A Lady in Hiding (4 page)

“What do you do now?” William asked conversationally, trying to suppress his completely inappropriate feelings of satisfaction at providing Sanderson with the good, hearty meal he obviously needed.

The dietary habits of his clients were not his concern.

Sanderson chewed methodically and swallowed with his eyes half-closed in bliss before answering. “I’m a bricklayer. For Hawkins and Hawkins.”

“I haven’t heard of them.”

“They work out of Clapham.”

“Then why are you in London?”

“We’ve a job here. Laying a garden wall for one of the nobs near Portman Square.”

“Whose wall are you building?”

Sanderson shrugged, taking a long sip of the rich claret before cutting another piece of beef. “Don’t know their name. Doesn’t matter. Mr. Hawkins said they’re related to some duke, though. It’s of no importance.”

When Sanderson finally finished and drained the last of his wine, he wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and leaned back. His eyelids fluttered and drooped as if too tired to stay alert.

William stared, curious to see the area around the lad’s mouth finally clean and free of dust. He scratched his own chin. The stiff bristles made him aware of the late hour. After nine, surely.

Why didn’t Sanderson’s chin show the shadow of a beard, too? Trying to gauge his age obsessed him.

It was late in the day, and there was still a lot of brick dust over the lad’s face. However, unless he shaved before coming here, there was something very odd about him. And if he had shaved, where had all the grit on his face come from?

However, there was the scar on Sanderson’s forehead. Perhaps the head injury was not the only wound the lad had sustained in the fire. The fire might be responsible for Mr. Sanderson’s downy cheeks by robbing of him of his manhood as well as his parents.

The notion turned William’s thoughts down a less happy path. He liked Sanderson. The lad showed courage and a great deal of sense by coming here when he could obviously ill afford it. He had backbone and integrity.

And William was damned if he was going to let anything happen to the young man for want of trying.

In the end, he decided perhaps this was the case he had been waiting for. This inquiry could prove he was not just another idle lay-about with nothing to do but gamble and lift aging ladies’ skirts.

Agreeably replete, William rubbed the back of his neck before ringing for Sotheby to clear away the debris from their meal. He studied Sanderson, trying to evaluate his client. Despite the clatter of dishes, Sanderson’s head nodded. His chin hit his narrow chest once before he sat up, obviously struggling to stay awake against the exhaustion that smudged blue hollows around his eyes.

With the desk clear again, William leaned forward. “Tell me about this fire. What do you think this Major Pickering meant to tell you?”

“That fire could have been set. Deliberately. I didn’t think so until now.” He frowned, his eyes staring over William’s shoulder to the window behind him.

Night had fallen and passersby could see them clearly through the glass. A chill draft swirled over his shoulders. William felt the sudden urge to get up and close the dark green drapes at his back.

He resisted and drummed his fingers on his desk, instead. “Why?”

Sanderson shrugged. “I don’t know. But why else would the Major wish to speak to me about it? There’s no other reason. And he was killed before he could say.”

“Tell me what happened when you went to meet him.”

“Nothing. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I received that note from a child last night. This morning, I was late. I was a block away when I saw a man I assumed to be Major Pickering stabbed. So, I went on to work.” He shrugged. “What else could I do? I couldn’t help him.”

“You’re sure he was this Major Pickering?”

“No. But he had the bearing of a military man. He was waiting for someone at the appointed time and place. He—he started to wave when he saw me.”

“Was that when he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone?”

The gray eyes flickered. Sanderson’s gaze shifted to the bookcase, again. Then he shrugged.

“Come, if you want me to help you, you must be honest,” William said. “What did you see?”

“Nothing for certain. A man in a black coat bent over him, seeming to search his pockets. I didn’t see who killed the Major. Or if the man in black took anything.”

“Then it could have been a footpad?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you think differently?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I—” He broke off, his lips compressed in a firm line.

“What?” William prompted. His client’s reluctance to speak grated on his nerves. How could he help Sanderson if the lad insisted on keeping secrets? If he had so little confidence in William, then why was he still sitting there?

“I believe I’ve been followed. For a week or more.” Sanderson’s cheeks flushed under the layer of dust.

William suppressed the urge to laugh.

“Followed?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a sulky tone. “And I’ve got to ask, sir, a favor if you take this case.” He waved at the wall separating William’s office from the hallway. “Your sign says discreet. That’s why I’m here and no other reason. You can nose around and find out what Major Pickering knew about that fire, but you must not mention my name. Not down past Clapham way and not in Longmoor.”

William felt a frisson of excitement. He sat up straighter, staring into the worried gray eyes of the lad in front of him. “Are you afraid you’ll be next, then? Is that why you’re here?”

“I know there was a fire in 1806, and I was the only one to escape with my life. I know I’ve felt eyes on the back of my neck since we came to London. And I know Major Pickering died before he could tell me what he wanted to say. That’s all I know, Mr. Trenchard, except one last thing. Don’t use my name when you go to Longmoor. Everyone believes I died in that fire. I’d be pleased to leave it that way.”

