Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  She had not expected the rush of his passion, the fury in his lips on hers, nor the yearning she had felt behind it. Whatever her lies, whatever her sins, at least in that moment she could say that her heart had not been wrong. Her love had not been given in vain.

  It had not been for nothing.

  She’d cried through one night at The King’s Arms, and then been whisked away by a man she didn’t recognize under orders to take her to London. Sir Henry had conceded to the gentleman, nodding at some document he had been shown, and wished Clara well in her dealings.

  Three miles out of Gadsden, the man had completely changed his accent, called Clara by her code name, and assured her that was the last of her experience on the criminal side of the law. Then he had fallen asleep, and they had continued on to London.

  To Lord Rothchild’s home, of all places.

  And here she had remained.

  Not as a prisoner, but as a guest.

  Who could not venture outside of the house.

  The irony was not lost on her.

  To be fair, she had been in a number of meetings with various members of the covert world, discussing her findings in the library ceiling at Barcliffe, what she had overheard in the study, and her thoughts on what it could mean. Her opinion was valued in these sessions, which had been startling, to say the least. She had to be the most inexperienced member of the ranks in all of England, and yet she was an authority on this subject?

  By the third session of the same discussions, she had grown far more comfortable with conjecture and venturing into the unknown, and her compatriots had seemed more than willing to indulge her there.

  Lord Rothchild said little, smiled a great deal, and reminded Clara to make herself at home.

  Considering his home was the finest of all homes she had stepped in, that was not likely to occur.

  Perhaps more surprising in all this had been Lady Rothchild. She showed no surprise in Clara’s arrival, displayed no reluctance in welcoming her there, and took great pains to visit with Clara when she returned from her daily outings. Being the wife of a highly respected and visible diplomat, she had a great many demands upon her time and person.

  Yet she made time for Clara.

  How bizarre.

  “Clara?” the lady in question suddenly called. “Clara, are you up here?”

  Clara rose quickly and moved to the door of her parlor, opening it wide. “Here, my lady.”

  Lady Rothchild paused at the top of the stairs, giving her a severe look. “Clara, what have I told you about addressing me that way?”

  “I know, my lady,” Clara admitted with a smile she almost felt, “but I cannot be comfortable calling you Emily. I simply cannot.”

  The beautiful woman smiled, her dark eyes crinkling with it. “We shall have to become better friends, then. After all, Sparrow…” She winked before tossing her fair curls on a laugh. “I understand the upheaval suddenly being thrust into this world can concoct.”

  Well. That answered that question.

  “You know?” Clara asked, widening her eyes and coming closer.

  “Oh, yes.” Lady Rothchild nodded quickly. “Not all of the specifics, and certainly not many of the missions, but I know. I had a mission myself many years ago. Just one.” Her eyes widened in apparent exasperation. “And one was trouble enough.”

  Clara laughed at that, her comfort with the woman reaching further now than ever before. “What were you called?”

  “Vixen,” she replied with a sly smile Clara wondered at. “Because my husband was known as Fox at the time, and I was his wife even then.”

  “You were his wife before the mission?” Clara gaped for a moment. “I would have thought you met during the assignment, or some such.”

  Lady Rothchild’s smile turned soft for some reason. “No, we were already wed. Yet we did meet on the assignment, in a way.” She exhaled briefly, then blinked, coming out of her reminiscence. “I digress. Would you come and take tea with my new friend and me? I think you will find her company most excellent.”

  Clara wrinkled her nose up at the thought. “I don’t know, my lady. My company, such as it is…”

  “Is much to be envied,” Lady Rothchild finished easily. “I have told you, as has Fritz, that your name will not be marred by this once it is able to be cleared up. You need not stay cooped up in your room, my dear, when there is an entire house at your disposal. You are no victim, no criminal, no prisoner, and no great sinner, so please come and join me for tea?” She smiled warmly, her manner reminding Clara so much of Phoebe, yet without the same crispness in her speech.

