by Brenda Hiatt
But she turned away from him. "I don't believe so, but you may not agree. Oh, Peter, if I were the only one at risk, I would tell you in an instant." She turned back to stare pleadingly up at him. "You must believe that."
He swallowed the bitter bile that rose in his throat, the suffocating suspicion that perhaps it was not her brother, but someone else she was protecting. What else might she think he would regard as seriously as murder, if not adultery? He reminded himself of how innocent she'd been on their wedding night . . . but then recalled how innocent she had acted the day after her last thefts.
Suddenly weary, he moved to the chaise longue and stretched himself upon it. "Go to bed, Sarah."
For a long moment she hesitated, then turned toward the four-poster and removed her wrapper to reveal a near-transparent chemise before climbing beneath the sheets. Disappointed, angry, even disgusted at he was, Peter could not control his body's response to that glimpse of the delights he was deliberately denying himself.
Sternly, he willed his body to quiescence, for to give in now was out of the question. She had all but confirmed his worst fear—that she was indeed meeting another man. Clearly she believed that if Peter knew all, he would feel obliged to kill the man—and just now he felt he could happily do just that. But where did that leave his feelings for Sarah—or hers for him?
He dared not dwell on that, for to do so might well send him over the edge into despair—or violence. Trying to ignore the soft sound of her breathing only a few feet away, he closed his eyes and began slowly counting to one thousand. When he reached it, still awake, he began again.
* * *
"Our new cook shows promise, don't you agree?" Peter asked.
Sarah put down her fork and nodded, though in truth she couldn't claim to have enjoyed her first dinner in their new house on Curzon Street. That was scarcely the cook's fault, however.
"He did say he had studied under a French chef," she pointed out, her mind not really on her words.
It had been a trying day.
Breakfast had been an ordeal of concealing from Quinn and Marcus the friction, heightened since last night's conversation, between Peter and herself. Then Quinn and Marcus had come to see the new house, prolonging the difficult charade of happy newlyweds. Once his brother and sister-in-law left, Peter had been all business, directing the placement of new deliveries while Sarah met with the new housekeeper, cook and under-servants.
Dinner had been their first opportunity for private conversation, but Peter had never dismissed the footman —rather to Sarah's relief, as she had no idea what she would say to Peter anyway. Perhaps he felt the same. But now, the meal over, she wondered whether he would finally reopen the subject he had broached last night.
He stood, and she looked up expectantly. "I'm going out briefly," he said. "You will no doubt wish for a bath before bed, as hard as you have worked today. I will have mine when I return."
Sarah swallowed, wanting to make some sort of peace offering, but knowing the only one he would accept was the truth —the one offering she dared not make. "When—?" she began, but he had already turned away.
With a silent sigh, she let him go. Today was Saturday. The day after tomorrow, Ickle would turn William over to the authorities if she did not deliver the ransom —clearly an impossibility now. Did she really have anything to lose by telling Peter the truth? However angry he might be, he was more likely to show her brother mercy than the Bow Street Runners were.
Defeated, she left the dining room, heading to the kitchen to request bath water before going upstairs. When Peter returned, she would tell him everything, beg him to somehow pay William's ransom, while dissuading him from attempting a rescue. It was her only remaining chance to save her brother, even if it destroyed her marriage.
Or what was left of it.
Deep in her melancholy thoughts, she was distracted by a minor commotion when she reached the kitchen.
"Away with you, boy," the cook's assistant was saying to someone just outside the kitchen door. "Her ladyship can't be bothered to talk with the likes of you. If you come back Monday, the housekeeper might see you. She's the one interviewing for positions."
"But this is important," came a familiar voice. "Can I at least leave a message tonight?"
Quickly, Sarah stepped forward. "Thank you, Mrs. Fenster. I'll handle this."
The cook's assistant started, then obediently moved away from the door. "Of course, milady! Now you're for it, boy," she added ominously to the unseen visitor outside.
Crossing the kitchen, Sarah stepped through the back door and closed it behind her before turning to Paddy. "You have a message, you say?" she asked. "How did you find me here?"
The boy grinned up at her, tugging his forelock. "Polly, the maid what took the last note for you, told me how you'd moved out o' the other house. Weren't but a matter o' asking a few questions on the street to find out where."
"And the message?"
He reached into his pocket. "Another letter. It was give me by Renny, like the last one. D'ye know, milady, Renny thinks you're the Saint o' Seven Dials?" He chuckled at the joke. "Tried and tried to get me to tell 'im who you were, but o' course I wouldn't say nothing."
Sarah forced a small laugh. "How silly! But thank you, Paddy, for not telling him anything about me. I greatly appreciate that." Though she itched to open her letter, she voiced a sudden thought. "Would you be interested in regular employment —something safer than sweeping crossings?"
His eyes widened. "You mean here, milady?" But then his face, which had brightened briefly, clouded. "I ain't really fit for much, you know."
"No one is, until they're taught," she replied. "Come back Monday, as Mrs. Fenster said, and we'll find something for you to do. We still have several positions to fill."
A wide smile broke across his face, reminding Sarah painfully of her brother when he was younger. "Oh, aye, milady! I'll do that, certain! Thank you!"
