by Brenda Hiatt
Lady Mountheath turned an irritated glance on her. "Neither will do, of course. My girls will have to see what other castoffs they have that you might use for the duration of your stay with us. I refuse to allow you to embarrass us. I trust Mrs. Hounslow is actively pursuing that governess position you mentioned?"
"I believe so, my lady." Sarah carefully kept her tone polite, mindful of her goal. "I will send a note to her tomorrow, if you'd like, asking her to redouble her efforts."
"Yes, please do." Turning her back to Sarah, Lady Mountheath began instructing Lucy on how she was to behave on the morrow if she hoped to bring Lord Peter up to scratch.
"But I don't particularly want to marry him, Mama," Lucy protested, "though it will be nice to have him dancing attendance on me. He is too far down the line to inherit, nor is he very rich. He hasn't even his own estate or town house!"
"When a girl reaches six-and-twenty, she can't afford to be so choosy," her mother bluntly informed her. Now it was the younger Fanny's turn to smirk. "The son of a duke is nothing to sneeze at, even if his fortune isn't all we could wish."
Sarah tried to ignore the unpleasant byplay, but couldn't help wondering why the thought of Lucy marrying Lord Peter sent her spirits into her shoes. To distract herself, she focused on what she hoped to accomplish tomorrow, though in truth she could think of little besides seeing Lord Peter again.
CHAPTER 3
"I don't know why you're still grousing," Peter said as he and Harry settled themselves into the comfortable, wing-backed chairs in Marcus's library. "I'm the one who'll have to put up with Lucy Mountheath's inane chatter while you admire Miss Killian's lovely face."
"I'll have to listen to that shrew's chatter as well, as we'll all be in the carriage together," Harry pointed out, reaching for the port bottle on the nearby table to refill the glass he'd already emptied.
Peter moved the bottle out of his reach. "Marcus offered me the use of his house, not his cellars," he said mildly. "My brother will undoubtedly expect to find a few bottles left on his return."
Lord Marcus Northrup, Peter's younger brother, was away on a belated wedding trip with his new bride, visiting a property to the North they had recently purchased. Until Marcus's marriage, Peter and his older brother Andrew had shared this house with him. As Peter had yet to find new lodgings, Marcus had suggested he stay here, rather than at their father's ducal mansion, while Marcus was gone.
"Can't think why you brought me into this at all," Harry protested. "If you wanted to drive out with Miss Killian, why not ask to do just that?"
Peter debated for a moment before answering. "I had the impression you rather . . . admired Miss Killian. Thought you might like the chance to spend some time with her," he said casually.
Not casually enough.
"Damn it, Pete, is that what this is about?" Harry demanded, sitting upright. "You've hinted I should go the same route as poor Jack, and I've told you my feelings on the matter in no uncertain terms. It's bad enough you abetted Jack's marriage, and your brother's. Don't aim any of your damned matchmaking at me!" He pulled the port bottle out of Peter's hand.
Peter let him have it. "Sorry, old boy, you're right. It's not my business." He, of all people, should have remembered that no amount of drink seemed to cloud Harry's perceptions when it came to important matters.
"Glad you realize that." Harry drained another glass. "Can't deny Miss Killian is a taking thing, but I can't see that harridan Mountheath letting her out for a tumble, and I'm not interested in anything more, I assure you."
Peter abruptly abandoned his half-formed plan. Harry and Miss Killian clearly would not suit. "In that case, I apologize for speaking for you. It's just a drive, however. An hour of your life. Once it's over, you need think no more of the matter —or of Miss Killian."
Harry regarded him shrewdly. "So, I wasn't far wrong to begin with. You're rather taken with the new beauty's charms yourself."
Damn Harry's perceptiveness! "I won't deny she's the prettiest thing I've seen this year and quick-witted besides," he confessed, "but I wouldn't have suggested the drive had I not thought you interested as well."
"I abandon the field to you," said Harry with a wave of his hand. "Dare I hope this means you've finally realized you can't keep meddling in your friends' lives to avoid living your own?"
Peter frowned and looked away. "I don't know what you mean."
