“Caro is highly emotional, particularly now. He directed a pointed look at Sarah. “If she has overheard something which threatens her sense of security in this household I’ve no doubt her vulnerability has been compounded by feeling deceived by those she once trusted.”
Anger replaced Sarah’s lovelorn passion of earlier and she trembled with it as she rose. “I cannot leave unchallenged the insinuation that I bear some guilt for Caro’s desertion.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” he said, roughly. Addressing Lord Miles in more civil tones, he said, “Forgive my rudeness, sir, but I must leave, urgently. Please consider yourself a welcome guest in my home for as long as you choose. Arrangements have been made for you to stay the night rather than oblige you to repeat your long and tedious journey, in the darkness. Cecily.” He turned to his trembling sister-in-law. “If you need me I shall be at my club.”
“You cannot stay there if you find Caro,” Sarah pointed out. Clubs did not admit women.
“At the Crown and Anchor, then,” he said, tersely, his hand upon the door knob.
“Please, Mr Hawthorne,” Sarah begged, “let me come with you. Caro trusts me … ”
Her voice trailed off at his withering look. She saw him close his eyes briefly, as if in pain, and run his hand over his face. “Caro,” he said, “trusts no one anymore, it would appear.”
Chapter Twelve
THEY BROKE THEIR journey at the White Swan after four hours of bad roads and inclement weather.
Lord Miles had managed to doze over the deepest of ruts and fords. Now that he had been reunited with his beloved daughter, Sarah supposed he probably had a few sleepless nights to catch up on.
As they waited in the parlour for the sumptuous feast Lord Miles had considered necessary Sarah felt at a distinct disadvantage. Fatigue sapped her, as if she had not slept a wink in two days.
“A bottle of claret, a saddle of beef and a blazing fire will make words between us easier,” said her father.
Sarah nodded as she thought of Roland, galloping towards London to try and find his daughter, yet having no clue as to where she might be, and her heart convulsed. Vulnerable, overwrought Caro could not be in her right mind to have accepted an invitation to run away with Mr Hollingsworth. It was not even as if they were eloping. If they’d been heading north towards the border there was at least the consolation of assuming a hasty marriage was their intention. But London? Alone with Mr Hollingsworth? Surely she must know she could only be ruined by such folly?
Having polished off a bottle of claret her father’s mood was much more sanguine.
“So you were punishing me for meddling in the affairs of your heart, my girl,” he remarked, chewing on his beef and looking at her over the rim of his glass. “Well, you couldn’t have devised a better way.” Recrimination had been replaced by a soldier’s acceptance of being bested in battle. “I’ll not interfere in your matrimonial affairs again. James is courting a young lass, I hear. Well, perhaps that’s premature, but it was only this last week that he has resumed pleasure-seeking. Nevertheless, he’ll be overjoyed to hear you’re safe and well. But if he comes courting-”
“He won’t, father,” Sarah told him with conviction. “We were never more than friends. Too much like brother and sister.”
“I’ve been blind to a good many things, Sarah. With you gone I realized how much I relied on your cool judgment to temper my occasional outbursts.”
“When have you ever lost your temper, Papa?” Sarah’s mouth quirked before they both laughed. Lord Miles reached across the table and placed his hand on Sarah’s. “Never leave me again, Sarah … unless it’s to be worthily wed. I’ve always wanted that but it appears you truly are determined to remain unfettered by the bonds of matrimony.”
“No, Papa,” Sarah said steadily. “I have no aversion to becoming a wife … to a man worthy of me. Until that time I am quite content to pander to your vagaries of mood. I shall try and keep sufficient staff for our needs with the usual reassurances that the silver salver was aimed at the wall and not at their heads. It is a great relief,” she added, pointedly, “that you are prepared to sanction my ultimate choice of husband.”
