Several minutes later, the coachman returned and rapped on the door to the coach. Christian opened the window, and a rush of cold air filtered through it, making Sarah shudder. His hand squeezed hers more tightly.
“The missus says to come in, me lady,” the coachman announced, flicking up the collar on his wool coat.
Sarah gulped and nodded. This was it. The coach door opened, and after the stairs had been let down, the coachman took her hand and led her down. Two of Jane Upton’s footmen were already unloading her trunk (filled with Lucy’s clothing and some of Sarah’s undergarments) from the back of the coach. She turned to Christian, who remained in the coach. “Aren’t you coming?”
He shook his head and Sarah’s stomach plummeted.
“No,” he replied. “This is where I must leave you. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen together. You’ll be much safer in the company of only the ladies from now on.”
Sarah nodded and swallowed. Of course. That made perfect sense. Why hadn’t she realized this would be the case? She should have said more, thanked him more. Now there was no time.
“Thank you,” she blurted. “Thank you for everything, my lord.”
She held out a hand to him, and he took it and kissed it, sending a rush of heat up her arm. “Best of luck to you, Lady Sarah.”
She searched his shadowed face. “When you come to London, for the Season … I’ll be there. I’ll help.”
His bright smile would visit her in her dreams. “Ah, yes. To turn me into a legend. Isn’t that the plan?”
All she could do was nod.
“I fear I’ll need all the help I can get.” Christian gestured to the coachman to indicate that he was ready to leave.
More words, words like I’ll never forget you, hovered on Sarah’s lips, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. Someday, some lady is going to be a very lucky wife indeed. But she couldn’t say those words either. Instead, she stepped back, stood in the alleyway, and watched as the coachman pushed up the stairs, slammed the door, and hopped back onto his perch. Then Lord Christian Berkeley’s coach took off out of the alley and into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Days later, Christian was back in Northumbria. He’d decided not to return to Scotland for reasons he couldn’t quite determine and didn’t care to examine too closely. He would spend the rest of the winter at his estate. There was always plenty of business to attend to, and this time he threw himself into his affairs with a single-minded determination that could only be the result of an attempt to block something (or someone) from his memory.
Mrs. Hamilton, of course, peppered him with questions about Sarah when they were alone, but he was able to brush them off and continue about his business. The winter was harsh, yet he spent it riding out to oversee his lands, meeting with his estate agent, and speaking with a variety of his tenants. At night, when he’d returned to Berkeley Hall, he read or carved a pipe he’d begun working on. It was to be a wedding gift for Cass’s brother, Owen. Damn fool had done the right thing and asked the lovely Lady Alex to marry him.
Christian also wrote a few letters to friends and did his best to forget about Sarah Highgate. She wasn’t for him. She was someone who relished Society, loved dancing, parties, balls. She was someone who was in her element in London Society. It made no sense that he’d been wildly attracted to her in the first place. He must put her out of his mind. He especially tried not to imagine what might be happening to her and her reputation in London. It didn’t matter, did it? He’d done all he could do for her. She was in Lucy’s hands now. Lucy’s more than capable hands.
The first letter from Lucy arrived several weeks after his return to Northumbria. The first time he attempted to open it, Christian dropped the blasted thing out of nervousness. He scooped it up off the rug in his study and broke the seal with a brass letter opener.
Dearest Berkeley,
I do hope this letter finds you well and pleasantly settled for the winter. I am pleased to report that our darling Lady Sarah is happily back in the good graces of the fickle ton. I daresay a few well-placed rumors begun by the right people are all that are necessary to turn this town on its ear. It’s quite ridiculous, actually.
I’m less happy to report that Sarah’s wedding to Lord Branford is still planned. Sarah seems resigned to it, but I have my doubts how happy she is. Her mother proved to be exceedingly reasonable when confronted with my plan to return Sarah to her place in Society, but exceedingly less reasonable when told why her daughter had left to begin with. Seems the earl and countess are entirely intent upon the match. Parents can be so foolish at times. Please remind me of this when Derek and I have a child of marriageable age. But don’t tell Jane I said it. No doubt she’ll use it against me to great effect one day.
