“Yes, sir. ’Tis as safe as safe can be.”
“’Tis locked, Mrs. Carmichael, and shall remain so. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded her head and pressed her lips together.
“Good, because if I find out you’ve been prying, I’ll tell what I know about you.”
Mrs. Whitlock had not mentioned a box. Likely it had nothing to do with the missing children. Sarah dismissed the thought and began to formulate a plan. She would need the assistance of Lady Annica and of her servant, Mr. Hodgeson, as well as Dicken.
Satisfied that all was well, Mr. Whitlock retrieved his hat, gloves and walking stick from the trestle table. Sarah noticed that his hands shook as he attempted to pull his gloves on. She wondered if he were ill. Would it be too much to hope that he had contracted some dread disease and would succumb? Likely. She’d heard that only the good die young.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself and gave a nod in Mr. Whitlock’s direction. Dicken’s bright blue eyes grew wide and he shook his head.
“He may lead us to the other children,” she whispered.
Dicken made a face. He understood her urgency and would not argue further.
Mrs. Carmichael closed the heavy kitchen door behind Mr. Whitlock, tucked the little box under one arm and retreated across the room to the door she’d come in, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.
The moment the door was closed, Sarah and Dicken dashed for the outer door, Sticky Joe fast behind them.
“Bridey says that’s the new lass,” he said as he returned the miniature to Sarah. “So now what?”
She pointed to the retreating figure of Mr. Whitlock and slipped into the shadows to follow. He turned down a street leading back to St. Paul’s, and Sarah feared he would find a coach and disappear.
Luck was with them, and Mr. Whitlock did not find a coach. He made for the river and a prickle of misgiving went up Sarah’s back. The closer they got to the river, the more dangerous the endeavor. Some of the old warehouses had been converted to hired rooms where God only knows what was done. Not even Sarah, with her reckless streak, wanted to go there.
Her hesitation cost her. A rough hand seized her by the coat collar and lifted her off her feet, much as a mother cat carries her kitten.
“What’s this?” a deep voice asked, hushed, as if he did not want to be heard. “Looking to relieve the man of his purse?”
“’Ere now!” Sticky Joe shouldered the man in the stomach. “Leave ’er be.”
The man might have been bothered by a gnat for all he was affected. “My, my,” he said in an amused voice. “I had no idea you and your friend had taken up a life of crime, Sticky Joe.”
A warning thrill of danger raced through her. She recognized that voice! The Demon of Alsatia! Mr. Renquist’s warnings rang in her ears.
“S-sir, we…we was only…” Sticky Joe began.
“Who’s this, then?”
Horror held Sarah’s companions immobile. Her feet touched the ground as her captor released her. She made a great show of straightening and smoothing her garments, delaying the moment when she would have to turn and face the consequences.
“’Tis Sadie Hunt, Mr. Travis,” she said, looking up into his eyes with a hint of defiance. Brazen it out, Sarah, she told herself. After all, Ethan Travis thought she was a doxie who was quite at home on the streets. One long look at him almost made her wish she were. That would be safer than lying to a man with a wicked looking knife in his hand.
“Ah,” he nodded somberly. “Have you decided to change professions, Miss Hunt? Picking pockets requires a great degree of skill, is that not so, Sticky Joe?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I ’aven’t picked a pocket in two years,” Sticky Joe defended. “I’ve mended me ways.”
“Me, neither,” Dicken contributed. “An’ we’d never cut in on your mark, sir.”
Sarah frowned. Sticky Joe and Dicken were brash little beggars. She had never seen them kowtow to anyone. Ah, but Ethan Travis was not “anyone.” He was the Demon of Alsatia.
A veiled expression darkened Travis’s eyes. “The man was not my ‘mark.’”
A glance down the poorly lit street told Sarah that Mr. Whitlock had long since disappeared. She feared the chance encounter with Ethan Travis had cost her the last opportunity she would ever have to find the other Whitlock children.
Anger made her incautious. “If he was not your mark, sir, why did you interfere?”
