Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (13 page)

“You
will
remember I’m down there,” Ian said much too lightly. “Won’t you?”

His face was sweat-sheened and flushed, his balance gone. Sarah knew he was really ill, and liable to become even more ill soon. At this point, though, she had to focus on the soldiers. “Take the blankets down with you. It will be chilly.”

She met his gaze then, just for a moment, soaking in that bright, bold blue as if those eyes were the first promise of dawn. Of hope and renewal.

“You’re
sure
now . . .” George protested.

Sarah sighed. “Go, George.”

George helped Ian to his feet and turned for the back door. Sarah couldn’t help watching Ian as they passed. His arm slung around George’s shoulder, he stood the shorter by an inch or two, but was just as broad. Stronger, she was sure, when he wasn’t wracked with fever. Dangerous to her peace of mind in any state.

“George, wait!” she called, furious that in all the mayhem she had forgotten the most vital thing. Quickly she gathered up the supplies she had brought and crammed them back in the bucket. She caught up with George by the back door and handed it all to him. “I have willow bark tea in here. Give him a cup now. The sooner we break his fever, the sooner he will be gone.”

Ian shot her another grin. “And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

“Not with soldiers on the property. Now, go.”

Giving them both a final shove, she took herself off for the house.

Peg was standing at the back door when Sarah arrived. Together they got Sarah’s apron off and exchanged her half-boots for slippers. Quickly tidying her hair, Sarah managed a quick wash-up and spent a moment brushing the bits of straw from the bottom of her skirt. Then, drawing a calming breath, she strode through the green baize door into the main house.

“What seems to be the ruckus, Parker?” she asked as she reached the foyer.

Fourteen soldiers of varying height and disposition were crowded together on her black and white marble floor along with the civilian who was staring through a rather silly jeweled lorgnette at the line of rather risqué statues Boswell’s grandfather had looted on his Grand Tour the previous century. Parker, short, bald, and asthmatic, seemed to be holding them all back with his bare—well, gloved—hands. At any other time, Sarah would have considered this high farce and smiled.

“Oh, my lady,” he gasped the minute he saw her. “These…these men seek to…to
search
my lady’s house. I have tried to tell them they have no business disturbing three such fine ladies, but they…
insist
.”

Coming to a halt before the tall, effete lieutenant, Sarah clasped her hands before her and raised an imperious eyebrow, all the while thanking Lizzie for teaching her the trick. It had been a good thing to have a duke’s daughter for a friend. “Good heavens, gentlemen. What are you about?”

His shako tucked under his arm, the lieutenant dropped a perfectly good bow, as if he weren’t seeing Sarah in an outdated dress of questionable origin.

“Madame,” he began.

“My
lady,
” Palmer huffed. “You are addressing Lady Clarke, and don’t be forgetting that, you pup.”

Sarah couldn’t help smiling. It certainly was a day for gentlemen defenders. “Thank you, Parker. Now, Lieutenant . . .”

How calm her voice was, she thought. Her heart was thundering as if she’d run in.

“Swyzer, my lady,” he said. “Lieutenant Lord Elvin Swyzer of the 54th Foot.”

“A pleasure, Lieutenant,” she responded with her own nod and allowed him to bend over her hand. “To what do we owe the honor? As you may imagine from Parker’s distress, we rarely entertain officers from the king’s army here.”

The lieutenant briefly bowed again over her hand and then stepped back. “Your husband is . . .”

“Not home from service. He is also in the army. 35th Foot. Until such time that he does return, I fear you are left with me.” She made it a point, then, to look over at the civilian. “And you, sir?”

He immediately bowed. “Horace Stricker, ma’am. I am here at the behest of the Duke of Wellington himself.”

She raised one eyebrow, just as Lizzie had taught her. “Indeed. In relation to what, may I ask?”

The young lieutenant gave Stricker a sharp look. “If I am not mistaken, Lady Clarke, you have had cause to be visited by others recently, searching for a vagrant?”

