Strangers at Dawn (29 page)

Her eyes strayed to the chair Max had occupied last night. If he hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have had the courage to close her eyes.

And last night she had promised to marry him.

She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering how he had kissed her. When she felt her body quicken in arousal, she gasped, threw back the covers and slid from the bed.

W
HEN SHE CAME DOWNSTAIRS, A FOOTMAN
told her that there was a gentleman waiting for her in the morning room. His name was Mr. Fallon, but beyond that, the footman knew nothing, except that he’d been waiting for some time.

The young man who rose at her entrance was of medium height and had a pleasant, open expression on his face. His hair was receding at the temples. She approved of his garments, dark blue coat and beige breeches. There were no tassels on his boots.

“How can I help you, Mr. Fallon?” she said, and indicated that he should take a chair. She sat on the sofa.

He came to the point at once. “Lord Maxwell asked me to give you this letter before he left for Winchester. It will answer all your questions.”

She took the letter from him without being aware of it. She felt numb. The first thing that occurred to her was that Max had changed his mind about marrying her and didn’t know how to tell her. But the thought was short-lived. Whatever Max was, he was no coward.

Mr. Fallon went on, “He didn’t want to waken you. He left very early, you see. That’s why he left that letter with me.”

Baffled, she opened the letter and began to read. She could trust Peter Fallon, Max said, because he and Peter were friends as well as colleagues. Until he returned from Winchester-and he should be in Longfield later that evening, all going well-Peter would look after her. Meantime, he would procure a special license from the bishop, and when he returned, they would be married at once in Longfield’s chapel. He would brook no delay, for reasons that must be obvious. All that she had to do was stay close to Peter and make sure the vicar was there.

There was no going back now. Dear Lord, what had she done?

“Are you all right, Miss Carstairs?”

She looked up to see Peter Fallon studying her. “You don’t look like a bodyguard,” she said.

He gazed at her levelly. “Brawn isn’t necessary in this case. You must never be left alone. That’s what Lord Maxwell told me. Wherever you go, I’ll be close by.”

“And how are you going to manage that? I’m not going to tell my family that you’re here to protect me. It would only upset them. I’d have to tell them about …” She hesitated, unsure of how much Max had confided in this man.

He finished the sentence for her. “About the attack on you last night? I understand. You may count on me to be the soul of discretion.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then said coldly, “Who are you, Mr. Fallon?”

He answered her easily. “I work for Lord Maxwell. If
you want to know more, you’ll have to ask him. But for our purposes, we’ll simply say that I’ve been commissioned by Lord Maxwell to write about the architecture of Longfield. That should explain my presence here. But I’ll be wandering around, keeping an eye on you. If you leave the house, I want to know about it.”

“Indeed!” She rose abruptly. “Max has taken too much upon himself this time.”

He got up as well. “Yes, he’s good at doing that. Miss Carstairs, please be reasonable. You won’t even notice that I’m here. And when Max gets back, you can have it out with him.”

She wanted to be angry, but his crooked, rueful half smile was hard to resist. She found herself softening; and in spite of herself, the corners of her mouth turned up. “You sound,” she said, “as though you’ve been the object of Max’s methods as well.”

“Frequently,” he assured her, and suppressed a theatrical shudder.

She laughed. “Wait here,” she said. “First, I want to warn-that is,
tell my
family that Max and I will be married tonight, then I’ll come for you and introduce you to them.”

Peter Fallon remained standing until Sara had left the room, then he sat down again and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the silver pot the maid had newly delivered. He’d already consumed one plateful of currant scones with lashings of melting butter and he wondered if he should ask for another. That was one thing about Max. He always thought of a fellow’s comfort, especially if that friend-employee?-was doing him a favor. He had only to pull the bell-cord and a servant would come running and give him whatever he wanted.

That’s where he would begin, he decided, with the servants. If one of them had delivered that note to Miss Carstairs last night, he would soon discover who it was, not by putting questions to them directly, but by coming at it
obliquely. His methods were different from Max’s and, in his own modest opinion, far more effective. Servants knew more than their masters and mistresses gave them credit for. There was no saying what else he might find out.