The man regarded her with something between amusement and annoyance. She could not help but notice that Sticky Joe recoiled at her temerity and Dicken looked awestruck. What did they know about Ethan Travis that she did not? Had she overstepped some invisible boundary? What sort of man could command such fear with nothing more than a look?
“Miss Hunt,” he said in a painfully polite voice, as he bent to replace the dirk in his boot top, “surely you know that I keep watch on anything that happens here?”
“Do you make a practice of interfering when it suits you?” Sarah asked. If the blackguard thought she would quail at his mere lifted eyebrow, he was mistaken. Four brothers had taught her to show no fear, even if she felt it.
“In truth, Miss Hunt, I make it a practice not to interfere with anyone or anything,” he said. He cocked his head to one side, a quizzical look passing over his features. His muscles, taut a moment ago, relaxed to a state of tensile readiness.
Sarah begrudgingly approved of the respect he accorded her. After all, he assumed she was a prostitute—a pickpocket at best—yet he afforded her the courtesy of polite address. She inclined her head to acknowledge his words, though she could not help but disagree. “I have met you twice, sir, both times as a result of your interference.”
“An anomaly,” he assured her.
“I shall hope so,” she said. She turned to Sticky Joe and Dicken and took a few steps back the way they had come, tucking stray locks of dark hair into her cap.
“I am bound to say, Miss Hunt, that I approve of your change in occupations. The streets and taverns are not kind to women.”
She turned back to Ethan Travis in surprise. Why would he care what she chose to do? Some little demon tweaked her to challenge his assumption. “I have not changed occupations. Rather, I sought to supplement one with the other.”
She had to credit the man. He did not even blink. He merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Then I feel it behooves me to inform you that Newgate Prison does not segregate pickpockets from murderers and madmen. Were I you, I’d develop more skill before attempting to carry it off.”
“More skill in which occupation, sir?”
Ethan Travis laughed. His gaze swept her figure as if he were assessing her value, and warmth seeped and tingled upward from her toes to her cheeks. Would he find her wanting?
“You know, Miss Hunt, if you dressed to show your wares, you’d likely make a fortune. A woman of wit and spirit commands a high price. Those are rare qualities in your profession.”
“Yet another piece of advice,” Sarah observed to her companions. “Can you credit my good fortune?”
Sticky Joe’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Dicken took two more steps backward, tugging on her sleeve. “C’mon, Sadie. The game is over for tonight.”
Sarah recognized the sense in Dicken’s urgency, but she could not resist one last gibe. She turned back to the Demon of Alsatia and bowed low, sweeping off her cap in a flourish. “Thank you, sir. I thought, when my mother died, I would be deprived of maidenly advice. You make an admirable substitute. You should consider charging for your observations and advice, sir, since they are such little gems of wisdom. Then, too, those who do not want it would not be forced to listen to it.”
She was sure she saw the flash of a smile before she turned to follow Sticky Joe and Dicken. She prayed she would not run afoul of him tomorrow when she returned to retrieve Araminta. She very much feared she was at a disadvantage when dealing with Mr. Ethan Travis. The man unsett
led her.
Chapter Three
Ignoring the preparations all around them for Grace For-bush’s grand ball, the ladies of the Wednesday League settled themselves on the green brocade settee and damask chairs in Grace’s small study. Sarah paced, ignoring the sound of the orchestra as they tuned their instruments.
“Sarah, what is amiss? Did Mr. Renquist find something?”
“Not he,” Sarah told them. “But I have discovered something of import. Last night I met with Dicken and—”
“Sarah! Should your brothers discover your nocturnal habits, they’d keep you under lock and key,” Charity warned, her eyes wide.
“Who will do it, then?” she rejoined. “Annica used to, but now she is married. Grace is too…too—”
“Old?” thirty-three-year-old Grace asked, arching her elegant eyebrows in warning.
“Endowed,” Sarah supplied, gesturing at Grace’s curvaceous figure. “You’d never pass as a male. And Charity—well…”
“Charity hasn’t the desire,” Charity admitted, “or the nerves. I vow, Sarah, you are flirting with danger. One of these days—”
“Sarah knows the risks,” Lady Annica said with a glance in Sarah’s direction. “Better than most.”
