by Amy Corwin
In contrast, his associate, Mr. Trenchard, seemed a little too light-hearted. Perhaps his good looks really did reveal his personality. He could very well be simply another flippant fellow with laughing blue eyes and thick, wavy blond hair, more suited to flirting with young ladies than investigating murders.
More likely, he was just some rich man’s youngest son, idle and seeking an amusing diversion. Even his clothes had that same careless, jaunty look to them, his cravat untidy and his jacket unbuttoned.
The only inquiry she was sure he excelled in was the investigation of the territory beneath ladies’ skirts.
And like as not, she had been a fool to trust him.
Was he laughing at her even now? Or worse, had he noticed her silly, moon-struck expression when she had seen him sprawled in his chair behind the desk, staring up at heaven rendered in oils?
There was nothing she could do about it, now. So she’d give him a week before she demanded the information she sought, or he could return the guinea.
She needed the money, anyway, to pay this past week’s rent. But for now, Mrs. Pochard could wait. Rent had to take second fiddle to Sam’s desire to stay alive.
As she walked across the street and down a block to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, Sam tried not to refine too much on Mr. Trenchard’s attractiveness. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop reviewing their conversation, going over and over it, searching for mistakes.
Had she said too much? Too little to do any good? Perhaps.
But she hoped he would heed her warning about using her name if he went to Longmoor. She didn’t want anyone to remember her, or think she was still alive.
But even if he didn’t, there were plenty of Sandersons in the village, and Samuel was a common, Christian name. She had not said she was related to the Marquess of Longmoor, who had perished with his family in the fire at Elderwood.
Nonetheless, she wished she had lied and told him a different name.
But if she had, his inquiries would be crippled from the start.
Useless.
There were no answers, and she was exhausted. Climbing the worn stairs to the boarding house, she unlocked the door and crept through the dark corridor. The musty entryway smelled strongly of cabbage—Mrs. Pochard must have served bubble and squeak again for dinner, and her tenants would regret it for a week.
Sam grimaced, grateful for the rich roast beef supper Mr. Trenchard had provided. Her stomach felt almost painfully full. But sudden energy added a spring to her step as she ran quietly up the stairs to her room.
If nothing else, she’d gotten the first decent meal she’d had in years. Served on beautiful china plates edged with gold, along with real silver and linen napkins. And across from her had sat a handsome man with the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen.
The sound of a woman’s coarse laughter drifted down the corridor. Sam moved more quietly, staying near the walls where the floors squeaked less. Her landlady was kind enough to her tenants, but Sam had no desire to improve their acquaintance.
Just like Mr. Hawkins, Mrs. Pochard had an unmarried, flirtatious daughter. Sam had enough troubles trying to escape her employer’s matrimonial noose without raising expectations in any other female’s well-endowed breast.
She wondered briefly if all employed, unmarried men had the same difficulties. If so, it was a wonder they weren’t all trapped and wed by age sixteen.
Did Mr. Trenchard have a sweetheart? She flushed and pushed the ridiculous question out of her mind. It didn’t matter if he had a dozen.
A door opened down the corridor. Deafened by her rapid heartbeat, Sam slipped inside her room and quietly locked the door behind her. In the darkness, she heard the clickety-clack of Mrs. Pochard’s red-heeled shoes coming down the hallway. The footsteps paused at Sam’s door as if her landlady stopped just outside, listening.
“Mr. Sanderson?” Mrs. Pochard called.
Sam remained silent, thankful she had not lit the single, greasy candle on the chest that leaned drunkenly toward the door.
“Are you there, Mr. Sanderson?”
The clatter began again as Mrs. Pochard turned and tapped back down the hallway. She opened her creaking door and shut it again so loudly that Sam’s own door quivered from the reverberations.
The weekly rent was due. Sam moved stealthily through the darkness. She’d have to pay soon or lose her place. Not that she would regret it overmuch. The room was poorly furnished and barely tolerable. The thin, threadbare cotton drapes did not keep out the moonlight, or the cold drafts from the ill-fitting window. At night, the sounds of mice skittering behind the wall served as the only lullaby residents could get. After Sam’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, she pulled off her smock and poured out a basin of tepid water to wash the dirt off her face.
