Lord Nigel chuckled “He is fond of you, m’dear, and would like to see you settled.”
“I could say the same of him, Your Grace. In fact, I will. Go back to him, please, and tell him that I despair he will ever find a woman who will take him on. Tell him that I am crushingly concerned that he will fail in his obligation to provide an heir for our family title, and that one of his younger brothers will have to do the job for him.”
“Well, well.” Lord Nigel grinned again. “Our little Sarah has teeth. That is a big bite to take out of your brother. He is apt to see that as a challenge. Are you certain you wish to issue one?”
“Your Grace, I adore them all, but my brothers will be the death of me. I can, however, guarantee that Reggie will be married before I will.” She gave a single nod for emphasis.
“How can you be certain, m’dear?”
Sarah shrugged. She might as well tell him and thus inform Reggie, through Lord Nigel, of her intentions. “I fully expect to remain a spinster, Your Grace. I shall not marry for any reason.”
“A dreadful waste, if you ask me. Have you looked in a mirror lately? There is not a nubile virgin here who can hold a candle to you.”
Startled by the sweeping assumption, she did something she rarely did. She blushed. She knew it by the heat in her cheeks and the duke’s widened eyes. She hadn’t said a word, but the truth was out. Tears sprang to her eyes and her hands began to shake. She had guarded her secret so diligently that she could not believe she had betrayed it involuntarily so quickly.
The smile faded from Lord Nigel’s face. He led her from the dance floor to a quiet spot near the punch bowl. “Dear Sarah, do not be so distraught. Your father and I suspected something of the sort years ago. He refused to question you ’pon it. He said you were his light and joy, and that he could not bear it if he had failed to keep you safe.”
“Never!” Sarah vowed, tears coming to her eyes. “Never. He was always the kindest, most loving—” She fell silent.
“Reggie should know why you refuse to consider any offer he puts to you.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. To tell Reggie would be to tell James, Charles and Andrew. They have never been able to keep secrets from one another, and I could not bear it if they knew. I’d rather have their contempt than their pity.”
“They worship you, to a man. Contempt is out of the question, Sarah. But, as the issue is a sensitive one, they may wish to deal with the blackguard who—”
“Done, Your Grace.”
He patted her hand again, his wrinkled face creasing with concern. “No, my dear. ’Tis a matter of honor, you see. The man must be severely dealt with. Must know that to breathe a word would result in certain death—”
“Done, Your Grace,” she said again. “There is no one left to utter those words.” She did not want to discuss this. She had thought it was finally behind her.
“How—”
“Believe me, Your Grace, it has been dealt with. If you have any doubt, you may speak to Auberville. He will be able to give you the details.”
“Reggie could be a comfort to you, Sarah.”
“I do not require comfort. I require privacy.” She heard the edge of panic in her voice and prayed she could contain it long enough to elicit the duke’s promise.
Her life had been turned upside-down when she had accompanied Richard Farmingdale down the Lover’s Walk at Vauxhall Gardens. He’d lured her there so he and three other members of a Hellfire club could rape her. Annica had found her and helped her keep the truth from her father and brothers. She simply couldn’t face them with her folly in having walked down that path.
Neither had she been able to permit the villains to ruin her without paying a price. Annica and the Wednesday League had devised a plan and, one by one, exacted justice from each of them. By the end, the villains had been involved in more than just rape, and the investigation had resulted in the death of one of their group. Sarah did not like to think about those days, much less to talk about them.
Outside of the Wednesday League, only Lord Auberville knew the entire story, and only then because he had been induced to aid them. If Lord Nigel wanted to know the details, he would have to learn them from Auberville.
“Very well, m’dear.” He gave her a look of puzzled respect punctuated by a polite little bow. “You have my word.”
She expelled breath held too long, almost dizzy with relief. “Thank you, Your Grace. Now, if you will excuse me, there is something I must do.”
