Lady Sarah's Redemption (20 page)

“Nunnery?” There was little to suggest the ecclesiastical.

“Bawdy ‘ouse, ma’am.”

Terror ripped through her. But no, the man was leering at her,
drunkenly. If Sarah believed him, she was lost. She was calling on a
respectable widow. One who’d be as shocked and upset as Sarah to learn her son
had enticed a gently reared young woman away from her loving home.

The house looked respectable enough, and no different from the other
four square buildings with neat iron railings in front. Its blinds were drawn
and lights burned in the upper rooms.

But as the jarvey set down the steps she was beset by indecision. If
this
were
a house of ill repute,
she’d be a fool to venture out of the carriage. She should contain her
desperate impatience and return with Roland, later.

“So wot yer plannin’ on doin’ then, miss?” asked the jarvey, holding
open the door. “If you’ve the blunt I can stay ’ere all night.”

She glanced the length of the dim street. Caro was inside, she was
almost certain. What choice did she have? Roland was gripped by fever and quite
beyond moving further than the posting inn.

“I’ll pay you half a crown if you’ll come with me, now. Double that
amount when you return me to the Crown and Anchor.”

He responded with alacrity, though Sarah’s relief was tempered by
his difficulty in keeping his balance. Still, his intimidating size kept her
fear in check as she waited for an answer to her knock.

The door opened and a young woman of about twenty regarded her,
suspiciously.

“What yer after?” she asked.

She did not look like a servant girl. Instead of cotton print she
wore a flashy gown of mauve and yellow satin. Nor did she look — much
less talk —
 
like Mr
Hollingsworth’s sister and, in fact, laughed uproariously at that suggestion.

“Me name’s Kitty,” she told her. “If you’s come looking fer him yer
outta luck. He ain’t in.”

“What about Mrs Hollingsworth?”

“D’yer mean his wife or his muvver?”

Sarah gasped. His wife? Could that mean Caro? Or did he already have
a wife?

Whatever this place was, Sarah had come too far to turn back, now.

 
“Well, mightn’t be no
matter to you as to which one,” said her informant in answer to her question,
“fer old Mrs Hollingsworth is out, too, and the young one won’t see no one. But
if yer that anxious then you might as well come through and wait.”

Sarah turned to the jarvey. “Stay with me,” she whispered and,
though grumbling that he ‘ought to see she had the blunt to pay ’im first’ he
stumbled after her down a dimly lit corridor and through green velvet curtains
into a well lit room beyond.

“More privacy here where you and your … gennelmun friend can wait. They
shouldn’t be too long. Just a-visiting, and things don’t get busy for a little
while yet.”

Sarah glanced around at her surroundings, her eyes dropping quickly
from the Bacchanalian oil painting above the fire place.

Trying to retain a dignified composure, she said, “Please tell the
young lady upstairs that her old governess is here. She’ll see me, I know it.”

Kitty looked Sarah in the eye and sighed. “Tain’t worth it to me,
miss. Girl’s not allowed to leave the ’ouse.”

Her words occasioned both relief and alarm. At least she’d come to
the right place.

Sarah fished in her reticule and brandished a half crown at her. For
a second Kitty stared at it longingly, but at the sound of new arrivals she
dashed Sarah’s hand away.

“Hide it!” she hissed, nodding at the coin and looking furtively at
the curtained doorway. “And don’t go offering ’ticements like that to the
madam. It won’t go down well.”

“Ah, Kitty. Visitors so early?” chirped a female voice. The curtain
was drawn aside and an enormously fat woman entered. Although well past her
prime she wore her hair in girlish ringlets, their golden hue contrasting
strangely with the grey pallor of her skin. Her dress of red silk, too, looked
as if it had been designed for a sylph. Cut indecently low, it clung to her rolls
of fat, leaving nothing to the imagination.

But it was the man next to her who chilled Sarah’s blood.

Like the woman he appeared surprised, before his face split in a sly
grin. Not this time the charming boyish smile for the ingenuous governess as he
regarded Sarah, speculatively.