Sarah continued, ignoring the interruption. “Araminta is being held at Saint Bart’s Orphanage. Mr. Whitlock arrived while I was there and told Mrs. Carmichael, the headmistress, to find a position for her at once. We must act quickly or the children will all disappear. We cannot reunite them with Mrs. Whitlock if we do not know where they are.”
“Are the boys with Araminta?” Grace Forbush asked.
“No. We followed Mr. Whitlock in the hope that he might lead us to them, but we were waylaid by a man who—”
Charity gasped and the entire group leaned forward in their seats. Grace paused with a wineglass midway to her mouth. “Did he learn who you are? Did he injure you?” she asked.
“Only my pride,” Sarah sniffed. Her mind seized on the heat in the appraising hazel eyes as they swept her figure. She’d been horrified to realize that her breasts had tingled and firmed beneath her jacket in response to his slow grin. Such a thing had never happened to her before. But then she’d never been appraised like that before.
Struggling to recall the thread of her conversation, Sarah smoothed the purple velvet of her gown. “I…ah, I only mention him because he…he prevented me from following Mr. Whitlock. We must still discover the whereabouts of the other children, but Dicken is retrieving Araminta from the orphanage.”
Lady Annica paced to the window and glanced out to the street where guests were beginning to arrive. “Sarah and I came up with a plan this morning. I’ve told our laundress that I am going to hire a helper for her. I sent Hodgeson to St. Bart’s tonight to meet Dicken and buy Araminta’s services. Dicken will retrieve her and, after Sarah questions her as to the whereabouts of her brothers, will take Araminta to my home. She will be safe enough there, disguised as a washer girl. We shall keep her out of sight until we have recovered her brothers.”
Sarah nodded. “Mr. Whitlock will eventually return to St. Bart’s to check on Araminta, and I shall be there to follow him. He is sure to go straightaway to check on the other children. Once we locate them, we are free to dispatch him on his voyage.”
Charity shivered. “I pray it is all that simple, and that nothing goes wrong. If Mr. Whitlock changes his mind or panics, he may dispatch the other children to remote locations, or even accuse Mrs. Whitlock of treachery.”
Sarah’s hands tightened into fists. Here was the fatal flaw in any plan. The only alternative was to allow Whitlock to abuse his family and hold them virtual prisoners to his rage. That was unacceptable and could only end badly. “We…we must go forward and be prepared to move quickly when opportunity presents itself. I have obsessed over little Araminta all day. If she knows nothing as to her brothers’ whereabouts, we will have to start from scratch again. We cannot delay any further. I am determined to search every night until we find the lads.”
Lady Annica turned back from the window. “Auberville and I are hosting a grand ball on Friday next. The invitations went out this afternoon, and I made certain Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock are on the guest list. I thought we could demonstrate our friendship and support for Mrs. Whitlock, and that might prevent Mr. Whitlock from misusing her for a time.”
“What a lovely idea!” Grace said. “Mr. Whitlock, the weasel, will be so ecstatic to receive an invitation from Auberville that he will not want to risk his wife arriving with bruises. She will be safe at least until then.”
Sarah sighed, immeasurably relieved that Lady Annica had found some way to encourage Mr. Whitlock’s nonviolent behavior.
“What can we do to help?” Charity asked.
Sarah took a deep breath. “Stand ready to absorb one of the boys into your household. I can take one without causing notice. Reggie does not trouble me over the servants as long as his creature comforts are met. I doubt my other brothers even know all the servants.”
Five hours later, the mantel clock in Grace’s ballroom struck the hour of midnight and Sarah grew anxious. The crowds showed no signs of flagging and Sarah would have to leave the party soon to meet Dicken. Every minute she delayed was another minute Araminta was in danger of being snatched back by her stepfather.
She placed her punch glass on a footman’s tray and edged toward the corridor to Grace’s study and the bundle of men’s clothing waiting there. The corridor was empty and she breathed a sigh of relief. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her shoulder.
