Authors: Amy Corwin
Was Archer afraid of what William would discover if he questioned him?
The duke had lost a daughter in the fire. He might not think too highly of Mr. Archer, since he and his wife alone had survived.
The humming rose and fell as they turned right onto Pall Mall.
“The duke was a neighbor of my wife’s brother, the marquess. The closest neighbor, although that was a good five miles away,” Archer commented, almost as if speaking to himself. He glanced down the street and then over to William. “Would you join me at my club?”
“No,” William said abruptly. “Sorry, but no. I’m afraid I’ve pressing business elsewhere.” While he appreciated Archer’s apparent lack of class distinction, William was very aware of it. The fact that he was employed at all made joining Archer at his club unsuitable. And he had no urgent desire to see the frowns on the faces of his former friends when they saw him in their exclusive territory.
Not that he cared. He had made his decision, though to be honest, he ached when he thought of Sarah.
“You'll allow me to assist you?” Archer stopped as they rounded the corner to St. James. “Sarah is my niece. Lady Victoria is anxious for her to join us.”
“When this is over. When it’s safe.”
“She’d be just as safe with us. If not more so.”
“Consider this. Whoever tried to kill Miss Sanderson could easily mistake their target and injure Lady Victoria, instead. Is it worth the risk?” He could not let her go, not yet.
“That would
never
happen under my care. You must see that for Sarah to become
Miss Sanderson
would be the best protection. After all, the murderer believes her to be a male. A bricklayer, in fact.”
“I don’t think the change of sex will confuse him, or her, for long. No. Until I’m sure who is responsible, she’ll be safest at Second Sons.”
Leaving Archer at the entrance to White’s, William walked a short way to a coffee house where he ordered a meat pie and coffee. As he settled back in his wooden chair, he pulled out the packet of papers to read through them again. The more he studied them, the more puzzled he grew. The amounts listed next to the names seemed too small to be pay, although it could be some other reimbursement. The invoices and bills of lading detailed items including salt pork and various grains, listed as corn.
Nothing unusual.
Then again, how much could he trust Dacy, or the men on Dacy’s list? Archer and Dacy were related. After considering this, William realized that he still didn’t have an answer about where Archer and his wife had been on the night of the fire. They might have escaped by having something as innocent as dinner with a neighbor. Archer had indicated the duke was a neighbor, so Lady Victoria and her husband could have been there.
It should be easy enough to verify, independently.
As he sipped his coffee, William eyed the other occupants of the cramped shop, thinking he might have been better off elsewhere. Most of the customers bent over their tables scowling at their food and picking at it as they suspected it was poisoned. He had never seen a more dispirited assortment of Londoners in his life.
The whole place stank of burnt potato and despair.
To his right, a thin voice rose plaintively. “Just a small slice of shepherd’s pie—anything you have,” an old man begged an overworked serving maid.
The elderly man, dressed in a blue coat with frayed cuffs, gripped the edge of his table. His large, blue-veined hands trembled. Long, wispy strands of white hair floated around his huge, reddened ears as he leaned forward. His eyes watered and blinked continually with nervousness.
“What?” the waitress scoffed. She pushed back her thick black hair from her damp forehead with a meaty forearm. “And who’ll pay, I’d like to know?”
“I-I—”
“There now, get along with you,” the proprietor called from behind his counter. He frowned at the waitress and shook his head. “No begging.”
Eyeing the old man’s desperate face, William reached into his pocket.
Before he could draw out a coin, the door opened. A gust of fresh, April air whirled through the room, blowing away some of the dank odors.
Sarah Sanderson walked inside. She wore the moth-eaten black clothing William had donned the night of their abortive adventure to retrieve her box. She slapped several men on their broad backs as she strode through the room, exchanging cheerful insults with them.
“Sam!” a man called. “Over here!”
“Alan, my lad,” she replied. “Hawkins said he let the lot of you go early today—what was it? You blockheads couldn’t lay a square wall without me?”
“Truth be told, we’d finished it,” Alan replied. Several other men guffawed and nudged each other. “Didn’t have you there picking at each grain of sand in the mortar.”
She laughed and hit him on the back. Then she elbowed another man. “Like as not, it’ll fall before tomorrow. And we’ll be back rebuilding it the morning after.”