Sarah watched him across the garden, then, tucking the letter into her sleeve, reentered the kitchen.
"Mrs. Fenster, when that boy returns Monday, send him to the housekeeper. I'll have a word with Mrs. Bing before then about his position here." Whether she managed to save William or not, she could at least help poor Paddy.
The cook's assistant looked as though she'd have liked to protest, but didn't dare. "Aye, milady. Will there be anything else?"
"Yes. Please have a bath and water sent up to my chamber. And convey my compliments for an excellent dinner to Mr. Ogden."
Now Mrs. Fenster beamed. "I will, milady. Thank you, milady!"
Hurrying up to her room, Sarah sent Libby downstairs to supervise the preparing of her bath and then opened her letter. It was written in Stilt's untidy scrawl.
Dear Saint,
We've heard there's a smuggler keeping a large amount of money at his flat on Long Acre, the right-hand one on the second story at number 12. He'll likely be gone tonight, should you want to relieve him of it. Let me know if you need the lads to help.
—Stilt
Sarah read through the note three times with growing excitement. Surely, this was an answer to her prayers! A smuggler might well have enough money to pay William ransom, and it would be just in time to satisfy the odious Ickle. It was perfect!
But then her excitement ebbed.
It was too perfect. Suppose this was a trap of some sort? She knew nothing of this Stilt except that he had delivered Ickle's note to Renny. Suppose he was working for Ickle himself?
Or . . . perhaps he had learned of William's kidnapping and this was his way of helping the Saint to raise his ransom? That might account for the too-convenient timing of this note. Nor could he suspect that the "Saint" was a woman. If she were careful . . .
No, Peter would never allow her to slip out of the house. He'd made that clear last night. She'd awakened several times to hear his breathing across the room. Somehow she had no doubt that he was a very light sleeper. Wouldn't his years as a soldier e
nsure that?
Still, it was all she had. If she could not somehow evade his watchfulness by, say, two o'clock in the morning, she would finally tell him the truth. She devoutly hoped, however, that would not be necessary —not until William was safe.
A tap at the door interrupted her musings, and an instant later Libby and two footmen entered, carrying the brand new copper tub and a pair of steaming kettles. The footmen left and Libby helped her to undress for her bath. Settling into the steaming water a few minutes later, Sarah heard the door of the next room—Peter's room—open and close.
She tensed, waiting, her eyes fixed on the dressing room door that separated their chambers. If Peter came to her now, could she tempt him into her bed, despite his resolve? Then she might summon the courage to tell him the truth —or he might fall deeply enough asleep for her to creep away without waking him.
She heard his voice through the panels, no doubt giving instructions to his valet. Then, after a long pause, the handle of the dressing room door turned.
Not until he saw her naked in the tub did Peter remember he'd suggested Sarah take a bath. Though he knew he should retreat, he couldn't seem to wrest his gaze away from her glorious body.
"Peter?" she said softly, making no attempt to cover herself.
He swallowed. "My apologies. I'll, ah, return later." If he was going to carry out his plan for the evening, he needed his wits about him, and the sight of Sarah unclothed was not conducive to that end at all.
"You can stay, if you like."
Her voice was seductive, but also rather stilted. Was she nervous? Or . . . was this some plan to put him off his guard? The idea helped him to gain a modicum of control over his rioting emotions. He took a step into the room.
"I thank you for the offer, but no." His voice surprised him with its firmness, for in truth he felt like doing nothing so much as stripping off his own clothes and joining her in that tub. "It happens that I must go out again, and I simply wished to inform you of it before leaving."
Now she did cover herself, leaning forward to reach for a towel. He risked another glance and saw disappointment on her face. Could it be he was wrong? He took another step forward, then stopped. No, he would carry out his plan. Then he would know once and for all whether his suspicions were correct.
"Where are you going?" she asked, standing and wrapping the towel around her dripping body.
Peter had to again subdue his involuntary reaction, force himself to stay where he was. "I have learned that a friend needs my assistance," he said, glad he had rehearsed the words earlier. "He may require my presence for several hours, so you needn't wait up for my return."
He watched her face closely as he spoke, and thought he detected a slight widening of her eyes —but that was all. Not enough for proof. "It goes without saying that you're not to leave the house," he added.
Now she evaded his glance —as he'd both expected and feared she would. "Of course. My . . . my best wishes for your friend."
"Thank you." Before he could give in to the almost overwhelming temptation to take her in his arms and force the truth from her with his touch, his lips, he turned and went back to his room.
There, he leaned against the dressing room door and took several deep breaths. The very fact that Sarah had not asked the name of his friend was damning, he realized now. Clearly, all she cared about was that he would be out of the house, freeing her to meet whoever it was she was protecting.
He motioned to Holmes, and the valet divested him of his brightly colored coat and waistcoat, to replace them with black garments that would be much less noticeable on the dark streets of London. Once ready, he left his room again, closing the door audibly before heading downstairs.
Taking his hat and greatcoat from a waiting footman, he departed through the front door and headed down Curzon Street in full view of Sarah's window —though he managed to restrain himself from glancing up to see if she was watching him. He turned onto Down Street, then slipped into the alleyway behind the houses and headed back the way he'd come, to keep watch on the back door of his own house.