Although Sanderson tried to control it, fear rolled off him like black, acrid smoke, filling the shadowed corners of the room. Staring into his eyes, William had to fight the urge to order him to stay at the townhouse where he would be safe. He had a sudden, fleeting image of himself on a white horse, holding up a lance and shield to defend Sam Sanderson while the lad nodded and snored in the saddle behind him.

“Then why ask me to investigate?” William asked gently, trying to understand his client and yet maintain his careful distance.

His father used to complain William thought with his heart instead of his head. It was a trait William tried his utmost to quell, though he usually failed. Even Mr. Gaunt had warned him. Once one got emotionally involved, it became impossible to investigate properly—one began ignoring vital factors. Particularly if they lead to uncomfortable conclusions.

“Because I don’t want to end up like Major Pickering, that’s why. Now do we have a contract, sir?”

William stood up and stretched his hand across the desk. Mr. Sanderson rose, his gaze honest and direct as he shook hands.

“Yes, Mr. Sanderson. I’ll accept your guinea as a down payment, with the rest due upon completion. Is that agreeable?”

“It is, sir. You do your part, and you’ll get fair recompense. You have my word on it.”

William doubted that they would agree on what constituted fair recompense. But he shook hands, nonetheless, thinking about the tragic futility of knighthood.

After politely bidding Mr. Trenchard goodnight, Sam shoved her hat back on her head and left, glad to escape. Once or twice, she had debated revealing she was a woman, but in the end, there seemed little point. It would only complicate matters.

The inquiry agent had not been what she had expected. He was far too handsome, for one thing. In her experience, beautiful men scarcely had enough wit to keep from drowning in shallow puddles after a decent rain.

However, Mr. Trenchard caught on quickly—too quickly at times—and once or twice she had found herself wanting to rest her head on his shoulder and pour out her entire story to him. Let him defend her, if he would, or could.

And he had such beautiful eyes, blue as the summer sky, and warm with sympathy. Or so it seemed. However, he also thought she was a boy, or rather a young man. No doubt if he knew what she had been thinking about his blue eyes, he would have beaten her and tossed her out on her ear for her unwholesome and unnatural feelings.

In any event, she had grown too used to thinking of herself as a man to change now.

The decision to become a boy had been easy. Orphaned girls didn’t fare as well as males, unless they had a fancy to lift their skirts to make a living. And she had been fortunate to find Hawkins. He proved to be a tough but fair employer, and he treated her well enough.

Over time, he’d accepted Samuel and since in his limited experience little boys generally grew into men, he never questioned that his “Samuel” might actually be a “Sarah.”

He saw what he expected to see, just like everyone else.

So Sarah remained hidden and perfectly safe until Mr. Hawkins expanded his business into the very heart of London.

With the night pressing around her, Sam stepped down the front walk, feeling alone and vulnerable. Could Trenchard really help her? She wasn’t convinced, despite their agreement.

She had seen the proprietor, Mr. Gaunt, going in and out of the building many times. Once or twice, he had nodded at her when their paths crossed at the corner. It was him she had sought.

Sam’s landlady, Mrs. Pochard, adored gossiping about Mr. Gaunt so Sam knew he had solved at least two murders. He was intelligent and knew what he was about. It was said there was not a case he could not resolve.

In contrast, his associate, Mr. Trenchard, seemed a little too light-hearted. Perhaps his good looks really did reveal his personality. He could very well be simply another flippant fellow with laughing blue eyes and thick, wavy blond hair, more suited to flirting with young ladies than investigating murders.

More likely, he was just some rich man’s youngest son, idle and seeking an amusing diversion. Even his clothes had that same careless, jaunty look to them, his cravat untidy and his jacket unbuttoned.

The only inquiry she was sure he excelled in was the investigation of the territory beneath ladies’ skirts.

And like as not, she had been a fool to trust him.

Was he laughing at her even now? Or worse, had he noticed her silly, moon-struck expression when she had seen him sprawled in his chair behind the desk, staring up at heaven rendered in oils?

There was nothing she could do about it, now. So she’d give him a week before she demanded the information she sought, or he could return the guinea.

She needed the money, anyway, to pay this past week’s rent. But for now, Mrs. Pochard could wait. Rent had to take second fiddle to Sam’s desire to stay alive.

As she walked across the street and down a block to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, Sam tried not to refine too much on Mr. Trenchard’s attractiveness. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop reviewing their conversation, going over and over it, searching for mistakes.

Had she said too much? Too little to do any good? Perhaps.

But she hoped he would heed her warning about using her name if he went to Longmoor. She didn’t want anyone to remember her, or think she was still alive.

But even if he didn’t, there were plenty of Sandersons in the village, and Samuel was a common, Christian name. She had not said she was related to the Marquess of Longmoor, who had perished with his family in the fire at Elderwood.

