by Brenda Hiatt
"My lady?"
Stuffing the notes back into her pocket, she whirled to smile brilliantly up at Lord Ribbleton. "My apologies, my lord! I wished to escape the crowd for a moment between dances. I am ready to resume now, however."
"Allow me to congratulate you again, my lady," he said as they took their places, as though their conversation at the embassy reception had never occurred.
Sarah inclined her head graciously. This was another man from whom she could steal without a qualm. Alert therefore for opportunities, she paid close attention to the accessibility of Lord Ribbleton's pockets as their dance progressed. During their first promenade she was able to explore his right coat pocket, but felt only a quizzing glass.
During the second she managed to slip her hand into his left pocket without his noticing and closed her fist around something that felt like more bank notes. The coins she left, realizing that it would take more than she could carry to pay William's ransom. Notes were both lighter and quieter.
A quick check at the conclusion of the dance showed that she had added another £165 to her collection, and then Peter was claiming her for the first waltz of the evening. Suddenly, all thoughts of money, or even of her brother, fled.
"You're . . . you're sure you want to do this?" she asked nervously. "I am bound to embarrass myself —and you, too."
"Nonsense," he said smoothly. "The waltz is quite a simple dance, really. Here, let's move to a corner of the floor, where we'll be less visible until you get the hang of it."
The prospect causing her heart to pound in a way picking pockets had not, Sarah allowed him to lead her along the edge of the assembling dancers. "What . . . what do I do?"
"I'll show you." His voice exuded such confidence that she felt herself relaxing despite her doubts. "Place your left hand on my shoulder, so, and your right one in my left."
She complied, trying to ignore the thrill that went through her at such close contact, bringing as it did memories of what had passed between them last night. Then he placed his right hand at her waist— dangerously close to the pocket beneath her dress holding her purloined bank notes —and heightened the contact further, so that she could scarcely think at all.
The music began, and he moved his lips to within inches of her ear so that he could be heard over it without those nearby overhearing. "Now, in time to the music, one, two, three, one, two three. No, the other foot. There."
She felt exceedingly awkward, certain that the whole room was staring at her, though a quick glance about— which made her stumble —belied that. No doubt they had all just looked away in embarrassment, pitying her.
"A bit faster," he murmured. "In time to the music, remember? Like this."
All around them, she saw couples turning, around and around, their steps flawless. Peter, she noticed, had wisely not attempted turning her yet. Silently counting, she quickened her steps to match his, acutely aware of his hand against her back, warm and firm. He would never let her fall, however badly she might stumble. She smiled up at him gratefully.
"That's better," he said. "A dance is supposed to be enjoyed, not endured. You're doing famously, Sarah."
By the end of the waltz, Sarah was almost enjoying herself. Her keen sense of balance and quick reflexes stood her in good stead, making her a quick study. She was even able to execute a few turns without disgracing herself.
"You see?" Peter said as the dance concluded. "You fit into this world far better than you expected —just as I knew you would. I am the envy of every man here."
Sarah's smile felt stiff on her lips, though she hoped that did not show. Fit in? When she was forced to steal from her dance partners? What would Peter say if he knew? At the thought, she felt color creeping up her neck and turned hastily away.
"I think you exaggerate, my lord, but I thank you." Her words sounded more formal than she'd intended. She tried to soften the effect with another, more genuine smile. "You seem to bring out the best in me," she added, forcing that other matter from her mind. In the ways that mattered most, it was true.
With Peter she felt pretty, polished, special. As though she was capable of all he could wish. Perhaps, with practice, that fantasy might become reality.
"And you in me," he responded warmly, gazing intently into her eyes.
Her color deepened further, but now she made no effort to hide it. "Really?"
He nodded. "I was merely drifting through life until I met you, Sarah, trying to forget —to find meaning in the ordering of other people's affairs. But now I find my own life far more interesting."
She parted her lips to ask what he needed to forget, only to find herself wishing that he could kiss her, that she could will the crowd around them to disappear. His eyes darkened as he held her gaze, tightening his grip on her hand, pulling her fractionally closer. Her eyelids fluttered closed.
"My dance, I believe, Lady Peter?" came Mr. Galloway's voice at her elbow.
Sarah's eyes snapped open and Peter hastily released her, looking slightly embarrassed. "Of . . . of course, Mr. Galloway," she stammered.
He glanced from her to Peter and back, grinning. "Newlyweds shouldn't venture out in public so soon after the wedding. I'll return her the moment the dance ends, Lord Peter, never fear."
Blushing, Sarah accompanied him to the set just forming. If she was to pilfer any more money tonight, she needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible —and now half the room seemed to be grinning and winking at her, and at Peter behind her.
"I'd worried the Mountheaths forced you into this match," Mr. Galloway confided as she curtsied and he bowed. "But that's clearly not the case. I wish you every happiness."
Sarah abandoned the idea of picking his pocket during the dance. "Thank you. I hope we will be."
"Wish I could have beaten him to the punch," he continued. "Wish I could have afforded to try, at any rate."
