A Lady in Hiding (29 page)

“At least we agree there. As soon as I change, I’m riding to Clapham. I only hope I can pick up her—his—trail.”

“You there,” Archer waved his hand at Sotheby.

“Sotheby, sir,” the butler intoned haughtily.

“Quite. Sotheby, order two horses saddled.”

Sotheby’s eyebrows rose majestically before he turned to gaze at William.

Giving up any pretense at logic, William nodded. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And wrap up some bread and cheese. We’re likely to miss our supper,” Archer ordered. “And if you have any ham, include that. And a flask of wine. Red. Claret, perhaps. That travels well. And some apples.”

Again, Sotheby glanced at William. “Go ahead, Sotheby. See what cook can manage.” He examined Archer with disgust. “Sanderson and you both share a reprehensible fascination for food. It’s obvious you’re closely related.”

Archer smiled benignly and followed Sotheby. As William started up the staircase to his room, he could hear Archer’s crisp voice adding more demands to their list. They’d need a third horse if even half of his orders were fulfilled.

When William’s employer, Mr. Gaunt, returned from his honeymoon, he was going to be furious. Not only was William spending outrageous sums of money there was little likelihood of ever getting repaid, but between Sarah and her uncle, the larder was going to be noticeably diminished.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help a grin. Sarah had a buccaneer’s soul, quick to leap at any promise of adventure or new opportunity. While he, despite his popinjay appearance, had a more methodical disposition.

No wonder she spent so much time and effort escaping him.

With a frown creasing his brow, he set out with Archer. Despite his previous garrulousness, Archer soon proved to be a quiet traveling companion. After questioning William about his progress with the investigation, Archer lapsed into silence. They rode through London, passing over Westminster Bridge before turning onto the road to Clapham.

They had been riding for less than an hour when Archer raised his chin. “Clapham?”

“Looks like.” Rubbing his eyes wearily, William scanned the nearly deserted street. “We’ll stop and see if anyone has seen Sarah—Samuel Sanderson.”

A sign for the Plough tavern swung overhead, a few yards away on his left. His horse plodded forward, twitching its ears and neighing lightly as if sensing the nearness of a comfortable barn with a deep trough of oats.

He allowed the horse to amble into the courtyard of the tavern and looked around. A towheaded lad dashed out of the stables and took the reins of both horses, holding the tired animals while William and Archer stiffly climbed down.

After exchanging a glance with Archer, William spoke first. “Say, you haven’t seen a young man dressed in a smock and trousers have you? He would have arrived from London earlier this evening.”

After a brief flick of his eyes at Archer, the lad studied William, scratching the palm of his right hand. Taking the hint, William unearthed a half-crown from his pocket. He flipped it into the boy’s grubby hand.

“Well, sir, we has several folks as arrived this evening.” He scratched the back of his neck and stared up into the starry sky. “An old lady and a couple o' gents—”

“A young man? In a smock?”

“Mayhap.”

“Did he get off a coach here, or continue forward?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, he continued forward.”

“What do you mean,
in a manner of speaking
?”

“He rented a gig. I fixed him up, meself.”

“Which way did he go? Did you see?”

“Off on the west road, sir. Toward the Hawkins house.”

“Then you recognized him?”

“Why certainly I did, sir. He were Mr. Sanderson, the lad who does the bricklaying for Mr. Hawkins. Seen him here plenty, leastways afore he went off to London. Most likely, he be back to see his sweetheart. They're to marry come Monday, you know,” the suddenly voluble stable boy said.

“Well, why didn’t you say so before?” William asked.

“Why didn’t you say as you was looking for Mr. Sanderson, sir?” the insolent lad replied, thrusting his fists into his pockets.

Archer placed a hand on William’s arm. “Thank you, lad. Take my horse and give him a good rub-down and a bag of oats, if you please.”

The boy turned on his heel, leading the horse away while he whistled loudly and off-key.

When he’d disappeared into stables, Archer said, “You, my friend, will investigate this Hawkins domicile.”

“And what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

“Me?” Archer asked with exaggerated innocence. “Why question the staff here, of course. In case the lad was wrong, and someone else saw Sarah go in another direction.”

