Sarah’s mother said, plucking fretfully at the coverlet with long, slender fingers.
“Best not to tax yourself, Laura,” insisted Papa. “You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”
“What a trial it is to have been cursed with such a delicate constitution.”
From her position at the window overlooking the front of the house, Sarah spared only half an ear for their conversation. She was wondering how St. John’s conversation with his father’s steward had gone. And of course, the one with his father.
She was not sure when St. John had left her side that morning. Sunlight had been spilling across her pillow when she had awoken to the realization that she was alone in the big bed.
She had woken once before, when the light was still gray, to feel his body curled protectively around hers, like two spoons nested in a drawer. When she had snuggled closer, craving his warmth, she had also felt his arousal. Much to her surprise, he had loved her a third time, never speaking, just shifting her leg ever so slightly and entering her from behind. She had had no notion that such a thing was even possible.
He had promised it would get better. And he had been true to his word. This time, he had set a leisurely pace that allowed her to absorb every sensation—his shallow thrusts and gentle, searching fingers had brought her to climax twice before he had surrendered to his.
Heated by the memory, she leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping to hide her blush.
“Sarah!” Her mother fixed her with remarkably sharp eyes, for one supposedly so ill. “I hope you’re feeling all right. Your color is high.”
“Yes, Mama.” What would her mother say if she knew how thoroughly her advice regarding the marital bed had been flouted? All day, Sarah had been conscious of a few unfamiliar—if not unpleasant—twinges. Her body still thrummed with unaccustomed sensations, while her mind tried to wrestle her heart’s doubts into submission. “Everything is perfect.”
“Well, you seem remarkably inattentive today. As I was saying, I hope no one will be offended by your wearing a day dress this evening. It seems ill-befitting the future Marchioness of Estley.”
“Pray God, those duties will not be mine for years to come,” Sarah said, glancing down at the blue-green silk she had kept packed away in her trunk all those years. She had never thought to have occasion to wear it again. “In any case,” she continued, recalling the signs of abject poverty she had seen, the struggles the curate had described to her, “I cannot think lavish gowns will be expected in the country. The money required for them might better be spent assuaging real need.”
“I daresay three years of back payment will go a long way toward improving that dumpy little village.” Mama sighed, sounding as if she could not imagine a worse way for her daughter’s dowry to be spent.
“Speaking of the village,” Papa said, casting a glance toward his wife, who frowned and pursed her lips in disapproval, “when I went looking for a present for Clarissa this morning, I saw someone unexpected.”
Sarah lifted her brows. “Oh, and who was that?”
“Captain Brice.”
At the name, her pulse ratcheted upward, but its erratic beat said more of fear than the fascination others supposed she felt. “Are you certain?” she gasped.
“Perfectly,” Papa replied. “I do not think I shall ever forget that face, for all that he looked a bit the worse for wear for his time among the French.”
She could see from her parents’ expressions that both were reliving the last time they had seen the handsome young officer. “What on earth would he be doing here, I wonder?” Mama asked with a pointed look, as if trying to divine something written on her daughter’s face.
Sarah dropped her gaze to the floor and shook her head. “I have no notion, Mama. I have had no association with the man, and I would far rather hear nothing of him.” Inwardly, she prayed her father was mistaken. And if he was not, perhaps the man’s presence here was a mere coincidence.
But what business could a man like Captain Brice have in a place like Lynscombe?
“I should go,” she said, turning from the window. “The carriage will be on the drive any minute, and I would not want to keep the others waiting.”
“Certainly not,” Mama agreed. “You will make our excuses to Lady Estley?”
“Of course.”
“And tell Lord Estley who I saw?” her father prompted. When Sarah made no reply, he added, “You would not wish it to seem as if you were keeping a secret.”
“No, Papa,” she agreed reluctantly. If Captain Brice’s presence was not disclosed, and something untoward happened, she knew where the weight of suspicion would fall. Her shoulders had only just begun to ease after carrying that burden for so long.
When she descended to the receiving room near the manor’s grand entrance, no footman was in sight. She drew a steadying breath and opened the door herself.
Lady Estley and Eliza Harrington were seated together, as was their wont, while Lord Estley stood nearby. St. John had not yet arrived. Straightening her spine, she marched to Lady Estley and dropped a perfunctory curtsy. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I come bearing my parents’ regrets. My mother has taken ill and feels unequal to accompanying us.”
“Ill? Nothing serious, I hope,” Lord Estley interjected, stepping closer. “Shall I call a physician?”
From what she had heard, Sarah would have been surprised to learn that the village boasted so much as an apothecary, but she offered what she hoped was a gracious smile and declined. “I don’t believe that will be necessary, sir. It is just a bad cold, no doubt made worse by the strains of travel. I have just left her resting comfortably and in my father’s care.”
“A pity your father will miss the evening’s entertainment,” said Lady Estley, sounding ever so slightly jealous that someone else had found an excuse for doing so.
“An evening of rest and quiet will do them both good,” she said. “Papa has spent the better part of the day in the nursery and must be exhausted himself.”
“Ah, with Lady Clarissa.” Lord Estley smiled. “So his journey into the village was successful, then?”
