Strangers at Dawn (5 page)

His friends were as aware as he that things were changing. They were drifting apart as their interests diversified. And they simply did not have the time to keep up with each other. In an effort to stem the tide, they’d hit upon the idea of spending part of every July in Brighton. “The Bachelors’ Last Stand,” they called it. They’d been firm friends since their undergraduate days at Oxford and nothing, they vowed, would ever come between them.

Oxford. Those were the days, those golden, halcyon days of their youth.

“I wish to propose a toast,” Max said, and was appalled at the crack in his voice. Maybe he’d had too much to drink as well.

“Lud, save us,” drawled Ash Meynell, the dandy of the group. He gazed at Max through his quizzing glass. “I think the man is still alive.”

This remark set everyone off, and they began to harangue Max for his dismal performance against Mighty Jack. Max took it in good part. In fact, these friends were so comfortable with each other that trading insults had become an art with them.

“To Oxford,” he said, raising his brandy bottle.

“Oxford,” they chorused, then guzzled down great, healthy swigs from the bottles that were passed around.

From the floor of the coach, a voice said musingly, “Refresh my memory. Did any of us ever graduate from that august establishment?”

A chorus of no’s answered the question.

“Were we supposed to?” asked Ash, training his quizzing glass on the body on the floor.

Tony Palmer hoisted himself into a sitting position. “I was,” he said. “Don’t ask me why. My father didn’t graduate either, but he expected better from his son. There was an awful scene when I was sent down.”

This brought on a series of reminiscences about their years at Oxford, then led, in a convoluted way, to a round of
toasts to the king, fox hunting, actresses and opera dancers in general, and finally, and more soberly, to “absent friends.”

Three of them were now, sadly, married and obliged to accommodate their wives’ wishes instead of their friends’ wishes. There could be no bachelor parties in Brighton for married men. It was a great joke among them that the only thing married men were good for was gout, and no one wanted to contract gout before his time, if ever.

Max caught sight of the landmark he’d been looking for, the old church of Saint Laurence, and he roared, “Driver, stop the coach.”

His friends were so stupefied by this sudden turn of events that Max had clambered out of the coach before they had come to themselves. When they protested, he held up his hand to silence them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the carnal delights of Madame Caper’s establishment are not for me. You may have noticed that during our bout, Jack Cleaver practically unmanned me. Frankly, I’m still in agony, and if I attempt the acrobatics you so graphically described, I may never rise from my bed again.”

“What he means,” said John, “is he can’t get it up.”

When the laughter had died away, Max said, “I can’t argue with that. I’ll meet up with you in Brighton, then.”

“That’s what you said last year,” drawled Ash, “but you did not show. Do you know what I think, Max? I think you’re becoming a prime candidate for gout. My mother tells me it happens to all Corinthians sooner or later.”

This provoked a howl of protests. When there was a momentary silence, Max said, “Ash, you should know me better than that. I’m too careful to come down with gout. I’ll make it to Brighton, though I can’t spare more than a few days. My business is taking me to Exeter for the next month or two, and I can’t get away for longer than that.”

“What business?” a slurred voice demanded.

“Didn’t you know? Max has made an offer for the
Exeter Chronicle,”
replied another. “He’s on his way there now.”

This brought to mind a bawdy drinking song on Exeter’s accomplished equestrians, and before the coach moved off, five lusty voices were braying the lewd rendition at the top of their lungs.

Max winced as he turned in the direction of the High Street where the Black Swan was situated, and he delayed for a moment to take stock of his injuries. He ached all over, his nose throbbed, and his jaw felt as though it had been hit by a brick. The important question was, however-could he still perform? It was one thing to put his friends off, and quite another to put Deirdre off. She might fly into one of her famous rages if he were so boorish as to plead a headache or that he was feeling under the weather.

