina blushed to the roots of her ginger hair. “I didn’t think you or Mrs. F. would like to speak to me again, and that’s a fact.”
“If you are referring to the unfortunate incident on the quay, surely you don’t believe we blame you?” He extended his hand, palm upward, and Georgina reluctantly laid her hand in his.
Her dancing was better than he’d hoped, if not exactly the sort to inspire poetry. When the figure brought them together again, she gave a nervous giggle.
“It’s awful kind of you, Lieutenant. My pa was right angry when he saw what happened with Clarissa. He licked me good, don’t you know.”
They stepped apart again, and in the interval, St. John realized what his partner had said.
“You don’t mean to say your father struck you, Miss Mackey?” he asked when she took his hand again.
“Oh, aye.” She shrugged. “No more’n I deserved, I suppose.”
“Clarissa’s fall was an accident,” St. John ground out, nearly forgetting the steps. He had thought that three years in the West Indies had inured him to violence. He had been wrong.
To Kiss a Thief Page 15