"The devil you don't," Harry retorted, making Peter wince. "Ever since the mop-up at Toulouse, you've been a different man— this frivolous dandy you affect. You cluck over trivia while ignoring everything that makes life worth living— including women. Anything that might make you remember what you once were."
"What I once was is overrated," Peter snapped. "The blood of two hundred young—"
"Not your fault, Pete, and you know it," Harry insisted, cutting him off. "It was an ambush. There was a traitor."
A traitor indeed, Peter thought —one who would now face justice. But what of his accomplices? He'd heard the Saint of Seven Dials had a small army of street urchins helping him. They must be guilty of treason as well.
"Besides," Harry continued, as though echoing his thoughts, "you made them pay for it. I never saw such—"
Peter cut him off. "That's enough! I went too far." With an effort, he forced the ugly memory from his mind. "Let's talk about something else."
Harry shrugged. "As you wish. Miss Killian, perhaps?"
"I'm curious about her, that's all," Peter said. Though she would be a pleasant distraction, he realized that he was still not ready to risk any sort of involvement —anything that might pierce the careful armor he'd built around his emotions.
"Doubt you'd be so curious if she were an antidote," Harry replied, grinning. "But call it what you like. As you say, it's but an hour out of my life to watch you at your wooing."
"I'm not—" Peter broke off at Harry's grin and shook his head. "Very well, I deserved that. But it's only an hour out of my life, as well. Then we can both turn our minds to other things."
He rather doubted an hour in Miss Killian's company would allow him to solve the mystery she represented, however. And risky as it might be to spend too much time with her, her mystery was surely safer than the other one that beckoned. For he itched to know the whole story of the Black Bishop, erstwhile Saint of Seven Dials —and his accomplices.
* * *
By five o'clock the next day, Sarah was beyond eager for her promised drive in the Park.
A half-formed plan of slipping out of the house once everyone was abed the night before had been foiled on discovering the door to her attic room locked from the outside, with no key in evidence. It had been but poor consolation to realize that Lady Mountheath had likely taken that precaution against her husband creeping into Sarah's chamber during the night.
When released from her chamber, Sarah had noted with interest that all of the attic rooms appeared to have identical locks on the doors. On returning upstairs after breakfast, she had pilfered a key from an open, empty room. A quick test confirmed that it would indeed operate her own lock, solving that particular problem for the future.
So far, however, she'd been given no opportunity to escape the house. The housekeeper had questioned her thoroughly about her skills, then put her to work in the stillroom, infusing tisanes and measuring out herbs. The last stillroom maid had been fired for idleness months before, so the family store of physics had grown dangerously low.
Now she was dressed in another old gown of Fanny's, this one an unattractive shade of dull green with yellow trim. She didn't care. In a few minutes she would be out of the house —and she would see Lord Peter again.
Even as she reminded herself not to nurse foolish hopes, a knock came at the door and a moment later Hodge, the butler, announced Lord Peter and Mr. Thatcher. Lucy and her mother hurried forward at once, while Sarah merely stood, waiting.
"Good afternoon, my lord," Lady Mountheath exclaimed. "May I offer you some refreshment be
fore you set out? And you too, of course, Mr. Thatcher," she added as such an obvious afterthought that it bordered on insult.
"Thank you, no," Lord Peter replied. Sarah thought she discerned a faint frown at his hostess's rudeness, though Mr. Thatcher took no notice. "We are eager to take advantage of the fine weather."
"Of course, of course." Lady Mountheath gave her daughter a fond glance. "Your eagerness is most commendable. Have you your parasol, Lucy? You don't want to spoil your complexion."
Though Sarah was a good deal fairer than her cousin, her lack of any shade beyond her bonnet was not deemed worthy of comment. Lucy displayed the required item, and the group headed outdoors to the waiting curricle, Fanny lamenting audibly as they went.
The gentlemen helped the ladies up, then seated themselves, Mr. Thatcher next to Sarah and Lord Peter next to Lucy, directly facing Sarah. At a word from Lord Peter, the coachman whipped up the horses and they trotted off.