“What a deliciously unexpected surprise,” he purred, brushing aside
the lock of brown, curling hair that flopped over his forehead. “Alone? Or is
this … er … gentleman your companion? An unlikely coupling, I must say.”

 
“My friend has agreed to
bear me company while I make enquiries about Caro. I believe I have come to the
right place.” Sarah’s tone was far bolder than she felt, but she had to take
the risk. Although the bull-like jarvey was the worse for drink, he looked as if
he could fell Mr Hollingsworth with an idle flick of the wrist.

“Caro?” frowned the young man, pretending to search his memory while
ushering Sarah to a chair with unctuous care. “Refreshment, Lady Sarah? Kitty,
if you please-?

“Kitty, love,” his mother cut in, “you do realize the time, and that
you’re not yet painted?” With a thoughtful frown followed by a saccharine
smile, she added, “
I’ll
fetch our
esteemed guests some refreshment.”

 
“And please tell my dear
wife she has a visitor,” added Mr Hollingsworth.

Settling himself in a delicate gilt chair opposite Sarah, Mr
Hollingsworth regarded her, quizzically. “Lady Sarah, I confess to
astonishment. Both to seeing you here, and at the very ungallant behaviour of
Mr Hawthorne.” He shook his head. “Leaving you with the responsibility of
tracking down his errant daughter. I can’t imagine how he knew where to send
you since I had not yet made contact with him regarding … ah … terms.”

Mrs Hollingsworth soon returned, followed by a child carrying
a tray. Sarah accepted the wine she was offered,
which she had no intention of drinking, and watched with dismay as the jarvey
downed his ale greedily.

Mrs Hawthorne settled her formidable bulk upon a gilded Egyptian
sofa. “Now, dearie, what’s this all about?” she asked. But despite her smile
and the fact her tone was designed to put Sarah at ease, there was the glint of
steel in her small, pig-like eyes.

“Mr Hawthorne will be here to fetch Caro, shortly,” Sarah said,
bravely, hoping the threat of reinforcements would help her cause. Burying her
clammy hands in the folds of her primrose skirts to hide their trembling, she
went on, “I came ahead to this address, believing that you, Mrs Hollingsworth,
would be horrified to learn of Caro’s disappearance in company with your son.
However, as Mr Hollingsworth is already married, I see we misread the situation
and should be grateful to you both for providing Caro with a refuge. If she was
running away, please tell her she is forgiven. It would be best for everyone if
we took her home, now.”

Unfortunately, the Hollingsworths were not inclined to take the
avenue with which Sarah had provided them.

“Best leave the negotiations to Mr Hawthorne, dear,” said Mrs
Hollingsworth with exaggerated condescension. She was about to go on when soft-slippered
footsteps sounded in the passage.

“I’m glad to see you in such good health, Lady Sarah.” The familiar
brown-haired young woman framed in the doorway acknowledged Sarah with a thin
smile. “It has been a while.” The voice, soft and slightly breathless, was as
Sarah remembered, but the lively Miss Morecroft she’d known on board ship was
now a dispirited creature. Although she no longer wore homespun, the tawdry
green satin gown looked out of place against her sallow complexion and plainly
dressed hair.

Conscious that her own behaviour was not unblemished, Sarah nodded
warily at the woman whose identity she had assumed these past six weeks. When
Caro failed to appear in her wake, she took the offensive. Sarah might have
acted the opportunist in upholding the assumption she was Miss Morecroft, but
Miss Morecroft’s actions had been far more calculated and wicked. She levelled
an accusingly look at her. “I believe I can thank you for leading Caro to this
place.”

“You attribute too much to me,” the young woman protested softly,
looking away, but Mr Hollingsworth, who had risen at her entrance, took her
elbow and drew her to the seat beside him, declaring, “Such modesty, my angel,
for I could have achieved nothing without you. Let us toast Divine Providence
for joining our fates upon the slippery deck of that doomed ship.”

Sarah seized her opportunity while their attention was for the
moment elsewhere. She was halfway to the door when Mrs Hollingsworth purred,
“You’re surely not leaving us, my dear?”