“And even more likely, you’ll be seeing old Peg tonight. Then the apothecary even later.” Alan kicked the chair opposite his and gestured to it.
“Now, there’s no call to be anxious about your chances with Peg,” Sarah said as she sat in the proffered chair. “There’s plenty of ash and sulfur to be had—if you’re lucky. Though with your way with the women, I've doubts you’ll need it.” She glanced around. “So, lads, where’s the next job?”
William shifted back in his seat, slipping into the shadows.
Sarah had obviously tried to return to work. Thankfully, the men had already finished the wall so she had not been exposed in the Archer’s garden.
A movement at the next table distracted him. The old man had not left. He sat in a rickety chair and grinned at William, still blinking rapidly.
Reminded of the old man’s predicament, William pulled out a coin. Before he could hand it to him, though, the serving maid returned. She carried a plate of Shepherd’s pie and tankard of ale, clutched in a grimy hand.
“Now just eat up quietly and leave,” she muttered to the shabby man in a low voice. She glanced over her shoulder at the proprietor before setting down the tankard on the table. “Not a word, you hear? I don’t fancy losing my job.”
The plate never touched the table. The old man grabbed it, nestling it into the crook of his arm. Then he took a piece of the pie and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing rapidly, he nodded at her before he took a swallow of ale to wash the food down.
“Not a word, love,” he replied with a chuckle.
She gave him a hurried smile before strolling back to the narrow bar at the end of the room. Surprised at her risky generosity, William watched as she slipped a coin out of her apron and added it to the till.
And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. The proprietor watched her from the kitchen door, his arms crossed over his barrel-like chest.
“Just a minute there, May,” he said, moving to block the waitress’ escape from behind the bar.
“He paid, sir!” May replied, holding her tray in front of her chest. Her glance darted to the old man and then back to her employer’s scowling face.
“Too much.” The proprietor opened the till and pulled the coin out. “You put too much in.” He held the coin out to her. “Here, you daft cow, put it back in your apron. And for God’s sake learn to count,” he said in a gruff voice.
May bobbed a hurried curtsey before she grabbed the coin from his thick fingers. Then she breathlessly escaped before he could change his mind. Noticing William watching her, she gave him a wink before dodging back into the kitchen.
Feeling as if he had fallen asleep and awakened in some strange fairy tale, William glanced around the room. There was still the same horrible smell of burnt potato, but the rank smell of despair had disappeared. The men laughed and cursed each other, telling ribald stories and flinging about lurid insults with complete abandon.
In the center of it all, Sarah Sanderson sat wrong-way-’round on her chair, with her arms folded across the chair’s back and her chin resting on her wrists. Her eyes glowed with laughter. The area around her sparkled with light as if a shaft of pale, April sunshine followed her inside.
Her mere presence eased the tension and brought a bit of relief from the desperate reality of their lives. Much of the anger and sense of futility seemed temporarily banished. For a few shining moments, the hopeful feeling that maybe tomorrow would be just a little better than today, reigned supreme.
At that instant, William realized he could not imagine a world without Sarah Sanderson. Life would be insupportable without the smile on her merry face and her gleaming eyes. Like a cork that forcefully rose to the surface when pressed beneath the dark water, she simply refused to give up.
His gut twisted. He loved her with a force and depth that took his breath away.
How can anyone kill
a
woman who makes life worth living just by walking into a room
?
The gulf between them yawned even wider. She was the daughter of a marquess. But even if he never held her in his arms again, he could perform one task. He could protect her and discover who had tried to murder her.
Finishing a second cup of coffee, he folded the papers and tucked them into his pocket. Time to dig in and do what he did best,
inquire
. And he would start with the War Office.
He stood and reluctantly threaded his way through the coffee house.
“Mr. Sanderson,” he said, unhappy at the need to end Sarah’s brief moment of freedom. “I’d like to speak with you. About that job I mentioned earlier.”
Sarah glanced up at him in surprise, blanching. “Mr. Trenchard!” When she caught the curious gaze of her friends, her face reddened slightly.
“It would be better if we spoke in private,” he said, aware of the roles they were playing. “Now.”
She scrambled out of her chair hastily and nodded at her companions. “Yes, sir.”
Once outside, he pushed her in front of him. “Not a word,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t have time to take you back to Second Sons, and you’re not safe alone. Just come with me and remain silent.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in a meek voice.