At any rate, I’ve spoken to Sarah at length on several occasions and she declares that she has no desire to defy her parents again. She’s quite resigned to her fate. So, count yourself another win for helping a damsel in distress, my lord. You’ve got a sterling reputation. Alex and Owen’s wedding is planned for Spring, as is Daphne and Rafe’s. I do hope you’ll make it back to town for the Season, if only to attend the weddings.
Yours sincerely, et cetera,
Lucy
P.S. I daresay you should destroy this communication as to obliterate any inkling that we had anything to do with Sarah’s reentry into Society. Not to mention it seems extremely clandestine and spy-like and you know how much I’ve always wanted to be a spy. Alas, Rafe Cavendish has never agreed to properly train me. Perhaps I might work on his twin brother, Cade. Now there’s a man who has secrets.
Christian expelled his breath. He read the letter once more before he folded it, crossed the thick Aubusson carpet to the fireplace, and tossed it inside. So it was done, then. Sarah was back in the ton’s good graces and still engaged to her marquess. Christian should be happy for her. He was glad to have been of assistance. That was his forte, after all. Just like Lucy’s uncanny ability to carry out outlandish plots. So why wasn’t he happy for Sarah? Why had it felt as if he’d been punched in the gut when he’d read that her wedding was still being planned?
He scrubbed a hand across his face and tentatively fingered his shaggy beard, which for some reason he still couldn’t bring himself to shave. Sarah had never seen him without it. He immediately cursed himself for the thought. What did that matter? He braced an arm against the fireplace mantel. He would be returning to London in the spring. It would be rude of him to miss the weddings of his friends. Sarah’s wedding, however, might be a different case entirely. He wasn’t certain he could attend that one. Which might well be a moot point, because he hardly expected to be invited. But he would be going to London in April. For the first time in his life, he was restless in the country. Almost … bored. It made no sense. He’d spent a lifetime wishing he could stay here or in Scotland indefinitely. His only business in London involved Parliament, his unsuccessful attempts at finding a wife, and occasional visits with friends. He’d never actually craved Society. Quite the opposite, actually.
But, yes. He’d be going to London in April, not only because of the weddings, but because the Season would be starting and he needed to be ready to employ what Sarah had taught him. With her help, if she was still up to it. He was done with being every lady’s friend. It was high time he found a wife. He was going to be a legend, after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sarah peeped out of the curtain of her upstairs bedchamber, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of Lord Branford’s coach pulling away from the front of her father’s house.
“I doubt he’ll believe you are sick for much longer, Sarah,” Meg said from her perch on the light green velvet slipper chair that rested near the window.
“Neither will Mother,” Sarah groaned. “But they both seemed to believe it today and that is all that matters.”
Sarah had been back in London for many weeks. After Lucy Hunt had spread her story, the fickle ton
had appeared to believe it with nary a thought. Lord Branford had been among those who welcomed her back. He’d laughed about what a silly misunderstanding the entire thing had been and how he’d love to meet the venerable Mrs. Bunbury, who was so highly regarded by so many of the ton’s best families.
Sarah had long ago decided Lucy Hunt was a veritable genius. How the woman had managed to convince the entire of London Society that a woman who didn’t even exist was one of the most sought-after chaperones in the kingdom was a feat Sarah couldn’t begin to fathom. She was only glad that Lucy’s genius had been working for her and not against.
However, there was still one problem. Ever since Sarah had returned, Lord Branford had been putting increasing pressure on her to name the date for their impending nuptials. Sarah had tried. Truly she had. Somehow during her time away, she’d convinced herself that perhaps her memory of Lord Branford was exaggerated. Perhaps he wasn’t half as awful as she’d made him out to be. But soon after she saw him again and he began prattling on about himself, she remembered exactly why she hadn’t been enthusiastic about marrying him in the first place. She still wasn’t looking forward to it. But she would do her duty as countless generations of women in her family had done before her, as her mother liked to point out.
