Strangers at Dawn (20 page)

This was said so wistfully that Max couldn’t help smiling. “What about Lucy?” he asked gently.

Sara sighed. “I don’t know, I just don’t know, When I
left Longfield, she was a charming child. But now all she can think about is having a Season in London. Constance must be putting these ideas into her head. But it won’t do.” She looked up with a
wry
smile. “Constance thinks I won’t sponsor Lucy because of the cost. But it isn’t only that. No one in our family has ever had a Season in London. We don’t have that kind of connections. Who would call on Lucy if she went up to town? Who would invite her to parties? Who would come to a ball in her honor? No one I know. And even if all doors were miraculously opened for her, what would happen when someone remembered that Lucy’s sister had stood trial for murder? They would cut her dead. Constance says she is willing to take that chance. But I’m not.”

“And that makes you the wicked ogre?”

“That about sums it up.”

“And Anne? What’s she like?”

“Quiet. Thoughtful. Her burning ambition when she was a young girl was to be a nun. I don’t think she’s ever got over it.” She didn’t like talking about Anne, so she quickly changed the subject. “Now it’s your turn. Who are your parents, Max? Where do they live?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “My father is Lord Lyndhurst,” he said, “and he and my mother live on the other side of Winchester.”

Her brow puckered. “I’ve heard of Castle Lyndhurst, though I’ve never seen it.”

“It belongs to my father. That’s where I was born.”

“It must take a great deal of money to keep a castle in good repair, and keep it going, too.”

“What are you getting at, Sara?”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “Mmm. You’re not looking for an heiress to marry, by any chance, are you, Max? You know, your title for my fortune?”

He sat up straighter. “Certainly not!”

“Good. Because this heiress is not for sale. Besides, I don’t
think my share of my father’s fortune would be enough to keep a castle going.” She smirked when he glared. “Ah, here weare.”

Max closed his mouth on a blistering reply and looked out the window as the coach made a turn and passed between two stone pillars with a gatehouse on one side. “What happened to the village of Stoneleigh?”

“It’s a mile further on. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. I’m just trying to get my bearings, that’s all.”

The trees and shrubbery on either side of the drive were so dense that it was impossible to get any idea of the lay of the land. He wanted to ask where the dower house was in relation to the house, but decided that this wasn’t the right moment. He was aware that Sara had suddenly gone as tense as a bowstring.

“Nervous?” he asked.

For a few seconds, her eyes held his, eyes that had a startled, fearful look about them, then the look was gone, and she said in a natural tone, “Does that surprise you?”

No. The nervousness didn’t surprise him, but the fear did.

“You’ve got that look on your face again, Max. What are you thinking this time?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

What he was thinking was that it was about time that someone shouldered some of Sara’s burdens; he was wishing that he’d known her before the trial, before he was prejudiced against her; he was wishing he could kick himself. But the idea that possessed his mind was that this lovely, willful, yet vulnerable girl was in sore need of a champion, whether she knew it or not, and he did not see why he should not
fill
that slot.

W
HEN MAX CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE HOUSE, HE
let out a low whistle. It was an Elizabethan gem that had
been spared the sorry fate of so many centuries-old houses. It was intact, with no neoclassical facade to disfigure its stolid beauty and no spurious wings running off from the main building. With its ivy-clad stone walls and a stalwart tower at each corner, it resembled a miniature Hampton Court, the palatial home of Cardinal Wolsey, before later generations had tarted up the grand old dame and ruined her forever.

“When was it built?” he asked reverently.

“In the last years of the sixteenth century. It was originally owned by a wealthy wine merchant, who eventually held some minor position at court, so you can see why it appealed to my father.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But before you get carried away with admiration, Max, let me warn you that my father restored the interior to its original state as well.”

“Meaning?”

“Some people find Longfield too austere, too primitive.”

“And you love it?”

“I was happy here,” she replied simply.

No more was said as their hired coach swept through the great arch into the interior courtyard. Before the coach came to a halt, the front doors opened and footmen hurried down the steps.

As they reached for the baggage, Sara smiled and greeted each one by name. Max stood a little to one side, taking everything in. Sara was in no hurry to get out of the rain, and he wasn’t sure if it was because she was genuinely interested in catching up on her servants’ doings in the last little while or because she was afraid to enter the house.

Then, when everything was said, she squared her shoulders and turned to face the house. For some reason, Max found the gesture oddly touching. It was a moment he wanted to share with her.

“Take my arm,” he said.

“I’m not afraid to face my family, if that’s what you think.”

“No, but I am. Please?”

The unfaltering stare faltered, then gradually melted. She took the arm he offered and returned his smile. “If I know you, you’ll have them all eating out of your hand before the day is through.”

They passed through a small vestibule and entered the Great Hall. Four people were waiting for them, stiff, lifeless figures that seemed frozen in place. They were all dark-haired and strikingly handsome in their different ways. When Sara dropped his arm and took a few paces toward them, they let out a collective breath.

“Sara!”

It was the youngest who broke the silence, Lucy, Max supposed, pretty, with delicate features, and clothed all in white muslin.

Lucy’s voice quavered. “I thought you would
never
come home.” She took a few mincing, ladylike steps toward Sara, then suddenly, childlike, catapulted herself into her sister’s arms. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Sara!”

Here was real affection, thought Max, as he watched Sara embrace the younger girl, then all was confusion as the others came to life, all talking across each other. Simon and Martin, the aspiring Corinthians, received only a cursory glance. It was the woman whom Sara addressed as Constance who received Max’s full attention.

