A Lady in Hiding

by Amy Corwin

  Sarah shrugged. At the moment, she could think of nothing except how her head ached and how tortuous her life had become. “Agreed. Now, may I have the address of the man who acquired my box?”

  Mrs. Pochard smiled, her ferret eyes gleaming. “That would be Mr. Manfred on Bond Street.”

  “The shopkeeper?” Sarah asked, aghast. She had walked by Mr. Manfred’s establishment before, drawn to his bow windows displaying endless rows of silver candlesticks, crystal goblets, and other trinkets. Nothing ever stayed more than a few days in the window. “What if he’s sold it already?”

  “Then you’d best be getting to his shop, hadn’t you?” She smoothed her dark green skirts. “The banns will be read this Sunday and twice thereafter. The wedding will take place April twenty-fifth, agreed?”

  “Yes, yes,” Sarah replied, yanking the door open and striding into the hallway. “It’s as good a day as any—though you'd best make sure Mr. Hawkins doesn't find out. In any event, I doubt I’ll live long enough to worry overmuch about it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Manfred’s establishment on Bond Street was already overflowing with customers when Sarah arrived. A sheet of paper in the window declared that Mr. Manfred was pleased to offer the contents of Mr. James Wesley’s estate for sale that very day. A man carrying a small writing table pushed past her as she stood next to the door, trying to bring her disordered thoughts under control.

  Sighing fatalistically, she went deeper into the shop. After slipping past a few customers conferring over a battered chest, she edged up to the counter. She waited patiently for the clerk to conclude his business with a plump lady clutching a brass bowl. Finally, the clerk pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to Sarah.

  “May I be of assistance?” he asked. His thick glasses slid down his shiny, sloping nose. He pushed them up again, peering at her as if trying to gage the likelihood of her purchasing something.

  “A wooden box. Mr. Manfred purchased a wooden box this morning. I’d like to get it back.”

  “A box? Wooden box? Oh, yes. We’ve many of those.” He dived behind a counter and started pulling out various containers, placing them on the countertop. Cherry boxes, mahogany boxes, silver boxes, maple boxes, and even a red Chinese lacquer box with a phoenix of gold on the lid. Sarah almost picked up the last item, thinking of Mrs. Pochard’s Oriental room. The woman would adore it.

  With firm determination, Sarah pushed the box away and leaned over. “It’s a plain box with a brass lock.” She considered for a moment and added. “It’s made out of maple, bird’s eye maple, about twelve inches by six.”

  He pulled the rest of the boxes out of the bin and arrayed them on the counter in front of her. After examining them, he pushed the cherry one toward her. “Now, this is a fine box. Excellent craftsmanship.”

  Sarah eyed him with disgust. His sparse gray hair stuck up like weeds growing over a splotchy marsh of skin. She wanted to grab a few strands and shake him until he listened. “I don’t want any of these. I don’t want any boxes except the one Mr. Manfred acquired this morning. It’s mine. I want it back.” She pulled the string around her neck until the brass key came free of her collar. “I’ve the key for it, you see. It was sold accidentally.”

  He shook his head and waved away one of the customers crowding the counter. “I’m sorry, sir, but these are the only boxes we have. Are you sure I can’t interest you in this fine mahogany box?” He opened it so that she could see the red felt lining the inside. “Or, perhaps the Chinese lacquer?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Is Mr. Manfred here? Perhaps I could speak to him?”

  “He’s not here. There was a tragic event just an hour ago. He felt his presence might be required.”

  Sarah’s dislike for the shopkeeper deepened. Apparently, someone else had died. Mr. Manfred did not want to miss the opportunity of picking over the household inventory before the other jackals scented the heavy perfume of death.

  “Could he have put the box elsewhere?” she asked.

  “All the boxes are kept in this bin. If you aren’t interested in them, perhaps something else?”

  “No, I’m sorry. When do you expect Mr. Manfred to return?”

  He shrugged, his eyes already peering over her shoulder in search of another customer. A portly gentleman pushed her aside and leaned on the counter, asking about a small, three-cornered chair sitting by the door. Sarah stepped away, searching the room, but she couldn’t find the bird’s eye maple box anywhere.