He gave her a sharp glance, but her bland expression gave nothing away. “We’re going to the War Office.”
“Lovely,” Sarah replied.
“Be quiet.”
Within minutes of their arrival, the already gloomy clerk grew truculent with irritation at William’s lack of information and his raggedy companion. Tracing the names on the list was nearly impossible, particularly since most of them were just surnames and an initial.
“Take this one. There tweren’t no Telford in the Rifle Corps in 1805, sir. And I have to say this list seems nonsensical to me. No rhyme nor reason.” The clerk stabbed a thin finger at one of the names. “This Telford lad, for starters, why I remember a lad by that name who were killed in December of 1805 in north Germany. How could he be paid when he were already dead?”
“Death benefits?”
“A sovereign or two?” He shook his shaggy head. His lank, dark hair flapped around his ears as he stomped back with blatant reluctance to a row of cabinets. He fumbled through the books until he found what he sought. After pulling out a thick volume, he slapped it on his desk before rifling through the pages.
William watched, hiding his impatience behind a slight smile.
“You see?” Again, the clerk underlined an entry with his finger. “That is the sum paid to his family, if that's the same man. And he’d been in the Brigade of Guards, First Battalion, not the Rifle Corps.”
“What about the others?”
A few of the names were listed, assuming they were the same men.
Coincidence?
They were common enough surnames. Greene, Smith, Davies, Wilkes, and so on. Hardly enough to solve any of the riddles Sarah had shoved into his hands. He glanced at her, noting the blank look of boredom on her face. There seemed to be little more to be gained here.
He needed to hide her safely at Second Sons. And then a visit to the Duke of Rother was in order.
“I wrote for an appointment with the duke.” William presented his card to the slender man who introduced himself as Mr. Athelby, the secretary to the duke.
The secretary was a youngish-looking man of fifty with pale, brownish-blond hair fading to an indeterminate gray. His eyes were large and a rich, luminous brown behind a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He looked quiet and methodical, the perfect secretary.
He nodded and tapped a tan-colored leather journal he carried. “Yes, we received your letter. However the duke is a very busy man.”
“He said he would grant me an interview—”
“Indeed, so I recall,” The secretary cut him off smoothly. “But he was called away abruptly on a personal matter. If you would relay your business to me, I will speak to the duke upon his return.”
William hesitated and then replied, “It concerns the fire at Elderwood in 1806—”
“I do not believe this is a matter for the duke.” Mr. Athelby frowned. “This house suffered greatly at the time. There is no reason to discuss it further.”
“I’m not a reporter. Nor am I indulging in idle speculation.”
“Indeed.” Athelby hesitated. “You must be aware the duke lost his daughter during that tragedy.”
“Yes. And I’m sorry, but I received some papers which survived the fire.”
“And what has that to do with the duke?”
“They may contain the reason behind the fire.”
Mr. Athelby studied him, his brown eyes unwavering and emotionless. The sudden memory of a shark rolling up above the waves to watch him leapt into William’s mind. The same caution filled him again.
“It was an accident, nothing more,” Athelby stated, his expressionless face indicating the matter was closed.
“Perhaps if I could speak—”
Athelby’s sharp cheekbones mottled red with irritation, bordering on anger. “How dare you rake up the past in this fashion?”
“They—”
“Your papers can hardly hold any relevance, now,” The secretary said stiffly.
“What if it wasn’t an accident?”
“You are not raising those sordid tales again, are you? Has the duke and his family not suffered enough? I won’t have them disturbed by wild speculation—it is inhuman.”
“I don’t wish to upset the family. However, surely if a chance exists that it was not an accident, the duke would wish to know.”
“After all this time, what could you possibly have that would prove the fire wasn’t just a terrible, tragic accident caused by a careless maid? What are these papers?” He held out his hand. “Let me see them.”
“I would prefer to show them to the duke.” William replied, stubborn for no reason other than his dislike of the man confronting him.
Athelby’s prim mouth pursed before he gave a slight smile. “I take care of the duke’s business, including his Grace’s most personal matters. You should be aware that I also manage his appointment book. If you wish to see him, I suggest you show me these papers so I may determine their worth. I won’t have him annoyed with pointless rubbish.”
