Strangers at Dawn (10 page)

“Well, he is,” agreed Mrs. Hastings. “Heartbroken, in fact. I can tell you this: If there was no shortage of money, he wouldn’t dream of marrying again. He and his wife,
Mary, well, they chose each other when they were children, and they’ve always been together, until Mary died. He’s the kind of man who should never marry again, like swans, you know? Sad state of affairs, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Sara.

As Sara watched the sad figure of Mr. Townsend leave the Pump Room, she realized it wasn’t pity she felt, but envy. He was one of those fortunate few who had found the kind of love others could only dream about.

She gazed reflectively at the open door for a long time, then, sighing, she dragged her thoughts back to the unpleasant reality of a woman who had to marry for convenience.

There was only one name on her list of likely prospects that she had yet to meet, the man whom Miss Beattie thoroughly detested, Major Haig. Sara hadn’t cared for the tone of his letter either. It was too arrogant, too condescending, and betrayed a colossal ego. But none of that meant that the major was not ideal for her purposes.

He was a fine figure of a man, he’d written, and though his hair was silver (prematurely, of course), it lent him a distinguished air.

Her gaze came to rest on a gentleman who was in conversation with a lady in the bay where the pump was set up. He was well-dressed in the conservative manner of his generation-beige breeches, blue cutaway coat-and his hair was silver. His cheekbones and chin were ruggedly sculpted. “A fine figure of a man” was an apt description.

“Mrs. Hastings,” said Sara, “who is that gentleman with the silver hair?”

Mrs. Hastings looked around and when she found the man with the silver hair, a transformation came over her. Her smile slipped and her eyes went blank. “That,” she said, “is Major Haig.”

There was a telling silence, then Miss Beattie murmured, “Major Haig? Now where have I heard that name before?”

Mrs. Hastings shook her head. “Anyone but him, Miss
Beattie. He’s dangerous. I know of a lady a friend … who was sorry she ever listened to him. She … she invested in one of his business enterprises, thinking they were to be married. She lost her money and there was no marriage.”

There was no doubt in Sara’s mind that Mrs. Hastings was speaking about herself, and what she’d said revealed far more than she knew. She’d had to rent out half her house, she’d said in one of her letters, because she’d lost a large sum of money on an investment that had failed. By the look of the rooms they rented, Mrs. Hastings had also been forced to sell furniture and paintings to cover her debts.

Miss Beattie tactfully changed the subject, and she and Mrs. Hastings embarked on a discussion of Bath in its heyday, leaving Sara free to study the major.

He was doing all the talking, and his companion, a lady whose blond beauty had long since faded, gazed adoringly up at him. But the major hardly spared her a glance. He was scanning the room, his restless gaze jumping from person to person.

He must have sensed her scrutiny, for he suddenly turned and their eyes met briefly before Sara looked away.

Maybe he was looking for the lady who had placed the advertisement in the
Chronicle,
trying to discover her identity. It was, thought Sara, a reasonable thing to do. All the same, his inattention was an insult to the lady by his side.

Trying to look casual, she carefully looked in his direction again, and saw that the major was openly staring at a lady in a green turban. He suddenly snapped his fingers, cutting himself off in midsentence, abruptly bowed, and strolled away, making a beeline for the lady in the green turban.

He was stalking his prey.

Sara shuddered. She’d been eighteen years old when William’s restless glance had fallen on her, eighteen and incredibly flattered when he’d left the side of the young woman he’d been dancing with and made a beeline for her.

Though their father’s estates adjoined, she and William were practically strangers. He’d been away at school, then at university, and the Nevilles did not mix with their Stoneleigh neighbors.

They’d met at an assembly in Winchester.

She hadn’t been impressed by the fact that he was Sir Ivor Neville’s heir. William was a romantic figure and glamorous beyond anything she’d ever known, a far cry from the middle-aged viscount her father had tried to buy for her.

William was wild, so the stories went. But William told her that now he’d met her, that was all in his past. And she’d believed him. He’d wanted to marry her, and she was the happiest girl in the world.

The one person who stood in their way was Sir Ivor. His father was a proud man, William said. When the time was right, he would tell him about Sara. So she’d met William in secret, and when it was impossible to meet, she’d poured out her heart in long, passionate letters.

And those letters had nearly got her hanged.

The major was giving his undivided attention to the lady in the green turban, and she was obviously flattered. Her eyes sparkled and she smiled up at him.

Prey,
Sara thought again and shuddered. She couldn’t go against her instincts. She’d never feel safe with someone who reminded her of William.

The major was no longer of any interest.

Having achieved her object in coming to the Pump Room, she would have been happy to leave. But Miss Beattie had other ideas. It would be criminal, she declared, to come to Bath and not partake of its famous water. So Sara was sent to the pump to fetch a glass of water for her “mistress.”

Sara was well aware that what Miss Beattie wanted was a cozy, private chat with their landlady. Bea had got this absurd idea in her head that the perfect man could turn up at any moment, like manna from heaven. Sara was sure
that Bea would be quizzing Mrs. Hastings on where all the young men in Bath were hanging out, supposing there were any.

Poor Bea just couldn’t face facts.

Sara kept her eyes averted both coming and going from the pump when she passed Major Haig. As she approached the bench where she’d left her companions, she saw that she’d been right. Mrs. Hastings hadn’t lost any time. She’d managed to scare up a gentleman who wasn’t in his dotage.

His back was to her, but his garments spoke volumes: tight beige trousers molded like a second skin to the hard muscles of leg and thigh; broad shoulders hugged by a dark blue coat that wouldn’t dare show a wrinkle; and Hessian boots with those absurd tassels on them.

The man was a dandy!

Her smile died the moment before he turned to face her, the moment an uneasy suspicion took root in her mind.

