Strangers at Dawn (13 page)

“She knows I’m Max Worthe, but not that I’m connected to the
Courier.
Not yet, anyway.”

Peter let out a low whistle. “This could be tricky.”

Max smiled. “Peter, you don’t know just how tricky this is.”

Peter looked at Max closely. “You don’t look too happy.”

Max shrugged. “I haven’t figured out how I’m going to handle this. There’s more at stake here than you realize.”

“I don’t see why you’re worried. She can’t be tried again for the same crime.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

Max then went on to tell Peter about his interview with Sir Ivor. “When I put it to him that William had fathered a child on a local girl, his face went purple. I was astounded at his reaction.
Mter
all, no one ever claimed William was lily white.”

“Perhaps not, but parents always think their children are
blameless. Frankly, Max, I don’t think it’s relevant either. But I’ll check it out if it makes you feel better.”

“Thank you. Now what have you found out?”

The serving maid entered with the first course, and as they tucked into lamb stew and dumplings, Peter made his report. Stoneleigh, he said, was shut up tighter than a clam.

“The locals,” he went on, “don’t want to talk about Sara Carstairs or to anyone who had anything to do with the trial. You see, Max, last time around, they were famous. People and reporters from all over England converged on this little market town and interviewed the residents. It went to their heads. Everyone had a story to tell about Sara Carstairs and William Neville, and if you didn’t have a story, you made one up, just to be the same as everyone else. Are you with me, so far?”

Max said slowly, “I think so. You’re saying that the stories circulating about Sara were exaggerated?”

“Exactly. And some of those stories may have been out-and-out lies. A damn shame, I know, but remember, these juicy tidbits of gossip had no bearing on the trial. The circumstantial evidence against Sara Carstairs was, and still is, substantial. I still think she’s guilty, Max.”

“Go on. What else have you learned?”

“Well, take that story about her fiancé, for instance, Francis Blamires. The rumor was that he broke the engagement when she was arrested. In fact, it was the other way round.”

“Whatever happened to Blamires?”

“Oh, he married and moved away. He’s farming in Kent or someplace.”

After a moment, Max said, “What about William’s friends, the ones who testified at the trial?”

“There weren’t locals. They’d come down from London at William’s invitation. You know the sort, hangers-on. William put them up at the King’s Head, no expense spared. No one knows where they are now.”

Max said, “If Stoneleigh is as tight as a clam, where did you get all your information?”

“If I told you my methods, you could dispense with my services. Then where would I be? Now don’t look like that, Max. I didn’t do anything illegal.”

“Peter-”

Peter laughed. “The local constable told me most of it. We shared a jug of ale in this very inn, and I told him I’d been looking for somewhere to settle, but the local people were so unfriendly that I didn’t think I could be happy here. So, he proceeded to tell me why Stoneleighers-that’s what they’re called, by the way-are so tight-lipped around strangers.”

“No one remembered you from before?”

“Hardly. That was three years ago, and I know how to melt into the background. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be any good at my job.”

“So what else did you learn?”

“Well, after the trial, the good people of Stoneleigh thought that things would go back to normal. By this time, Miss Carstairs was home and living with her family. But things didn’t return to normal, largely because William Neville’s father had posted a reward for information leading to his son’s whereabouts. Hordes of people descended on the village. The residents couldn’t turn around but they were falling over strangers who were poking around cellars and disused farm buildings
ca
digging up gardens and farmers’ fields. And when the
Courier
doubled the reward, that’s when things turned ugly.”

Peter stopped speaking when Max abruptly reached for the burgundy and refilled their glasses. “You couldn’t have known that this would be the result,” Peter said.

Max looked up briefly. “No. I couldn’t have known. Finish what you were saying, something about things turning ugly.”

Peter was beginning to wish he hadn’t opened his
mouth. He knew Max well enough to recognize that he was stone cold angry, and that anger was turned against himself.

“Well?” said Max.

“Well,” said Peter, belatedly choosing his words with care, “a party of young bucks, thugs, really, descended on the Carstairs’s house. They’d been drinking. They had guns and demanded that Sara Carstairs show them where she’d hidden William’s body. They fired shots through the windows. Luckily, no one was hurt, and when someone inside the house returned their fire, they backed off. But they weren’t done yet. They found the dower house in the grounds, the house where Anne and William Neville once lived, and set fire to it. The next day, Sara Carstairs left Stoneleigh and went into hiding.”

Peter took along swallow of wine. He was tempted now, to kick his own backside. What had started off as a joke had turned flatter than stale ale, and he didn’t know why. It was time to veer off in another direction.

“Do you know what I think, Max? I think she’s making for Stoneleigh.”

“That doesn’t seem likely after what you’ve just told me.”

“But that happened years ago, right after the trial. Things are different now. The locals are ashamed of the way they behaved then. They’ll accept her, or they’ll tolerate her, at least as long as the curiosity seekers stay away.”

“That’s not what Sir Ivor says. He says the locals will stone her.”

“Oh, no. That’s wishful thinking on his part.” “Why would she go home?”

“Maybe she’s tired of living under an assumed name.”

“Then why is she traveling as Miss Childe?”

Peter let out a long sigh. “I have no idea. All I know is what my nose is telling me: she’s coming home. Look, she came
all
the way from London to Bath, where she’s staying for a few weeks. Maybe she’s waiting to make sure that no
one is following her. Or maybe she’s waiting for someone-a husband, a lover-who knows what she’s been up to during the last three years? But my nose tells me she’s coming home. Bath is only a day’s drive from Stoneleigh. She’s coming in, slowly and carefully, but believe me, she’s coming in.”