“Lady Sarah. I am so pleased to find you at last.”
She covered her impatience with a smile as she turned to Lord Cedric Broxton, her eldest brother’s dear friend from their days at Eton together. Handsome as he was, with his fair hair and deep blue eyes, the man had been agile enough to evade the wiles of a bevy of husband-hunting debutantes. Every time she looked at him, however, she recalled the time he had short-sheeted the headmaster’s bed and Reggie had taken the blame—and the beating that went with it.
Lord Cedric had that effect on people. He was quite simply so charming and angelically handsome that others wanted to take care of him and ease his way. But not she. She had problems enough with her own charming brothers without adding Cedric Broxton to the mix.
“Lord Cedric,” she said. “How are you this evening?”
“Splendid, thank you, now that I’ve found you alone.” Sarah glanced over Lord Cedric’s shoulder toward the ballroom, dismayed to find that he was right. Drats! They were alone. She cast about for a way to evade him. “Briefly,” she said. “I am on my way to find my brother. I have a crushing headache and want him to take me home.”
“Reginald?” Lord Cedric asked. “He was engaged in a rather intense game of cards with our host when last I saw him.”
“Any of them will do,” she hedged. “I believe I saw James and Charles near the punch bowl very recently. And Andrew was sporting with Lady Jane’s younger brother. In the game room, if I recall.”
“Allow me to escort you home, Lady Sarah. I assure you, I shall do nothing improper.”
“I am certain of it, Lord Cedric, but we must avoid even the appearance of wrongdoing. You would not want to find yourself leg-shackled to me for the favor of seeing me home.”
“I would not mind at all, my dear. I have come to believe that may be the only way I will become leg-shackled.”
Sarah suppressed a shudder. What made any man think a woman would voluntarily subject herself to marital attentions? No doubt that was why women were supposed to remain virgins until after the vows—because once she knew what lay in store, she would shun marriage. Why, the entire fate of the species lay upon an unmarried woman’s ignorance! Thank heavens she was neither virgin nor ignorant.
She smiled and tapped Lord Cedric on the arm with her fan. “You sell yourself short, Lord Cedric. If you wish to accomplish marriage, stop running so fast. None of the ladies can cat
ch up to you.”
He laughed. “Why is it, Lady Sarah, that none of my pursuers is worth slowing down for? It is my curse to have lost my heart to a woman who does not know how to chase.”
“Good heavens! I should think that would be a tremendous advantage to you, m’lord. A still target is easier to hit, is it not?”
“So it is.” He grinned, exposing two rows of perfect, even teeth.
She waited a moment, but Lord Cedric said no more, only watched her with that unnerving grin. He really was behaving quite oddly. Her impatience to be away began to mount. How could she divert the man?
“Um, m-my brother. Yes, that was it. I was looking for my brother,” she muttered.
“An excellent notion, Lady Sarah. I shall take my petition to the proper person.”
Petition? Ah, to take her home, of course. Fie! How frustrating! Now she would have to go home and sneak out her window. She was trapped and could see no way out.
“I shall find one of your brothers and send him to you presently. Where will you be?”
“Mrs. Forbush’s private parlor,” she mumbled.
Fully one hour late, Sarah arrived in the mews behind the King’s Head Tavern. She whistled softly and waited for an answer. When it came, she was immeasurably relieved. She had been afraid that Dicken would leave when she was late.
He slipped from the shadows of the livery, his expression and manner betraying agitation. “Trouble, Sadie. Big trouble.”
Her heartbeat sped, and her mind raced in several different directions at once. “Pray say Mr. Whitlock has taken her home again,” she whispered.
“Nay. Worse ’n that,” Dicken sighed. “She’s been sold away. Bridey is tryin’ to find out where she’s gone, but Mrs. Carmichael ain’t talking.”
Sarah reeled from this news and crushing guilt weighed down on her. She blinked her tears back. “The poor child. She must be terrified. We must find her, Dicken, and soon.”
Dicken started at a sound from the tavern. “Let’s go, Sadie. We can try again tomorrow.”
Saving Sarah Page 3