“Looked to me like that young pup Hawthorne had a gleam in his eye when he turned it on you,” Lord Miles said, reflectively, taking another sip of claret, apparently oblivious to the sudden flaming in his daughter’s cheek. “Not but that he didn’t try to hide it behind his stern words. Had he gone on trying to point the blame at you I’d have called him out!”
“I believe you called him out once before, Papa.”
“Lily-livered girl didn’t want to fight me. Had to, though, else it’d have been the end of that precious parliamentary career of his. Not but that we’d all be better off without his ilk – dangerous radical!” Lord Miles snarled. “It’s the quiet ones with their bottled up passion you’d best be wary of, Sarah.”
“Your passionate outbursts can be spectacularly frightening on occasion, Papa.”
“Look at me and what you see is what you get. You’ll have a much easier life with someone in my mould than a buttoned-up Puritan simmering with passion.”
By dinner’s end Sarah had managed to keep exhaustion at bay by sheer effort.
Theirs was a discussion long overdue. She needed to explain the desperation and helplessness that had driven her to flight. She needed, also, to reassure him of her love and remorse. She did not lie by citing amnesia as a reason for her deception, however she was guilty of omission as to why she had maintained her charade. She could not reveal her feelings for Mr Hawthorne. Instead she told Lord Miles it was her sense of responsibility towards the girls, Caro in particular, which had decided her to stay.
Finally she crawled into bed and slept, her reconciliation with her father at least some consolation. Lord Miles had been more angry that Sarah believed he’d force an unpalatable marriage upon her, than he was at her deception.
Sleep claimed her the moment she put her head on the pillow after their early dinner. Less than an hour later, she was wide awake. But of course how could she sleep when Caro was still missing and she and Mr Hawthorne remained estranged?
Wrapping herself in the counterpane to keep out the biting cold, she took herself off to the window seat.
The moonlight was blinding. Sarah dug the palms of her hands into her eye sockets, shivering. Her sleep-fogged brain whirled over the same points, without solution. If Caro’s reputation were destroyed, she would never forgive herself. Was Mr Hollingsworth no more than a fortune hunter? Had he deceived them all? Or did he have a parson with a special marriage license waiting in London?
Her frozen feet throbbed from the cold. Stiffly, she padded over to the old trunk at the foot of her bed to look for something in which to wrap them. No longer did it contain the shabby garments belonging to the poor late Sarah Morecroft. Through industry, energy and cunning Sarah had managed in a short time to invent a wardrobe worthy of the lady she was. Minus, of course, those little extras. Like a rainbow-hued selection of dancing slippers and a fur wrap or ermine-lined mantle or pelisse, which would have been so useful at a time like this.
Her seeking fingers found the coarse woollen shawl Mrs Hawthorne had given her. In it, Sarah had wrapped Miss Morecroft’s diary, but it held little interest. Poor Sarah Morecroft’s life, despite her glamorous, dissolute father and exotic background, had been rather dull. Only her reverence for the rakish Godby had infused it with life.
Guiltily, Sarah fingered the soft, tooled leather cover as she resumed her seat. How amazing that it should have survived what its mistress could not. Only a few pages were rendered unintelligible by water damage, due to its thorough wrapping in oilskin.
She thought of the young woman whose life she had effectively commandeered for the past six weeks. They’d been friends during the few days Sarah had been aboard the ship which had carried Miss Morecroft from India.
Perhaps Mr Hawthorne’s anger at her was born of his disappointme
nt that Sarah was not the last link with his foster brother, after all. Perhaps he had believed a sense of kinship existed between them. Instead, he had decided she was nothing more than a pleasure-seeking society miss, out for a lark at his expense.
She flicked through the thick, parchment pages until she was close to the end. The diary had been started long before the young woman had known her family would soon be dead and that she would be setting sail for England to work for her father’s foster brother.
Five pages from the end the ink had run and the smudged handwriting became difficult to read. Nevertheless, Sarah was soon absorbed by the young governess’s thoughts regarding her impending journey.