  She would be lying if she said she had not longed for company, and for a friend to confide in. Perhaps Lady Rothchild could be that person, and perhaps her sad retreat did not need to continue.

  Perhaps.

  “All right,” she relented with a shy smile. She looked down at her dress, gesturing faintly. “Will my appearance do? I have other things.”

  Lady Rothchild waved that off at once. “You are perfect as you are. Come, you simply must meet my guests.”

  “Guests?” Clara repeated as she rounded the top of the steps and started down. “I thought you said it was your new friend.”

  “It is,” came the airy reply. “Along with her gentleman escort. You know a young woman cannot gad about by herself in London, it is too improper!”

  Clara had not known any such thing, having never been to London in her entire life, but she was not surprised by it. A young lady was not supposed to go anywhere by herself, supposedly, though the country did not seem to mind so very much.

  Yet another mark against London, in her mind.

  She would have been lost here, that was for certain.

  Lady Rothchild waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, then looped arms with her when she met her. “I’ll admit,” she murmured, keeping her voice low as she started them walking, “this is a meeting I have been longing to witness ever since I learned your story.”

  Clara dug her heels into the ground as much as possible, her eyes widening and her breath hitching. Surely, she wouldn’t have brought Hawk here. Surely, that interview was not one that needed repeating. She would run back to her rooms, pack her things, and lose herself in London, if he stood in the drawing room at this moment.

  “Emily…”

  Her hostess turned to her at once, her hands on her arms. “Such fear in your voice! My dear Clara, I assure you, I have only your best interest and care in mind. Will you trust me?”

  Would she? It was a dreadful question, given the generosity of the lady and her husband, and the lengths that were being taken to protect her here. But so much had broken within Clara of late, and she could not bear to break further.

  She searched Lady Rothchild’s eyes, seeing a tender goodness there that settled her nerves. It did not mend the crack in her heart, but it did calm her fears.

  And that was enough.

  Nodding, Clara allowed herself to be pulled towards the drawing room, exhaling very slowly.

  “There now,” Lady Rothchild announced as they entered, a smile in her voice, “I told you I could coax her out. And you wanted to storm the stairs…”

  A tall man at the far side of the room turned, hazel eyes and strong jaw as familiar to her as any of her own features, though it had been years since she had seen them. Her jaw dropped, and she barely noticed Lady Rothchild letting go of her.

  “Martin?”

  Her cousin grinned, a sheen in his eyes that prompted tears in her own. “Clare-Bear.” He chuckled, sniffed, then rounded the sofa between them.

  Clara was already running and flung her arms around him, laughing and sobbing in equal measure as the warm, strong arms encircled her almost painfully tight. “Oh my heavens,” she eventually managed, hiccupping on the words. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?” he laughed, pulling back to thumb at her chin fondly, his eyes wet. “I’ve been getting updates on you for weeks, why would I n
ot come for your first arrest?”

  Her cheeks flamed, and she lowered her eyes to his lapels. “Let’s not discuss that…”

  He laughed low and embraced her far more gently. “Oh, darling, it’s a common occurrence in our world! I’ve lost count of my arrests, I can promise you that.”

  “You’ve never said anything less surprising,” she grumbled, pulling back to reluctantly smile at him, sighing as she looped an arm around his waist. “I have no doubt you cause a great deal of trouble.”

  “Just enough,” he assured her with a wink. He looked across the room, nodding once. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Of course!” came the teary response. “We love a good reunion, don’t we, Miss Moore?”

  Clara stilled, her eyes darting across the room quickly. “Miss Moore?”

  Standing beside Lady Rothchild, dressed in elegant travelling apparel, stood a woman of about Clara’s age and a very similar coloring. She smiled freely and inclined her chin. “Indeed I am, Miss Harlow. I hope you don’t mind, your cousin allowed me to come along to meet you. I have a great many questions, but the first and chief of all is this.” Her smile spread and she giggled lightly. “How did you find it, being me for a time?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Moving heaven and earth could not be more difficult than what he was doing now.