Do as you’re told, Sarah. The words rang through her head on a daily (if not hourly) basis. She would do as she was told. But every time she considered an actual wedding date, the walls of whatever room she was in seemed to close in on her and she began to perspire profusely.
So instead of setting a wedding date, she’d pretended to be indisposed, like an awful little coward.
Adding to her misery were her memories of Christian. The quiet times they’d sat together in the cabin, not having to say a word to each other. The easy way they’d begun a nightly ritual of cleaning the dishes and making tea. Their chess game. Taking care of Fergus II together. And the look on Christian’s face the last time she’d seen him, when he’d smiled at her so beautifully.
“I think you should cry off,” Meg stated loyally, her bright gold ringlets bouncing.
“You know I can’t do that,” Sarah replied, letting the curtain drop and pacing back toward her bed.
“I know you don’t want to. You’re worried about your reputation. I understand, truly I do. When you were gone, I insisted to anyone who would listen that you hadn’t run off at all. I’d do anything for you, Sarah. And I’ll continue to protect you if that’s what you truly want, but take it from someone who has barely any reputation left. It’s not half as bad as you think.” Meg grinned at her.
That was one of the things Sarah liked best about her friend. Meg wasn’t one to wallow in her unfortunate circumstances. Instead, she made light of them. Accepted them with nary a complaint.
“Do you think he’s in London yet?” Sarah asked, sighing.
“Who?”
“Lord Berkeley.” Sarah plucked absently at the sleeves of her gown.
Meg’s eyes widened. “Oh, we’re talking about Lord Berkeley now instead of Lord Branford?”
Sarah continued to pluck while she paced back and forth in front of the bed. “What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s decided not to return to London for the Season after all?”
“Aren’t you supposed to turn him into a legend?” Meg asked, standing and smoothing her pink skirts. She pulled open the curtain and glanced down at the street below.
“That was the plan. That’s what we discussed. I’m still willing to keep my end of the bargain, of course, but what if…”
“What if what?” Meg asked, letting the curtain fall back into place.
“What if I’m unable to keep my end of the bargain? What if he’s decided he no longer wants my help?”
“Why should that matter to you?” Meg asked, folding her arms across her chest and facing her friend.
“I would feel guilty if I didn’t keep my end of the bargain. Terribly guilty, Meg.”
“If he has decided he doesn’t wish to be the most eligible bachelor of the Season any longer, I should think there’s little you can do to persuade him otherwise.”
“Yes, but … but…”
“Could it be possible that it’s not guilt that’s nagging at you, but the plain desire to see the man again?”
Sarah stopped pacing. She took a long, deep breath. She couldn’t hide anything from Meg. Had never been able to. She did want to see Christian again. She desperately wanted to see him. Everywhere she went, she craned her neck and scanned the place, searching, always searching for him. But it had been weeks now and she’d yet to see him. She’d begun to fear he wasn’t coming. “Perhaps he’s decided not to try to use my advice after all. Perhaps he’s decided to remain in the north and live a quiet, simple life of a bachelor.”
Meg eyed her carefully, her hips turning from side to side. “Perhaps he has.”
Sarah pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. “Oh, what’s wrong with me, Meg? I’ve been telling myself it’s because I want to help him. I spent a considerable amount of time and attention giving him advice. I owed it to him.”
“You’d merely be gratified to see that he’d taken and used your advice to become the most sought-after gentleman in the ton this Season?”
“Something like that,” Sarah murmured. But she knew deep down that she wanted to see him again because she … missed him. Missed his company. Missed his sense of humor. His quick smile. His wry jokes. His kindness.
“The Hollisters’ ball is next month,” Meg said. “If he’s coming to town for the Season, he’s sure to be there.”
“I suppose.” Sarah stopped pacing and braced her hand against the bedpost.
“The question is, can you hold off Lord Branford much longer?” Meg asked.
“I know I shouldn’t, but…” Sarah bit her lip again.