He drank his coffee absently, his broad brow pleated in a frown. So that was Sara Carstairs. He’d seen her at the trial, but not clearly, not full face and without her bonnet. Now that he had seen her, he wasn’t surprised that Max was smitten. It wasn’t her beauty, though she was pretty enough with her dark glossy hair swept off her face and her expressive gray eyes. It was something else, a curious blend of pride and fragility. But was she a murderess? Max had either changed his mind or the question had become irrelevant.

He yawned and yawned again. He wasn’t surprised that he was tired. He’d been up half the night. One moment he’d been snug in his bed in his lodgings at the Cat and Fiddle, the next moment he’d been shaken awake by one of the Longfield footmen and dragged out to the house to confer with Max. He’d heard the rumors that were circulating in Stoneleigh, that Miss Carstairs was betrothed to some fortune hunter or other, and he’d wondered what the devil was going on.

Well, now he knew, and it rocked him back on his heels.

Max had been very terse before he left. There had been no talking things over as they usually did, only a curt recitation of events to bring him up-to-date and a series of orders. First and foremost, Max wanted to keep Miss Carstairs safe until he returned. She wasn’t to go anywhere alone. Then Peter could begin digging for answers. Max wanted to know who had put the note on her dressing table, who was in a position to know and forge William Neville’s handwriting, and where everyone was last night when the attack took place. The obvious answer, that Miss Carstairs was responsible and that there had been no attack, either had not occurred to Max, or he refused to consider it.

He was turning that thought over in his mind when she
returned. The color was high on her cheeks and there was a martial light in her eyes.

“If you’ll come this way, Mr. Fallon,” she said, “I’ll make the introductions.”

T
HERE HAD NEVER BEEN A MORE DISMAL WED
ding than this. It might as well have been a funeral, except that it wasn’t sorrow that permeated the atmosphere so much as disappointed hopes. Well, Max was in no mood to charm Sara’s family out of their sullenness. He’d had a grueling ride to Winchester and back in one day, and he was tired and irritable.

What on earth was keeping Sara and Simon? If this interminable Longfield silence went on much longer, he would drop off to sleep.

He glanced around the chapel. It was in one of the round towers and couldn’t have held more than twenty people. On this occasion there were six of them, including the vicar. Martin was reading a book; Constance was staring straight ahead of her; Anne was praying; and Lucy was petting a kitten.

Only one thing mitigated Max’s ill humor. Neither Simon nor Martin had a scratch on them. It didn’t seem likely that either of them had attacked Sara last night. For her sake, he hoped he was right.

But where the devil was she?

If she’d had a change of heart, that was too damn bad. He wasn’t giving her a choice. He’d tried chivalry, and if that didn’t work, he would fall back on more primitive methods. He would carry her off to his hunting lodge in Cornwall and keep her there until she came to her senses. A blind man could see what was between them. How could one woman be so dense?

Five minutes, that’s all he would give her, then he was going after her.

The vicar was fussing again. Max got up from his pew and went over to him. “What is it now?” he asked testily.

In a tight undertone, the vicar said, “This is
all
highly irregular. You should be married in church, not in a private house. And in the morning, as is the law of the land.”

“The bishop has cleared everything, hasn’t he? Perhaps you’d like to take your quarrel up with him?”

That silenced the vicar.

As it should, thought Max, because he
had cleared
everything with the bishop. Of course, it helped that his father and Bishop Hyde had been friends since schooldays. He’d explained that he was afraid that his bride would be mobbed if she were married in the local church, and that there was a chapel at Longfield. He’d also stressed the necessity for haste. The bishop had given him an oddly sorrowful look, but he’d signed
all
the necessary papers.

It was only on the ride back to Longfield that it occurred to Max he might have inadvertently misled the old cleric into believing that his bride was on the point of giving birth to their first child-out of wedlock. That would explain the sorrowful look.