The rent would wait until tomorrow evening when she got off work. Mr. Hawkins would pay them at the end of the day. And the coins would go straight from his palm to Mrs. Pochard’s pocket with only the briefest stop in Sam’s purse.
For one lovely moment, Sam remembered a carefree time as a child with no concern for money or the future. A sense of intense longing and regret filled her before she pushed away the useless thoughts.
Stripping down to her long, linen shirt, she climbed into the hard bed, using her elbows to smooth out the worst of the lumps. With a full stomach, she ought to sleep well tonight, despite her worries. Hard, physical labor made an effective soporific. She rarely had trouble sleeping, even when nightmares of flames and crashing timbers woke her, rigid and trembling, in the coldest hours before morning.
She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, wishing the nights would turn warmer. Mrs. Pochard was no great believer in fires, and Sam couldn’t afford a room with its own fireplace— even if she could pay extra for the wood. But considering her nightmares, the lack of a fire could only be considered a blessing. And given Mrs. Pochard's reluctance to spend money on firewood, this house was unlikely to burn down like Elderwood had. So Sam didn’t mind the cold so much, despite a sudden, teeth-rattling shiver. Her situation could be worse.
Rolling over, she tried to get comfortable in the worn hollow at the center of the narrow cot. The ropes beneath the lumpy mattress creaked in protest. She stilled, listening. The frayed rope at the head of the bed twanged—one more strand snapped—but it held.
At least for now. Just like her safety.
Everything was temporary.
Finally, when her bed did not collapse beneath her, she relaxed again. Her thoughts turned inevitably to the Major Pickering and the sight of a man bending over him, patting his pockets.
Her eyelids fluttered with sleep. With an effort at confidence, she tried to believe the murderer had found nothing in Pickering’s coat. No one would strangle her in the wee hours of the night, at least not here in Mrs. Pochard’s dingy, sagging townhouse.
And William Trenchard would soon find the murderer.
For her part, she could remain safe in comfortable obscurity until hard labor and near starvation took their toll.
Unfortunately, as she fell asleep, her dreams swirled into the familiar nightmare of flames, smoke, and the terrified screams of death. She moaned and twitched, crying in her sleep, unable to wake up and save anyone, including herself.
Chapter Four
When Sam got up at half past five, she was disgusted to find her belly growling hollowly. She rubbed it, trying not to think about Mr. Trenchard’s twinkling eyes or his excellent larder. She got dressed quickly, listening to the sounds of fellow boarders beginning to stir in the cool, pre-dawn darkness.
She opened the door. “Shush,” she warned her belly when it rumbled. “I suppose now that you’ve had a taste of beef, you’ll want it every day. It was a treat, last night, and one you’re not likely to get again. And you can just stop mooning over that Trenchard fellow like any silly schoolgirl, too. You’re a working lad, and there’s an end to it. He’d die laughing if he knew you’d gone all soft-headed over his
lazy good looks.” She thrust her misshapen hat on her head and started down the stairs, eager to be out of the house.
Halfway down, she paused, caught in the glow of an old carriage lamp lighting the hallway below.
“Mr. Sanderson!” Mrs. Pochard called up to Sam. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Pochard” Sam replied, tramping down the last few steps. “How are you today?”
“As right as can be expected when half my lodgers seem to believe they own the right to come and go as they please without a shilling of their rent paid.” She held the light up, frowning at Sam.
Sam smiled and attempted to circle around the plump lady.
Mrs. Pochard’s dress had a few stains on the bosom and the faint odor of cabbage still clung to her. Either she had slept in her clothing or hadn’t noticed they were not as fresh as they might have been. “Not so fast, Mr. Sanderson. You’ve rent to pay.”
“Indeed, I do,” Sam said, doffing her hat, trying not to think about how much Mrs. Pochard’s rather square nose and her heavy jowls resting on her massive chest gave her the appearance of a pig on a platter. All she needed was an apple in her mouth and a wreath of parsley around her stout neck.
