Strangers at Dawn (8 page)

Sara, take a chance on me.

No! No! No! That could only lead to disaster.

When he’d lit the candle and she’d seen at once that he was a Corinthian, she’d thought she’d had a lucky escape. She despised fops, whatever they called themselves. But she’d had to admit that, fop or not, he was a princely creature, princely and gracious and kind. Her imagination hadn’t done him justice, but she’d been right about the laughter lines around his eyes and the kind smile.

And she’d been right about the steel in him as well.

Tenacious,
he’d called himself, and he hadn’t exaggerated. He wouldn’t have been satisfied until he had dragged all her secrets out of her. Max Worthe was a dangerous man, and she hoped to God she never saw him again.

Sara, take a chance on me.

She looked at the bed and a shiver passed over her. She couldn’t begin to explain what had happened in that bed, but it clearly demonstrated a glaring lack in her character. It was demeaning; it was degrading; it was … the most beautiful experience she’d ever had in her life.

That was one of her failings. She’d never been able to lie to herself. And the truth was, she was in mortal danger of losing everything,
everything
she’d staked her life on.

She stared at that bed for a long, long time, then suddenly rising, she moved quickly around the room, collecting her belongings to pack in her trunk. She would not be easy until she’d put herself well beyond Max Worthe’s reach.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, MAX AWOKE WITH
the birds. It was ever thus when he stayed in the country. Most people thought the country was idyllically peaceful compared to town, but he’d never found it so. The racket of crows and pigeons, not to mention pesky songbirds, never failed to awaken him, though he could sleep through a military parade that passed right under his bedroom window in Whitehall.

Town life was much more to his taste.

But this was one morning when he didn’t mind getting up with the birds. Dawn was no more than a pale glow on the horizon. Inside the inn, nothing was stirring. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sara, but he wasn’t taking any chances. She might be embarrassed to face him after what had happened last night. She might decide to make a bolt for it, and he had other ideas. Until he had met her betrothed in person, he was going to keep Sara Childe in his sights.

The thought that Deirdre was no longer a problem had him humming tunelessly. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror above the washstand as he lathered his face. When he’d entered his room last night, he’d found it empty, but Deirdre had left him an eloquent message, far more eloquent than anything that could be written on paper. She’d unpacked his clothes and cut off the arms of all his coats at the elbow and done much the same thing with his trousers. Only his shirts and underclothes had been spared. So he was reduced to wearing the same coat and trousers he’d worn yesterday.

He didn’t know why he was laughing. He couldn’t have
slept for much more than a couple of hours; his expensive Weston garments were strewn around the floor like a pile of old rags; he was aching
all
over; and last, but not least, the
Exeter Chronicle
might well go to someone else because he didn’t have the time to pursue it right now.

Peter Fallon was waiting for him in Exeter. Peter would be the one to face the wrath of the irate proprietors when he, Max, didn’t turn up to sign the documents. It couldn’t be helped. Something that he didn’t want to put a name to had touched him on the shoulder, and if he turned away now, he would always wonder …

Sara.

What was it about her that made her so different? He dwelt on that thought as he began to shave. He’d known more beautiful women, but none that fascinated him half as much. The only other woman who had come close to obsessing him was Sara Carstairs, but that was only because she’d got away with murder.

He was sitting on the bed, pulling on his boots, when thoughts of Sara Carstairs intruded again. He was remembering the trial and how nothing seemed to affect her. He remembered how he’d wanted to shake her, if only to put a crack in the mask she hid behind.

Just as he’d wanted to shake Sara last night.

He shook his head. Sara Carstairs was a typical English rose. She had fair hair and blue eyes. Her resemblance to Sara Childe was …

He sat there, staring blindly at his boots as impressions flashed like lightning inside his head. He’d been waiting for her to smile at him for a long, long time. She seemed familiar to him. He wanted to shake her, if only to put a crack in the mask she hid behind. William had married someone else and met with a terrible accident.

William Neville had married her sister and then she’d murdered him.

William. William Neville.

It couldn’t be true. Sara Carstairs had fair hair and blue eyes. It was true that at the trial, her hair had been concealed by her bonnet and she’d never looked out at the spectators, but her complexion was so fair that he’d simply assumed she was a typical English rose.

And that’s how he always remembered her.

He remembered something else about Sara Carstairs. She was a woman to attract men, not by beauty alone, but by an appealing blend of innocence and worldliness. And isn’t that what had bewitched him last night? He hadn’t known whether to ask Sara to become his mistress or whether she was the kind of woman who would settle for nothing less than marriage.

Sara Childe and Sara Carstairs were one and the same person. He tested his theory gingerly, then, after a long period of reflection, uttered an obscene profanity and flung one boot against the wall.
Sara Childe and Sara Carstairs were one and the same person!
He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before. Three years had passed since he’d seen her, but her impression had been branded on his mind. He thought he would recognize her again, the moment he set eyes on her, but he’d been fooled by that dark, exotic coloring.

He didn’t know why he was so angry. He’d hoped for a miraculous escape, and the gods had just handed it to him. There could never be anything between him and Sara Carstairs. She’d had more lovers than he’d had dinners. He knew this for a fact because he’d amassed a file on the Carstairs woman with enough information to make a book. She wasn’t fussy about who she took to her bed, as last night clearly demonstrated. He could have had her if only he’d persevered.