 
Sarah swallowed. She had
to get out of here. The cloying atmosphere of cheap perfume and the smoke from
the coal fire was nauseating. “If Caro is sleeping I would not have her
disturbed. Mr Hawthorne will be here shortly.”

Mr Hollingsworth smiled. “Where
could
Mr Hawthorne be?” Rising, he cast a quizzical look at Sarah. “Somehow I fancied
a lady of your determination preferred the more forceful type.”

Sarah glared, silently ordering the jarvey to his feet with an
imperious look. Rubbing his drink-sodden eyes, he followed her to the door.
With her hand finally on the knob, Sarah gave them her haughtiest look. “Mr
Hawthorne is the consummate gentleman – something you will never be!”

“Dearie me!” said Mrs Hollingsworth, her brassy ringlets bobbing as she
leant forward. “It seems you’re uncommonly taken with our esteemed
friend—” A great crash drowned her words.

With dismay Sarah watched the skittering shards of the porcelain urn
which the jarvey’s head had collected on his way to the ground roll across the
floor.

“Can’t hold his liquor, poor feller,” sighed Mrs Hollingsworth,
looking sadly at the body slumped against the wall. “Thank you, Barnabus! Take
the gentleman out. Lady Sarah, you mustn’t worry about your friend. Barnabus’ll
take care of him. Now sit down and drink up. I’m enjoying our little chat.”

“No.” The walls were closing in on her. The Hollingsworths with
their speculative smiles and Miss Morecroft in her trance-like state threatened
all she held dear. They would keep her here against her will. They would take
Mr Hawthorne, too, and then she had no idea what they planned. They were evil.

She tried to force her way past the door and into the passageway
where she hoped for a clear run but Mr Hollingsworth’s hand was upon her elbow.

“Lady Sarah, you can’t possibly rush into the darkness, in a
neighbourhood like this. Mr Hawthorne would never forgive us. Ah, good evening,
Caro.” His smile was very different from the one he’d reserved for Caro’s
birthday, as he ushered the terrified girl into the room.

Caro’s wan, pale face lit up when she saw Sarah. With a sob she
threw herself into her arms.

“Very touching,” observed Mr Hollingsworth, closing the door firmly
behind them and leading them to a green settee. “Now, I must dispatch one more
note. There is a gentleman who has, for the past six weeks, been all eagerness
to meet the lovely Miss Caro. The fact that a lovely imposter” - he looked
pointedly at Sarah – “has sweetened the dish is sure to garnish my
reward. Now, let us have another drink while we wait for our happy little
gathering to be complete.”

ROLAND
WOKE WITH a raging thirst.

He needed water, or he would die. Swinging his legs over the side of
the bed he attempted to rise. But his legs buckled and he landed on his face upon
the floor.

It took him all his energy to struggle back onto the mattress where
he sat a few minutes, his head reeling, as he tried to recollect what had
brought him to this indifferent London posting inn. If he was in London, as he
believed he was, he ought to be enjoying the rarefied atmosphere of his club.
This place smelled of musty linen and cheap candles.

He noticed his boots were off and he was shirtless. But there was a
basin of water and a sponge still damp on the washstand. His valet had not accompanied
him on this apparently hasty, clandestine trip and yet he had been attended to.

A vision of Lady Sarah swam before him, though he couldn’t imagine
why. While he searched in the gloom for the water jug, wisps of memory drifted
through his muddled brain. The image of her was so very strong.

 
When he lit a candle and
saw her veil upon the bed, he put his hands to his head and groaned.

Dear Lord, if she’d been with him last night what atrocities might
he have committed? If – as clearly had been the case – he was not
in full charge of his mental faculties, the beast within would have taken over.
He’d have given free reign to the lustful desires she inspired and which had
consumed him during the past six weeks.

He groaned again. If she had been here last night, where was she,
now?

Caro!

Guilty fear galvanised him into action, but as he reached for his
shirt, nausea gripped him and he fell to his knees on the wooden boards.