“Roland, you’re soaked right through.” Her voice was low, almost accusing. The dainty white hand continued its exploration. It was a pleasant sensation. He made no rejoinder, simply closed his eyes and enjoyed her touch.
“No wonder you’ve taken in nothing!”
Oh, he was taking it all in. Revelling in it. He blinked at the insistent tugging at his waistcoat. She was undoing the buttons!
“Take it off,” she said through gritted teeth when she was finished.
Weakly, he gripped her wrist to stay her, his sense of honour finally roused.
“Madam, I don’t think you—”
“And your shirt.”
Before he could object she’d rested her cheek against his chest. “Lord, but you’re chilled to the bone!” she exclaimed. “You’ll catch your death unless I can get you warm.”
He had not the energy to help her as she stripped off his shirt and bundled the counterpane round his shoulders. It was an effort for her to remove his boots but she succeeded. He suspected Lady Sarah achieved most things she set out to do.
Standing back, she raked him with a critical eye. “Now get into that bed and warm yourself.” Her voice was sharp. “I think it’s probably time for me to go. I’m not going to have you accuse me of taking advantage so I can demand satisfaction at the altar.” Her voice was low and grim as she resumed her task of trying to haul him out of the chair and transfer him to the bed. “Despite the fact that would be eminently pleasing to me.”
No, she had not said that. He had imagined it to complete his beautiful dream. He must not let his mind and body betray him into believing what he only wanted to hear. She’d betrayed him once. She had not the purity of heart he’d attributed to her before she’d shattered his trust.
With a final effort she had him on the bed, rolling him onto his back so that he looked right up into her eyes. Her beautiful, clear hazel eyes. She didn’t step back. He swallowed, overcome by sensation. Lord, she was inviting him to take her into his arms. He closed his eyes, his honour engaged in a bloody battle with the exquisite sensations engulfing him.
“Roland.”
“Darling Sarah,” he whispered, opening his eyes. Gently he traced a finger down the side of her cheek and tucked a tendril of gleaming hair behind her ear. If the parson now came knocking with a special licence, he’d be the happiest man alive. He was almost the happiest man alive for the fact that her desire for him overrode the terrible risks. But she was as impulsive as she was beautiful. It was up to him to persuade her to wait. It took all his willpower. “Flattered though I am, my love—”
“You’re lying on my arm …”
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, shame and disappointment colliding as she tugged at her arm trapped beneath the weight of his body. He heard the urgency in her voice, but it was the fear in her eyes that went some way to clearing the mists swirling in his mind.
With an effort he rolled to one side and she stepped back, rubbing at her wrist.
“Roland, I think I may know where we can find Caro.”
Caro. He groaned, covering his throbbing eyes with his hands. “What must you think of me?”
Amidst the rustling, he heard a chink of glass, another waft of the heady scent of orange flower water and the heart-stopping words, “That you are the most wonderful and honourable man I’ve met but that you are also very ill. Drink this.”
His prayers were answered as she supported him behind the shoulders then held a tumbler of sweet water to his lips. He fell back when he’d finished, but not before he’d planted a kiss on the soft white skin below her collar bone.
“Sarah, you are a gift from the angels,” he murmured.
Her soft, ironic laugh as she gently sponged his forehead filled him with longing. “Tell me that when you’re in your right mind. I’m going now, Roland. I have to find Caro but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He wished he could open his eyes, but they hurt too much. Vaguely he held out his hand in her direction and she gripped it.
“Must you go, alone? Perhaps—”
“There’s no time to waste and you’ve not the strength to pick up a kitten.” He felt her lips upon his brow, heard her tremulous whisper. “If anything happened to Caro, I’d never forgive myself. I need you to know that.”
Chapter Thirteen
“WRITING IMPLEMENTS AND parchment in the private parlour,” she demanded of the publican, searching in her reticule for a coin. “And a hackney.”
Fear churned in her breast, but excitement, too, as Sarah scratched her note to Roland a few minutes later. She would find Caro. She would save the girl’s reputation and Roland would give her the reward she craved.
The rest of her life in his company!
