Strangers at Dawn (41 page)

“I’m not likely to forget.”

Sara flinched when he suddenly turned on her with a knife in his hand, then she let out a choked sob. He only wanted to cut her bonds, first those on her wrists, then those at her ankles. He’d seen the terror on her face and he was smiling.

“Stand up,” he said.

Sara obeyed, but she was swaying like a woman who’d had too much to drink. Her head was buzzing with thoughts, her blood was pounding in her ears. Lady Neville had said she would stay behind, and though having only one to contend with improved her chances of escape, she didn’t want to be left alone with the footman.

You’ll have your time alone with her after she tells us what we want to know.

The words spun around in her head. She didn’t think this
particular footman would follow anyone’s inclinations but his own.

“Now let’s see you walk,” he said.

Sara took one step and staggered, but she made herself go on. If she was ever to get out of this alive, she’d have to do a lot more than walk. She’d have to run like a deer.

“Let’s go,” said Beckett. He put his knife to her throat. “But remember, if you try anything, I’ll slice off your fingers one by one. And they’re such pretty fingers.”

He grasped Sara’s elbow and propelled her toward the door. Lady Neville held it open for them. “I shall be here, Beckett, waiting for your return. Then we’ll go to Sir Ivor together and tell him the good news.”

She shut the door on them and turned back to the shrine she’d made to her children. She felt curiously serene. She’d made a promise to her son that no matter how long it took, she would bring his murderer to justice. At long last, that day had arrived.

T
HE HOUSE WAS A MAZE OF LONG, NARROW
corridors and staircases that came out on landings that led to other long, narrow corridors. Sara thought she understood why Beckett had chosen this round about way of leaving the house. He must know where all the servants were quartered, and wanted to avoid meeting anyone she could appeal to for help. Even if she screamed, she didn’t think anyone would hear her.

She didn’t have a plan except to get away from him and hide herself until morning, when the house would begin to stir. She knew she would never outrun him on the downs. She didn’t have the stamina. She felt groggy and weak. She had to make her move while they were still in the house.

But to get away from him, she needed darkness, and her hopes faded when she saw that there were candles burning
in
wall
sconces in every corridor. There should have been a footman on duty to douse those candles hours ago, and she wondered if it was Beckett’s job. From what she’d learned of him, he wouldn’t give a straw for what was expected of him. He deeply resented his position as a footman and would do as little as he could get away with.

“This is Lady Neville’s wing of the house,” he said, the first words he’d spoken to her since they’d left Lady Neville’s apartments. “She and I have it to ourselves, except for her maid, and she’s not on this floor. If you were to scream no one would hear you.”

She felt the slow throb of blood at her throat.

He stopped beside one of the wall sconces and plucked a candle from it. “There are no candles where we are going,” he said.

He made no move to walk on, and she edged away from him, trying to make her movement as natural as possible. But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

He crowded her into a doorway. “You fancy me, don’t you?” he said.

Her skin began to crawl. She badly wanted to smack the leering smile from his face, but she knew better than to antagonize him. In fact, she should be doing the opposite. Would he believe her? “Yes,” she said tremulously.

He smiled into her eyes.

After pocketing his knife, he reached for the doorknob right by her hip, and pushed the door inward. Sara quickly stepped back, away from him. He followed her in, shut the door and locked it. Ashe deposited the candle on the mantelpiece, Sara took a quick look round. She didn’t waste time examining the big four-poster bed with its elaborate drapes. She was looking for a weapon and she found it on the hearth, beside the brass fender.

He slipped off his coat and folded it neatly over a chair. Sara tried to be as casual as he, but her fingers were trembling so hard, she couldn’t undo the buttons on her coat.
She jumped when she looked up and saw that he was standing right over her. His hand cupped her shoulders and she fought the urge to strain away.

Dark eyes glittered down at her. “You stupid bitch. Did you really think you could fool me? You’re playing for time, hoping someone will rescue you. Well, there’s no rescue from this.”

He grabbed her hand and thrust it against his body. When she felt his arousal, terror ripped through her and she acted instinctively. She struck him across the face. He moved like lightning and sent her spinning to the edge of the bed. When he sprang at her, she twisted away and stumbled toward the fireplace. Swiftly stooping, she picked up the poker and whirled to face him.

He put his hands on his hips and chuckled. “I’m going to make you pay for that slap,” he said. “But you want me to, don’t you? Some women like it rough.”

Before he had stopped speaking, he leaped for her. But she was ready. She swung the poker in an arc and caught him across one shoulder. It wasn’t enough to fell him. With a roar of rage, he wrestled her to the floor. She fought him like a madwoman. They rolled together and sent a chair toppling. Kicking, bucking, she freed one hand and poked a finger in his eye. On a howl of pain, he pulled off her. She raised to her knees and began to crawl toward the poker. On the way, she encountered his coat and felt the sharp edge of his knife.

It was in her hand before he realized his danger. He lunged for her and she drove the knife into his thigh. There was a moment of astonished silence, then he doubled over in pain.

“Bitch!” he panted. “Fucking bitch! I think you severed an artery.”

“I hope I have.”

“Bitch! Help me. I need a doctor.”

Sara did not bother to answer. She picked up his coat,
found the key to the door, and quickly opened it. She threw away the knife, then she began to scream. She ran the length of the corridor and screamed and screamed and screamed.

As if in answer to those screams, she heard a thundering from below, and a moment later, Max’s voice roaring her name. All her aches and pains were forgotten as she went hurtling down that last flight of stairs.

“My God! Sara!”

Max leaped for the bottom of the stairs as she went catapulting into his arms.

