“No, no, I’ll suffer my husband’s snoring for just this one night,”
Sarah said with a sigh, elbowing herself finally into Roland’s room, and
closing the door behind her.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Roland hissed. Of course she
could not stay. And he could show no weakness. For both their sakes. Her
actions were tantamount to social ruin. Her father would put a bullet through
his head.
“I have news.” When she lit a candle he saw her eyes were wide with
urgency rather than shining with the seductive gleam he had been expecting. She
cast her hat upon the bed and said, as she raked her fingers through her hair,
“I think I know where to find Caro-”
“Why did you not tell me, before?” he exploded, gripping her
shoulders. He was aware his overwrought nerves sought refuge in a suspicion
that was unjustified. But suspicion was so much easier at this moment than
trying to make sense of the other confusing emotions besetting him in equal
measure.
She looked at him, hurt. “Do you think I, who care as much for Caro
as you, would have kept from you
anything
that may have assisted in finding her. Listen-”
She stopped. Frowning, she tilted her head. “Roland?” It was the
first time she’d used his Christian name. Music to his ears. Gently, she
shrugged herself out of his grasp then helped ease him down into the comforting
depths of the cracked leather armchair by the bed.
He opened his eyes to see her holding out a tumbler full of brandy.
“I don’t know if this will do you any good, or is the last thing you should be
drinking in your exhausted, muddled, state,” she said, with a small smile. “Do
you mind if I help myself?”
Without waiting for an answer she poured another measure from the
cut glass decanter on the mantelpiece before settling herself on the edge of
the bed opposite him.
“I believe Caro’s disappearance is connected with Sarah Morecroft.”
Lord, but she was a sight to behold. Liquid fire burned his throat
as desire pumped through his veins. Miss Morecroft was in the past. All that
mattered was the young woman sitting before him. He could drink her in forever,
watching her recount her fairytale, admiring her burnished hair while her
melodic voice provided the pleasant background.
“Miss Morecroft’s diary was in the trunk that was rescued.”
He smiled. He liked the way her eyes fixed him with such intensity.
“When we broke our journey I could not sleep so I read the last few
pages which I had not read before.”
She stopped. Roland blinked.
“Are you listening to me?” Her tone was suspicious.
He frowned. “Of course.”
He was trying. But the sleep he had snatched had done him more harm
than good. Jolted into wakefulness by the very woman who occupied so many of
his daydreams and nightmares, he now existed in a pleasant state of unreality.
Struggling to regain the urgency he knew was required, he leant
forward. “Go on.” He rubbed his chin and was uncomfortably aware of his
dishevelment. Glancing down at his muddied topboots and limp neck cloth he
couldn’t even remember when he had last shaved. The hours he had spent
thundering through the countryside must have exhausted him more than he
realized.
“Sarah Morecroft helped Mr Hollingsworth with Caro’s kidnapping!”
Roland smiled at her preposterous words. “You’re saying my foster
brother’s daughter plotted—” he waved vaguely — “all this … several
months after her death.”
“Sarah Morecroft intended revenge when she set out from India. When
she met Mr Hollingsworth on board the
Mary
Jane
they hatched a plan—”
Judging by her exasperation and sudden sharpness she had taken
exception to something. Yet Roland had said nothing beyond “Oh really”, and
nodded his head. Perhaps it was his tone — some people took exception to
his tendency to sarcasm. Miss Morecroft certainly seemed to, for she slid from
the bed. Appreciatively, he sniffed her scent of Orange Flower water, and
opened his eyes to find her standing over him. Her little white fingers dug
into his shoulders as she tried to haul him to his feet. She looked angry and
when she opened her mouth he expected her words to convey this.
Instead she froze. Slowly, her right hand travelled up his arm and
then down, across his chest. He held his breath, a strange sensation pooling in
the pit of his stomach.