Still stinging from her conversation with the duke, Sarah ran up the steps of St. Paul’s. It seemed to her as if her world was narrowing and crushing down on her. She had known Reggie was anxious to arrange her future, but she hadn’t realized the depth of his concern. Why, he must be in absolute despair of her prospects. Perhaps she had not been vocal enough about her preference to remain single.
Worst of all was the Whitlock “situation.” There was no time to waste. She had to devise some way to induce Mr. Travis to follow Harold Whitlock, but she could not think how. If she didn’t think of something soon, she would have to strike out on her own again. It was all she could do to keep guilt at bay. Oh, how she wished she could have spared Araminta the terror of being passed from hand to hand and separated from her family.
As she gained the top step, she found Ethan Travis standing near one of the center columns. He could have passed as a statue of a saint, so handsome and still was he. Then she realized there was nothing saintly in that utter stillness, but a watchful awareness that was prepared for anything and missed nothing. It was a lethal stillness, and it made her shiver.
She nearly turned and ran, but he’d seen her, and she did not want him to think her a coward. She approached him breathlessly. “Sorry to be late, Mr. Travis, but—”
He stepped forward, his face devoid of expression. “Miss Hunt, there are some things we must address if we are to go forward with this plan of yours.
“First, you will be prompt. Spare me the excuses. Tardiness is inconsiderate, and I have no desire to cool my heels whilst I wait for you to complete your toilette, or whatever else delays you.”
“But, I—”
“Second, you will not question me or disobey my instructions, but perform them quickly and efficiently.
“Third, in future you will knot your hair tidily on top of your head. It is disconcerting to see it always falling from beneath your cap, and also betrays your gender.”
Sarah quickly pushed a long tendril beneath her cap, outraged at his arrogance yet eager to placate him so that he wouldn’t change his mind.
“Fourth, exercise your talent for thieving to obtain possession of a pair of good riding boots. The softer leather will give better purchase on steep slopes and in climbing, and they are quieter on cobblestones.
“Fifth, there will be no conversing once the chase has begun. Silence is necessary if you wish to remain undetected.
“Sixth, bind your breasts. You will never pass as a lad when your chest is so obviously female.”
She glanced down at her chest, noting for the first time that Andrew’s linen shirt molded to her curves and betrayed small dots against the fabric. Mortified, she pulled the lapels of her jacket tighter.
“Seventh, you cannot hope to pass as a street urchin once you open your mouth. Practice another voice. I want it lower, harsher and imbued with the accents of the streets.”
Reeling from this diatribe, she responded as she would to one of her brothers. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Travis?”
He nodded. “For the moment.”
“You are despicable!”
“That is the consensus, Miss Hunt.” His lips curled upward, but she would not have called it a smile.
Her confusion must have shown, because he passed her, descended several steps and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you coming, Miss Hunt? Or have you changed your mind again?”
Sarah fought the impulse to stamp her foot, bit back an angry retort, and said, �
�Right behind you, Mr. Travis.”
What on earth had possessed him to be so abrupt with the little Ladybird? Ethan wondered. He hadn’t been waiting all that long, but he had been worried, wondering if she had met with some accident or if one of her other businesses had got in the way. More and more, at odd times, unwanted images of her kissing another man, or in various postures of lovemaking, invaded his mind—invariably with swine who were unworthy of one such as Miss Sadie Hunt.
Disturbingly, the little doxie was becoming a dangerous obsession. That would never do. Ethan did not like sharing his toys. He never had.
He rounded a corner and turned to see if Sadie had kept up. Yes, she was still there, looking intense and a little breathless. He waited for her to draw closer.
“Psst,” she whispered when she caught up. “Where are we going, and who are we following?”
Ethan smiled to himself, grateful that the darkness hid his amusement. Were it not for Kilgrew’s secrecy and his own need to conceal his true activities, he’d simply tell her he had already selected their quarry and that they were on the way to intercept him. “We are going to choose a subject, Miss Hunt. I sent one of my men to scout a tavern.”
