Lady Sarah's Redemption (18 page)

“You cannot stay there if you find Caro,” Sarah pointed out. Clubs
did not admit women.

“At the Crown and Anchor, then,” he said, tersely, his hand upon the
door knob.

 
“Please, Mr Hawthorne,”
Sarah begged, “let me come with you. Caro trusts me … ”

Her voice trailed off at his withering look. She saw him close his
eyes briefly, as if in pain, and run his hand over his face. “Caro,” he said,
“trusts no one anymore, it would appear.”

THEY BROKE
THEIR journey at the White Swan after four hours of bad roads and inclement
weather.

Lord Miles had managed to doze over the deepest of ruts and fords.
Now that he had been reunited with his beloved daughter, Sarah supposed he
probably had a few sleepless nights to catch up on.

As they waited in the parlour for the sumptuous feast Lord Miles had
considered necessary Sarah felt at a distinct disadvantage. Fatigue sapped her,
as if she had not slept a wink in two days.

 
“A bottle of claret, a
saddle of beef and a blazing fire will make words between us easier,” said her
father.

Sarah nodded as she thought of Roland, galloping towards London to
try and find his daughter, yet having no clue as to where she might be, and her
heart convulsed. Vulnerable, overwrought Caro could not be in her right mind to
have accepted an invitation to run away with Mr Hollingsworth. It was not even
as if they were eloping. If they’d been heading north towards the border there
was at least the consolation of assuming a hasty marriage was their intention.
But London? Alone with Mr Hollingsworth? Surely she must know she could only be
ruined by such folly?

Having polished off a bottle of claret her father’s mood was much
more sanguine.

“So you were punishing me for meddling in the affairs of your heart,
my girl,” he remarked, chewing on his beef and looking at her over the rim of
his glass. “Well, you couldn’t have devised a better way.” Recrimination had
been replaced by a soldier’s acceptance of being bested in battle. “I’ll not
interfere in your matrimonial affairs again. James is courting a young lass, I
hear. Well, perhaps that’s premature, but it was only this last week that he
has resumed pleasure-seeking. Nevertheless, he’ll be overjoyed to hear you’re
safe and well. But if he comes courting-”

“He won’t, father,” Sarah told him with conviction. “We were never
more than friends. Too much like brother and sister.”

“I’ve been blind to a good many things, Sarah. With you gone I
realized how much I relied on your cool judgment to temper my occasional
outbursts.”

“When have you ever lost your temper, Papa?” Sarah’s mouth quirked
before they both laughed. Lord Miles reached across the table and placed his hand
on Sarah’s. “Never leave me again, Sarah … unless it’s to be worthily wed. I’ve
always wanted that but it appears you truly are determined to remain unfettered
by the bonds of matrimony.”

“No, Papa,” Sarah said steadily. “I have no aversion to becoming a
wife … to a man worthy of me. Until that time I am quite content to pander to
your vagaries of mood. I shall
try
and keep sufficient staff for our needs with the usual reassurances that the
silver salver was aimed at the wall and not at their heads. It is a great
relief,” she added, pointedly, “that you are prepared to sanction my ultimate
choice of husband.”

“Looked to me like that young pup Hawthorne had a gleam in his eye
when he turned it on you,” Lord Miles said, reflectively, taking another sip of
claret, apparently oblivious to the sudden flaming in his daughter’s cheek.
“Not but that he didn’t try to hide it behind his stern words. Had he gone on
trying to point the blame at you I’d have called him out!”

“I believe you called him out once before, Papa.”

“Lily-livered girl didn’t want to fight me. Had to, though, else
it’d have been the end of that precious parliamentary career of his. Not but
that we’d all be better off without his ilk – dangerous radical!” Lord Miles
snarled. “It’s the quiet ones with their bottled up passion you’d best be wary
of, Sarah.”

“Your passionate outbursts can be spectacularly frightening on
occasion, Papa.”