  Where was Mr. Manfred? Had it already been sold?

  Her heart pounded at the thought. That box was important—perhaps the only clue left to her past. Suddenly, she felt as if her life depended upon the contents of that small box.

  She pushed her way out, unable to breathe in the close confines of the stuffy shop. The sidewalk outside was, if anything, even busier than the shop. London had awakened to another day, and the streets were thronging with hawkers yelling, gentlemen and ladies strolling, and the impoverished searching the gutters for anything the others had missed.

  Buffeted and pushed from one side of the sidewalk to the other, Sarah moved to the corner and stood there in a daze. Her eyes focused on a heavy cart opposite, and she stared as if unloading barrels was the most fascinating activity she had ever seen. She didn’t move until someone in the apartment above Mr. Manfred’s shop emptied a bowl of what she hoped was only slightly used wash water into the alley a few feet away from her.

  Without thinking, she walked back the way she came, passing Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house. She trudged on to Second Sons.

  “May I help you?” Sotheby asked as he opened the door. “Oh,” he added when he caught her gaze. “Mr. Sanderson.”

  “Is Mr. Trenchard available?”

  “No. I’m afraid Mr. Trenchard is resting. May I take a message?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  He stared down at her through supercilious, half-closed eyes. “Then I can hardly be expected to announce you. If you should find you do know, you are welcomed to return.”

  “My box is gone!” she said as the door started to shut.

  The gap was a mere six inches when the door stopped.

  “The box,” she repeated. “It’s gone. All my papers—my money—everything.”

  “I see,” Sotheby’s sepulchral voice drifted around the wooden panel. “Would you care to wait, sir?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get to work. It’s nearly noon.”

  The door reopened. “If you would care to wait in Mr. Trenchard’s office?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “To be sure,” he replied, smoothly. “Just one moment, if you please.” His eyes were curiously kind when he waved her into the hallway. With quiet deliberation, he shut the door behind her.

  “Please,” he said, opening the door to Trenchard’s office. “If you would care to have a seat?”

  There seemed little alternative. She didn’t know what else to do. And as her nerves tightened, the pounding in her head became nearly unbearable.

  Sarah trudged inside, noting irrelevantly that the breakfast dishes had already been cleared away, along with her bandage. The curtains had been drawn back and the windows opened, letting in the April air. The desk gleamed in the sunlight. She sat down, leaning her head back to stare at the murals on the ceiling. Half-naked women draped in transparent scarves floated around the central point where a chandelier hung ten feet above her head.

  Their fatuous, smiling faces hadn’t a care in the world.

  However, no matter how grand the house had once been, it had fallen upon hard times, just like Sarah. A newly erected wall cut off one poor cherub’s feet, dividing what must have once been a very large room. The splendid place was turned into cramped offices, presumably with apartments on the upper floors.

  A deep kinship with the sad building seeped through her misery. Both of them had once known elegant, better times. Both were now working for a living, transformed by necessity, and not
for the better.

  Practicality always took precedence over beauty.

  “Mr. Sanderson?” Mr. Trenchard’s languid voice broke the silence.

  She stood and spun to face the door, clutching her forehead when her head nearly exploded in response.

  “Are you well?” he gripped her shoulder.

  Glancing up, she was surprised to find him so close. She was struck again by his sheer handsomeness and the force of his personality. His blue eyes glowed with concern that couldn’t mask a twinkling imp lurking in the depths. The golden stubble that had glinted over his hard chin earlier was gone, leaving a clean, hard jawline.

  He looked relaxed and rested although she had scarcely been gone over an hour. A deep blue silk dressing gown, replete with navy blue velvet lapels and gold buttons, covered his broad shoulders. The only sign that he had been resting was his blond hair, tousled into a mess of curls that made him look like a mischievous little boy escaping from his bedroom.

  When he pushed her into her chair, she frowned, revising her opinion. He was no adorable child. He was too self-assured and bone-lazy.