Half an hour passed with no sign of Sarah. Three quarters of an hour. Peter began to hope that he'd been mistaken, though of course it was still early. An hour. An hour and a quarter. His hope grew stronger.
A movement caught his eye and he sharpened his gaze, now well acclimated to the darkness of the alley. With an almost physical shock of disappointment, he recognized Sarah, again clad in her nondescript gray cloak and hood, emerging into the back garden and creeping toward the gate. He took a cautious step forward.
This time he did not intend to stop her. Not until he discovered who she was meeting, and why— even if the knowledge destroyed his happiness forever.
* * *
Sarah closed the gate silently behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. She'd done it! Even if Peter should return, he would not know where she'd gone, would not be able to stop her. Not until she'd obtained —and delivered— William's ransom.
Once William was free, there would be time enough to worry about repairing her marriage and rebuilding Peter's trust. Surely she and William together could concoct a story to account for her keeping her brother's existence a secret, and she could finally take care of him, with Peter's help.
In fact, if all went as she hoped, Peter would never even know she had gone out tonight. First, however, she had to achieve her goal. Long Acre, she knew, was only two streets from Seven Dials —and adjacent to Bow Street. Again she wondered whether this might be a trap —set by the Runners, if not by Ickle. And again she reminded herself that she had no choice but to try.
She set out at a brisk walk, as her destination was more than a mile away. The streets were still busy, filled with carriages and pedestrians on their way to the theater or other evening entertainments or employments.
Turning onto Coventry Street, Sarah felt a prickling at the back of her neck. Glancing back, however, she was unable to pick out anyone who seemed to be paying her undue attention. She continued on her way, trying to shake the feeling she was being watched. Even if this were a trap, no one could have known where she would be starting from. She trusted Paddy completely.
As she left Mayfair for less exalted parts of Town, the makeup of the crowds changed, though they did not thin appreciably. Top hats and greatcoats were replaced by furze coats and woolen caps, though groups of young bucks in more formal attire still dotted the streets, on their way to the theater district.
Some twenty minutes later, Sarah reached Long Acre. The shops lining the street were closed at this late hour, and the pedestrian traffic therefore thin. The letter had said Number 12, which proved to be a chandler's shop, with living apartments above.
Trying to appear innocently purposeful, as though she belonged here, Sarah stepped through the narrow doorway leading to the stairwell. The second story had only two doors off the short hall, so she crept to the one on the right, as Stilt's letter had advised. No one was about, so she pressed her ear to the door in an effort to verify that the apartment's occupant was indeed away.
Silence. But . . . was that a step on the stairs behind her? Sarah straightened and lifted her hand, as though to knock at the door, waiting for whoever it was to come into sight. No one did. Perhaps she had been mistaken —or perhaps it was someone moving about in another apartment. Heart pounding, she again bent to the door before her, to try the handle.
Locked, of course. She frowned at the keyhole, then pulled an assortment of keys from her pocket, which she had brought against just such a problem. None fit exactly, of course, but she diligently jiggled a small key in the lock until she was rewarded by a faint click. With a last glance over her shoulder, she opened the door and slipped inside.
Closing the door behind her, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The apartment appeared to be of moderate size, consisting of at least two rooms judging by a closed door that doubtless led to a bedchamber. This main room held a small table, three c
hairs, a writing desk and a sofa. A bookcase near the door held only a few volumes, their titles unreadable in this light.
Cautiously, she moved across the room, wondering where the smuggler might have hidden the money Stilt mentioned. The desk? It seemed the obvious place to start. Quietly, she opened one drawer, then another, feeling all the way to the back. Nothing. Nor did any of the cubbyholes hold anything, not even pens or ink.
Frowning, she surveyed the room again and realized there was no evidence that anyone had lived here recently. As it had earlier, her skin began to prickle, her suspicion that this was a trap sharpening to sudden dread. Surely, though, even if she were caught here, she could explain that she had meant to meet a friend, that she had simply entered the wrong flat.
Torn between need for the money that might be here and an urgent desire to escape, she tiptoed to the bedroom door and again put her ear against the panel to listen. Was that a whisper? She was almost certain she'd heard something. Though every instinct screamed at her to hurry, she backed slowly, silently away.
And tripped over a metal ash can.
Both can and Sarah fell to the floor with a resounding clatter. With a gasp, she leapt to her feet, but before she could take so much as a step toward the outer door, the inner one flew open with a crash.
"We have him!" exclaimed a cultured but unfamiliar voice. "Quickly, before he can escape!"
Two other men emerged from the bedroom, one moving to stand between Sarah and the outer door while the other joined the first one in seizing her by the arms. Sarah struggled wildly, a vivid memory of her near-rape in Seven Dials rising up to suffocate her. This time there was no chance of William appearing to rescue her.
"By Jove, it's a woman," said one of the men holding her, his voice vaguely familiar, though in her panic Sarah could not place it.
"Who are you working with?" demanded the first voice. "Who is playing at being the Saint of Seven Dials?"