 
“Look at me and what you
see is what you get. You’ll have a much easier life with someone in my mould
than a buttoned-up Puritan simmering with passion.”

 
By dinner’s end Sarah
had managed to keep exhaustion at bay by sheer effort.

Theirs was a discussion long overdue. She needed to explain the
desperation and helplessness that had driven her to flight. She needed, also,
to reassure him of her love and remorse. She did not lie by citing amnesia as a
reason for her deception, however she was guilty of omission as to why she had
maintained her charade. She could not reveal her feelings for Mr Hawthorne.
Instead she told Lord Miles it was her sense of responsibility towards the
girls, Caro in particular, which had decided her to stay.

Finally she crawled into bed and slept, her reconciliation with her
father at least some consolation. Lord Miles had been more angry that Sarah
believed he’d force an unpalatable marriage upon her, than he was at her
deception.

Sleep claimed her the moment she put her head on the pillow after
their early dinner. Less than an hour later, she was wide awake. But of course
how could she sleep when Caro was still missing and she and Mr Hawthorne
remained estranged?

Wrapping herself in the counterpane to keep out the biting cold, she
took herself off to the window seat.

The moonlight was blinding. Sarah dug the palms of her hands into
her eye sockets, shivering. Her sleep-fogged brain whirled over the same
points, without solution. If Caro’s reputation were destroyed, she would never
forgive herself. Was Mr Hollingsworth no more than a fortune hunter? Had he deceived
them all? Or did he have a parson with a special marriage license waiting in
London?

Her frozen feet throbbed from the cold. Stiffly, she padded over to
the old trunk at the foot of her bed to look for something in which to wrap
them. No longer did it contain the shabby garments belonging to the poor late
Sarah Morecroft. Through industry, energy and cunning Sarah had managed in a
short time to invent a wardrobe worthy of the lady she was. Minus, of course,
those little extras. Like a rainbow-hued selection of dancing slippers and a
fur wrap or ermine-lined mantle or pelisse, which would have been so useful at
a time like this.

Her seeking fingers found the coarse woollen shawl Mrs Hawthorne had
given her. In it, Sarah had wrapped Miss Morecroft’s diary, but it held little
interest. Poor Sarah Morecroft’s life, despite her glamorous, dissolute father
and exotic background, had been rather dull. Only her reverence for the rakish
Godby had infused it with life.

Guiltily, Sarah fingered the soft, tooled leather cover as she
resumed her seat. How amazing that it should have survived what its mistress
could not. Only a few pages were rendered unintelligible by water damage, due
to its thorough wrapping in oilskin.

She thought of the young woman whose life she had effectively
commandeered for the past six weeks. They’d been friends during the few days
Sarah had been aboard the ship which had carried Miss Morecroft from India.

Perhaps Mr Hawthorne’s anger at her was born of his disappointment
that Sarah was not the last link with his foster brother, after all. Perhaps he
had believed a sense of kinship existed between them. Instead, he had decided
she was nothing more than a pleasure-seeking society miss, out for a lark at
his expense.

She flicked through the thick, parchment pages until she was close
to the end. The diary had been started long before the young woman had known
her family would soon be dead and that she would be setting sail for England to
work for her father’s foster brother.

Five pages from the end the ink had run and the smudged handwriting
became difficult to read. Nevertheless, Sarah was soon absorbed by the young
governess’s thoughts regarding her impending journey.

She smiled, wryly. So her namesake hadn’t had a high opinion of the
dreary gowns her mother had mended and stitched for her, either. Pity Miss
Morecroft hadn’t been blessed with Sarah’s imagination and skill with a needle.

It was almost impossible to make out the final page. Sarah was on
the point of giving up when three syllables in careful, looped writing caught
her eye: Hollingsworth.

Her smile faded. With growing foreboding she bent her head,
straining to read the context. It took several minutes to make sense of it and
by then her heart was hammering. She no longer felt the cold as she cast off
the counterpane. Only dread as she threw down the book and looked desperately
for the clothes she’d worn last night. There was no time to lose.