Nonetheless, she wished she had lied and told him a different name.

But if she had, his inquiries would be crippled from the start.

Useless.

There were no answers, and she was exhausted. Climbing the worn stairs to the boarding house, she unlocked the door and crept through the dark corridor. The musty entryway smelled strongly of cabbage—Mrs. Pochard must have served bubble and squeak again for dinner, and her tenants would regret it for a week.

Sam grimaced, grateful for the rich roast beef supper Mr. Trenchard had provided. Her stomach felt almost painfully full. But sudden energy added a spring to her step as she ran quietly up the stairs to her room.

If nothing else, she’d gotten the first decent meal she’d had in years. Served on beautiful china plates edged with gold, along with real silver and linen napkins. And across from her had sat a handsome man with the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen.

The sound of a woman’s coarse laughter drifted down the corridor. Sam moved more quietly, staying near the walls where the floors squeaked less. Her landlady was kind enough to her tenants, but Sam had no desire to improve their acquaintance.

Just like Mr. Hawkins, Mrs. Pochard had an unmarried, flirtatious daughter. Sam had enough troubles trying to escape her employer’s matrimonial noose without raising expectations in any other female’s well-endowed breast.

She wondered briefly if all employed, unmarried men had the same difficulties. If so, it was a wonder they weren’t all trapped and wed by age sixteen.

Did Mr. Trenchard have a sweetheart? She flushed and pushed the ridiculous question out of her mind. It didn’t matter if he had a dozen.

A door opened down the corridor. Deafened by her rapid heartbeat, Sam slipped inside her room and quietly locked the door behind her. In the darkness, she heard the clickety-clack of Mrs. Pochard’s red-heeled shoes coming down the hallway. The footsteps paused at Sam’s door as if her landlady stopped just outside, listening.

“Mr. Sanderson?” Mrs. Pochard called.

Sam remained silent, thankful she had not lit the single, greasy candle on the chest that leaned drunkenly toward the door.

“Are you there, Mr. Sanderson?”

The clatter began again as Mrs. Pochard turned and tapped back down the hallway. She opened her creaking door and shut it again so loudly that Sam’s own door quivered from the reverberations.

The weekly rent was due. Sam moved stealthily through the darkness. She’d have to pay soon or lose her place. Not that she would regret it overmuch. The room was poorly furnished and barely tolerable. The thin, threadbare cotton drapes did not keep out the moonlight, or the cold drafts from the ill-fitting window. At night, the sounds of mice skittering behind the wall served as the only lullaby residents could get. After Sam’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, she pulled off her smock and poured out a basin of tepid water to wash the dirt off her face.

The rent would wait until tomorrow evening when she got off work. Mr. Hawkins would pay them at the end of the day. And the coins would go straight from his palm to Mrs. Pochard’s pocket with only the briefest stop in Sam’s purse.

For one lovely moment, Sam remembered a carefree time as a child with no concern for money or the future. A sense of intense longing and regret filled her before she pushed away the useless thoughts.

Stripping down to her long, linen shirt, she climbed into the hard bed, using her elbows to smooth out the worst of the lumps. With a full stomach, she ought to sleep well tonight, despite her worries. Hard, physical labor made an effective soporific. She rarely had trouble sleeping, even when nightmares of flames and crashing timbers woke her, rigid and trembling, in the coldest hours before morning.

She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, wishing the nights would turn warmer. Mrs. Pochard was no great believer in fires, and Sam couldn’t afford a room with its own fireplace— even if she could pay extra for the wood. But considering her nightmares, the lack of a fire could only be considered a blessing. And given Mrs. Pochard's reluctance to spend money on firewood, this house was unlikely to burn down like Elderwood had. So Sam didn’t mind the cold so much, despite a sudden, teeth-rattling shiver. Her situation could be worse.

Rolling over, she tried to get comfortable in the worn hollow at the center of the narrow cot. The ropes beneath the lumpy mattress creaked in protest. She stilled, listening. The frayed rope at the head of the bed twanged—one more strand snapped—but it held.

At least for now. Just like her safety.

Everything was temporary.

Finally, when her bed did not collapse beneath her, she relaxed again. Her thoughts turned inevitably to the Major Pickering and the sight of a man bending over him, patting his pockets.

Her eyelids fluttered with sleep. With an effort at confidence, she tried to believe the murderer had found nothing in Pickering’s coat. No one would strangle her in the wee hours of the night, at least not here in Mrs. Pochard’s dingy, sagging townhouse.

And William Trenchard would soon find the murderer.

For her part, she could remain safe in comfortable obscurity until hard labor and near starvation took their toll.

Unfortunately, as she fell asleep, her dreams swirled into the familiar nightmare of flames, smoke, and the terrified screams of death. She moaned and twitched, crying in her sleep, unable to wake up and save anyone, including herself.