The
stepmother!
thought Max, and was dumbfounded.

Constance Carstairs looked far too young to be the mother of the three grown children by her side. In fact, she looked no older than Sara. Her skin was unlined; her features were as delicate as her daughter’s, and her dark, glossy hair framed a heart-shaped face.

Her figure was as youthful as her face. Her gown, a pale amber silk, made her skin glow Here was a woman who knew how to make the most of herself.

Then Sara was making the introductions. “And this is the man who has made me the happiest woman in the world, Lord Maxwell Worthe, my betrothed.”

Constance’s finely chiseled eyebrows winged up, and her green eyes sparkled with interest. “Lord Worthe,” she said, a delicate emphasis on the title.

“Actually it’s Lord Maxwell,” replied Max. “It’s a courtesy title, you see.”

“I’m very happy to meet you at last,” said Constance in a low musical tone.

Max knew that she meant it. He’d had looks like this from women before, women who found him attractive and wanted him to know it. Any man’s vanity would be flattered, and he was no exception. She was, he thought, the kind of woman who would show to best effect in the company of men, but who would, if he was not mistaken, possess few female friends.

“Charmed,” he murmured, and lightly pressed a kiss to the hand she offered him.

He did the same with Lucy, who blushed rosily and turned away with a giggle. Martin bowed and mumbled something inarticulate under his breath; Simon surveyed him with a look that was faintly hostile.

“You must be Simon,” Max said. “How do you do?”

Simon’s reply was a curt bow that was barely civil.

Sara, who was oblivious to this exchange, said lightly, “Where is Anne?”

Constance dragged her withering gaze from her elder son. “Where else but out doing good? She’s with Mr. Thornley, our new vicar. I told her when you were due to arrive, but you know Anne. Sometimes I wonder if that girl ever learned to tell the time.”

“No doubt,” said Sara in the same light tone, “she’ll be here for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. She spends more time in the vicarage than she does here at Longfield. There’s a prayer
meeting she attends. Well, that shouldn’t surprise you. Sometimes it runs late.” Constance shrugged. “She is over twenty-one and has answered to no one since you abandoned … well … since you went away.”

In the silence that followed these words, Max looked at Sara. It was as if all the life had been driven out of her. She looked frozen and very fragile.

“Sara,” he said quietly, “shall I send a servant to fetch her?”

His voice brought her back to life. “A servant?”

“To fetch Anne.”

“Good heavens, no! He’d only lose track of the time as well. Anne has that effect on people. Come along, Max, and I’ll show you to your room.”

They mounted the stairs in silence, but at the foot of the stairs, it sounded as though a quarrel had erupted. The words were inaudible, but Constance’s voice eventually held sway. It wasn’t low and musical now. A hard edge had crept into it, hard and domineering.

The woman was flawed, thank God, thought Max, for her appeal really was quite staggering, but not nearly as staggering as the appeal of the slight figure with the squared shoulders ahead of him on the stairs, who was leading him only the Lord knew where.

Twelve

S
ARA ENTERED HER BEDCHAMBER AND QUIETLY
shut the door. She’d told the maid that the unpacking could wait till later. Just for a few minutes, she wanted to be alone.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she slipped out of her coat, draped it over the foot of the big four-poster bed, and walked slowly across the room to look out the window. Below her, beautifully manicured lawns gave way to a virtual forest, and beyond that, over the treetops, she could see the spires of Stoneleigh.

The people of Stoneleigh had not been kind to her after the trial. The prospect of walking along the High Street or attending church services was quite frightening. It didn’t matter. If all went well, she would be gone before the locals had any inkling that she’d returned.

She was home at last, the place she loved best in the world, and already she was wishing she were anywhere but here.

There had been many homecomings over the years, but none as hollow as this one. When she’d come home from school, her brothers and sisters would go wild with delight,
but of course, she’d always remembered to bring them a little present. And her father would be there, beaming his pride in her; and Constance, fussing, occasionally tart, but never sullen. And Anne …

She couldn’t think of Anne without wanting to weep. Once, they’d been so close, but now Anne kept her thoughts to herself. Her letters said very little. Since William’s disappearance, she’d devoted all her time and energies to the church, and that’s all she wrote about.

Was she suffering from a guilty conscience? Is that why she devoted all her time to doing good? How much did Anne remember about that night?

She turned from the window and stared at the small portrait above her escritoire. Her father stared back at her. She was supposed to be very like him, not only in looks, but also in nature. The looks she couldn’t deny. They had the same gray eyes, squared jaw, and fiery dark hair. But she could never be the person her father was. He was shrewd; he understood human nature; he’d kept the family together. She was completely unequal to the task, as events had proved. She would give anything if only her father could step down from the portrait, take her in his arms, and tell her that everything was going to be all right.

He’d never been an affectionate father, doting on his children, but she missed him. She’d always known she could count on him. And now there was only herself.

Defeat settled on her shoulders, and she sank down on the edge of her bed. But her eyes strayed to her father’s portrait, and she was held. He’d had so much faith in her. She couldn’t let him down.

She thought about Max. When she looked at him, she saw two men: the
Courier’s
pitiless correspondent who had hounded her for three years and of whom she was mortally afraid, and the charming fop who had bewitched her one never-to-be-forgotten night in Reading.

Special correspondent.
Those words were burned into her
brain and could never be erased. He’d kept her name alive long after it should have been forgotten. She feared and hated that man.