“Roland, you’re soaked right through.” Her voice was low, almost
accusing. The dainty white hand continued its exploration. It was a pleasant
sensation. He made no rejoinder, simply closed his eyes and enjoyed her touch.
“No wonder you’ve taken in nothing!”
Oh, he was taking it all in. Revelling in it. He blinked at the
insistent tugging at his waistcoat. She was undoing the buttons!
“Take it off,” she said through gritted teeth when she was finished.
Weakly, he gripped her wrist to stay her, his sense of honour
finally roused.
“Madam, I don’t think you—”
“And your shirt.”
Before he could object she’d rested her cheek against his chest.
“Lord, but you’re chilled to the bone!” she exclaimed. “You’ll catch your death
unless I can get you warm.”
He had not the energy to help her as she stripped off his shirt and
bundled the counterpane round his shoulders. It was an effort for her to remove
his boots but she succeeded. He suspected Lady Sarah achieved most things she
set out to do.
Standing back, she raked him with a critical eye. “Now get into that
bed and warm yourself.” Her voice was sharp. “I think it’s probably time for me
to go. I’m not going to have you accuse me of taking advantage so I can demand
satisfaction at the altar.” Her voice was low and grim as she resumed her task
of trying to haul him out of the chair and transfer him to the bed. “Despite
the fact that would be eminently pleasing to me.”
No, she had not said that. He had imagined it to complete his
beautiful dream. He must not let his mind and body betray him into believing
what he only wanted to hear. She’d betrayed him once. She had not the purity of
heart he’d attributed to her before she’d shattered his trust.
With a final effort she had him on the bed, rolling him onto his
back so that he looked right up into her eyes. Her beautiful, clear hazel eyes.
She didn’t step back. He swallowed, overcome by sensation. Lord, she was
inviting him to take her into his arms. He closed his eyes, his honour engaged
in a bloody battle with the exquisite sensations engulfing him.
“Roland.”
“Darling Sarah,” he whispered, opening his eyes. Gently he traced a
finger down the side of her cheek and tucked a tendril of gleaming hair behind
her ear. If the parson now came knocking with a special licence, he’d be the
happiest man alive. He was almost the happiest man alive for the fact that her
desire for him overrode the terrible risks. But she was as impulsive as she was
beautiful. It was up to him to persuade her to wait. It took all his willpower.
“Flattered though I am, my love—”
“You’re lying on my arm …”
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, shame and disappointment colliding as she
tugged at her arm trapped beneath the weight of his body. He heard the urgency
in her voice, but it was the fear in her eyes that went some way to clearing
the mists swirling in his mind.
With an effort he rolled to one side and she stepped back, rubbing
at her wrist.
“Roland, I think I may know where we can find Caro.”
Caro. He groaned, covering his throbbing eyes with his hands. “What
must you think of me?”
Amidst the rustling, he heard a chink of glass, another waft of the
heady scent of orange flower water and the heart-stopping words, “That you are
the most wonderful and honourable man I’ve met but that you are also very ill.
Drink this.”
His prayers were answered as she supported him behind the shoulders
then held a tumbler of sweet water to his lips. He fell back when he’d
finished, but not before he’d planted a kiss on the soft white skin below her
collar bone.
“Sarah, you are a gift from the angels,” he murmured.
Her soft, ironic laugh as she gently sponged his forehead filled him
with longing. “Tell me that when you’re in your right mind. I’m going now,
Roland. I have to find Caro but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He wished he could open his eyes, but they hurt too much. Vaguely he
held out his hand in her direction and she gripped it.
“Must you go, alone? Perhaps—”
“There’s no time to waste and you’ve not the strength to pick up a
kitten.” He felt her lips upon his brow, heard her tremulous whisper. “If
anything happened to Caro, I’d never forgive myself. I need you to know that.”
“WRITING
IMPLEMENTS AND parchment in the private parlour,” she demanded of the publican,
searching in her reticule for a coin. “And a hackney.”