About to argue, William noted the red-rimmed eyes and lines bracketing the older man’s mouth. He abruptly decided Archer had reached the limit of his endurance and was too proud to admit it. He just hoped he’d find Sarah before Archer did. He still didn’t entirely trust him.

“Order a private room,” William replied brusquely. “If I find her, we'll need it.”

“Certainly.”

Legs stiff and muscles aching with lack of sleep, William remounted and turned his horse away from the stables. The horse resisted. Its head curved around in response to the reins, but its body moved the opposite way toward the open door leading into the shadows of the stables.

“Hunter!” William said sternly. At the sound of his voice, the horse’s ears flicked. The animal pulled against the reins, trying to straighten its neck to go where it wanted. “Hunter!”

Finally, the horse wheeled around and plodded, head down, toward the road.

Sarah was thankful when she finally made it back to the Plough. It was already too late for the mail coach, but she felt safe enough to spend the night at the inn.

On the morrow, she’d go to Portsmouth. From there, it was but a short boat trip to the Isle of Wight. No one would think to look for her there. She’d stay a few weeks, and by June, she could send word back to Second Sons to discover if William had exposed the murder. That is, if the newspapers didn’t report on it to her satisfaction.

She didn’t know what she would do after that. Except, she absolutely would not become Lady Sarah. She was not fit to be a lady. And she had no desire to spend her days paying calls on idle women and listening to them gossip over cups of tepid tea.

“Mr. Archer! What are you doing here?” Sarah asked as she strolled into the taproom of the Plough.

Mr. Archer drained a mug of beer before answering, “Looking for you, you young rascal. And you can thank your luckiest card I did.”

“Is Mr. Trenchard here?” Her heart lifted.
He came after me!

“Yes, but we’ve other concerns.” He jerked his head to his left where the door to the center courtyard stood ajar. There was the normal bustle of hostlers and stable boys scurrying amidst several carriages, exchanging horses while dusty travelers strolled to stretch their legs and get a bite to eat.

Wandering closer to the courtyard door, Sarah was surprised when Mr. Archer grabbed her arm to hold her back.

“Don’t go out there,” he said sharply. “Just look.” He pulled her into the shadows that sheltered the doorway. “Over there—the green carriage. You see the one I mean?”

Across the courtyard, there was indeed a forest green carriage with yellow trim and a crest on the door. A duke’s crest. She studied it. The crest of the Duke of Rother.

When she turned to stare at her uncle, he nodded. “Just so.”

“I want Mr. Trenchard—that is—I’d like to see him.”

Uncle John studied her face. “I sympathize, he’s a very pretty fellow, but we’ve got a spot of trouble. And you, Miss, have a decision. Do you trust me— your family? Enough to stay in the game, or will you fold?”

With a shock, she realized the significance of her uncle’s question. She ached for the touch of William’s warm, steady hand and his calm support. But he suspected the Archers—her family. She thought he might be wrong, and if so…

Trusting Uncle John now gave her another chance to change her mind. While she could certainly go to the Isle of Wight and never see William again, she could also chose to go into the unknown world of London and Society with her uncle.

By doing so, she could become a woman—Sarah Sanderson. As a lady, she might even discover if William could be tempted, despite her sunburned face and calloused hands, and give up his conviction of what was right for her.

She might gain a family, and possibly love, if she could manage one ounce of trust. Hesitation kept her silent for a moment. She ached to be pretty and see admiration in William’s eyes, but the thought terrified her, too.

The Isle of Wight represented safety and the life she knew.

“I’ll go with you, but Mr. Trenchard—”

“Will follow us. Never fear. He won’t lose sight of you willingly. Now, have you eaten?” he asked.

“I—”

“Never mind,” he interrupted. “I’ll order a meat pie. You can eat on the way. Now come. We’re going to slip through the kitchens and out the back. No one will see us. I’ve already brought my horse around to the kitchen yard behind the tavern—did it when the duke’s carriage arrived. With any luck, he’ll see naught but the flick of our horse’s tail.”