She opened her mouth to speak, to share the disturbing piece of information her father had imparted. Breath passed her lips, and then was snatched back. She nodded.
Turning from her father-in-law before he could read the uncertainty in her face, she saw Eliza Harrington approaching, wearing a smile that seemed to have been manufactured for the occasion. “I must say, Lady Fairfax, your charming frock is just the thing for a country dance.”
Sarah smoothed her hand over her dress. It was no ball gown, to be sure—as her own mother had reminded her not a quarter of an hour past. And now several years out of fashion. But frock, indeed. Once upon a time, she had imagined it quite elegant. In a past life, it had been her favorite.
“Thank you,” she replied, mustering her own false smile.
“But are you not worried about the night air?” Eliza asked. “Perhaps you should send for your pelisse.”
Behind her, Lady Estley appeared startled by the suggestion. “It’s as warm as midsummer today,” she countered with unusual forcefulness, “and the assembly rooms are bound to be overheated. I’m sure she has no need of one.”
“At this time of year especially, it may turn damp with very little notice,” countered Eliza as St. John entered the room and came toward them.
“Perhaps Miss Harrington is right. You would not wish to take a chill when you step outside after an evening of vigorous dancing,” her husband insisted in a voice that warmed her to her toes. “There’s a shawl meant to go with that dress, is there not, Lady Fairfax?”
He had seen it, of course, and quite recently, too—folded in her trunk. She nodded.
“Shall I fetch it?”
Lady Estley fluttered bejeweled fingers in his direction. “Nonsense, Fairfax. Ring for a maid.”
“Most of the servants have been given the night off. No doubt they are alread
y on their way to the Red Lion. It will be faster if I go myself.” He drew Sarah toward the door with him, and before he left on his errand, he lifted her hand to his lips and asked in a voice meant for only her ears, “I trust you had a pleasant morning?”
Heat sprang into Sarah’s cheeks. “And night,” she managed to quip.
“I am glad to hear it,” St. John murmured, his voice rich with the promise of nights and mornings yet to come.
“And you?” she asked, meaning to enquire after his meetings.
But he sent a languid gaze down her body that set her heart racing. How could those cool eyes hold such heat? “Pleasant does not begin to describe it,” he said softly, his mouth upturned in a rather wicked smile.
Sarah swore she could feel Eliza’s eyes on her, but when she turned, Miss Harrington was gazing at a picture on the opposite side of the room. She and Lady Estley had broken up their tête-à-tête. In St. John’s absence, the moments ticked by in silence. Lord Estley wandered to look out the garden doors; her mother-in-law shifted to a chair closer to the empty fireplace. Sarah twisted her fingers to keep herself from twisting her skirts.
When St. John returned, the shawl draped over one arm, he stood lingering at the threshold, as if reluctant to cross it. “Sarah?”
Although his voice was barely a whisper, she heard the question in it and went to him immediately. The warmth in his eyes had been replaced by something colder. Something very like anger. Hesitantly, she took the shawl from him. The fringe of the peacock feather patterned silk slithered away to reveal his outstretched palm.
Coiled upon it lay the Sutliffe sapphires.
* * *
With a cry, she brushed past him and out the door. Surely she could be forgiven for not wishing to hear again the all-too-familiar accusations. In any case, he made no move to stop her. As she left, she caught another glimpse of the unreadable emotion in his eyes.
What was he thinking? She could not bear to learn the answer.
In a quiet, private moment, he had claimed to believe her innocent. He had asked her forgiveness. And despite her determination not to live in some fairy-tale world, she had allowed herself to hope that his words might be the first steps on a journey toward something more.
But could his feelings stand up to family and friends who had always believed her capable of terrible things, even when there had been no proof? For now they had proof in spades.
It is foolhardy to run, her head reminded her flying feet. It only makes you look guilty.
No. The necklace had already done that.
The Sutliffe sapphires. Those blessed gems that she had once been so proud to don because she had seen them as a mark of her father-in-law’s acceptance—believing, naïvely, that if she had won Lord Estley’s approval, then her husband’s could not be far behind.
“Pretty Mama,” Clarissa exclaimed.
Sarah started to find herself in the nursery. How had she got here? Gathering the child from her place on the floor, she clutched her against her breast. Hot, silent tears dripped onto her golden-brown curls.
“What’s happened?” Emily asked, hovering nearby.
Sarah shook her head. It was an excellent question—one for which she had no answer.
Where had the necklace come from after all this time? And how had it turned up in her things?
When Clarissa struggled against her smothering embrace, she put her down and allowed her to return to serving her doll on the delicate tea set her grandpapa had found in the village.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to promise to stay with her, Emily,” Sarah said, turning to her friend with a fierce, breathless whisper. “Somehow.”
“Of course, Mrs. F.,” Emily replied, lapsing into the more familiar address. “Are you goin’ someplace?”
A year from now, would the child remember Haverhythe? Would she even remember her mother?
Sarah rose from the floor and strode across the room, and then turned back to Emily. “No. I’m done with running from a crime I did not commit. I’ll stay right here until they send me away.” Which will likely be soon, she added silently. “Running is for the guilty.”