"It is ever so nice a day for a drive, don't you agree?" Lucy asked with what was no doubt intended as a flirtatious smile for Lord Peter.
He assented, then turned to Sarah. "Is the sun too bright for you, Miss Killian?"
"Not at all, thank you, my lord. It is quite late in the day, after all." She was grateful he refrained from mentioning her missing parasol, as she did not own one.
"Late in the day?" Mr. Thatcher echoed with a yawn. "Why, I've only been awake three hours. The day has scarcely begun."
Lucy primmed up her mouth at this evidence of Mr. Thatcher's debauchery and turned again to Lord Peter. "Surely you do not keep such hours, my lord?"
He shook his head. "I'm generally up well before noon, Miss Mountheath. Today I was awake by nine."
"I'm glad to hear it." She then proceeded to describe a shopping trip she and her sister had taken the morning before and Sarah was able to turn her attention to their surroundings, examining the grand houses, manicured gardens and clean streets of Mayfair with interest.
She found herself glancing hopefully at every boy they passed, and had to remind herself that William was no longer a lad of eight, but would have just turned sixteen. Sixteen! He was nearly a man. Would she even recognize him now? He must have been working at something all these years, and she feared it might be thievery. But then a worse possibility occurred to her.
"At what age can boys enlist in the army?" she asked, interrupting a detailed description of a bonnet Lucy had bought.
The gentlemen glanced at her in surprise, while Lucy looked outraged. "I beg your pardon," Lucy began, but then Lord Peter interrupted her, earning him a glare of his own.
"Sixteen," he said, "though well-grown lads of as young as thirteen or fourteen have been known to falsify their ages to join the fighting. Why?"
Sarah relaxed marginally, feeling a bit foolish. "I was merely curious," she said. "I was thinking about the war, about all of the lives lost, and how dreadful it was for the . . . mothers who lost sons." Lord Peter regarded her with open curiosity.
"An interesting, if melancholy, train of thought. Did you know someone who lost a son to the war?"
"Melancholy indeed!" Lucy exclaimed before Sarah could answer. "Might we please talk of more cheerful things? The war has been over this year and more, after all."
Sarah was quite happy to drop the subject. "My apologies. By all means, resume your riveting tale."
Though she frowned suspiciously, Lucy resumed her monologue after only the barest hesitation. As before, Lord Peter seemed politely attentive, but his occasional glances at Sarah made her wonder just what he was thinking. Mr. Thatcher appeared to be dozing.
They had entered the Park now, and as it was the fashionable hour, the paths were thronged with pedestrians, riders and carriages. This was another part of London new to Sarah —and one she realized she could learn to enjoy.
Suddenly, her gaze sharpened. That boy, there, throwing stones into the Serpentine . . . could it possibly be? Fair, unkempt hair, threadbare clothes, and a certain familiar cockiness to the way he held himself . . . Her heart began to race.
The boy looked to be about the right age, she thought, particularly if he hadn't been eating well all this time. As the carriaged continued on, she craned her neck to keep the boy in view. If only he would turn, so she could see his face—
"Something of interest, Miss Killian?" asked Mr. Thatcher, apparently not asleep after all.
Though it tore at her heart to do so, Sarah pulled her gaze from the boy and forced a smile. "Everything, actually. I've never been to the Park before."
Mr. Thatcher glanced around, then shrugged. "I suppose novelty can add interest to anything."
She was glad he seemed disinclined to probe further —but then she encountered Lord Peter's eye again. For a long moment, he held her gaze, one eyebrow raised, before turning back to Lucy, who nattered on, oblivious.
After a moment, Sarah risked a glance over her shoulder, but she could no longer see the boy she had marked. Somehow, tonight, she must find a way to begin her search for William.
* * *
"No matter I owe you my life twice over," Harry said as he and Peter drove away from the Mountheath house. "This past hour should have discharged my obligation and put you in my debt. I've never been so bored in my life."
Peter sent his friend a crooked smile. "I'll not ask you to make such a sacrifice again, though I confess I found our drive— intriguing."