He didn’t know why he was grinning, because if it got back to his parents, there would be hell to pay.

Max turned as the door opened. Sara, leaning on Simon’s arm, entered. The chapel was small, with only a center aisle. A few steps took her to Max’s side. She’d taken a great deal of trouble with her appearance, Max noted with approval. Her hair was dressed in tiny ringlets that were held in place by a white ribbon. Her gown was of ivory satin, and over it she wore a long-sleeved matching spencer that buttoned all the way to her throat. She carried a spray of white flowers in one hand.

His tiredness and irritability dropped away. He took her hand. Her fingers were trembling. She looked as though she would bolt at the least provocation. He lowered his head to catch her softly spoken words.

“You haven’t signed the marriage contract,” she said.

These were not the words he’d hoped to hear. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he could buy and sell her ten times over. Well, twice anyway. What stopped him was mere whimsy. He wanted Sara to trust him without reservation. He wanted her to have the same faith in him as she had in her miserable family. He wanted—

She squeezed his hand.

“What?” he asked, none too gently,

“Max, there’s still time to change your mind.”

His gaze narrowed on her face. Her eyes were fragile, uncertain, worried. Good. He’d give her something else to worry about.

“Not a chance,” he said, “because you, my love, are going to make it worth my while.”

The vicar cleared his throat, and the service began.

C
ONSTANCE HELPED HER UNDRESS FOR BED.
She didn’t want Constance’s help, but didn’t feel that she could refuse when it was her stepmother’s gown she had borrowed for the occasion. There was little chance of Max’s interrupting them. He’d fallen sound asleep at the dinner table and had to be helped to his bed.

Not that she blamed him. Her family had sat grim and silent throughout the meal, although they’d had plenty to say for themselves when Max was gone. It was Anne who had silenced them.

“Are you all blind?” she’d cried out. “Can’t you see that Sara is in love with Max and he with her? He doesn’t care about her fortune. This is a love match.”

They’d all been stunned, herself included.

She thrust the memory from her, slipped into her dressing robe, and turned to face Constance. “Thank you for lending me your gown. If I’d had a gown especially made up, I’d have wanted something like this. It’s truly beautiful.”

“I had hoped to wear it to your wedding myself.” Constance sighed and shook her head. “But I never thought it would be a wedding like this. I don’t know what your father would say if he were here. You were always so level-headed. But you’re no better than any other silly young girl, I suppose. You’ve allowed yourself to be taken in by a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders.”

Sara touched her fingers to her brow and smoothed her frown away. “There’s more to Max than that.”

“Is there? How do you know? Who are his parents? Where does his money come from? Does he have any money? I very much doubt it. Oh, no, my girl, he has rushed you into marriage before we’ve had a chance to find out anything about him. He’s a fortune hunter, that’s what he is, and he’ll be the ruin of us all.” The flashing green eyes suddenly softened, and she said in a coaxing tone, “It’s not too late. You can have the marriage annulled. Put him off for a night or two, until Drew comes home and you have a chance to consult with him.”

“I don’t want to consult with Drew. I know my own mind.”

When Constance opened her mouth to speak, Sara silenced her with a curt motion of one hand. She didn’t want to quarrel with Constance or anyone on her wedding night, but she’d had enough of these unprovoked attacks on Max.

“From now on,” she said, “you will speak of Max with respect, and that goes for Simon and Martin, too. If the task is too much for you, then I suggest you leave Longfield at once. I mean it, Constance. I was never more serious about anything in my life.”

Constance’s jaw went slack, then she sucked in a long audible breath and glared at Sara. “The trouble with you,” she said, “is you don’t know who your friends are. I never thought to hear such words from you.”

“You wouldn’t hear them if you’d only behave.”

With the gown over one arm, Constance marched to the
door. But she wasn’t finished yet. She swung to face Sara. “You have grossly misjudged your brothers. Why do you think they were sent down from Oxford?”

“Because they got in a fight over some trollop.”