Max stared at the amber liquid in his glass. “You’re convinced she’s guilty?”

“Nothing has made me change my mind on that point. What happened to her at Stoneleigh after the trial was reprehensible. I truly regret it. And maybe William Neville was a swine. But that doesn’t change anything. Sara Carstairs was involved with him. She’s never denied it. And-”

Max held up a hand. “Stow it, Peter. I’m not a fool. I’m not swayed by feminine wiles. I want to know only one thing-is William Neville alive or dead?”

“And if she leads us to his body?”

Max brushed his hand over his sleeve. “Then we’ll know she’s guilty, and we’ll publish the full story in the
Courier.”
He looked at his watch. “I’d better get going while it’s still light. I may make it as far as Salisbury before dusk.”

“You’re returning to Bath straight away?”

“Of course.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay here and wait for Miss Carstairs. What cover are you using?”

“Mmm? Oh, that I’m just getting over a respiratory infection and my doctors have advised me to convalesce in the fresh country air. But what about you? Where will you be?”

Max drained his glass. After a moment, he said, “If you see a shadow with Sara Carstairs, Peter, you’ll know it’s me.”

Eight

S
ARA STUDIED HER REFLECTION IN THE LONG
cheval mirror. As befitted a lady’s companion, her high-waisted gown was of gray crepe and had long sleeves. Her hair was swept up and demurely covered in a lace cap. She’d achieved her object. She looked much older than her years, a staid, sensible lady who knew exactly what she was doing.

- She was nervous, very nervous, because tonight she was going to reveal to her best prospect, Mr. Townsend, that she was the lady who had placed the advertisement in the
Chronicle.
He would ask questions that she didn’t want to answer, but one thing she couldn’t get around. She had to tell him who she really was. The name on her marriage certificate had to be her own. It had to stand up in a court of law if ever it were put to the test.

Just as the marriage settlement had to stand up in a court of law if ever it were put to the test. She had it rolled up in her reticule, a document that her London attorneys had assured her was as binding as any business contract. She wondered what Mr. Townsend would make of it all.

He’d answered her advertisement, she reminded herself. Only a man in desperate circumstances would go that far. There was every chance that he would accept her offer.

Over the last two days, they’d had several conversations, and with each conversation, she’d come to like him more. He spoke mostly about his children, occasionally about his wife. He was a nice man, and if only he could have been her uncle or her father, she would have been the happiest girl in the world.

The other applicants to her advertisement hadn’t impressed her one bit. They’d practically ignored her because she was only a lady’s companion, a paid servant, and not worth bothering about. She knew that she should be grateful that her little deception had worked. As a mere companion, she faded into the background while Miss Beattie held center stage. Even the conversations with Mr. Townsend had included Miss Beattie. No one had sought her out for herself. No one seemed to see her as a person in her own right.

Except Max Worthe. Lord Maxwell, she corrected. He’d been gone for two days, and she never expected to see him again. He’d finally accepted that there could never be anything between them, and he’d graciously left the field.

Now that she didn’t have to worry about him, it was safe to admit that she missed him. Corinthian or no, she liked him, really liked him. She even liked his tasseled boots and his foppish neck cloth with its pretty bow. He said the most outrageous things that no lady should permit. He teased her, and that was a new experience for her. Perhaps, if things had been different, he could have taught her how to tease, too.

If
things had been different.
It happened all the time. Penniless aristocrats married heiresses whose fathers had made their money in trade. It had nearly happened to her. But Sara Carstairs, whom everyone believed was a murderess, was no one’s idea of a bargain. Then again, neither was Max. He’d told her that his title was a courtesy title. She was curious, of course, but she’d stifled her questions because she feared that if she and Max became too involved,
their parting would be that much harder to bear, at least on her part.

The less they both knew about each other, the better it would be in the long run. She was going to lock Max away in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart and remember him fondly from time to time. And that’s all he could ever be, a distant, pleasant memory.

And there would be no regrets.

Miss Beattie was waiting for her in the front hall. She looked very smart in a dark blue gown and matching bonnet. Poor Bea had been quite cast down since Max had deserted them. She couldn’t be made to see that he was a dangerous complication.

“Ready?” Miss Beattie asked quietly.

“Quite ready. Where is Mrs. Hastings?”

“She went on ahead with Miss Perry and Mrs. Harman.”

“Then let’s get started.”

They were on their way to Sydney Gardens, to take in a concert and afterwards, when the sun had set, a fireworks display.

And that’s when she would slip away to the Sydney Hotel and seal her bargain with Mr. Townsend.

M
AX DID THE RETURN TRIP TO BATH IN
record time, and he gave the postilions of his hired chaise a handsome gratuity for living up to their promise. His first order of business when he entered his hotel was to ask the landlord to arrange for one of the hotel’s footmen to be assigned personally to him. He was tired of haring back and forth across England in wretched hired carriages with broken springs, and tired of waiting his turn with servants who did not belong to him. And
if
that made him undemocratic, he could live with it.

The landlord noted the arrogant cast of his lordship’s the cold blue ‘eyes and the smile that wasn’t quite a
smile, and he touched his forelock before he was aware of what he was doing.

That was the trouble with the quality, he told his wife as he personally saw to the drawing of his lordship’s bath. They could be nice to you one minute and turn on you the next. And there was no redress, because they held
all
the cards. If you answered them back, they would tell all their friends, and after that, no one of any consequence would darken your doors. Then where would they be?