Authors: Amy Corwin
“I have your word of honor?”
“That is what I said,” Mr. Carnaby replied stiffly, standing.
William rose to his feet smoothly and shook hands. “Thank you. I’m sure the heirs will be pleased to hear you intend to give them the opportunity to regain their mother’s effects without a great deal of awkward bargaining.”
“To be sure,” Mr. Carnaby said, following William to the door. “I will send word tomorrow after the box is opened.”
Damnation
! William swore with frustration as he walked away.
He hailed a hackney to return him to Second Sons, too aggravated and worried about Sarah to take the time to walk.
The money inside Sarah’s box was irrelevant—but the documents… William only had Sarah’s faulty memory to rely on concerning the contents. He had no way of knowing how important the papers were, or if they would increase the danger to Sarah if Mr. Carnaby should read them.
Or would Mr. Carnaby suddenly find himself caught in a burning house if the killer discovered he had the papers?
Were they
that
important?
An intelligent eleven-year-old girl might not understand their significance, but they had to have some meaning. Her father had given them to her while the house was burning around them. Major Pickering had been murdered, and two attempts had been made on Sarah’s life. Another person was trying to obtain the box containing them.
They couldn’t wait. He had to get the box back, no matter what he had to do to get it.
As for Sarah, would she be in more danger, or less, if Samuel Sanderson disappeared and Sarah Sanderson reappeared? He examined the possibilities without coming to a firm conclusion.
With a sense of relief, William saw the narrow townhouse used by Second Sons come into view. But when Sotheby opened the door, William’s stomach curled into a tense ball. The house seemed ominously quiet.
He tossed his hat to the butler and kept his tone calm as he asked, “Is Mr. Sanderson still here, or has he escaped your clutches?”
“No, sir. Mr. Sanderson is upstairs to the best of my knowledge.” Sotheby hesitated, running his hands around the brim of William’s hat.
William watched uneasily, hoping the butler didn’t forget himself and squeeze. The hat was one of William’s favorites and his wardrobe had suffered quite enough damage since meeting Mr. Sanderson. “Then what’s wrong?” William asked.
“You have visitors, sir. In your office.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir,” Sotheby replied miserably, his gaze flickering down toward his glossy shoes.
William sauntered across the wide hallway and flung open the door. A slender man rose to face him. Mr. Archer. William glanced beyond him and noticed Lady Victoria seated in a second chair pulled nearer to the desk.
“Mr. Archer, Lady Victoria,” William said, shaking Archer’s hand before circling around the desk to his chair. “Please be seated. How may I be of assistance?”
Mr. Archer sat down, propping one foot on his knee and drumming his fingers on the ankle. “We’re searching for Mr. Sanderson. He left rather abruptly, as you must know.”
“I see. Why do you wish to find him? Surely your garden wall will get completed with, or without, him.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Mr. Archer replied. “I could not care less about that wall. I want to know where the lad can be found.”
“Why come to me?”
“It occurred to me that he may have left in your company. You seemed concerned about him the other night.” Archer shrugged. “You may have escorted him home.”
William picked up a quill with a split and furred tip and took his pocketknife out of the top desk drawer to trim the end. “What is your interest in him?”
“He is our nephew!” Lady Victoria blurted out, leaning forward. Her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. The lids were reddened and puffy as if she had spent the night weeping. “I must know if he is well.”
Since it seemed likely that Archer had tried to slide a knife between Sarah’s ribs earlier today, William remained unmoved by the agonized tears in Lady Victoria’s eyes.
“Indeed?” William leaned back in his chair, studying the fresh tip on the quill. “I had no idea the Archer family was involved in the bricklaying trade.”
Archer laughed. His brown eyes glittered as if he sensed a challenge he was eager to meet. “My wife’s family name is Sanderson. We suffered a tragedy thirteen years ago. We feared our niece and nephew died in a fire.”
Lady Victoria choked back a sob. Studying the strain on her patrician features, William wondered if it was due more to guilt than anything a frantic desire to find her nephew. He flicked a measuring glance at her husband.
Mr. Archer clutched his wife’s arm. He suddenly frowned with concern. “Vee, dearest…”
“I am sorry, John. It is just so difficult…”
“I understand you were not present at Elderwood when the fire broke out?” William asked.
“No, we were not,” Archer replied firmly. “It was a terrible tragedy, one that affects my wife to this day. So you can understand, surely, if we wish to find this Samuel Sanderson.”
“Sanderson is a common enough name. So is Samuel. What makes you believe he's your nephew? Wouldn’t he have gone to you after losing his parents, if you were indeed his family?”
“There was a great deal of confusion after the fire. It wasn’t immediately known that we were not caught in the blaze. Who can say what a nine-year-old boy would do? We are simply relieved he survived.”
“If he is your nephew.”
Archer snorted and fidgeted in his seat. He put his right foot back on the floor and changed to cross his left ankle over his knee. “He is the right age. I’ve spoken to Mr. Hawkins—Mr. Sanderson made his acquaintance in Clapham just a few weeks after the fire. When the lad was nine.” He gestured toward his wife. “He has the Sanderson eyes. Gray.”
“There are a great many people with gray eyes. And I would imagine a significant number of them may even be named Sanderson. I repeat, it is not an uncommon name.”
“He
is
my nephew! I know it!” Lady Victoria said, rising to her feet. Her entire body trembled as she stared at William. “Please, I beg of you! You must tell me where he is!”
“I understand he has a room nearby—”
“At that Pochard creature’s rooming house. Yes, yes, we’ve been there. He hasn’t returned there. Although I understand from Hawkins that he was working today on the wall. The young fool,” Mr. Archer said, clearly proud of the “lad’s” determination.