She smiled, wryly. So her namesake hadn’t had a high opinion of the dreary gowns her mother had mended and stitched for her, either. Pity Miss Morecroft hadn’t been blessed with Sarah’s imagination and skill with a needle.
It was almost impossible to make out the final page. Sarah was on the point of giving up when three syllables in careful, looped writing caught her eye: Hollingsworth.
Her smile faded. With growing foreboding she bent her head, straining to read the context. It took several minutes to make sense of it and by then her heart was hammering. She no longer felt the cold as she cast off the counterpane. Only dread as she threw down the book and looked desperately for the clothes she’d worn last night. There was no time to lose.
Although the last sentence remained unfinished its ramifications were clear enough. Miss Morecroft’s final diary entry had been a girlish eulogy of the handsome and charming Mr Hollingsworth.
“Oi! Watch it!”
Roland sidestepped, just avoiding the wheels of the heavily-laden cart rounding the corner. Heart pounding, he leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Time was running out. For hours he’d called on friends and acquaintances, and scanned crowds in his attempts to find his daughter.
His initial inquiries around Larchfield had turned up nothing. Clearly, Mr Hollingsworth had invented himself; had arrived in the local area with no intention of ever being traced.
The noise of shouting and rumbling traffic echoed painfully in his ears. He knew he should keep moving but had not the energy. Eyes still closed, he surrendered to the dreamlike state that had begun closing in on him since he’d arrived in the capital. He thought of lovely Miss Morecroft — Lady Sarah — and conceded for the first time since banishing her that her motives may not have been all bad.
It was too late, of course. The damage had been done. He’d refused to give her a hearing. Whether she was now a prisoner of her tyrannical father or just her own guilt, he’d not see her again. She’d made clear her affection for him was deep and sincere but he wondered how long under her own roof, feted by admirers, it would be before she forgot him.
Despair and self recrimination curdled in his belly. How nearly he had become a fool in love, yet again. Lady Sarah wielded the same power over him Venetia had once had. If he gave her another chance, wasn’t it likely she’d use it, like Venetia, to test his affections? Venetia had regarded the suffering her every betrayal caused as confirmation of her supremacy over him. He did not think his masculinity could withstand it happening again.
A tremor ran through him. He was not thinking clearly if he allowed his loss of Lady Sarah to override his concern for Caro.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he followed the pavement with unsteady footsteps. Dusk blanketed his long distance vision with a grey haze. Or was it weariness? His mind was not as sharp as he needed it to be. The hand he raised to his brow seemed made of lead. It was time to return to the inn and sleep. Sleep would be the restorative he needed so he could look at the problem with fresh eyes.
Roland awoke with a start. All was black. He had no idea what time it was, or what had wakened him. He thought he heard a tapping. Had he asked for a light supper to be sent to his room? He closed his eyes. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Sleep beckoned once more. The comfort of its soothing embrace competed with the insistent tapping.
With a growl of irritation he hauled himself off his bed. He noticed he was still dressed, even had his boots on. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to the door and opened it a crack.
“I do not wish to be disturbed—”
Quick as lightning a small hand darted through the crack and gripped his arm. “Mr Hawthorne, it’s me!”
“Caro!” Surprise and delight jolted him out of his foggy state but before he could respond in a more adequate fashion he was subjected to a fresh assault of shock waves.
“No, it’s … it’s your wife.”
His wife? What dream was this?
Blinking as the thickly veiled figure tried to push open the door, his brain ached with the effort of seeking reality.
The woman was unrecognizable beneath the black hat; the sweet, husky voice, however, clearly belonged to that of his nemesis.
Lady Sarah Miles.
“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, darling.” Her musical tone sounded over loud. “I was delayed but certainly hadn’t expected you to have retired so early. Mr Hawthorne, I need to talk to you!” Dropping her voice to an urgent hiss, she made another attempt to force an entrance.
He stared at her, his boot firmly wedging the door against opening further. What was she playing at? She couldn’t possibly come into his chamber.