Hearing voices in the passage outside the door she put her hand to her bonnet to pull down her veil while she hastily sprinkled sand upon the parchment.
The veil was no longer there. As the voices stopped outside the door she heard the stentorian tones of a formidable matron apparently admonishing an errant daughter. She shrank into the shadows, clutching the folded parchment as a stout middle-aged woman wearing a green velvet round dress with matching turban entered the room.
“What were you thinking, Millicent? You danced three times with him. A young lady’s reputation is her most precious commodity.”
Horrified, Sarah realised the formidable Lady Bassingthwaite stood not three metres from her in the private parlour she’d been on the verge of departing. A stickler for observing the rules, she had in tow her plain and clumsy daughter. Although Lady Bassingthwaite was always scrupulously polite Sarah knew she disapproved of her. She guiltily wondered if that was because word had filtered through to her ears of Sarah’s charade impersonating the venerable lady. She’d poked gentle fun at the lofty ideals of propriety for which Lady Bassingthwaite was known when she had pretended that accepting a handkerchief from a gentleman was tantamount to accepting his marriage proposal. Sarah winced. How foolish she had once been.
Fortunately Millicent’s tears provided the diversion Sarah needed. As the two women made for the fireplace, she sidled towards the door.
“I beg your pardon, madam. I did not mean to intrude.” Lady Bassingthwaite cast a distracted glance in Sarah’s direction, but Sarah was not about to respond.
With thundering heart she dashed into the passage and thrust the parchment at the publican with instructions that it find its way to Mr Hawthorne.
To her relief a hackney carriage was waiting by the front entrance and she plunged inside. The excitement of her near discovery had sharpened the edge of tonight’s whole drama, limned by the fact that Mr Hawthorne loved her. After tonight’s dealings with him she needed no further proof.
Sinking back against the squabs as the carriage lurched forward, relief enveloped her.
Mr Hawthorne had called her his angel. He’d made clear that despite banishing her his feelings remained as strong as ever. How Sarah had struggled to beat her impulses into submission when the truth became clear in that close, dimly lit bed chamber, she’d never know.
Lady Bassingthwaite’s stern reminder to her erring daughter was a timely reminder. A girl’s reputation was her most precious commodity and to lose it was worse than death. Roland had admitted that he cared too much for Sarah to jeopardise hers. Now Sarah lay back against the squabs in the happy confidence that once she delivered Caro to Roland, she would have her ‘happy ever after’ ending.
Travelling through the Haymarket at this time of night was a new experience. With fascinated horror, she watched street urchins beg for pennies, and streetwalkers in tawdry, gaudy gowns accost gentleman passers-by. She’d been shielded from the seamier side of life on the occasions her father had escorted her back from the theatre.
Soon, though, her bravado fell away, eroded by the frightening unfamiliarity of the environment once they’d left the entertainment district. Shouts, hisses and catcalls punctuated the night. She snapped the curtain closed when a glimps
e of her face attracted a half admiring, half jeering response from a young man with a dirty face and blackened teeth. And when the hackney turned down a narrow side street and slowed to a stop, her courage nearly failed her.
Sarah Morecroft’s diary identified the street in Marylebone where the widow Hollingsworth kept a girl’s school, but not its number. Rapping on the roof, she put her head out of the window to quiz the jarvey.
“School for young ladies?” The jarvey had smelled of beer when he’d handed her in, and now he gave a scornful laugh as he mimicked her refined accent. “’Ere? Not ’less you mean Sally Hollingsworth’s nunnery wot we’re standing a’front of. Guess yer could call that a school of sorts.”
“Nunnery?” There was little to suggest the ecclesiastical.
“Bawdy ‘ouse, ma’am.”
Terror ripped through her. But no, the man was leering at her, drunkenly. If Sarah believed him, she was lost. She was calling on a respectable widow. One who’d be as shocked and upset as Sarah to learn her son had enticed a gently reared young woman away from her loving home.
The house looked respectable enough, and no different from the other four square buildings with neat iron railings in front. Its blinds were drawn and lights burned in the upper rooms.