“Is that why you were angry that I was late?”
“No, I was angry because it is rude and disrespectful.”
There was a long silence, then her soft, well-modulated voice floated to him. “I apologize. I would not for the world have treated you with disrespect. It will not happen again.”
Her sincerity nearly undid him. Feeling now at a disadvantage, he cleared his throat. “Rule Five, Miss Hunt.”
She frowned, a puzzled look on her pretty features. Lord, he thought, she really was a mixture of guilt and innocence. He took pity on her. “No talking, Miss Hunt.”
As arranged, near the intersection of Fleet and Faring-don Streets, Ethan saw his man, Peters. He hurried ahead, anxious that Sadie not overhear their whispered communication.
“Where?” he asked as he approached.
“The Swan,” Peters said.
Ethan turned left and waited for Sadie to catch up. “The Swan,” he said. “We shall pick a man there.”
“But I thought, perhaps, the man I was following last night might be a good test.”
“Where will we find him?” Ethan asked. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to make his selection of Whitlock look natural. The last thing he wanted was for Sadie to divert him.
She glanced heavenward as if begging patience. “Lead on, Mr. Travis,” she said with a sigh.
When they arrived at the Swan, Ethan directed her to a table in the back, away from the fireplace and direct light. He paid for two pints of ale and carried them to the table.
At a table next to the rear entrance sat Harold Whitlock. He had disdained the mild ale for whiskey and looked as if he had not had nearly enough. He glanced up each time the door opened. He was waiting for someone.
Sadie wore a look of contained vitality, and he was mildly surprised by her excitement. “Mr. Travis, may I pick?”
Rather than answer, he glanced around as if seeing the occupants for the first time. “Who do you favor?”
“I think it should be someone who looks as if he has something to hide, do you not agree?”
“If you say so, Miss Hunt.”
“Then what of the man in the corner? The one who looks so furtive?”
Ethan glanced over at Harold Whitlock. How very perceptive of Sadie. She had a keen eye. Perhaps there was hope that she would make a decent spy. And best of all, he wouldn’t have to overrule her selection. He nodded. “Done. I will find out who he is. Wait here.”
He went to back to the publican and asked, “Where is the water closet?”
The man barely glanced up as he polished a glass and said, “In the usual place, gov’nor.”
Ethan nodded and returned to the table. “Harold Whitlock,” he announced without a single twinge of conscience. “The publican knows him well.”
“Ah.” Sadie smiled, excitement dancing in her pretty violet eyes. She tugged her cap down about her ears and lifted her pint of ale. “What do we do now?”
“We wait,” he said, controlling an urge to touch her cheek and tuck away one of those wayward tendrils. “And then we follow.”
Before long, a disreputable-looking man entered the Swan and made his way to Harold Whitlock’s table. The two of them carried on a hushed conversation and Whitlock handed over a small packet. Money? Opium? Sarah could not tell from her vantage. Soon afterward, the stranger left the tavern. A moment later, Whitlock drained his glass and stood.
Sarah, too, was on the verge of rising when Ethan laid one hand on her arm. “No, Sadie. Too obvious. Try to look as if you have settled in for the night. Do not look directly at him.”
Anxiety burned in the center of her stomach as she gave attention to her tankard. Ethan leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. Whitlock walked past them, not even glancing in their direction.
Only when the door closed did Ethan come to his feet. “The game’s begun, Sadie. Stay close and quiet. Follow my lead and, above all, do not waste time questioning me.” He tossed a schilling on the table and turned to the door.
Sarah could barely keep pace as they trailed Mr. Whitlock. Mr. Travis was astounding. His silence was total, his stealth envious, and his methods were nothing short of awe-inspiring. He led her down narrow streets, ducking into doorways and alleys to hide, and through taverns and inns to intercept Whitlock as he rounded a corner.