Mrs. Pochard’s jowls wobbled in the wavering light. She thrust out a damp palm. “Then I’d be obliged if you’d pay it, sir.”
The emphasis on the word ‘sir’ did not escape Sam’s notice. She stilled for a moment. Had her landlady had seen through her disguise, or was she merely impugning Sam’s ability to pay on time?
Mrs. Pochard certainly ought to know better. Sam had been renting her room for two months now and had never failed to pay. Eventually.
Sam reseated her hat on her head and ruthlessly circled her landlady. “I’m paid today. You know that almost as well as I do. You’ll have your money by supper. Tonight.”
“See that I do. I’ve a list of fine young men— gentlemen of breeding—wanting that room. I’ve no mind to let it go for a few sweet words and promises.”
“Understandable, my dear lady. And who could blame a gentleman for desiring rooms with such a lovely landlady?”
Mrs. Pochard’s plump hand fluttered over her breast. “Indeed, sir, you flatter me.”
With a swagger and a wink, Sam managed to get around Mrs. Pochard and escape into the street. She raced around the corner, pulling sixpence out of her pocket as she went. Every morning, a young lass strolled down the next street over with a tray of fresh, warm rolls from the baker. For a single, silver coin, Sam could grab one to eat before collecting the cart and Mr. Hawkins.
“Betsy!” Sam called, running when she recognized the red-striped dress of the baker’s daughter swaying through the misty blue shadows.
Betsy swirled around with a smile. “Mr. Sanderson, late again?”
“Not this time.” Sam tossed her coin into the girl’s outstretched hand. Grabbing a yeasty roll, still hot with a browned top oily from rich, melted butter, Sam bit into it. This morning she felt twice as hungry despite her heavy meal the previous night. She started to turn away, one hand on her rumbling stomach when the girl called her back.
“Wait,” Betsy said, a hand on Sam’s arm. Her dark eyes flashed as she glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected her father to appear behind her, hands on his hips and brows beetling over frowning eyes. “Have another.” Her slim fingers hovered over the tray and plucked out the largest bun.
Sam shook her head, her mouth full. “Mmm, sorry, no. Can’t spare another sixpence.”
Pushing the roll into Sam’s hand, Betsy laughed. “You’re my best customer, Mr. Sanderson. Consider it my gift. To you.”
“Thanks!” She took the proffered roll and winked at Betsy before running off without another thought about the baker’s girl or Mrs. Pochard.
By seven, Sam had loaded the cart with the help of a stable boy, hitched up the horse, and was waiting, reins in her hands, when Mr. Hawkins kissed his wife and bustled down the stairs.
“Mending your ways, I see,” Hawkins commented as he arranged himself in the seat next to Sam. “Here by seven as you should be. Did you do what I said?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“The sulfur and ash.” Hawkins shook his head. “Did you get the right mix from your apothecary?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks to you.”
“And did you use it? Every night and every morn. Don’t forget, or you’ll be spending a miserable honeymoon with poor Kitty.” He chuckled and slapped his knees. “She might not be as understanding of men’s ways as her papa, you understand. So you’d best do as I say.”
“Yes, sir. Every night and every morning,” Sam repeated dutifully, wondering if a bad case of crabs could be turned to her advantage. Would it, for example, be sufficient reason to delay an unwanted and undoubtedly illegal wedding? “If you think Miss Hawkins will be upset, perhaps we should delay—”
“Delay?” Hawkins hooted, grabbing the hat off his head and swatting Sam with it. “Why, a little case of the crabs is no reason to delay. No. You do as I say. You’ll be well enough to make Kitty right pleased with you on your wedding night.”
A flush of queasiness made the two buns in Sam’s stomach feel like a pair of bricks lodged under her heart. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry Miss Kitty Hawkins, and she absolutely could not sit there discussing their wedding night with Miss Hawkins’s father. It offended every shred of decency left in Sam’s practical soul.
How was she going to escape this quagmire? Show up as herself, Miss Sarah Sanderson? That would certainly stop the wedding.
