Strangers at Dawn (21 page)

The man she thought she’d lost her heart to didn’t exist. It was pointless to wish, to hope, to dream. She didn’t know Max Worthe at all. Reading seemed like a mirage now, a foolish fantasy. What was real was that the
Courier’s
special correspondent was here in Longfield.

And the game wasn’t over yet.

Reading. She stared into space as the memory came back to her. When tears burned her eyes, she dashed them away. Suddenly rising, she went to the bell rope and pulled on it.

She was going through her clothes closet when the maid arrived. All her gowns were at least three or four years old, but they were far superior to anything she’d brought with her.

She shook out a sheer gray satin that was appliquéd on the bodice and along the hem with tiny vines.

“This will do,” she told the maid. “It’s Martha, isn’t it? You’re Cook’s girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mu’um, I never thought you would remember me. I was only a scullery maid when you went away.”

“Yes, but I remember your mother. How is she?”

Martha’s face fell. “She says that either that newfangled stove goes or she does. Not,” Martha hastened to add, “that she means it. Longfield is the only home she’s ever known.”

“Oh.”

Sara was momentarily nonplussed. She’d think about it later when she had more time. “Martha,” she said, “I want you to press this dress straight away, and send a footman with water for my bath. And tell your mother to delay dinner by an hour. That should give me time to make myself presentable.”

When Martha left, Sara began to disrobe. The clothes she was wearing and those she’d brought with her would be cleaned and sent to the parish poor. For three years, she’d
dressed so as not to attract notice to herself, but now that she was no longer in hiding, she could please herself. She wanted to wear pretty things; she wanted to look her best. This had nothing to do with Max Worthe. She wanted to live like an ordinary girl.

Just for a little while, she wanted to live like an ordinary girl.

I
T TOOK MAX ALL OF THIRTY MINUTES TO REVISE
his opinion on the Elizabethan gem that Samuel Car-stairs had restored to its former glory. The sanitation was primitive, no more than a small closet concealing an elaborately carved throne with a chipped chamber pot under its lid; the bellpull in his room did not work,’ forcing him to troop down to the nether regions of the house to ‘summon a servant. And when his bathwater arrived, it was tepid. By the time he was halfway through dinner, he’d come to the conclusion that it was a godawful house, a godawful dinner, and a godawful family,

They were curious about him, of course, but that didn’t’, excuse the way they’d, pounced him with a volley of blunt questions, It was almost like going up against Mighty jack Cleaver. Who were his parents? Where did they live? How’ had he met Sara? Why wasn’t she wearing a betrothal ring? When would the marriage take place? What was his profession? His prospects? How had he come by his courtesy title?

For his purposes, it was essential for everyone to think that he was marrying Sara for her money, so he told them only as much as he wanted them to know. His parents, he said, lived on the other side of Winchester in a decrepit ruin of a place that they were rebuilding piece by piece. He’d met Sara in a coaching house in Reading, and had been instantly taken with her. There was no betrothal ring because there hadn’t been time to choose one. The wedding would take place as soon as he had obtained a special license. His
courtesy title was passed on from father to son, and one day his own sons, should he be fortunate enough to have any, would have courtesy titles also. It was obvious that Sara and her family had no idea how the peerage worked, and he didn’t enlighten them.

“You haven’t mentioned your profession, Max.”

At the sound of Sara’s voice, he looked up. Their eyes met and held, hers enigmatic, his wary. This was the first time she’d addressed him personally.

When he’d first caught sight of her as she’d descended the stairs, he’d felt as though someone had knocked the wind out of them. “Lovely” didn’t do her justice. She was stunning. Ethereal. Elegant. And oh-so-ladylike. And he was tempted to prove what a lie that was.

He’d guessed that the transformation was for his benefit, assuming that Sara had noticed his reaction to Constance when they’d first met. But now he wasn’t so sure. Her face was as smooth and blank as a marble sculpture. But he knew her better now, and he knew that she was anything but calm.

“I might as well tell you,” said Sara, resting her chin on her linked fingers, “Max doesn’t do much of anything. He’s a Corinthian, you see.”