The very things that had enchanted him last night now filled him with disgust. He’d thought there was something special between them, but all that Sara Carstairs had wanted was a man, not him in particular. Any man would have
done. And he had held off because he’d been taken in by her air of innocence.

He would never make that mistake again.

She’d lied between her teeth. There was no betrothed. She was an heiress in her own right. There was no necessity for Sara Carstairs to marry for financial security. She’d wanted to get rid of him and had hit on that story to throw him off the scent.

She would have flown the coop by now. Last night, he’d been tenacious in his curiosity, and that’s what had frightened her. Well, it would be no great labor to follow her trail. There wouldn’t be too many carriages on the road at this ungodly hour. He’d pursue her all right, but now his object was anything but lover like. He wanted a story for his newspaper, and one way or another, he would get it.

Never in his life had he experienced such an icy rage. He waited until he had himself under control before he quit the room.

Five

M
ISS
BEATTIE OPENED THE NEWSPAPER AT
the personal columns and began to search for Sara’s advertisement. It was hard to believe that so many gentlemen and ladies could not find a mate in the ordinary way. But Sara was right. There were more entries in the personal columns than there were houses for sale.

She found Sara’s advertisement and read:

Lady Of substance, personable, reserved, wishes to meet gentleman Of good character (age and fortune immaterial) with the object Of contracting a Marriage of Convenience. Apply to Box
41,
The Chronicle.

“You’ll never guess,” said Sara, “how many replies I received.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-five.”

Miss Beattie’s jaw sagged.
“How many?”

“Twenty-five.” Sara laughed. “I can hardly believe it either. I thought I’d be lucky if I got one or two.” She held up a brown paper package. “But here they are. Maggie brought them while you were dressing.”

Maggie was the serving girl who came with the suite of furnished rooms Sara had rented for her stay in Bath, the ground floor of a solid, though modest house in Queen’s Square. Their landlady, Mrs. Hastings, a widow who had fallen on hard times, lived in the floor above.

Sara had rented the rooms and placed the advertisement before she left London. She and Miss Beattie had arrived in Bath the night before, and the first thing Sara did on waking that morning was send the maid to the offices of the
Bath Chronicle
to collect her replies. She and Miss Beattie were now in the small morning room at the back of the house, enjoying a late breakfast of tea and toast.

Miss Beattie read the advertisement again. “I must be stupid, but what is there in this advertisement to attract such interest? It says very little.”

Sara picked up the silver teapot and refilled Miss Beattie’s cup, then her own. A small, cynical smile touched her lips. “That’s where you’re wrong, Bea. It says plenty if you read between the lines. Shall I translate for you?”

Miss Beattie nodded. “Please do.”

“A young woman with a fat bank balance, who doesn’t want anyone asking awkward questions about her past, is willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of marrying some impoverished, trustworthy gentleman who will have the grace to make himself scarce as soon as the marriage certificate is signed.”

“What!” Miss Beattie choked on a mouthful of tea. She cleared her throat. “You’re making that up.”

“Oh, no, I’m not. Read it again, Bea. It’s all there, though, of course, I’ve used pretty words to dress it up. We mustn’t shock the finer feelings of the gentlemen, must we?”

Miss Beattie read the advertisement again and groaned. “You see what this means? You’ll have an army of fortune-hunters and … and shady, disreputable characters beating a path to your door.”

“A shady lady cannot be too fussy,” declared Sara.

“Sara! Don’t talk like that. This is serious.”

The smile in Sara’s eyes faded a little. “I was only joking, Bea.” She didn’t add what she was thinking, that many a jest was spoken in earnest. Bea was prejudiced in her favor and wouldn’t hear a word against her, not even when it came from her own mouth.

Sara said, “Anyway, no one will beat a path to my door. I’m not that stupid. I’m not going to reveal who I am, not yet. What we’re going to do, Bea, is go through all these letters and choose three or four suitable candidates. Then I’ll find a way to meet each gentleman casually. When I’m sure I have the right man for me, then and only then will I tell him that I’m the lady who placed the advertisement in the
Chronicle.”

Miss Beattie thought about this for a moment or two. She looked at Sara. “You make it sound so easy, but have you considered that this could be dangerous?”

“Nonsense. It’s done all the time. If it was dangerous, no one would advertise for a husband or wife in the newspapers, would they?”

“But …” Miss Beattie stopped, knowing that she’d already put forward every argument to persuade Sara to give up the scheme.

“What?” asked Sara.

Though she knew her words would fall on deaf ears and she’d said it all before, Miss Beattie couldn’t hold back the words. “This is a drastic step you’re taking. What if you change your mind next year, or the year after that, or ten years from now? What if you meet the perfect man for you?”

“The perfect man for me,” said Sara dryly, “is the one who will make himself scarce right after he has signed the marriage register. Now, let’s clear the table and get down to business.”

They divided the letters into two piles and began to go through them. Miss Beattie took her time. Sara scanned
each one quickly and more often than not tore it to shreds and tossed it aside.

Miss Beattie made a hissing sound.

“What?” asked Sara.

“The nerve of the man! He wants to know how much you’re willing to pay for the privilege of acquiring his name.” She was about to tear up the letter, but Sara plucked it out of her hand.

“Bea! This is just the kind of man I’m looking for.” She quickly read the letter and set it to one side. “I know, I know. Major Haig sounds mercenary, and not very gentlemanly. But that’s all to the good, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see,” replied Miss Beattie crossly. “If you’re determined to marry and break the trust, why not find a man who can make you happy?”