Emily looked bewildered, but she nodded. “Good for you, mum.”
Sarah drifted over to the window. She looked out at the bright sky over the Channel, then down at the darkening garden, where the light pouring from the room she had left just moments ago cast jagged shadows. A movement closer to the house caught her eye.
Eliza was strolling across the flagstone terrace. Alone.
She could still hear St. John’s murmured words to Eliza Harrington on the night of the nuptial ball. She can never have my heart. And you know why.
Sarah had always known why. His heart had belonged to Eliza. But Eliza had wanted more than his heart. Was she at last going to get it?
Tonight, when Sarah had left St. John’s side, Eliza had no doubt stood ready to slip into the vacant place. But she certainly hadn’t stayed there for long.
Sarah’s eyes followed Eliza as she made her way down the steps and hurried toward the garden, as best her dancing slippers would allow. Where on earth was the woman headed? She seemed always to be by when something bad happened to Sarah—it would not have surprised her one bit to see Eliza’s gloating smile as the magistrate dragged her off.
Curiously, though, she hadn’t stayed to witness it.
Perhaps, under the circumstances, the others had foresworn the dance and Eliza had determined to go on without them. No doubt the farmers and fishermen of Lynscombe had never seen anything quite like the pale green gown that complemented Eliza’s fair skin and red hair like the patina on copper. Its daringly low neckline revealed an expanse of snowy bosom, but offered meager protection against the evening air. She ought to have taken her own advice and sent for a shawl, Sarah huffed to herself as she gathered up her own, still trailing on the floor, and pulled it more securely around her shoulders.
The shawl.
The necklace.
Eliza.
What at first seemed only jumbled notes began to form a chord in Sarah’s mind. As she watched the woman turn onto the path that led to the Channel, she decided to follow her. “Emily,” she announced, “I have to go out.”
Emily’s brow wrinkled. “But you said—”
“Yes, I know. I’ll be back. It’s just that I . . .” She shook her head. “I’ve no time to explain. Just . . .” She snatched a nearby scrap of thick watercolor paper from the low table where Clarissa took tea, and among the silly little sketches she had made to amuse Clarissa earlier in the day, she scratched out a few words with the stub of a pencil. “Just see that my father gets this, all right?”
Eyes wide, Emily took the folded note and nodded.
With a longing glance at her daughter, Sarah slipped from the nursery and down the back stairs. She did not yet know for certain what role Eliza Harrington had played in the reappearance—or disappearance—of the Sutliffe sapphires. But she meant to find out.
She did not intend to give up on the possibility of happiness. At least, not without a fight.
Chapter 23
Dimly, he heard his father’s grunt of surprise, his stepmother’s gasp. It was like some badly done parody of that long-ago night in the library at Sutliffe House.
With the added sound of Sarah’s footsteps racing away.
“I always knew she was guilty,” his stepmother insisted.
His father gave a reluctant nod. “It certainly looks that way now, Amelia.”
Eliza stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Fairfax. I can see your disappointment. But it is better to know the truth.”
The truth?
Yes, he had found out the truth, as surely as he had found the necklace in Sarah’s trunk.
Had it been just last night he had imagined himself falling in love with his wife?
Well, the truth was, he had already fallen.
He was in love with his wife. He tested the emotion in his mind, li
ke a man tests a frozen pond to see if it will bear his weight, fearful of what lies beneath. He had done what he had sworn never to do, because love led inevitably to loss.
In his hand he held the proof of her guilt, the gems he had gone all the way to Haverhythe to find. But he had discovered something far more important in that obscure little village.
Sometimes, the reward of loving someone was worth the risk.
Curling his fingers around the necklace, he hurled it across the room. It struck the mantel with a sharp crack, and a sparkling shower of blue and gold tinkled onto the hearthstone. His stepmother flinched as the pieces skittered across the floor.
“Fairfax!”
His father’s angry bark split the momentary silence that had fallen over the room. St. John half-expected his next words to be, “My study!” But no matter. This time, wherever the conversation took place, he intended to stand his ground.
“I do not know where that necklace has been hiding,” he said, slipping away from Eliza’s touch. “But Sarah never stole it. She is, and always has been, innocent.”
But why, oh why, had she run?
“Innocent?” his stepmother echoed, incredulous.
Eliza looked stung, but she recovered quickly. “This is really a family matter. I will—why, there is still a bit of daylight left, I see. One forgets how early farmers and fishermen dance and dine. I will take a turn or two about the terrace. I daresay a breath of fresh air would do me good.”
She stepped quickly across the room to the French doors. When she opened one set, a brisk wind swept up the draperies, tangling them with her skirts. Without a backward glance, she stepped outside and closed the doors behind her.
“How could you do such a thing?” His father had gone to kneel on the hearth, his eyes locked on the pieces of the ruined necklace scattered across it.
“How could I—? Of course. That bloody necklace has always meant more to you than I do,” St. John snapped.
“No,” his father asserted with a shake of his head. But still he could not seem to tear his eyes away from the jewels.
“It’s a mere symbol, Father,” St. John said, stepping closer.
To Kiss a Thief Page 23