“You mean,” said Lucy innocently, “like Simon and Martin?”

“That depends,” said Max. “You see, Lucy, the test of a true Corinthian is in his skill in sports.”

“Max,” Sara continued, “is a pugilist, you know, a boxer.”

Martin’s mouth gaped, then he rolled his eyes.

Simon, in a perfect imitation of a world-weary sophisticate, appraised Max’s physique in one leisurely stare, and dismissed him with a flick of his lashes. “How interesting,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you in action.”

Martin snickered.

“Oh, you will,” said Max easily. “You may depend on it.”

Simon and Martin exchanged a quick look, then Simon said casually, “The Stoneleigh Fair takes place soon. There is a boxing contest. Maybe you’d like to enter it?”

It was a matter of honor (and saving face) to reply in the affirmative. But besides this, Max was confident of his ability to take on any of the country yokels, especially someone like Simon.

After this exchange, Sara’s family settled down to what was obviously its forte-bickering amongst themselves. Simon wanted the fire lit to take the chill off the air; Martin did not. Lucy wanted to go with her friend to her grandparents’ place in Romsey for the weekend; Constance forbade it. No one liked the dinner (Max couldn’t fault them there), but they all cleaned their plates as if they wouldn’t sit down to another meal for at least a month.

Sara said very little, but every time the door opened, she would turn her head to see who had entered. She must, thought Max, be waiting for her sister to put in an appearance, and it made him wonder what lay behind Anne’s absence and Sara’s anxiety.

He tried to spear one of the small roast potatoes, but it was as hard as a bullet, and he decided he’d rather keep his teeth intact. The roast beef had the chewing consistency of leather, but a starving man couldn’t be too choosy. After a heroic battle with a mouthful of beefsteak, he changed his mind and set down his knife and fork. If this were his house, the first thing he would do was get rid of the cook.

“Our cook hasn’t quite mastered the new stove yet,” said Lucy.

“The new stove?”

Lucy nodded. “It’s a marvel of modern engineering, or so Mama says, but that doesn’t help Cook. She prefers the old way of doing things.”

Martin spoke with his mouth full. “It doesn’t matter which method Mrs. Hardwick uses, the food is stillatrocious.”

“Well, you cleaned your plate,” Max pointed out.

“Sheer habit,” replied Martin. “Since we were infants, our father wouldn’t allow us to leave the table till we’d eaten everything that was put in front of us. ‘Waste not, want not’ was his golden rule. He was a skinflint, if you know what I mean.”

Sara said dryly, “It’s because of Father’s golden rule that we live in this lovely house and you are enjoying the best education that money can buy.”

Simon interjected, “What’s the good of having money if you can’t spend it?”

Goaded, Sara retorted, “If we spend every penny we have, we won’t have any money left to enjoy.”

“But Father left you millions,” Martin said hotly.

“Hardly millions! And it’s in trust. We’re living off the interest. Can’t you understand that?”

Constance said, “If we sold the house, we’d have plenty of money.”

Sara looked at her stepmother as if she were a slow-witted child. “Constance,” she said gently, “this is our home. We can’t sell it.”

Lucy said, “I like living here.”

“If Sara would only give us our share of Father’s money,” Martin said, “we could all do what we like.”

When Sara pressed her fingers to her temples, Max’s temper ignited. She was beginning to look beleaguered, and that did not sit well with him. He reached for his wineglass, took a long swallow-at least the wine was good-and cut across the babel of voices in the awful tone that invariably sent reporters and editors in the
Courier’s
offices scurrying for cover.

“I might have something to say about that.”

Martin frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Max smiled vaguely at no one in particular. “What I mean is that when Sara marries me, the trust is broken.”

The sudden silence that followed was almost deafening, thought Max. He raised his glass and sipped slowly.

Simon got the message first. “Then you’ll have control of our money.”

“Your money?” said Max pleasantly. “Oh, no, you misunderstand. Your money belongs to you. I don’t care what you do with it. But my wife’s money-now, that’s a different matter.” He raised his glass in salute to Sara. “Did someone mention millions? Sara, I had no idea how much you were worth. You’ve been keeping secrets from me.”