Bloody hell! He hadn’t invited her to accompany him to Exeter, knowing she would only get in the way. But her doddering old husband, Sir William Honeyman, had gone off to his estate in Kent, and Deirdre had surprised him by turning up at the Black Swan. She’d known by the look on his face that he wasn’t pleased to see her, and when he’d gone off to meet his friends, there had been a ferocious argument. If he put her off now, there would be a scene, and he wasn’t in the mood for scenes.

Put her off?
He was beginning to sound like an octogenarian. Of course he wasn’t going to put her off. A man would have to have two feet in the grave if Deirdre couldn’t revive him. He would perform if he died in the attempt.

At least he would die with a smile on his face.

The Black Swan was in darkness except for the lantern hanging at the front porch. Max made his way through the arch that led to the courtyard. There were more lanterns lit here. He didn’t expect to meet anyone at two o’clock of the morning, nor did he. Reading was a country town, early to bed and early to rise. All the inns locked their doors shortly
after sunset. But he’d taken that into consideration before he’d gone off with his friends.

In one corner of the courtyard was a deformed old apple tree, and obscured by its leafy branches was the window of his chamber. He’d left the window open so that he could return without rousing the whole house. There was no need for a bachelor to be so discreet, but every need in Deirdre’s case. Though she and Sir William had an understanding, and went their separate ways, they kept up appearances. Not to do so could easily jeopardize Deirdre’s position in society. That was the way of their world. Appearances were far more important than reality, especially for a woman.

There was a light at the window. So Deirdre had waited up for him after all. Sighing in resignation, he gritted his teeth and reached for the gnarled branch just above his head.

T
HE BOOK ON HER LAP FELL WITH A SOFT THUD
to the carpeted floor, shocking her into wakefulness. Sara curled her hands around the armrests of her chair and made to rise. When she saw the book on the floor and realized that that was what had awakened her, sanity returned and she inhaled a slow, calming breath. There was nothing to fear here. She was in her bedchamber in the Black Swan, on the first stop of their journey to Bath, and she’d fallen asleep while reading
Cecilia.
No one knew where she was.
No one.

Reaching down with one hand, she picked up the leather bound volume and set it on the table beside her chair. She’d read Fanny Burney’s novel so often, she could just about recite it by heart. It had done the trick, though. It had cleared her mind of all her troubles and given her a few hours’ respite. But now that she was awake, she was wide awake, and wished that she’d read the cursed book in bed.

Thunder sounded off in the distance. There would be a storm before morning. She stretched to ease her cramped muscles, then lifted the weight of her unbound hair from her neck in an effort to cool herself. In spite of the window she’d opened earlier, it was hot and airless in that small room, so hot that even her flimsy nightgown seemed too heavy against her skin. She undid the tiny pearl buttons from throat to waist and pulled back the edges of the bodice to expose her breasts. She was still too hot, and she picked up the carafe of water on the table by her chair. It was empty. Sighing, she set it down again.

The candle on the mantel was well down and beginning to sputter. She rose, reached for it, then hesitated. There wasn’t much chance that she would get back to sleep now. Maybe she should light another candle and-and do what? Torture her mind with visions of her loathsome brother-in-law as she’d last seen him? Debate endlessly whether William was alive or dead? Speculate on what he would do to her if he ever caught up to her?

She knew what he would do. He would kill her, of course. Then Anne would come into their father’s money, and William would finally get his greedy paws on it. That’s all he had ever wanted-money.

She would never let him hurt any member of her family again.

A harebrained scheme,
Bea called this trip to Bath. In her saner moments, she agreed. But desperate straits called for desperate measures, and she was desperate. She’d wracked her brains endlessly for a better way, and there wasn’t one. Once she was married and the marriage settlement was signed, William would no longer be a threat.

This was nonsense. She knew William was dead. She
knew.
Didn’t she?

If only there was someone she could confide in … but there was no one. And some secrets simply could not be shared.