"Intriguing? I trust you don't mean Miss Mountheath's conversation, since I doubt a thought ever enters her empty head without escaping through her mouth."
"I noticed," Peter agreed with a chuckle. "No, I was referring to Miss Killian. There's more there than meets the eye, I'm convinced."
Harry shrugged. "What meets the eye is enough for me. She's a deuced pretty thing, even in such an ugly dress. Presented properly, she'd take the town by storm."
Peter thought the same, but wasn't paticularly gratified to know that Harry shared his sentiments. "Indeed. But I was noticing something else. I believe she may be looking for something —or someone."
"Think she had an assignation in the Park, then? Quick work, if she only arrived in Town yesterday."
"Not an assignation, no." At least, Peter preferred not to think so. "She did seem preoccupied, however."
"Can't say I blame her," Harry said. "No one could be expected to concentrate on Miss Mountheath's blatherings —though you appeared to give it a noble effort."
"I try to avoid being rude." Peter wondered if he wouldn't live to regret this particular act of gallantry, however. Judging by Miss Mountheath's self-satisfied triumph upon saying her goodbyes, she no doubt expected an offer within days.
Much as he'd have preferred to avoid all of the Mountheaths, Peter saw no way to pursue the mystery that was Miss Killian without calling at their house again. He hadn't missed Miss Killian's bereft look when her attention had been called away from whatever she was staring at.
What was her purpose in coming to London, really? Anyone would need a powerful inducement to stay with the Mountheaths. Perhaps it was time he made a few inquiries.
* * *
Dinner seemed to drag on interminably. The Mountheaths were engaged to go to the theatre after the meal, and as Lord Mountheath said nothing about staying behind, Lady Mountheath was happy to exclude Sarah from the outing. Much as she'd have liked to see a theatrical performance, Sarah was relieved. This would finally be the opportunity she needed.
"Goodness, look at the time," Lady Mountheath exclaimed, finally rising. "Girls, run upstairs for your wraps while we call for the carriage. You," she said, turning to Sarah, "may start on that mending Mrs. Grimble set out for you in the maids' cupboard."
"Very well." Sarah tried to sound disappointed, not wanting the others to suspect how little she wished to accompany them. Not that the ladies were paying attention to her anyway. Lord Mountheath's eyes lingered on her for a long moment, but then he followed his wife from the dining room.
Sarah waited u
ntil she heard Lord Mountheath's heavy tread on the stairs, then headed to the maids' cupboard, a small room beneath the servants' stairs at the rear of the house. The stack of mending wasn't as high as she'd feared —she should be able to complete it in an hour or so. She carried it up to her room and barely noticed when the family left for the theater.
On finishing the sewing, she went to her door and listened. The house was quiet —no doubt the staff were relaxing in the kitchens. Already she'd noticed the grimaces the maids and footmen made behind their employers' backs. The servants doubtless took advantage of every opportunity to leave off work and share their latest grievances.
Quickly, Sarah changed from her ugly borrowed finery into one of her old gray school gowns and snatched up the mobcap she had worn in the stillroom earlier that day. Stopping frequently to listen for anyone who might see or interrupt her, she slipped down the servants' stairs and out the back door, then across the garden and out the gate, into the mews. She was free.
Stuffing her flaxen hair into the mobcap, she hurried along the alleyway behind the great houses. Not until she was two streets away did she slow her pace and take stock of her surroundings. At this hour, there was more carriage than foot traffic in Mayfair, and the majority of pedestrians appeared to be footmen running errands or tradesmen and laborers heading home to less exalted parts of the city.
She headed in that direction herself, for if William had returned to London, it seemed likely he'd have gone back to their old haunts near Drury Lane, where he had friends. Several times she stopped lads near William's age to ask if they knew him, but none did, not surprisingly.
After an hour she turned back, afraid her absence might be marked if she stayed away too long. Reentering Mayfair, she finally admitted to herself that she had likely set herself an impossible task. Approaching a broad intersection, Sarah saw a crossing-sweeper shouldering his broom as he abandoned his post for the night and resolved to try one last time.