Martin turned his head away and muttered disgustedly, “Mama was right. He’s nothing but a fortune hunter.”

The look Sara blazed at Max was hot enough to boil water. Max remained as cool as ice. “Did you wish to say something, my love?”

“What I wish to say … my family … that is, I would never leave my family to fend for themselves.”

“Of course not,” agreed Max. “They’ll always be welcome to make their home here with us.”

A silence fell as the door opened. Footmen filed in and began to clear away the remains of the meal. The silence continued as the next course was served, but never was a silence more eloquent or more dangerously close to exploding into open warfare.

Max gazed at each person in turn. With the exception of Lucy, they were all complainers and wheedlers. He could see how they’d got that way, though. Sara allowed them to manipulate her with subtle and not-so-subtle appeals to her conscience. She felt guilty for having been her father’s favorite, and tormented because the Carstairs fortune had come to her in its entirety. She wanted to do the right thing, and though her intentions were good, she was going about it the wrong way.

What this family needed, Max decided, was someone who would not be swayed by their temper tantrums and fits of pique, someone like him, someone who would whack them into shape so that they would take responsibility for their own lives.

He was well aware that his purpose in being here was a serious one, and went far beyond his relationship with Sara and her family. They would get to that later, after he’d discovered what had happened to William Neville.

The only thing he had to go on so far were the notes that had been sent from Winchester. He believed Sara on that point at least, because nothing else explained her anxiety to settle her affairs and escape to America. If William were dead, however, and he was convinced of it, the letters must have been sent by someone who was close to her, someone who knew where she was staying, someone, perhaps, in this very room.

T
HERE WAS NO OFFER OF AFTER-DINNER BRANDY
for the gentlemen, not that Max wanted to encourage the Streatham boys to acquire any more vices than they already had, but he’d wanted some time alone with them, if only to prove that there was a new top dog in the pack, and they had better fall into line, or else.

They’d retired to the drawing room, sans Simon and Martin, who, without a word of explanation, had silently vanished into thin air, just like their sister, Anne. It seemed that good manners in this family were as rare as snow in the tropics. Yet no one saw anything wrong in it. To them, it was how they all normally behaved.

“Would you care for a sherry, Max?” asked Constance. She held a decanter in one hand and had set out two crystal sherry glasses.

They were sitting on chairs close to the grate. Now that Martin was no longer there to object, the fire had been lit. Sara and Lucy were at the piano, at the other end of the room, playing a duet.

“I’d prefer something stronger, if you have it,” he said.

“Wouldn’t we all?” Constance tossed her head and laughed, her green eyes flirting with him. “Not in this
house, Max. You see, my husband was very abstemious in his habits. He didn’t approve of strong drink. Sherry and wine were the only
drinks
we were allowed, and then only at Christmas.”

“But he was a brewer.”

“Yes. There’s never any logic to how people behave, is there? He inherited the business from his father, but Samuel never really approved of it. Now that he’s gone, we break out the sherry and wine on special occasions. It’s not as I would have things, but Sara is mistress here, so sherry it is, like it or not.”

“I see.” He accepted the glass Constance offered him, took one sip, grimaced, and set the glass aside. He was thinking that, like it or not, he preferred brandy, and Sara would just have to get used to it.

He looked at Constance. Her delicate brows went up. “Yes?” she said.

“I was thinking,” said Max, “that Sara has been away for three years, more than enough time for you to arrange things to suit yourself.”

It looked at first as though she’d taken offence, then her generous mouth curved in a smile. “This will only take a moment,” she said, then swiftly rising, she left the room. Not long after, she returned with a bottle and handed it to Max.

“We’Il just have to use the sherry glasses,” she said. “And just remember, if we’re discovered, I know nothing about it.”

This generous gesture went a long way to restoring Constance’s credit in Max’s eyes. He disposed of the sherry by pouring it back into the sherry decanter. He did it quite openly, but the pair at the piano were preoccupied, so his action went unobserved. After that, he poured out two glasses of brandy and set the brandy bottle out of harm’s way on one side of his chair.