  And far too handsome to do her any good.

  “I’m well.” She shook off his hand. “The box is gone.”

  “What? Stolen?”

  “Might as well have been. Mrs. Pochard sold it when I didn’t return last night. For back rent.”

  He chuckled, sitting on the edge of the desk again. His long legs were encased in black trousers and his dressing gown gaped open to expose a white shirt, open at the neck. He appeared to have just gotten out of bed. The warm scent of sleep hung around him, tantalizing and filling her with indescribable longing.

  She straightened. He had been sleeping when he should have been working. The idea made the muscles in her jaw tighten.

  However, he had watched over her last night. Grudgingly, she admitted she ought to be grateful for that. Apparently, he didn’t spend all of his time in peaceful slumber.

  “Why are you here? You seemed so insistent upon building your garden wall today.”

  “Not my wall, though I must finish it eventually. This week with any luck. No, the box is truly gone. Mrs. Pochard did indeed sell it for rent to Mr. Manfred.”

  “On Bond Street?”

  She nodded. “I went there. The clerk claimed he had never seen the box. Mr. Manfred was not in. What if—what if they sold it already?”

  He stared at her for a moment before he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the disordered curls even further. “Nonsense. He just got it this morning.”

  “I think it must have been last night—when I failed to return home. Mrs. Pochard was waiting for the rent.”

  “Nonetheless, it was not in Mr. Manfred’s hands for very long. The clerk probably had no idea your box was there. Misplaced most likely.”

  She stood up. “You don’t understand—it’s not just the papers, there were nearly five pounds inside. Everything I had was in that box!”

  “Ah, the treasure trove itself.” He smiled. “We’ll find your box, Miss Sarah Sanderson. Describe it to me.”

  “It’s bird’s eye maple with oak trim. And a brass lock.”

  “How large is it?”

  “Not large. About twelve inches long by six inches wide and the same deep. The lock was special. A gryphon. You inserted the key in the belly.” She pulled out the string around her neck, showing him the key dangling from it. “I’ve still got this, but what if he opened it already? I’d lose everything—I can’t pay you without that box.”

  At this, he laughed outright. “That is the least of your worries—“

  “The least?” She stood up, pushing him back onto the desk when he rose. “Am I a charity, then? Or an amusement?”

  He caught her hands. She twisted, trying to pull them out of his grip. After all the years of laying bricks she ought to have been stronger, but he seemed to hold her easily, all the while smiling down at her, his blue eyes glinting in the morning sun.

  She couldn’t read his expression. Her heart fluttered. And for one, breathless moment she stilled in his grip—almost as if waiting for him to press his lips against hers.

  As if he would do such a thing. He confused her, and that was a fact.

  She twisted, turning her shoulder to him, trying to calm her rapid pulse.

  He was free to think whatever he pleased. She had no need to understand what she saw in the depths of his eyes. If he could discover what Major Pickering knew, then Mr. Trenchard could keep his counsel.

  “No, Sarah—Miss Sanderson. You know better than that,” he replied, his tone mild. “All I want is to keep you alive.” A devilish grin pressed a dimple into his left cheek. “And see you in a dress.”

  She pulled away. “A dress is unlikely, sir. And staying alive may be just as difficult if we don’t get that box. Can you…do you think you could get it back for me? If it hasn’t been opened—if he hasn’t taken the money—I’ve enough to pay your fee as agreed. But I must get that box!”

  “My fee is less important than the papers.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “Unfortunately, I doubt your landlady would have sold the box unopened. Everything may be gone.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes—”

  “’Tis not that,” she answered, frowning with impatience. “I—I made a false bottom. The papers are in there.” And my locket, wrapped safely in cotton.

  “I see.” He considered this, his eyes unfocused and fixed on a spot just above her head. “Then whatever the case, we must get the box. I shall do my utmost while you're building your garden wall.”

  “You’ll find the box? Go to Mr. Manfred’s shop and get it back?”

  “Yes, don’t worry, Sarah. I’ll get it.”