Despite his antipathy, William could sense genuine emotion behind the words. Concern, or worry? A chill grazed his shoulders, raising the fine hairs on his neck. For a moment, he hesitated before drawing the papers from his pocket.
The secretary glanced through them before flinging them down on his desk. “What are these?”
“Invoices, bills of lading…surely it’s obvious.”
Mr. Athelby eyed him. “Obvious, but surprisingly trivial.”
“
Someone
disagreed with that assessment. They considered them important enough to burn down Elderwood to destroy them,” William replied mildly, keeping his eyes on the secretary’s thin face.
There was precious little to see except a smooth expression of boredom. Then Athelby’s eyelids twitched quickly behind his glasses. Finally, he controlled even that small movement by staring fixedly at William.
As the silence lengthened, William collected the papers and slid them into an inner pocket of his coat. Athelby’s gaze followed the movement and rested briefly on William’s chest.
“Very well. Nonetheless, I don’t understand what you believe he will make of them,” Athelby remarked.
“What do
you
make of them?”
“The list of names? Nothing. Unless it is some sort of pay schedule—field hands or some such, perhaps.”
“What of the invoices?”
“We supplied grain and other provender, just like many other estates in Britain. Is that why you came here?”
William almost made the mistake of answering “no” before he realized what Athelby’s question meant. The secretary recognized the invoices. The grain and salt pork must have come from the duke’s estates, or were at least acquired by him, and then resold to the military. With time and a little effort, he should be able to trace the invoices back to the Duke of Rother. This slight bit of knowledge put him a few miles further down the road.
William nodded. “Of course. I suppose you have records of the supplies you sold during that period? To compare against the invoices.”
“That was eleven years ago. I doubt we still have them. And I fail to see why it should matter.”
“I understand, but I would appreciate it if you could locate them.” William stood. “I’d like to compare these invoices to your records, if you don’t mind. And arrange an appointment with the duke.”
Athelby frowned and opened the appointment book on the desk. “Perhaps some time next week,” he said. “Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“Is there nothing earlier?”
“I fear not. The duke is a very busy man.”
“Tuesday, then.”
“Will Tuesday afternoon at two suit you?”
“It will have to, won’t it? And do you think you could find what records may remain from that period, as well?”
“I will try,” Athelby replied, although his bored voice made his promise sound insincere.
There was nothing more William could do but bid the secretary good day.
Hesitating on the street outside the duke’s townhouse, William pulled out Lord Dacy’s list and glanced through it. Many of the men listed were still members of the military. There was a good possibility that one of their commanding officers might be in London. He should check at the Guards’ club, or one of the other clubs favored by the military.
Before tackling that line of inquiry, William decided to relieve his nagging worry about Sarah and ensure she had not managed to escape once more and get herself killed. Or worse, arrested. He walked homeward, feeling shockingly healthy when he ignored at least two empty hacks that passed him along the way.
The townhouse door opened as William set foot on the top step.
“Mr. Trenchard, sir,” Sotheby intoned in deep, round accents as he bowed.
“Is Mr. Sanderson still here?” he asked, handing his hat and walking stick to the butler.
Sotheby’s brows rose. “Of course. Didn’t you give orders that he was to remain?”
William bit off a scathing remark that his orders hadn’t prevented Sarah from leaving earlier. “Yes. Can you request him to join me?”
Inside his office, William unlocked the cabinet where he had placed the box after escorting Sarah home.
He flipped open the lid and studied the broken false bottom. Hesitating only briefly, he went once more to the locking cabinet and pulled out a strong box. Inside were a few bank notes. When he counted them, they only amounted to four pounds. However, he had a few sovereigns rattling around in his pocket.
At least the box didn’t seem quite so empty when he stuffed the notes and coins inside. He had just shut the cabinet door when he heard a step behind him.
“Will—Mr. Trenchard, you wanted to see me?” Sarah asked from the door.
He turned to find her standing there, wrapped in a toga made from a bed sheet. Her mulish expression suggested that she felt ill-used and put upon.
Biting the inside of his mouth, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. As she settled in the chair, he sat on the edge of the desk, swinging his foot slightly. He pushed the box toward her.
“So you’re finally going to give it back to me, are you?” Sarah exclaimed. “Where was it, anyway?”