Meg shook her head. “I simply cannot wait to meet this Lord Berkeley.”
A knock sounded on her bedchamber door and Sarah hurried over to open it. It was Hart. Her brother strolled in wearing dark chocolate-brown breeches, a white shirt, a green waistcoat, and costly leather boots. He was busily consulting his gold pocket watch and didn’t even bother to look up.
After Sarah closed the door behind him, he glanced at her. “Ah, so you aren’t abed,” he said with a laugh, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead.
“Don’t you dare tell Mother!” Sarah warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Hart strolled farther into the room. “Miss Timmons,” he said absently to Meg. Meg and Hart had known each other for years. Meg murmured a quick greeting and quietly sank back into the slipper chair.
Hart turned in a circle to face Sarah again. “I promised Mother I’d come and check on your health.”
“Tell her I’m pale, and cold, and coughing. Mention the coughing,” Sarah said, doing her best to fake a cough.
Hart smiled and shook his head. “You cannot hide from your betrothed forever, you know.”
“You’re one to talk.” Sarah put her fists on her hips. “Mother and Father have been waiting for you to choose a bride for ages and yet you steadfastly refuse.”
“Don’t remind me. I received yet another speech from Father just this week on my refusal to perform my duty.”
“How do you manage to get out of it?” Sarah asked.
“I just remind him that as long as he’s alive, there is already a perfectly good heir. I don’t think he likes to contemplate his own demise.”
“That’s not going to work forever, you know,” Sarah mimicked.
“No. And neither is your fake illness.” Hart braced his hands on his hips to mimic her.
Sarah smiled at him. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, dear brother?”
“Yes, now you’d best climb back into bed and do a better job at coughing. Mother may well choose to pay you a visit herself. She’s determined to get you healthy before the Season begins in earnest. I heard her calling for Cook to make some chicken soup.”
Sarah gr
oaned. “Oh, dear.”
“I must go,” Hart announced. “I’m off to the clubs later and hope to be half in my cups beforehand.” He gave Sarah a wicked grin. Contemplating his timepiece again, he strolled back toward the door. “Miss Timmons,” he said, again not looking at her.
Meg murmured a good-bye.
Just as Hart’s hand was on the door handle, pulling it open, Sarah called out, “Hart? Do you know a … Lord Berkeley?”
Hart paused. He dropped his watch back into his pocket and narrowed his eyes. “Berkeley? Yes, nice chap. Viscount, isn’t he? The man did me a good turn at school once. Though he’s much too respectable to carouse with the likes of me.” Her brother winked at her. “What about him?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wondered if you’d … heard of him.”
“Seems to me he’s thick as thieves with Claringdon and Swifdon and their set. The only one from that group I tend to spend time with is Owen Monroe. Though now that he’s settling down, that chap’s become a downright bore.”
Hart pulled open the door farther. “Feel better, dear sister.” And then he was gone, his boots thumping down the corridor.
Meg sighed loud and long. “I still think you should cry off from Lord Branford.”
Sarah whirled around to face her. “Why?”
“Because ever since you’ve returned from Scotland, the only man’s name I’ve heard on your lips is Lord Christian Berkeley.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
London, April 1817
London was a different place entirely in the spring. The grass in the park was growing, baby birds were coming to life in the trees, and while the rain made for muddy ruts in the dirt roads, there was still a fresh energy to the town that was not there in the heat of the summer or the cold of winter when coal smoke clogged the air.
Christian ensconced himself in his town house on Upper Brook Street and set about making appointments with all the tradesmen Sarah had mentioned. First, he allowed his frustrated valet, Matthews, to shave him and cut his hair. The man seemed beyond pleased with his master’s sudden desire to be well-groomed again. Matthews was even allowed to cut his hair particularly short, much shorter than he normally wore it. Close-cropped: That’s what Sarah had told him was all the rage in London. “Yes, my lord, at once,” the valet replied with a gleam in his eye, no doubt from relishing his duty.
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