William rubbed his temple. Finally, he met Archer’s level gaze. “May I ask where you were this evening?”
“This evening?” Archer repeated.
“Yes. Between six and seven, to be precise.”
Archer glanced at his wife.
She simply stared at William, a confused look on her face.
Archer put both feet on the floor and stood up to pace the area behind his wife. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, but we were visiting
my
nephew, the Duke of Peckham. I don’t suppose he’d object to signing a statement to that effect. If it’ll be any comfort to you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” William replied coolly. “I’ll accept his word of honor, if he’ll give it.”
Lady Victoria’s lips trembled before she covered her face with her hands.
Archer rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze before he gave William a hard look. “Young man, that's a poor hand you're gambling with. Where is Mr. Sanderson?”
William stood, unimpressed despite the steel-edged threat running through Archer’s words. “So you can finish what was started in 1806? No. I don’t think so.”
“John?” Lady Victoria asked. She gripped her husband’s wrist and stared up at him with damp cheeks and reddened eyes. The strained, exhausted look on her face made William glance away.
“Do not cross me, young man.”
“I suggest you leave, Mr. Archer,” William replied unwilling to be pushed. “If I should happen to see Mr. Sanderson, I’ll certainly tell him you’re looking for him.”
“You’re making a mistake.” Archer put an arm around his wife and helped her out of the chair. She gazed at William, her gray eyes imploring him to relent. But before she could say anything, her husband escorted her through the door.
William leaned against the edge of the desk, watching them go. Despite Archer's excuse, it was entirely possible he had arranged for Sarah to be murdered while the duke served as a convenient alibi. The Archers had experience with that ruse. They had certainly arranged for an alibi during the fire.
And telling Archer that Sarah Sanderson was lying upstairs would have been a mistake.
Lady Victoria’s tears still disturbed him, though. Had they been sincere worry or guilt over the events in 1806?
If it were guilt, she might be vulnerable. If he could get her alone, she might break down and confess. She certainly seemed close to the breaking point.
In the meantime, he had to retrieve Sarah’s box. And he couldn’t do that in his elegant, form-fitting jacket. On his way back to his bedchamber, he stopped and knocked at the guest room door.
He was surprised when Sarah replied, “Enter!”
“How are you?” He opened the door and stepped halfway over the threshold. Then he stopped and stared at her. “What are you doing?”
She was standing in the middle of the room in stocking feet, clad only in her trousers and his linen shirt. “Where is my smock? My shirt?”
“Past repair. As you shall be if you don’t get back into bed.”
“Past repair? From just a little blood loss? I'm not such a weakling. Give me my smock,” she demanded, holding a hand out.
“Get back into bed, or I’ll put you there.”
Her eyes turned silver as she studied him, her head cocked to one side. “If you think you can, try.”
“I don’t foresee any difficulties,” he said, striding toward her. After all the stabbing and head bashing, he’d have thought she’d have enough sense to stay abed.
Obviously, he was wrong.
He came to a stop mere inches from her, hoping to discomfort her at least half as much as she had discomforted him since their first meeting.
She stared at him, her chin thrust out at a mutinous angle. Although she blinked a few times, she didn’t back away.
He frowned.
Her eyes blinked more rapidly.
So he did the only thing he could think of that would put the fear of God into her soul.
He leaned nearer and kissed her.
She gasped, her warm lips opening with surprise. When she started to pull away, he clasped her shoulders. Gently and slowly, he pulled her closer. Her frame felt unbearably fragile beneath his hands. Her heady scent and the taste of her mouth filled him.
But his deep awareness and growing need was not what he expected—or wanted. She was too feminine to the touch, too much a desirable woman.
Then she stomped on his toes.
“Ow!” He let her go. “What are you doing?”
“What am
I
doing? The question is what are
you
doing, you big lout! What do you mean by pawing me about?”
“Pawing you
about
?” He couldn’t recall any other female having had quite that same reaction to a kiss. He had never been quite
that
unskilled.
“Yes, pawing me.” Her flushed cheeks and bright eyes made him wonder if the warmth he’d felt was a reaction she wanted to deny, or the beginnings of a fever. Then, a cunning look passed over her face. “You’ve not got a fancy for boys, have you?” She started stuffing her shirt into the waist of her trousers, glancing around for her smock. “Some sort of Molly—”
“You’re no boy,” William drawled although a flare of tension at the sight of her body moving beneath the thin shirt turned his voice to gravel. He swallowed. “And you’re not going anywhere. Even if I have to lock you in leg irons.”
She snorted. “Don’t be a horse’s ass.”
“Have you no finer feelings, whatsoever?”
Her expression was so similar to the one he had seen on John Archer’s face once or twice. It made him even more sure that he had done the right thing in hiding her.
“Feelings? I haven’t got the time, or inclination, for
feelings.
” Her gaze searched the room. However, the rosiness of her cheeks and shaky voice indicated she was not as unaffected by him as she pretended.
She refused to meet his glance. And when she spied her heavy shoes on the floor near the wardrobe, she sprinted over and grabbed them. She held them up against her chest like a shield. Then, a wave of dizziness must have hit her. She paled, closed her eyes, and pressed a hand against the wardrobe door to steady herself.
Before he could move, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. With admirable self-control, she walked over and perched on the edge of the bed. She threw her shoes onto the floor.
As she thrust her feet into the shoes, she asked, “Have you gotten my box, yet?”
“No.” William fixed a cold eye on her face. “I visited the current owner. He intends to open the box tomorrow. After that, he’s willing to discuss selling the contents.”