But as the jarvey set down the steps she was beset by indecision. If this were a house of ill repute, she’d be a fool to venture out of the carriage. She should contain her desperate impatience and return with Roland, later.
“So wot yer plannin’ on doin’ then, miss?” asked the jarvey, holding open the door. “If you’ve the blunt I can stay ’ere all night.”
She glanced the length of the dim street. Caro was inside, she was almost certain. What choice did she have? Roland was gripped by fever and quite beyond moving further than the posting inn.
“I’ll pay you half a crown if you’ll come with me, now. Double that amount when you return me to the Crown and Anchor.”
He responded with alacrity, though Sarah’s relief was tempered by his difficulty in keeping his balance. Still, his intimidating size kept her fear in check as she waited for an answer to her knock.
The door opened and a young woman of about twenty regarded her, suspiciously.
“What yer after?” she asked.
She did not look like a servant girl. Instead of cotton print she wore a flashy gown of mauve and yellow satin. Nor did she look — much less talk — like Mr Hollingsworth’s sister and, in fact, laughed uproariously at that suggestion.
“Me name’s Kitty,” she told her. “If you’s come looking fer him yer outta luck. He ain’t in.”
“What about Mrs Hollingsworth?”
“D’yer mean his wife or his muvver?”
Sarah gasped. His wife? Could that mean Caro? Or did he already have a wife?
Whatever this place was, Sarah had come too far to turn back, now.
“Well, mightn’t be no matter to you as to which one,” said her informant in answer to her question, “fer old Mrs Hollingsworth is out, too, and the young one won’t see no one. But if yer that anxious then you might as well come through and wait.”
Sarah turned to the jarvey. “Stay with me,” she whispered and, though grumbling that he ‘ought to see she had the blunt to pay ’im first’ he stumbled after her down a dimly lit corridor and through green velvet curtains into a well lit room beyond.
“More privacy here where you and your … gennelmun friend can wait. They shouldn’t be too long. Just a-visiting, and things don’t get busy for a little while yet.”
Sarah glanced around at her surroundings, her eyes dropping quickly from the Bacchanalian oil painting above the fire place.
Trying to retain a dignified composure, she said, “Please tell the young lady upstairs that her old governess is here. She’ll see me, I know it.”
Kitty looked Sarah in the eye and sighed. “Tain’t worth it to me, miss. Girl’s not allowed to leave the ’ouse.”
Her words occasioned both relief and alarm. At least she’d come to the right place.
Sarah fished in her reticule and brandished a half crown at her. For a second Kitty stared at it longingly, but at the sound of new arrivals she dashed Sarah’s hand away.
“Hide it!” she hissed, nodding at the coin and looking furtively at the curtained doorway. “And don’t go offering ’ticements like that to the madam. It won’t go down well.”
“Ah, Kitty. Visitors so early?” chirped a female voice. The curtain was drawn aside and an enormously fat woman entered. Although well past her prime she wore her hair in girlish ringlets, their golden hue contrasting strangely with the grey pallor of her skin. Her dress of red silk, too, looked as if it had been designed for a sylph. Cut indecently low, it clung to her rolls of fat, leaving nothing to the imagination.
But it was the man next to her who chilled Sarah’s blood.
Like the woman he appeared surprised, before his face split in a sly grin. Not this time the charming boyish smile for the ingenuous governess as he regarded Sarah, speculatively.
“What a deliciously unexpected surprise,” he purred, brushing aside the lock of brown, curling hair that flopped over his forehead. “Alone? Or is this … er … gentleman your companion? An unlikely coupling, I must say.”
“My friend has agreed to bear me company while I make enquiries about Caro. I believe I have come to the right place.” Sarah’s tone was far bolder than she felt, but she had to take the risk. Although the bull-like jarvey was the worse for drink, he looked as if he could fell Mr Hollingsworth with an idle flick of the wrist.
“Caro?” frowned the young man, pretending to search his memory while ushering Sarah to a chair with unctuous care. “Refreshment, Lady Sarah? Kitty, if you please-?
“Kitty, love,” his mother cut in, “you do realize the time, and that you’re not yet painted?” With a thoughtful frown followed by a saccharine smile, she added, “I’ll fetch our esteemed guests some refreshment.”