Although the last sentence remained unfinished its ramifications
were clear enough. Miss Morecroft’s final diary entry had been a girlish eulogy
of the handsome and charming Mr Hollingsworth.

“Oi! Watch it!”

Roland sidestepped, just avoiding the wheels of the heavily-laden
cart rounding the corner. Heart pounding, he leant back against the wall and
closed his eyes.

Time was running out. For hours he’d called on friends and
acquaintances, and scanned crowds in his attempts to find his daughter.

His initial inquiries around Larchfield had turned up nothing.
Clearly, Mr Hollingsworth had invented himself; had arrived in the local area
with no intention of ever being traced.

The noise of shouting and rumbling traffic echoed painfully in his
ears. He knew he should keep moving but had not the energy. Eyes still closed, he
surrendered to the dreamlike state that had begun closing in on him since he’d
arrived in the capital. He thought of lovely Miss Morecroft — Lady Sarah
— and conceded for the first time since banishing her that her motives
may not have been all bad.

It was too late, of course. The damage had been done. He’d refused
to give her a hearing. Whether she was now a prisoner of her tyrannical father
or just her own guilt, he’d not see her again. She’d made clear her affection
for him was deep and sincere but he wondered how long under her own roof, feted
by admirers, it would be before she forgot him.

Despair and self recrimination curdled in his belly. How nearly he
had become a fool in love, yet again. Lady Sarah wielded the same power over
him Venetia had once had. If he gave her another chance, wasn’t it likely she’d
use it, like Venetia, to test his affections? Venetia had regarded the
suffering her every betrayal caused as confirmation of her supremacy over him.
He did not think his masculinity could withstand it happening again.

A tremor ran through him. He was not thinking clearly if he allowed
his loss of Lady Sarah to override his concern for Caro.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he followed the pavement with
unsteady footsteps. Dusk blanketed his long distance vision with a grey haze.
Or was it weariness? His mind was not as sharp as he needed it to be. The hand
he raised to his brow seemed made of lead. It was time to return to the inn and
sleep. Sleep would be the restorative he needed so he could look at the problem
with fresh eyes.

Roland awoke with a start. All was black. He had no idea what time
it was, or what had wakened him. He thought he heard a tapping. Had he asked
for a light supper to be sent to his room? He closed his eyes. Perhaps he’d
imagined it. Sleep beckoned once more. The comfort of its soothing embrace
competed with the insistent tapping.

With a growl of irritation he hauled himself off his bed. He noticed
he was still dressed, even had his boots on. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to
the door and opened it a crack.

“I do not wish to be disturbed—”

Quick as lightning a small hand darted through the crack and gripped
his arm. “Mr Hawthorne, it’s me!”

“Caro!” Surprise and delight jolted him out of his foggy state but
before he could respond in a more adequate fashion he was subjected to a fresh
assault of shock waves.

“No, it’s … it’s your wife.”

His wife? What dream was this?

Blinking as the thickly veiled figure tried to push open the door,
his brain ached with the effort of seeking reality.

The woman was unrecognizable beneath the black hat; the sweet, husky
voice, however, clearly belonged to that of his nemesis.

Lady Sarah Miles.

“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, darling.” Her musical tone
sounded over loud. “I was delayed but certainly hadn’t expected you to have
retired so early. Mr Hawthorne, I need to talk to you!” Dropping her voice to
an urgent hiss, she made another attempt to force an entrance.

He stared at her, his boot firmly wedging the door against opening
further. What was she playing at? She couldn’t possibly come into his chamber.

He saw the publican in the crack of light taking the corridor to the
west, and called to him. “My wife has arrived unexpectedly and requires her own
bedchamber.”

There were none to be had, the publican told him, pausing briefly.
There was one room of ladies but the bed was already sleeping three. He could
organize a truckle bed if m’lady desired that.