Fear churned in her breast, but excitement, too, as Sarah scratched
her note to Roland a few minutes later. She would find Caro. She would save the
girl’s reputation and Roland would give her the reward she craved.
The rest of her life in his company!
Hearing voices in the passage outside the door she put her hand to
her bonnet to pull down her veil while she hastily sprinkled sand upon the
parchment.
The veil was no longer there. As the voices stopped outside the door
she heard the stentorian tones of a formidable matron apparently admonishing an
errant daughter. She shrank into the shadows, clutching the folded parchment as
a stout middle-aged woman wearing a green velvet round dress with matching
turban entered the room.
“What were you thinking, Millicent? You danced three times with him.
A young lady’s reputation is her most precious commodity.”
Horrified, Sarah realised the formidable Lady Bassingthwaite stood
not three metres from her in the private parlour she’d been on the verge of
departing. A stickler for observing the rules, she had in tow her plain and
clumsy daughter. Although Lady Bassingthwaite was always scrupulously polite
Sarah knew she disapproved of her. She guiltily wondered if that was because
word had filtered through to her ears of Sarah’s charade impersonating the
venerable lady. She’d poked gentle fun at the lofty ideals of propriety for which
Lady Bassingthwaite was known when she had pretended that accepting a
handkerchief from a gentleman was tantamount to accepting his marriage
proposal. Sarah winced. How foolish she had once been.
Fortunately Millicent’s tears provided the diversion Sarah needed.
As the two women made for the fireplace, she sidled towards the door.
“I beg your pardon, madam. I did not mean to intrude.” Lady
Bassingthwaite cast a distracted glance in Sarah’s direction, but Sarah was not
about to respond.
With thundering heart she dashed into the passage and thrust the
parchment at the publican with instructions that it find its way to Mr
Hawthorne.
To her relief a hackney carriage was waiting by the front entrance
and she plunged inside. The excitement of her near discovery had sharpened the
edge of tonight’s whole drama, limned by the fact that Mr Hawthorne loved her.
After tonight’s dealings with him she needed no further proof.
Sinking back against the squabs as the carriage lurched forward,
relief enveloped her.
Mr Hawthorne had called her his angel. He’d made clear that despite
banishing her his feelings remained as strong as ever. How Sarah had struggled
to beat her impulses into submission when the truth became clear in that close,
dimly lit bed chamber, she’d never know.
Lady Bassingthwaite’s stern reminder to her erring daughter was a
timely reminder. A girl’s reputation was her most precious commodity and to
lose it was worse than death. Roland had admitted that he cared too much for
Sarah to jeopardise hers. Now Sarah lay back against the squabs in the happy
confidence that once she delivered Caro to Roland, she would have her ‘happy
ever after’ ending.
Travelling through the Haymarket at this time of night was a new
experience. With fascinated horror, she watched street urchins beg for pennies,
and streetwalkers in tawdry, gaudy gowns accost gentleman passers-by. She’d
been shielded from the seamier side of life on the occasions her father had
escorted her back from the theatre.
Soon, though, her bravado fell away, eroded by the frightening
unfamiliarity of the environment once they’d left the entertainment district.
Shouts, hisses and catcalls punctuated the night. She snapped the curtain
closed when a glimpse of her face attracted a half admiring, half jeering
response from a young man with a dirty face and blackened teeth. And when the
hackney turned down a narrow side street and slowed to a stop, her courage
nearly failed her.
Sarah Morecroft’s diary identified the street in Marylebone where
the widow Hollingsworth kept a girl’s school, but not its number. Rapping on
the roof, she put her head out of the window to quiz the jarvey.
“School for young ladies?” The jarvey had smelled of beer when he’d
handed her in, and now he gave a scornful laugh as he mimicked her refined
accent. “
’Ere
? Not ’less you mean
Sally Hollingsworth’s nunnery wot we’re standing a’front of. Guess yer could
call that a school of sorts.”