He hustled her through a short passageway that smelled strongly of sausage and ale. A burly woman with a drooping, damp cap atop graying hair hailed them as they entered the kitchen. Her uncle wasted no time. He flipped her a few coins and ordered her to wrap up two of the meat pies she had cooling on a scarred oaken table in the center of the room.

She smiled and complied, adding an apple tart with a conspiratorial wink at Sarah as she handed them the napkin-wrapped bundle. At the delicious, savory scent, Sarah’s stomach gurgled hungrily. She pressed her hand against her belly, willing it to quiet. The cook’s smile broadened.

She thrust a warm pie into Sarah’s hand. “Steak ‘n kidney pie, young sir. That’ll start you out right.”

“Thank you,” Sarah replied with a grin. Her mouth watered. Another rumble boiled through her belly. Before she could say ought else, her uncle pulled her through the door.

She had no time to think. His sense of urgency infected her.

A gray dappled mare stood a few yards away, already saddled and waiting. The animal idly pulled up mouthfuls of clover by thrusting its head between slats in the fence separating the kitchen yard from the pasture beyond. He helped Sarah onto the back of the horse. Then he climbed in front of her, taking the reins.

“I’d liefer go south, sir,” Sarah said as they circled around the inn, heading for the highway. “I’ve plans already. And a good place to hide until Mr. Trenchard discovers the truth of these matters.”

“A place to hide?” Uncle John replied in a thoughtful voice, patting the horse's neck.

“Yes. I’ve a place to go. No one will think to find me. I’d be safe there.”

“The Isle of Wight, perhaps?” He clicked his tongue and turned the horse toward the north.

“How—how did you know?”

“Easy enough when I heard about the Bingham lad, a brickmaker lately come from that island. It won’t do, you know. Not at all.”

“But—”

“If I could deduce this, others could. No. We’ll keep you safe in London.”

“With you? Mr. Trenchard will never—”

“Agree? Then we won’t ask him.”

“But we must at least tell him—”

“You weren’t going to inform him you were going to the Isle of Wight, were you? I fail to see why we should tell him if you change your mind.”

“This is entirely different. Besides, it wouldn’t be safe for Lady Victoria. Do you wish to place
her
in danger?”

He sighed elaborately. “Mr. Trenchard and you have appalling similar notions. No one will be in any danger, I assure you. Have faith in my judgment. Lady Victoria will be quite safe. As will you.”

Sarah wasn’t convinced, but she’d made her decision. And if she slipped off the back of her uncle’s mare, she might fall right into the hands of Rother. So although she wasn’t entirely sure the duke was the one to fear, she was reluctant to put it to the test.

She wished she had met William at the tavern instead of her uncle. She really was very tired. Her mind felt muddled and confused, and she needed William’s steadiness.

While she mulled over her predicament, she realized Uncle John had tensed. He nudged the horse in the ribs with his heels and clicked his tongue.

“What—”

“Shush,” he replied. “Listen.”

Clippity-clippity-clippity
. The sound of a horse cantering smoothly down the road toward them filled the darkness. The sound rose in pitch as the rider neared.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

Sarah locked her arms around his waist while trying to glance over her shoulder. “What—”

A sharp, cracking explosion echoed behind them. Her uncle jerked forward onto the horse’s neck. Before Sarah could do anything, he kicked the horse with his heels. He jerked the reins to the right and headed them off the road toward a small copse of trees.

“Hold tight. Keep your head low,” he called, leaning forward awkwardly. His voice sounded strained.

The iron-tinged smell of blood filled the air. Sarah clutched her uncle with her face pressed against the center of his back, knowing something was terribly amiss. His ragged breathing rasped in her ears. She raised her head enough to look at his back. A black-edged hold marred his right shoulder, just above her head. Blood seeped through the wool of his jacket, spreading slowly.

Fear filled her veins with ice. “Stop! You’ve been shot!”

“No stopping now! It’s London or nothing—just don’t let go!”

They surged over a low stone wall marking a field border. Over her uncle’s shoulder, she could see the distant darkness of the small grove. An oasis of safety if they could reach it. Glancing behind, she saw the black outline of a man on horseback, following and cutting the distance between them swiftly.