The dance separated them then, and Sarah considered his words. Without her deception, she and Peter probably would have an excellent chance of happiness, despite the disparity of their stations. How could a marriage flourish without trust, however?
Feeling suddenly guilty again, she glanced over to where she'd left Peter, to see him talking with Lady Beatrice Bagford —her first victim. They appeared to be deep in conversation. About what? A prickle of what could only be jealousy went through her.
"I confess I was dismayed to learn of your marriage on two counts," said Mr. Galloway as they came face to face again just then. "Not only are you lost to me, but I'd hoped you might act as my confederate to further my suit with Miss Lucy Mountheath."
Sarah pulled her gaze from the picture presented by Peter and Lady Beatrice with an effort. "Why should you need my help?"
He shrugged. "It seems Lady Mountheath does not quite approve of me. I'd hoped you might intervene on my behalf."
In fact, Sarah could not blame Lady Mountheath for her caution, much as she disliked agreeing with her. Mr. Galloway had never indicated by word or look that he loved Lucy— quite the reverse, in fact. Clearly he was only besotted by her fortune.
"I'm sorry," she said firmly. "I fear I will have no opportunity to help you, as I've had not one private word with Lucy myself since my wedding, nor am I likely to have."
He bowed, only the slightest trace of frustration in his face. "Of course. I assumed as much. Again, I wish you all happiness, my lady."
Sarah watched him go with a frown, wondering if she should warn Lady Mountheath, or Lucy herself —not that either was likely to listen to anything she might say. At any rate, she had more pressing matters to consider just now. Turning back to where Peter had been standing, she found both he and Lady Beatrice were gone.
When she turned to scan the room, however, she was immediately accosted by Mr. Pottinger, her next partner. As they took their places, she realized that Peter was in the same set— opposite Lady Beatrice. The music began and she was struck by the parallel to her first ball.
Peter caught her eye then and
smiled —an intimate smile that reminded her of just how different things were, despite surface appearances. Tonight she would go home with Peter, secure in the knowledge that he desired her, that he cared for her—
"A penny for your thoughts, Lady Peter," Mr. Pottinger said, recalling her abruptly to the dance —and just as well. She still had much to do before going home tonight.
"I was simply counting the ways in which my life has changed over the past week," she replied, more or less truthfully.
The older man smiled. "Your good fortune could not have been bestowed on a more worthy object. Lord Peter is a very lucky man."
People kept saying that, and she could only hope when all was done that Peter would not violently disagree. Glancing down the line of dancers, she decided she dared not attempt anyone's pocket with Peter in the same set. His eyes were far too sharp.
Instead, she did all she could to make herself agreeable to each person she passed as the dance progressed. It was entirely possible, after all, that she would need every friend she could cultivate, should her plans go awry.
"You're doing splendidly," Peter whispered when he briefly partnered her as she moved down the line. "I'm proud of you."
His words caused a knife of guilt to twist in her belly. She had promised him not to steal again. If he knew, he would surely feel she had betrayed him. "Peter," she said urgently, but then the dance moved them apart again.
Of course she could not tell him— not here. Perhaps not ever. She must keep her focus on William until he was free. Then, and only then, could she work on making her marriage all it could be.
When the set concluded, she excused herself and headed toward the ladies' withdrawing room. She had kept the dance before the supper dance free, with an eye to her goal for the evening. Glancing back, she saw Peter joining another set. Good! That gave her fifteen minutes before she need worry about him seeking her.
On reaching the alcove, she was joined by two other ladies headed in the same direction. Smiling a greeting, she accompanied them into the withdrawing room —a small antechamber with a screen in one corner, shielding the necessary. Sarah stood before the mirror, pretending to adjust the flowers in her hair until the others were occupied, then she left. For a mercy, the hallway was empty, so she quickly slipped through the door to the balcony.
It was now even chillier outside than before, but that did not concern her. Stepping away from the glass door, she moved to the low wall separating this section of balcony from the next. Making certain no one could see her from the house or the street, she hiked up her skirts and clambered over it.
The windows of the next house were dark— perhaps its inhabitants were here at the Wittington's ball. She tried the first door and when the handle turned she breathed a sigh of relief that the family had not bothered to lock such a seemingly inaccessible portal.
Once inside, she tiptoed through a large hall similar to the one next door, to the passage beyond, wondering where bank notes would most likely be kept. The bedchambers, perhaps, but the risk of encountering a servant there seemed too great. Instead, she crept down the stairs to the dimly lit ground floor and into a room that appeared to serve as a sort of office or study.
Her heart in her throat for fear some footman or maid might come to tend the fire, she hurriedly searched the desk and the small table next to it. Opening drawer after drawer, she was about to give up in despair, all too conscious of the minutes ticking past, when she found a small key.
She held her breath as she turned back to the table, which contained a small, locked cabinet. Fitting the key into the lock, she opened it. Success! Next to a neat set of ledger books was a sheaf of bank notes. Not bothering to count them, she stuffed them into her pocket.
With trembling fingers, she relocked the cabinet, returned the key to its drawer, then retraced her steps as quickly as she could without making a sound. Climbing too hastily back over the low terrace wall, she grazed her knee so badly that tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away impatiently, then paused until she again felt in command of herself.