“Mr. Carnaby found it after you were escorted away.”
“Did he open it? Did he find what was inside?” She fumbled with it a moment before lifting the lid. “The bottom’s broken—and the papers are gone!”
“He didn’t take anything. Your money is still there. I’m the one who removed the papers.”
“Damn it—why didn’t you let me? You’ve broken the bottom.”
“Sorry.” He folded his arms over his chest, not feeling the least bit apologetic despite his remark. Then he remembered the locket. “Here—your locket.”
She grabbed the cotton bundle and tucked it under a fold of her sheet. Ignoring him, she pulled the bank notes and coins out of the box, carefully stacking them in front of her. As she counted, her quick motions gradually slowed.
When she reached five pounds, she raised her eyes to his face. “This isn’t my money.”
“It’s five pounds. That’s what you had in there, isn’t it?”
“I had one sovereign, four crowns, eight half-crowns, and fifty-eight shillings. Which was about eighteen shillings over.”
“Well, if you’re worried about the eighteen shillings—”
“I don’t care about the shillings. The point is— this isn’t my money.”
“Of course it is! I, uh, I exchanged your coins for notes. I was dragging that box all over London. It was heavy enough without having all those coins rattling about inside.”
Her unfathomable gray gaze studied him. He suppressed the urge to thrust a finger under his neckcloth and yank. The tightly wound material was about to strangle him, and his foot seemed to have a mind of its own. It swung rapidly back and forth, several times hitting his desk.
He’d been an idiot to replace the money. He should have known better. She read him too well, and she was too honest to just take the money without comment.
“And you just kept eighteen shillings for your troubles?” Her eyes were hard with anger.
He shrugged, although he couldn’t keep his foot from kicking a bit faster. She wasn’t the only one irritated.
“Never mind,” she said at last, pushing the box toward him. “Most of the money’s yours, anyway. It’s what I promised. And when I earn more, you’ll have that, too. Double your fee, if you like, for all your difficulties.”
“Sarah—”
“I pay my debts.” Her jaw jutted out in her familiar, mulish expression.
“Sarah, I don’t care about the money.”
“Well, that’s splendid. Because I don’t know when I’ll get more since I don’t even have a pair of trousers anymore. Did Mr. Carnaby take my money?”
“Yes.” William pulled the bundle of letters out of his pocket, contemplating her lack of trust. “But I have these. Or at least I think I do. Would you care to confirm whether these are the documents you remember?”
She took the packet and carefully unfolded it, smoothing the sheets out on the desk. Running a finger along the torn edges of the page listing the names, she read through each paper, even turning them over to study the backs.
“They appear as I remember. But as I mentioned before, it’s been a while since I looked at them.”
“Are any missing?”
She counted them and then shook her head. “No. The genealogy, the list of names torn from some book, and those four invoices. I’ve never seen that new list, though.”
“Oh, sorry,” William said, picking up the letter Lord Dacy wrote. “That’s mine.”
“What is it?”
“Just some people who may be able to help us.”
Her head jerked up. “Have you spoken to any of them?”
“No. I tried to get an appointment with the Duke of Rother, however his secretary was the only one I saw.” He barely managed to keep from calling Athelby an officious little pimple of a man.
From the half-smile on Sarah’s face, she seemed to know what he had been thinking. “Shall I interview the men on your list while you try to speak with His Grace?”
“Absolutely not. You’re to stay here.”
“I still have one or two errands I must take care of. I can’t loll around here for days on end or traipse after you.”
“Why not?” William replied, his tone light. “I don’t see why you can’t take a well-deserved holiday until we can get to the bottom of this. Then, you can go to your aunt and uncle. There must be something of your family’s estate left. Most likely, you’re a rich heiress and have no need to worry about working any longer. By this time next year, you’ll be married and starting a family of your own.” His gut twisted sharply at the thought. He glanced away.
“What? And lay about getting soft?” she scoffed before holding out her hands. “With these mitts and what’s left of my face, it would take more than a marquess’s fortune to acquire a husband. Besides, I’ve no manners.”
William studied her reddened nose and cheeks and laughed. He’d never seen a face more dear or prettier than the one in front of him. “Nonsense. I’ve seen worse. Several ladies of my acquaintance ride to the hounds. They have faces as brown as yours, or browner.”