“And please tell my dear wife she has a visitor,” added Mr Hollingsworth.
Settling himself in a delicate gilt chair opposite Sarah, Mr Hollingsworth regarded her, quizzically. “Lady Sarah, I confess to astonishment. Both to seeing you here, and at the very ungallant behaviour of Mr Hawthorne.” He shook his head. “Leaving you with the responsibility of tracking down his errant daughter. I can’t imagine how he knew where to send you since I had not yet made contact with him regarding … ah … terms.”
Mrs Hollingsworth soon returned, followed by a child carrying a tray. Sarah accepted the wine she was offered, which she had no intention of drinking, and watched with dismay as the jarvey downed his ale greedily.
Mrs Hawthorne settled her formidable bulk upon a gilded Egyptian sofa. “Now, dearie, what’s this all about?” she asked. But despite her smile and the fact her tone was designed to put Sarah at ease, there was the glint of steel in her small, pig-like eyes.
“Mr Hawthorne will be here to fetch Caro, shortly,” Sarah said, bravely, hoping the threat of reinforcements would help her cause. Burying her clammy hands in the folds of her primrose skirts to hide their trembling, she went on, “I came ahead to this address, believing that you, Mrs Hollingsworth, would be horrified to learn of Caro’s disappearance in company with your son. However, as Mr Hollingsworth is already married, I see we misread the situation and should be grateful to you both for providing Caro with a refuge. If she was running away, please tell her she is forgiven. It would be best for everyone if we took her home, now.”
Unfortunately, the Hollingsworths were not inclined to take the avenue with which Sarah had provided them.
“Best leave the negotiations to Mr Hawthorne, dear,” said Mrs Hollingsworth with exaggerated condescension. She was about to go on when soft-slippered footsteps sounded in the passage.
“I’m glad to see you in such good health, Lady Sarah.” The familiar brown-haired young woman framed in the doorway acknowledged Sarah with a thin smile. “It has been a while.” The voice
, soft and slightly breathless, was as Sarah remembered, but the lively Miss Morecroft she’d known on board ship was now a dispirited creature. Although she no longer wore homespun, the tawdry green satin gown looked out of place against her sallow complexion and plainly dressed hair.
Conscious that her own behaviour was not unblemished, Sarah nodded warily at the woman whose identity she had assumed these past six weeks. When Caro failed to appear in her wake, she took the offensive. Sarah might have acted the opportunist in upholding the assumption she was Miss Morecroft, but Miss Morecroft’s actions had been far more calculated and wicked. She levelled an accusingly look at her. “I believe I can thank you for leading Caro to this place.”
“You attribute too much to me,” the young woman protested softly, looking away, but Mr Hollingsworth, who had risen at her entrance, took her elbow and drew her to the seat beside him, declaring, “Such modesty, my angel, for I could have achieved nothing without you. Let us toast Divine Providence for joining our fates upon the slippery deck of that doomed ship.”
Sarah seized her opportunity while their attention was for the moment elsewhere. She was halfway to the door when Mrs Hollingsworth purred, “You’re surely not leaving us, my dear?”
Sarah swallowed. She had to get out of here. The cloying atmosphere of cheap perfume and the smoke from the coal fire was nauseating. “If Caro is sleeping I would not have her disturbed. Mr Hawthorne will be here shortly.”
Mr Hollingsworth smiled. “Where could Mr Hawthorne be?” Rising, he cast a quizzical look at Sarah. “Somehow I fancied a lady of your determination preferred the more forceful type.”
Sarah glared, silently ordering the jarvey to his feet with an imperious look. Rubbing his drink-sodden eyes, he followed her to the door. With her hand finally on the knob, Sarah gave them her haughtiest look. “Mr Hawthorne is the consummate gentleman – something you will never be!”
“Dearie me!” said Mrs Hollingsworth, her brassy ringlets bobbing as she leant forward. “It seems you’re uncommonly taken with our esteemed friend—” A great crash drowned her words.
Lady Sarah's Redemption Page 14