Twenty-five

S
ARA
DID NOT ALLOW HERSELF MORE THAN A
few seconds’ comfort in those strong arms before she pushed out of them. First, she wanted to hear about Peter Fallon, and after Max had assured her that Peter was on the mend, she told him in a few sentences how she came to be there.

She rushed her last words. “And I stabbed him, Lady Neville’s footman. I think he may be bleeding to death. In one of the bedchambers.” She looked back at the stairs. “I don’t know which one.”

“I don’t give a damn if he
is
bleeding to death. It will save me the bother of killing him!”

Sara tugged on Max’s sleeve. “If you won’t think of him, think of me. I don’t want to be tried for murder again.”

“Where,” said Max, “is Sir Ivor?”

He was looking over her head, and when Sara turned, she saw a footman in black livery standing in the shadows. For a moment, her heart stopped, then she saw that it wasn’t Beckett, but an older man. The night porter, she thought, and sniffed back tears of relief.

“There’s no one up but me,” said the footman. He
pointed to an ornate clock on the vestibule table. “Everyone’s asleep.”

“We’ll soon change that,” snapped Max.

He thrust Sara from him, produced his pistol, and fired a shot into the plaster ceiling. The report of the shot echoed like a cannon going off.

It was too much for Sara. She put her hands over her ears. Reaction set in, and she began to tremble uncontrollably.

“Brandy,” said Max. “What you need is a large glass of brandy.” Then to the footman, “Take us to Sir Ivor’s library.”

“No one is allowed-”

“Now!” roared Max.

Doors were opening and slamming, and people were calling out in alarm. Nothing, it seemed, put this footman off his stride. He picked up a candle and said stiffly, “Come this way.”

Once they were in the library, Max pushed Sara into a chair. “Please, Max,” she said, her lips trembling, “you must find Beckett and stop the bleeding.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find him.” His voice rose dramatically when he addressed the footman. “Get my wife a brandy. And lock the door when I’m gone. On no account are you to leave my wife alone.”

“Max, please,
go!”
Sara cried out.

He nodded and left.

After the footman had locked the door, he brought Sara a glass of brandy. She was shivering so hard that when she tried to drink it, she spilled drops down the front of her coat. She must be getting hysterical, she thought, because when the footman took up his position by the door, just as though everything were normal and she was paying an afternoon call, she began to giggle.

Now that she was out of danger, she couldn’t seem to get a grip on herself. When her spasmodic giggles turned into hiccups, she put the glass to her mouth and took a long, hard swallow. Then she coughed and sputtered, and tears
started to her eyes, but those tears weren’t all caused by the brandy she had swallowed.

She was cold, so terribly cold.

She turned to the footman and adopted Max’s imperious tone. “I want the fire lit,” she said.

This was soon done, and she changed chairs to get closer to the warmth. It was a big fireplace, twice as big as any at Longfield, and in no time at all, she felt toasty warm. She took another swallow of brandy, sank back in her chair, and watched the flames lick around the kindling and logs. Footsteps and voices sounded in the corridor, but she paid no attention. She was staring at the fireplace, but she was seeing the fireplace in the dower house.

For three years, she’d suffered torments not knowing whether she or Anne had murdered William. And when the notes had started to come, she’d begun to believe that William was still alive. But if Lady Neville had written the notes, then William must surely be dead.

Then where had he gone that night, after he left the dower house?

He would go to someone who had the means to pay off his gambling debts. That’s why he’d come to her. Gambling debts had to be paid at once. It was deplorable, but there was some sort of unwritten code amongst gentlemen that damned a man if he reneged on gaming vowels but forgave him if he neglected to pay his bills to his tailor or boot maker or even to his servants and dependents.

Lady Neville said that William had had an appointment with her that night, but he hadn’t turned up. She always gave him whatever she could spare. But that wouldn’t have been enough for William, not nearly enough. And Sir Ivor wouldn’t help his son. They hadn’t spoken to each other in years.

She sipped her brandy absently and came at the problem from a different angle. Who had the motive and opportunity to kill William? That was the question that had
led to her own arrest and trial. Her thoughts drifted and she began to recall tonight’s events, especially the last hour in Lady Neville’s private apartments. Something struck an odd note. Little Jenny. Something about little Jenny. She dwelled on that thought, and before she had time to weigh anything, her mind began to make fantastic connections.

It couldn’t be true.

She started over and slowly, piece by piece, put the puzzle together until a picture began to emerge.

It was too fanciful. And even if it were true, she could never prove it. She didn’t know how she’d got started on this bizarre train of thought. One minute, she’d been sipping brandy, staring at the fireplace, and the next she’d been transported to the dower house and the last time she’d seen William.

She put down her glass and got up. She felt as though a charge of electricity had just passed through her. It was only a theory, but it made sense. And there was one sure way of proving it.

Just as she began to move, someone knocked on the door. Sir Ivor’s voice barked out an order, and when the footman unlocked the door, Sir Ivor strode in. Right behind him was Max.

It didn’t surprise Sara to see that Sir Ivor was fully dressed. He wouldn’t lower himself by appearing in public in a nightshirt and a dressing gown. He was as immaculately turned out as always-beige breeches, dark blue coat, pristine white shirt. Max looked as though he had thrown on his clothes when his house caught fire.

The first thing Sir Ivor did was to send his footman to the front door to await the arrival of the constable. Max crossed to Sara.

“The footman? Beckett?” he said. “He was trying to make a run for it. He didn’t get very far. He left a trail of blood. But he’s all right. He’s locked up and guarded and
once the constable arrives, he’ll be questioned. Meanwhile, he’s not saying anything.”