  And surely it had never been attempted on less sleep, or in such a state.

  Hawk hadn’t much choice to do otherwise, but surely his penance did not have to truly destroy him when he was working so tirelessly to redeem himself.

  Everything had been hell from the moment he’d ridden from Kirkleigh in his joyous delirium. He’d dwelt on how heroic he would seem riding over to the inn or to the House of Corrections, paying Clara’s bail and freeing her from her ignominious state. She would forgive him of his foolishness, and he would appropriately beg for it further, then she would agree to be his wife.

  He’d pay whatever fines the courts thought appropriate, and to hell with what anyone thought. That would be the end of it.

  How was he to know that she was not at the inn, nor at the House of Corrections? Sir Henry Norris had been called away to tend to other matters requiring his time, and the imbeciles at the House of Corrections knew nothing about where Clara had been taken or why. Finally, one less dim-witted than the rest suggested she might have been taken to one of the facilities in a larger town, given they had minimal accommodations for ladies.

  There began his hellish plight in truth. He’d ridden to Canterbury, Ramsgate, and Dover, finding no information in any one of them. No sign of Clara, no record of her arrival or containment, and no indication of where she had gone. He’d returned to Kirkleigh only to inform them of his failures, and then had ridden headlong for the only other place he thought might be of use.

  The Miss Masters’ Finishing School.

  His pacing of the drawing room he’d once so admired had seemed almost cruel, in a way. He took no notice of anything in it this time, wearing a path in the rug beneath his feet with his agitation. In what seemed more time than decency dictated, Miss Bradford, the stoic headmistress, finally met him, and, with apparent regret, informed him that she had very little help to offer.

  Near to the end of his wits, Hawk had begged, rather pathetically, for any insight at all.

  Miss Bradford had taken pity on him, and suggested Clara might have been taken to London, given the indignation of the Brownings and their insistence on seeing punishment doled out. It was not uncommon, and if she had been guilty of perjury as well, the judgment upon her might have merited a higher court.

  Hawk had not managed to conceal his dismay at all of this, had run his hands through his hair, and asked how, exactly, he was supposed to find one wrongly accused woman in London.

  Miss Bradford had sighed, then gave him the name of a very reputable women’s prison in London. “Once I heard of Miss Harlow’s plight, I sent a request to have her transferred here. I did not tell you because I am doing my best to protect her, and her reputation, and, quite frankly, I did not know if it would be permitted. Go there and ask for Miss Duncan. Tell her I sent you.” She paused, shaking her head. “I don’t know if she is still there. I have no influence in the law.”

  It was a strange thing to say, given he had not anticipated she would have any such power. He eyed her for a moment, wondering about the families who had sent their daughters there, many of whom might have had such influence.

  “Do you know who I might call upon in London that could have influence upon the law?” he had asked.

  She had nodded once. “Lord Rothchild.”

  Armed with such information, and desperate for any help, he’d ridden like mad on his horse, foregoing the politeness of a carriage or even a change of clothes. What did he care for his appearance or his reputation when he had literally lost the woman he loved and was growing more and more powerless to save her?

  What charges did she face that rendered such security of her person? How could she be transferred out of local care when, if he recalled correctly, she was accused of relatively minor crimes? She was no fine lady, nor did she have ties to any, as she was not legitimately the late Duke of Kirklin’s ward. There would be no interventions, as far as he could tell, other than his own.

  If he could intervene.

  He had to find her first.

  His arrival at the Saint Martha’s House of Corrections for Females had been eventful to say the least, given he had stormed the gates in the pre-dawn hours and demanded entrance. His signet ring had been the only thing to save him from being significantly bruised by a pair of burly guards with several missing teeth, and his less-than-polite request to see Miss Duncan at such an hour had been met with flat refusals. He could leave the premises and return at a reasonable hour, or he could hang about the gates with the London vagrants, it mattered not to them.