He saw the publican in the crack of light taking the corridor to the west, and called to him. “My wife has arrived unexpectedly and requires her own bedchamber.”
There were none to be had, the publican told him, pausing briefly. There was one room of ladies but the bed was already sleeping three. He could organize a truckle bed if m’lady desired that.
“No, no, I’ll suffer my husband’s snoring for just this one night,” Sarah said with a sigh, elbowing herself finally into Roland’s room, and closing the door behind her.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Roland hissed. Of course she could not stay. And he could show no weakness. For both their sakes. Her actions were tantamount to social ruin. Her father would put a bullet through his head.
“I have news.” When she lit a candle he saw her eyes were wide with urgency rather than shining with the seductive gleam he had been expecting. She cast her hat upon the bed and said, as she raked her fingers through her hair, “I think I know where to find Caro-”
“Why did you not tell me, before?” he exploded, gripping her shoulders. He was aware his overwrought nerves sought refuge in a suspicion that was unjustified. But suspicion was so much easier at this moment than trying to make sense of the other confusing emotions besetting him in equal measure.
She looked at him, hurt. “Do you think I, who care as much for Caro as you, would have kept from you anything that may have assisted in finding her. Listen-”
She stopped. Frowning, she tilted her head. “Roland?” It was the first time she’d used his Christian name. Music to his ears. Gently, she shrugged herself out of his grasp then helped ease him down into the comforting depths of the cracked leather armchair by the bed.
He opened his eyes to see her holding out a tumbler full of brandy. “I don’t know if this will do you any good, or is the last thing you should be drinking in your exhausted, muddled, state,” she said, with a small smile. “Do you mind if I help myself?”
Without waiting for an answer she poured another measure from the cut glass decanter on the mantelpiece before settling herself on the edge of the bed opposite him.
“I believe Caro’s disappearance is connected with Sarah Morecroft.”
Lord, but she was a sight to behold. Liquid fire burned his throat as desire pumped through his veins. Miss Morecroft was in the past. All that mattered was the young woman sitting before him. He could drink her in forever, watching her recount her fairytale, admiring her burnished hair while her melodic voice provided the pleasant background.
“Miss Morecroft’s diary was in the trunk that was rescued.”
He smiled. He li
ked the way her eyes fixed him with such intensity.
“When we broke our journey I could not sleep so I read the last few pages which I had not read before.”
She stopped. Roland blinked.
“Are you listening to me?” Her tone was suspicious.
He frowned. “Of course.”
He was trying. But the sleep he had snatched had done him more harm than good. Jolted into wakefulness by the very woman who occupied so many of his daydreams and nightmares, he now existed in a pleasant state of unreality.
Struggling to regain the urgency he knew was required, he leant forward. “Go on.” He rubbed his chin and was uncomfortably aware of his dishevelment. Glancing down at his muddied topboots and limp neck cloth he couldn’t even remember when he had last shaved. The hours he had spent thundering through the countryside must have exhausted him more than he realized.
“Sarah Morecroft helped Mr Hollingsworth with Caro’s kidnapping!”
Roland smiled at her preposterous words. “You’re saying my foster brother’s daughter plotted—” he waved vaguely — “all this … several months after her death.”
“Sarah Morecroft intended revenge when she set out from India. When she met Mr Hollingsworth on board the Mary Jane they hatched a plan—”
Judging by her exasperation and sudden sharpness she had taken exception to something. Yet Roland had said nothing beyond “Oh really”, and nodded his head. Perhaps it was his tone — some people took exception to his tendency to sarcasm. Miss Morecroft certainly seemed to, for she slid from the bed. Appreciatively, he sniffed her scent of Orange Flower water, and opened his eyes to find her standing over him. Her little white fingers dug into his shoulders as she tried to haul him to his feet. She looked angry and when she opened her mouth he expected her words to convey this.
Instead she froze. Slowly, her right hand travelled up his arm and then down, across his chest. He held his breath, a strange sensation pooling in the pit of his stomach.
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