Brilliant blue eyes with laugh lines at the corners smiled down at her. He doffed his hat, and his fair hair caught and trapped an odd ray of sunshine that spilled in from one of the long windows. His grin was jaunty.

It was Max Worthe.

“Miss Childe,” he said, “what a pleasant surprise. I was just telling your friends that you and I met in Reading when I performed a small … ah … service for you.”

Sara acted without thinking. She put the glass to her lips and took a long, long swallow.

Six

I
T HAD FINALLY HAPPENED, THOUGHT MAX. AT
long last, Sara Carstairs’s mask of composure was beginning to crack. It was more than a crack. A yawning ravine. She was gulping down Bath’s foul-tasting mineral water as though she’d just walked out of the desert.

He liked her better this way: flustered, flushed, and afraid of what he might say or do next.

The companion, Miss Beattie, who, he’d learned, had been promoted to the status of Sara’s employer, broke what was becoming an awkward silence. “You met Sara in Reading, Mr. Worthe?”

“At the Black Swan.”

“But that’s where we were staying.”

“I know.”

There was a small pause as Miss Beattie digested this. “And you performed a service for her?” Her eyes darted to Sara. “Sara said nothing to me.”

]’!!just bet she didn’t.

“It was a small service,” said Max. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. No. I’d rather you heard it from Miss Childe.”

He knew he was being unfair, but he thought that maybe Sara deserved it. She’d lied to him. She’d run from him. His
fury had long since cooled, but she’d touched his pride, and he didn’t see why she shouldn’t pay for it, up to a point.

Besides, he was enjoying himself enormously.

She’d drunk every drop of water in the glass. She wished, now, that she hadn’t. Then she could pour it into Max Worthe’s ridiculous boots.

Miss Beattie and Mrs. Hastings were looking up at her as though she’d suddenly taken off all her clothes. She had to fight the urge to turn and run.

Shrugging helplessly, she said, “I didn’t want to worry you. That’s why I didn’t mention it. You see, I … fell down a flight of stairs, a
small
flight of stairs, and Mr. Worthe was kind enough to … to …” she looked down at the empty glass in her hand, “… to get me a glass of water.”

Max spoke to Miss Beattie. “She was very shaken by the experience.”

“True,” said Sara in a tight little voice, “but fortunately, I’m quite recovered. I beg your pardon for drinking your glass of water, Miss Beattie, but I was overcome with the heat. Stay right where you are and I’ll get you another. Mr. Worthe, would you mind giving me your arm?”

Max regretted that the delightful hesitation in her voice had vanished. She was in control again. She could not guess how that control both fascinated him and egged him on to try and shatter it.

They were hardly out of earshot of the two gawking ladies when Sara dropped Max’s arm. “What are you doing here?”

“That must be obvious.”

She darted him a fierce glance, then looked away. “Nothing is obvious to me.”

“What else could have drawn me to this dreary place but you, Sara?”

“So you followed me here!”

“Well, I didn’t come for the good of my health-and
I just about choked when you gulped down that glass of water-and if there are fleshpots in Bath, it’s the best kept secret in England. Of course I followed you.”

Her voice was cool and controlled. Her words were like darts. “Well, of course I know there is nothing in Bath to attract a man like you, a Corinthian and a fop. I suppose you have nothing better to do with your time than pursue innocent young women.”

“Innocent?”

This time, her stare did not falter. “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Worthe. So why don’t you just go away?”

He smiled lazily. “You know us Corinthians. Time hangs heavily on our hands, and we’d do anything to relieve the boredom.”

Though he concealed it well, he was annoyed because she’d summed him up as an idler with nothing more serious on his mind than the cut of his clothes and chasing women. Coming from her, a woman with a murky past, it was hypocrisy on a grand scale.

There was nothing he would have liked better than to tell her, straight out, that he knew who she was. But on that tedious, two-day drive from Reading, after his anger had cooled, he’d reflected on what approach he should take when they finally reached their destination. The last thing he wanted was for Sara to become frightened and go into hiding again.

His best bet, he’d decided, was to play this out as though he had not recognized her. That was something else that annoyed him; even if he hadn’t recognized her, he would still be here, would still have come after her. His one encounter with this woman had rocked him back on his heels. In her own way, Sara Carstairs packed a wallop that would do credit to Mighty Jack Cleaver.

And look what had happened to him when he’d tangled with Mighty Jack!

She didn’t like the sudden flare of laughter in his eyes; she didn’t like the stupid smile on his face; and she particularly didn’t like the way he was making her nerves jump.

She edged her way to the far side of the pump where they could no longer be seen by Miss Beattie and Mrs. Hastings. Her nervous fingers were clutching the empty glass in a death grip, and she carefully set it down on the pump’s rim, then hid her hands in the folds of her gown.

“Mr. Worthe-”

“Max. Call me Max. It’s friendlier.”

“We’re not friends.”

“No. We’ve gone beyond that.”

She waited till her heartbeat had slowed, waited
till
her brain was functioning before she put her thoughts in order. Finally, she said, “I want to know what you said to my companions before I arrived.”

He quelled the impulse to say that her secret was safe with him. He wanted to shake her, not shatter her, and she was beginning to look frail. “I introduced myself,” he said quietly, “and asked after you. -That’s all, Sara.”

“But how did you know that Miss Beattie was my employer?”

“Sara, I’ve already admitted that I followed you from Reading. It wasn’t difficult to find out who your traveling companion was. Last night, I saw you safely to your front door-your lodgings in Queen’s Square, I mean-then I found lodgings for myself.”

“How did you know we would come to the Pump Room this morning?”

“I called at your lodgings. Your serving girl-Maggie?-told me where I could find you.”