  Duke or no duke, he would not be seeing Miss Duncan before she rose of her own accord.

  Hawk had lost his senses at that. “I will not wait,” he had roared, his fury towering with an intensity that could consume any living creatures near him. “I have ridden hellbent across two counties now, and when Miss Bradford told me to ask for Miss Duncan, I did not think that would limit me to the damned calling hours of London!”

  The gargoyles of men blinked, then motioned for him to sit on a rickety stool behind him. Without another word, they had left him there, returning only fifteen minutes later with a woman in a dark calico gown, her hair braided over one shoulder, striding towards him without any sort of rancor.

  “Your Grace,” she’d said simply. “Miss Bradford sent you?”

  “Yes.” Hawk had cleared his throat, his emotions getting the better of him. “I am here to beg for the release of Miss Clara Harlow. I will pay her bail, and she will be in my care until the assizes in Kent. I will sign whatever documents required and offer one of my estates as collateral that she will be presented at the appointed date and time for judgment.”

  Miss Duncan’s brow had furrowed, sending a frigid lance into his chest. “Miss Harlow? That’s not a prisoner I’m acquainted with. Let me check the ledgers. Come with me.” She indicated he follow and moved into an office space that would rival any solicitor’s office anywhere, and far more orderly than any he had seen. She pulled a worn ledger from the great desk to one side and opened it nearly at the back.

  He had watched as she ran a finger down three pages, shaking her head. “She was not brought in this week.” Her eyes had met his with a surprising degree of sympathy. “I don’t have her here, Your Grace. I am happy to inquire at our partner facilities, but they are much larger, and take in a greater number of prisoners. I can make no promises.”

  There had been no helping the swaying into her desk as his legs had begun to give out, and he’d braced himself upon the surface for stability. “What am I to do?” he’d rasped, not caring that she would witness his distress. “I have to find her. I have to…” He shook his head s
lowly, straightening up. “Thank you, Miss Duncan. I am sorry to have disturbed you so early.” With a perfect bow, he had made his way from the room, from the building, and from the street.

  He’d holed up at his London house until polite creatures of Society would start to move about, and then, shaved and changed, he pursued his very last hope.

  The stopping of the carriage now signaled his cue.

  It was now or never.

  He stepped out and looked up at the grand façade, calling upon his politeness amid his madness, then moved forward to ring the bell. With brilliant efficiency, the door opened a moment later, a tall and long-faced butler appeared. “May I help you?”

  Hawk handed over his card. “The Duke of Kirklin to see Lord Rothchild on a matter of some urgency.” He waited a beat, then gave the man an almost smile. “He is not expecting me.”

  Apparently used to such things, the butler nodded and stepped back. “Please come in, Your Grace. I’ll let his lordship know.” When Hawk entered, the butler offered to take his hat and walking stick. “Would you follow me, Your Grace? His lordship prefers to meet his callers of urgency in a particular drawing room just above us.”

  “Certainly,” Hawk relented, feeling encouragement for the first time in days. “I’m happy to oblige his lordship’s preferences.”

  Silently, they made their way up the stairs, the eyes of several family portraits watching their progress. Hawk did his best to ignore them, the remotest sign of art now his greatest torment.

  Entering the simple and unremarkable drawing room, Hawk moved to the window and clasped his hands behind him. “Excellent view,” he murmured.

  “Yes, I’ve always thought so,” a new, deep voice replied.

  He turned quickly, startled by the still taller, dark-haired figure of a finely dressed man entering without airs. He bowed quickly. “My lord.”

  “Kirklin,” Lord Rothchild returned, bowing himself. “Forgive the unannounced entry. I heard the door and started down before I was notified.” He held up Hawk’s card with a brief smile. “Reeder handed this to me as I passed him. What can I do for you, Your Grace?”