She smoothed her fingers over her brow. Her brain was befuddled by so much thinking. And really, there was nothing to think about. She’d made her decision.
Let it go,
she told herself sternly.
Put all your troubles out Of mind and go to bed.

She went on tiptoe, positioned her hand behind the sputtering candle and blew it out, and in the very act of blowing it out, from the corner of her eye, she caught the reflection in the mirror above the mantel of a man climbing over the windowsill.

In that blinding moment of darkness, her throat closed in panic. He’d found her!
William had found her!

“William?” she whispered hoarsely.

There was no response.

Trembling violently, heart thudding against her ribs, she edged herself round to face the intruder. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t pitch black. The light from the lanterns in the courtyard cast flickering shadows, but there was nothing to be seen, no man at the window now. But her hearing had never been more acute, and she could hear someone breathing. She sucked in a breath when his voice broke the silence.

“I had no idea,” he said, “that there were red highlights in your hair. But I suppose ladies can change their appearance to suit themselves. Give me a moment. I feel as though I’ve just climbed the Matterhorn.”

It wasn’t William’s voice! The thought brought a measure of calm. Not William, then, but one of his friends, someone who obviously knew her by sight. She supposed William had sent him as a forerunner of what was to come, when the real terror would begin. Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate that, in spite of all her stratagems, he could still get to her.

She was deathly afraid, but her fear was tempered by anger. She could imagine the lies William had told his friend about her: that she was a slut; that she was any man’s
for the taking. Well, this was one man who was going to find out that William had lied.

She had to be calm; she had to think what to do. If she screamed, he would be on her in a flash. Bea was in the room across the hall, but it would take an earthquake to waken Bea. Some of the other guests might hear her, but if they came to her rescue, she had no doubt that her assailant would plead they’d interrupted a lovers’ tiff, and turn them away. And who would believe Sara Carstairs when her true identity became known? With the realization that there was no one to help her but herself, her mind became crystal clear. She couldn’t make a dash for the door because she didn’t know where he was. There was no pistol or knife concealed among her things, and if there had been she wouldn’t have used them. A woman who had stood trial for murder would have a hard time explaining away a corpse in her bedchamber.

Other things gradually came to her. He smelled of strong spirits. If he had been drinking, that could work in her favor. The poker was on the hearth beside her feet, and as she well knew, a poker could be a lethal weapon.

Not the poker, she thought with a shudder. She couldn’t bear to take a swing at him with the poker, except as a last resort. The water carafe, then. It was only a few steps away, on the table beside her chair. Then, when she’d disabled him, she would lock him in this room and hide in Bea’sroom.

If only it could be that simple.

She began to inch her way to the table, and was shocked into immobility when he spoke again. “I apologize for being so late,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to wait up for me. I thought I’d find you in bed.”

Though his voice was pleasant, his words chilled her. He seemed to think that William had set this up with her and that she would welcome him with open arms. The sooner she disabused him of that notion the better.

“I
want you to leave.
Now.”
She stopped when she heard the quaver in her voice, cleared her throat then went on. “If you lay a hand on me, I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

Silence. She had the distinct impression that he was weighing her up in much the same way as she was weighing him. Maybe he thought she had a gun. Maybe that’s why he was holding off. And maybe she’d better do something before it was too late.

He said, “This isn’t like you. You don’t even sound like yourself. I must have had more to drink than I thought.”

When his shadow suddenly loomed up in front of her, she moved like lightning. She snatched up the water carafe and backed away from him.

“Don’t come any closer,” she cried out.

He disregarded her warning. “Look-”

She brought the glass carafe down with all her might, but it shattered uselessly against the bedpost, and in the next instant, her assailant caught her in a flying tackle and carried her across the bed.

Sara stifled a whimper. Her legs were splayed wide and the press of his weight crushed her into the feather mattress; her wrists were held in an iron grip above her head, and the metal buttons on his coat bit into the soft flesh of her breasts. She flinched when his head descended.