A glimpse through the window showed a steady stream of ladies going to and from the withdrawing room. How was she to get back inside without being seen? She waited . . . and waited, growing colder by the minute.
Not until she could hear the faint strains of the waltz signaling the supper dance did the hallway empty. Seizing her chance, Sarah slipped back inside, then hurried in search of Peter, who would surely be wondering where she'd gone.
"There you are," he greeted her before she'd taken three steps into the ballroom. "Where—? Why, your hands are like ice!" Taking her gloved fingers between his own, he chafed them.
"I, ah, stepped out onto the terrace for a moment," she said, realizing that excuse would also serve in case anyone had seen her leave or return that way. "I was feeling rather warm, but I fear I stayed out there overlong."
His look was so understanding her breath caught, but then he said, "You were bothered by the crowds again? You should have told me. Are you equal to this dance, do you think?"
"Of . . . of course." She allowed him to lead her to the floor, where the dance had already begun, again struggling with her conscience. Fortunately she was still too inexperienced at the waltz to attempt much in the way of conversation.
"We'll leave right after supper, if you'd like," he suggested as the dance concluded, his expression still concerned —which only served to make her feel more wicked than ever.
"I should prefer that, I think." Certainly, she had stolen enough for one night —more than she'd expected to manage. Unless she missed her guess, she already had close to six hundred pounds.
Other couples joined them for supper, helping to divert Sarah's thoughts from her dishonesty with their chatter. Once alone with Peter in the carriage, however, she again felt oppressed by what she had done.
Shaken by an intense longing to tell him the truth, she cast about for something, anything, else to say. "Earlier tonight you mentioned that you had been 'trying to forget.' Forget what?"
When he did not answer, Sarah glanced up to discover him frowning into the distance, a haunted look in his eyes. "Peter?" she prompted softly.
With a start, he seemed to recall himself. "My apologies. I suppose it is only fair you know, though it's not something I like to discuss —or even think about."
She remained silent, waiting for whatever he felt willing to tell her. After another long pause, he recommenced.
"War is a damnable thing, Sarah. Necessary at times, but damnable —and it changes a man. I've tried to fight that change, but it's there, whether I acknowledge it or not."
"What happened?" she whispered, not certain she wanted to know, but feeling instinctively that he needed to tell her.
"Too many terrible things. But the events that haunt me most occurred near the end of the war— indeed, after Paris had already fallen to the allies. It should have been a simple matter, mopping up a pocket of resistance, but we were ambushed. I lost more than a dozen men— young men, whom it was my responsibility to bring safely home to their mothers and sweethearts."
Sarah took his hand, longing to erase the pain in his eyes. "Surely they knew the risks. It was war, after all."
"Yes, it was war. But as much as I regret those losses, I regret even more the things I did to prevent greater ones. Or so I justified my actions at the time. In retrospect, I believe I was at least partially driven by vengeance."
He sighed, then continued when she did not respond. "I'll not burden you with the details, but suffice to say that I ordered —and participated in—the slaughter of a group of raw French recruits we should have been able to capture and disarm. And, God help me, in my fury at my losses I reveled in doing so. Until it was over. The rest of my men were safe, but at a dreadful cost."
This was a side of Peter she never would have suspected. Still, she tried to help him come to terms with his guilt. "I doubt your actions were more excessive than any other commander's would ha
ve been."
"Excessive?" He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I received a commendation and a bonus for my actions. Actions that would never have been necessary had I not led my men into the situation in the first place."
"But if it was an ambush, you can scarcely blame yourself."
He shook his head impatiently. "Our recent victories made me cocky. I should have been more on my guard. I had reason to suspect our movements were known to the enemy —that there was a traitor still operating."
Sarah felt a chill spread through her belly. "A traitor?"
"The very one I mentioned to you before," he said, confirming her fear. "The recently captured Black Bishop —and Saint of Seven Dials. Now, perhaps, you can understand why I was so determined to disassociate you from that name —why I won't be satisfied until he, and all who helped him, hang for their crimes. For my men. For . . . for what they made me do."
"Yes," she whispered.
Yes, she finally understood. She understood that she could never tell him the truth about William, or about herself. She understood, in fact, that she'd have done better to go back to a life on the streets than bind herself to this man who could never sympathize with what her brother had done. With what she had done.
Yes, she understood —now that it was too late to draw back her hand from the course upon which she had embarked tonight.
Belatedly, she realized the carriage had stopped. Peter assisted her down the step, then escorted her into the house. "Would you care to join me in a brandy?" he asked. "I fear I have unsettled your nerves along with my own."
She shook her head, her main concern to hide the money she had stolen tonight as quickly as possible. "I am tired enough that I shall sleep well without it, I suspect."
Bending down, he examined her face with a thoroughness that brought unwilling color to her cheeks. "Sarah? Was I wrong to tell you what I did? Have I changed how you regard me?"
"No, of course not," she said quickly— perhaps too quickly. "I'm merely tired, as I said. Truly, I am glad you told me."