“He’s coming!” she yelled, desperation cracking through her voice. She’d made the wrong choice— she should have gone south. Because of her foolishness, her uncle was dying even as she clung to him.

It was her fault.

I need William—where is he
?

As they neared the woods, the mare slowed. It acted skittish and snorted as if it had caught the terrifying scent of blood in the air. Sarah could feel Mr. Archer’s muscles starting to relax. His thighs slackened their grip. He slumped forward.

Heart pounding, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, cursing the bright moon and stars. The dark figure was closer and raising something to his shoulder. A rifle.

She reached around her uncle and grabbed the reins, turning the mare off the farm path to pick their way between the trees. They skirted a twisted maple. The sharp retort of rifle-fire blistered the air, followed by the hollow sound of wood splintering. The maple next to them quivered. A few small twigs and leaves gently fell over Sarah’s head and shoulders.

She gulped the air, struggling to clear her mind, knowing her life—and that of her uncle's—depended upon it. Guiding the horse to the right, she forced them deeper into the woods. They eased away from the trail and into the darkness between the trees.

At first, she gave the mare its head, letting it set a slow pace as it picked its way between the pale, ghostlike saplings and the thicker trunks of mature trees crowding the night shadows. The horse seemed to see despite the gloom and moved quietly and deliberately, as if sensing the need for secrecy. Several times Sarah pulled back on the reins, halting their progress to listen.

Behind them, she heard the sounds of a larger horse crashing through the underbrush. It moved toward them rapidly, apparently uncaring that it sounded like an entire herd of cows trampling between the trees.

Sarah tightened the reins again. She forced the mare to circle a large oak until they were facing the way they had come. The thrashing noise of pursuit neared. A man on a large horse emerged from the Stygian blackness. And his silhouette revealed a rifle resting on his thigh. He urged the horse forward with a low curse and the movement ruffled the light-colored cloak flowing over his shoulders. A soft, slouching hat, pulled low over his brow, hid his face.

She watched for a minute, but his posture and manner brought no flash of recognition. And she was afraid to stare too hard, or get to close, in case he should sense their presence. Identification would have to wait, if they managed to survive.

The man continued forcing his horse forward through the woods. His head turned this way and that, listening to the whispers of the trees. Somehow, the stealthy movements terrified Sarah more than any direct confrontation would. She waited, barely breathing, until the sounds of his horse faded.

She tightened her hands on the reins to urge their horse back toward the road when her uncle awakened from his stupor. He stiffened with a low noise halfway between a moan and a gasp.

“You’re shot,” she said unnecessarily.

“Nothing—it’s nothing, just a mere scratch,” he whispered with difficulty. “Where is he?”

“He continued amongst the trees, heading east. We must find a place to stop before you bleed to death.”

“Don’t be absurd. We shall continue—we’ll stop when we get to London. And he’ll expect us to take the closest route, especially if he believes he wounded one of us. He’ll head for Kennington. We’ll have to go another way, through Battersea, I think. Cross the river on Battersea Bridge. Let’s hope he takes the more direct road. Under no circumstances do we stop—is that understood?”

“But—”

“No circumstances. We’ll both live if you keep your eyes open and wits about you.” He paused to draw a raspy breath. “Now, we’ll wait five minutes. In case our friend decides to return this way. Then we’ll go back—but not to the main road. Did you see that lane running alongside the road?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Follow that. I have the vague idea it runs to Battersea Rise.”

She agreed reluctantly. While they waited, the mare browsed on a few new leaves and acorns from the previous fall. Her munching sounded horribly loud. Frantically worried about her uncle, and fearful the rifleman would return, Sarah pulled up on the reins to keep the horse from browsing. Then she reached around and snagged her uncle’s handkerchief from his waistcoat and stuffed it under his snug jacket. She could only hope it would staunch the sluggish flow of blood.

He winced under her touch and sucked in his breath. But he didn't have the strength to object.

Nearer ten minutes than five, he roused himself enough to observe that their pursuer had apparently gone. The only sound was the light whisper of the breeze through the trees. Archer plucked the reins out of Sarah’s hands. With a tap of his heels, he urged the mare to step lightly through the woods towards the moonlit pastures beyond.