“Not king’s soldiers or militia,” she disagreed. “Unless the standards of the army have taken a precipitous drop. I believe these were mercenaries hired by Mr. Martin Clarke to harass innocent women.”

The lieutenant flushed, proving to Sarah that Martin was behind the surprise visit. “Mr. Clarke might have been a tad precipitous,” Lieutenant Swyzer said in his most official voice, “but his caution was valid. We have reason to believe a traitor to the crown is hiding in the area.”

Sarah put her hand to her throat. “Not that man they were searching for last week. I thought he had…well…I thought he had perished.”

Stricker stepped forward. “We can’t take any chances,” he said a bit too eagerly. “Ferguson is a dangerous man.”

Lieutenant Swyzer cast another jaundiced eye Stricker’s way. “We must be certain, in any case. We are searching all along the coastline.”

“Oh, is that what it is?” Sarah asked. “I had heard that soldiers were searching houses around Sidmouth. Was that you? You certainly seem to be moving quickly.”

Swyzer flushed a bit and dipped his eyes. “Yes, well, certain intelligence has led us to believe that the traitor might be in this area.”

Sarah smiled. “Ah. Would the intelligence have come from Martin Clarke himself? Yes, I see it did. Did Mr. Clarke tell you that he objects to my running my husband’s estate in his absence, or that Mr. Clarke has been seeking a way to take my place? He is my husband’s cousin, you know.” From the reaction, most probably not. “I thought that might have been the motivation behind his last visit. But if there is a traitor loose, please feel free to check the grounds. We are only three women and a few staff here, and I would not wish my dear mother-by-marriage to be distressed or threatened.”

“She is not here now, ma’am?”

Sarah looked over to the long-case clock with the plump little angels painted around the face. “She should be here soon, Lieutenant. She has been out painting.”

If only the lieutenant had waited an hour, the dowager would have been the one to greet him, and neatly kept him from searching. Sarah, however, had not the histrionic talent to frighten the soldiers off. And, if what George said was true, the safest way to convince the soldiers to move on was to let them search. If only her heart would quiet. She felt as if she were suffocating.

“Thank you, ma’am. I assure you, my men will be most respectful in their search.”

“Of course you will, Lieutenant. I would sincerely regret having to notify my friend the Duke of Dorchester of any…depredations suffered at your hands.”

From the way his posture abruptly straightened, the lieutenant was well acquainted with the language of power. What he did not need to know was that the Duke of Dorchester would rip out his eyes rather than acknowledge Sarah Clarke.

Offering another perfect bow, the officer turned and briskly issued the orders that sent the men in different directions.

“Oh, dear,” Sarah murmured as they prepared to disperse. “I should go down and warn cook. The last time a man set foot in her kitchen he was met with a meat cleaver.”

The small band skidded to a halt.

“Oh, and Lieutenant, I should warn you. We have closed off the entire west wing because of rot. The floors and stairs are unstable. Please be careful.”

Sarah spent the next hour on tenterhooks, expecting any moment to hear a shout of discovery as the men tromped up and down stairs. She would have preferred to spend the time in the kitchen with Peg and Parker soothing herself with tea and biscuits. Instead she sat alone in the Rose Salon quietly working on some mending as if her entire life weren’t in upheaval.
Oh, Boswell,
she thought, stabbing the needle into the worn linen with far too much force,
if you were here, this wouldn’t be happening.

Sighing, she set down her work. No, if Boswell had been here Ian Ferguson would have been handed directly into Martin’s care, and Sarah never would have known what a close call she’d had. She would never have found herself racked with guilt over feelings she seemed to have no control over. Feelings that filled her chest to bursting and set her hands shaking. Feelings she had never thought to hope for or want.

She almost laughed. She had a possible traitor in her cellar and soldiers searching for him. And that wasn’t what upset her the most. Which made her feel guiltiest of all.

By the time Sarah heard the front door open, she wondered just where else the lieutenant could find to search. At least he had kept out of the west wing. He had tested her assertion about the floor and ended up with an injured soldier and shattered floor. But now the search was over, even if the lieutenant didn’t yet know it. Setting her mending aside, Sarah prepared for the fireworks. She shouldn’t, but unforgivably, she was smiling with anticipation. After all, she loved theater as well as anyone.