If only she could appear as a fashionable young lady, escorted by Mr. Trenchard. Well, that was certainly wishful thinking. With her sunburned cheeks, calloused hands, and straggly hair, it was more likely that Mr. Trenchard would run away with the baker’s daughter than be seen with the likes of Sam, or Sarah.
If wishes were horses, they’d all be riders.
For now, changing the subject seemed to be in order. “Sir, have we another job after this one? We’ll finish this week if all goes well.”
“Yes, indeed.” Hawkins flushed with pleasure. “I heard there may be a bit more work if we finish the wall to their liking. The owner’s nephew is a duke, you know,” he repeated, although Sam had not forgotten this obscure and completely irrelevant information. Clearly, Mr. Hawkins enjoyed repeating it. He smacked his lips over the word “duke” just as if he had eaten a very large spoonful of his favorite suet-and-raisin pudding. “There’ll be more work from that quarter if we look sharp. Yes, indeed. The uncle of a duke—now there’s a good employer to have.”
When they arrived at the duke’s uncle’s house, Sam unhitched the horse, wiped it down, and tried to believe she didn’t actually feel anyone’s eyes boring into her back as she wheeled loads of bricks from the cart to the base of the garden wall. Despite her resolve, each time she approached the mouth of the alley, she had to concentrate on her task to keep from scanning the sidewalks and road beyond.
There was never anyone staring that she could see. Except for the legless soldier sitting on a small, wheeled platform across the way, begging for a few coins. And, of course, the peddlers hoping to sell the workmen a few odds and ends. And the fruit seller ambling by with a tray of withered apples from last fall. And of course the rag pickers and urchins who searched the gutters hoping for a few lost coins or something they could sell—or eat.
In fact, there were any number of people who routinely littered the streets, alleys, and sidewalks for obscene lengths of time, all of whom thought nothing of staring at the bricklayers doing an honest bit of labor in the pale April sunshine. Any one of them could be responsible for the itch between Sam’s shoulder blades.
And for anyone else, the sensation of being observed might be considered quite normal in the teeming streets of London. Quite innocent.
But not for Sam.
Chapter Five
William allowed one of the elderly maids that Gaunt had unaccountably hired to s
erve him a leisurely breakfast in bed. He opened the newspaper and spread it out over his knees while he chewed on a piece of toast lavishly covered with orange marmalade. There was a small report on the bottom of page one. A man identified as Major John Pickering of Longmoor had been fatally stabbed Wednesday morning, April 7, 1819.
The motive was reported as robbery. The man’s wallet was found a few feet away, emptied of money but containing a number of calling cards that allowed for his speedy identification. He left behind no widow or children.
Throwing the paper to the floor, William leaned back on a veritable mountain of down pillows to finish his toast and coffee. At least Mr. Sanderson hadn’t been lying about Major Pickering, even if William strongly suspected the lad of lying about almost everything else.
Last night, he had been led astray by Sanderson’s clear gray eyes. He’d appeared so honest, so utterly decent, that William had felt an immediate need to offer him assistance and protection.
What utter rot.
It wasn’t until Sanderson left that William realized how little he'd actually been told. While it was possible that Sanderson simply didn’t know anything else, William thought this unlikely. Even if the scar on Sanderson’s forehead indicated some degree of memory loss, far too many blank spaces lingered in his brief story.
Obviously, William would have to fight this nauseating tendency to grow maudlin over some client’s sad story, even if that client did have the most amazing eyes he had ever seen. On a boy.
If he was a boy. The question lingered.
Disgusted, he rang for his valet and waited, stretched out in bed. Thinking about newspapers and ways to get information that didn’t require vast amounts of useless sweat and toil, he decided that fires, at least, were easy enough to verify.
Even his family, who generally held William to be a pretty, but empty-headed, wastrel, would agree he was not lazy. But there was no point in ruining expensive clothes with unnecessary perspiration. If one had even an ounce of gray matter, one ought to use it, he reasoned as his valet inserted William’s arms into the exceedingly tight armholes of a very form-fitting deep blue jacket.