  “And stop calling me Sarah—I never gave you leave to do so. And I haven't been her in nearly thirteen years. It's ridiculous.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Trenchard murmured. “Miss Sanderson.”

  “And don't call me that, either. It's Mr. Sanderson, and that's all.” She stood and hesitated. Unconscious of her action, she reached out and gripped his wrist, relieved at his warm strength. “I should go.”

  “Back to work for both of us.”

  “No—I should go with you. So you find the right box.”

  “You may trust—”

  “I do trust you.” Her eyes searched his and found comfort in his kind gaze.

  His mouth twisted into a wry grin. “But not quite enough?”

  “No—I do trust you. It’s just…” She could not find the words to explain why she wanted to remain by his side.

  He covered her hand with his and briefly squeezed. “Never mind. Come if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Buoyed by relief, she followed him to the door.

  “Wait here while I dress.”

  “Don’t take all day.” She grinned and punched his shoulder.

  The muscles clenched in his square jaw, but he smiled, nonetheless. “Just an hour. Two at the most.”

  When he returned, he wore a navy blue jacket and waistcoat of the palest cerulean blue traced with discreet silver threads in a floral design. The waistcoat reflected the blue in his eyes, and her stomach fluttered in a way that was growing too familiar. She felt like a tattered, wretched urchin in comparison.

  Her resulting fit of the dismals made her sullen and gruff. Outside, she refused to let Trenchard hail a hackney. She felt bitter pleasure in his irritation and dashed across the street before he could stop her. When he caught up, he sighed elaborately and grabbed her elbow in a tight grip before dragging her forward.

  And he only shook her arm once when she giggled at his evident exasperation.

  Thankful for his company, she hoped the day would finally right itself. Somehow, he always made her feel better. Although, her hands itched at the moment. She had work to do, but without her box, she had no real hope of paying Mr. Trenchard what she was bound to owe him when this affair was over.

&nb
sp; Perhaps he’d decide to have some brickwork done. She could do it in exchange for his services, assuming she lived long enough.

  And if she didn’t, well, he had only himself to blame when he didn’t get paid.

  Chapter Ten

  Escorting Sarah, William tried to decide if he should be pleased that he had had nearly half an hour of sleep, or annoyed because it was not nearly enough. He rubbed his face, yawned, and grimaced at Sarah’s smothered giggle.

  Her box had better be worth it.

  A quick glance at her eager face renewed his smile. Despite her grubby countenance, she glowed with energy and life. No one could feel tired in her presence. She wouldn’t allow it.

  Nonetheless, the pale April sunlight seemed almost abnormally bright to his tired eyes. He rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger as they walked at a leisurely pace toward Bond Street.

  The establishment of Mr. Manfred was overflowing with a variety of personages when they arrived. Unfortunately, the clerk had no time to spare as he shouted above the hubbub and tried to keep order. William held Sarah back and waited for two gentlemen arguing over a cherry escritoire to settle their dispute before he caught the exhausted clerk’s attention.

  “May I assist you, sir?” the clerk asked. He glanced at Sarah and frowned. “You, again?”

  William rested his elbows on the counter and considered him thoughtfully. “Never mind him. I’m looking for a small wooden box. Mr. Manfred purchased it this morning.”

  The clerk began pulling boxes of all shapes and sizes out of a wooden crate resting on the floor behind the counter. “Perhaps one of these will suit you?”

  “No.” William pushed the assemblage of containers to the side with the back of his hand.

  Sarah leaned over the counter. “I—”

  “Quiet!” William ordered, ignoring the angry gleam in her eyes. ”It is one particular box. Bird’s eye maple with a lock in the shape of a gryphon.”

  “I told your servant—no box here of that sort.” The clerk laughed. “Maple must be the rage this season. You’re the fourth to ask for such a box since we opened this morning.” He shook his head at the folly of following the dictates of fashion instead of common sense. “I’ve another maple box.” Bending down, he pulled a honey-colored container out of the crate. When William saw the elaborate lock, his pulse galloped. “Ah, does this one suit you, then?” the sharp-eyed clerk asked.