“What is this?” she heard in strident tones that echoed through the entryway. The dowager had returned. “Parker, who are these people intruding on a gentleman’s home?”

Lady Clarke might have been more timely, Sarah thought. But at least she would impress on the lieutenant how little he would want to return.

Parker must have answered, because the lady cried, “What? Oh, my heart! Rosamunde, my salts. I am so faint. Soldiers,
here,
as if we were common brigands!”

Sarah heard running boots and the lieutenant’s voice, reassuring the ladies. She almost felt sorry for the poor man. He wasn’t a bad sort, really. He just hadn’t expected anything like Lady Clarke.

Sarah was already on her feet when the parlor door slammed open and a squad of soldiers escorted Rosie and the dowager to the sofa, leaving a trail of blue Lias clay and fallen scarves across the good carpets.

“Dear me,” Sarah gently exclaimed. “Mother Clarke, are you all right?”

“My nerves!” the dowager cried, her hands in flight, her redingote half off. “My heart! It is fluttering so, I can hardly breathe! I hold you accountable, sir, mark me. To barge in on peaceful ladies like this. It is not to be borne!”

Lady Clarke fluttered her various shawls so wildly she could have put a fire out. Rosie proffered the vinaigrette, but Mother Clarke was too busy wailing like a tired child to take advantage of it. As for Sarah, she was struggling to keep a straight face.

“I don’t understand at all. Sarah, what is this about? You know my heart cannot tolerate surprise. These men say they searched my rooms. My
rooms,
Sarah. How could you allow this?”

“I had no choice, Mother Clarke,” Sarah responded gently as she picked up the fallen scarves. “It seems a dangerous traitor might be lurking in the linen closets.”

That stopped the dowager midwail.

“Traitor?” Miss Fitchwater echoed.

“Indeed. I assured them that we would never consort with such a low person, but the lieutenant had to make sure.”

The lieutenant, standing ineffectually by the door, nodded. Lady Clarke went off in a full fit of vapors and the search was immediately suspended. Sarah took her first full breath in hours.

She would have felt worse about her treatment of the older woman, if after showing the soldiers out, Sarah hadn’t stopped by the salon door to hear Lady Clarke’s brisk voice.

“Honestly, Rosie. The idea that these jackanapes can simply
invade
a person’s home. I hope he loses sleep over his disregard of my nerves.”

Sarah waited, and sure enough, she heard Miss Fitchwater chuckle. “I fear the poor lieutenant may never recover, dear.”

Walking away, Sarah smiled to herself. It never did to underestimate the women.

Now, if she could only find a way back to the cellars without alerting them.

Ian did not wait well. Ever since he’d spent four months imprisoned in a French cell in Portugal, he especially didn’t wait well in the dark. And this bloody cellar was dark. Dark, cold, and damp. Even with two blankets and dry clothing, he was shivering.

Before the candle George had left winked out, Ian had caught sight of geometrically shaped mountains in the gloom. Boxes and barrels, if he weren’t mistaken, tidily piled up in the dim corners, just begging for exploration.

Not today, he thought, resettling himself on the hard floor. Today his attention was taken up by the lengthening silence. The mounting worry that Sarah Clarke would run afoul of Stricker, and Ian would never find out. How long had he been down here, he wondered, wishing for the thousandth time that his pocket watch hadn’t ended up at the bottom of the English Channel. If he were still outside, he could gage the time by the light, the position of the sun, the animals. Here in the darkness he was lost.

He shifted again, thinking that the weight he’d lost must have all been in his posterior. The stone floor seemed especially hard and sharp. The least they could do, he thought, disgruntled, was provide a fellow a bed.

That thought almost made him laugh. He could count on his fingers the number of times he had slept in a real bed in the last ten years. There were better things to focus on, surely. If only he didn’t feel so fuzzy. If only he could pace. If only he knew what was going on over his head.