She marveled at his audacity when, having anticipated Mr. Whitlock’s next turn, he pulled her into a corner pub to exit the opposite doorway just in front of Whitlock and continued to walk for more than half a block with Whitlock following them! Her heart pounded like a drum when Whitlock shouldered past them and hurried ahead. That move had allowed them to follow Whitlock openly for a quarter of a mile before reverting to hidden tactics. The ploy had been bold and impudent—and it had left Sarah breathless with admiration.
“Where did you learn such things?” she whispered.
“Rule Two, Miss Hunt. No questions.”
“But—”
“Rule Five. No talking.”
She narrowed her eyes. She would have to think of some rules of her own. Nothing in her experience with four brothers, which was extensive, had prepared her to deal with him. Travis was the most aggravating male she had ever met.
When Whitlock’s pace slowed, Travis slowed more, dropping farther back. In the fog, she could only hear Whitlock’s boot heels, but they did not lose him. How, Sarah wondered, had Ethan Travis learned to discern direction by sound? How could he possibly anticipate the other man’s next move?
Finally, near London Docks, Sarah rounded a corner and ran into Ethan’s back. He had halted to observe their quarry enter a dimly lit building. “That’s it, Sadie. May as well go home.”
“Why?” she whispered.
He turned to her, a skeptical expression on his face. “Do you not know?”
“Know what?”
“What that house is.”
Sarah shrugged. “Pray, enlighten me, Mr. Travis.”
“The sisterhood, Miss Hunt. ’Tis a bordello.”
She gave him a bland smile, thinking quickly. “Why should I know every bawdy house in town, sir? I do not work at any of them. I am…independent.”
“I am painfully aware of that, my dear.” He smiled. “But it is good business to know the competition.”
“I see that you do, sir,” she snapped, hoping to throw him off the scent. She fought the annoying thought that he might have availed himself of the goods sold at such a place and gazed back at the closed door. “Do you really think he’ll be in there all night?”
He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and the trail of his finger seared her cheek. “Faith, Miss Hunt. Has a man never purchased your services for longer than a few minutes? Do you simply drop your trousers and allow him to do his busine
ss? How long have you been in the trade?”
She was nearly undone and the soft query confused her. “R-rule Two, Mr. Travis.”
He laughed and pulled her against his hard chest. “Aye, no questions. No pasts and no futures. Just here and now. Very well, Miss Hunt. Here is a question you are accustomed to answering. How much?”
“H-how much what?”
“How much to sate my hunger? How much to taste your charms? How much to…satisfy my curiosity?”
Lord! This possibility had never occurred to her! Not that she had not thought of Ethan Travis in that context—she had. Incessantly. She had wondered how he would look without his shirt, and if she tangled her fingers through his hair, would it feel as clean as it looked, and if that one little kiss had been a fluke, unlikely to ever happen again—or, if it did—would it kindle the same tenuous fire in her belly. But he simply did not seem the sort to purchase favors. He was too self-contained, too fastidious. Or so she’d thought.
“How much, Miss Hunt?” he insisted, his mouth dropping to within inches of hers.
How much? she wondered. His soul? Oh, no. Nothing so simple. She would come more dear. His heart. Not an iota less. When his lips finally reached hers, they were softly demanding, asking the question anew. The insistent demand for an answer drew the very breath from her and she lifted her arms to circle his neck. The soft curls at his nape slipped through her fingers. “Ethan,” she sighed, unable to think clearly.
He moaned or growled, she couldn’t tell which. “Answer me, Sadie. How much? Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.” His voice was hoarse now, and his hand, at the small of her back, pressed her closer. The dull thud of his heart pounded against hers, and the rhythm matched his, as if answering the question against her will.
There was a fierceness in his hazel eyes that took her breath away. Her old fears surfaced, confusing and unsettling her. How could she give Ethan what he wanted, what he needed, without letting go of herself? Without risking everything she had fought so hard to reclaim? But, oh, how she wanted to!
Saving Sarah Page 6