Strangers at Dawn (9 page)

“Because the man who could make me happy would be too intelligent to marry a suspected murderess.”

“But you were cleared at the trial.”

“Was I? Then why are we living like this?”

Miss Beattie’s gaze faltered. They were living like this because whenever Sara’s identity became known, fingers started pointing, and friends and acquaintances melted away. No one was ever going to forget that Sara was once accused of murder, especially not with the
Courier’s
special correspondent keeping the story alive. Sara was right. An intelligent man would want nothing to do with her, because fingers would start pointing at him too, and eventually at their children. It was all so hopeless.

Sara let out a long, quiet breath. “Bea,” she said softly, “this is all going to work out for the best, you’ll see. I’ve been thinking that once I’m free of all my obligations to my family, I could start afresh somewhere else. Oh, not in England. But what’s to stop us going to America?”

“America,” said Miss Beattie faintly.

“No one knows me there and best of all, there would be no
Courier
to hound me.”

“But … but it’s so far away.”

“Yes. That’s the whole point. But let’s not think about it right now. Let’s take things one step at a time, and the first step is to find some unsuspecting male who can give me my heart’s desire.”

Miss Beattie looked up quickly, saw the laughter in Sara’s eyes and smiled in spite of herself.

A
T THE END OF HALF AN HOUR, SARA HAD RE
duced the list of applicants to three likely candidates, with two to be held in reserve. The ones she had discarded were from men who were either too young-and might yet meet a woman they could love-or too sure of their ability to make her forget about a marriage of convenience and live happily ever after on her money and their skill as lovers.

Lucky her!

“What now?” asked Miss Beattie glumly.

“Now,” said Sara, “we do a little sleuthing. Oh, nothing too obvious. All very discreet. We introduce ourselves to Bath society and find out as much as we can about”-she looked at her list of three likely candidates”-Mr. Townsend, Mr. Bloor, and Major Haig.

“We’re going to the Pump Room, Bea. According to our landlady, that’s where everyone in Bath congregates. I believe it’s a daily ritual, not only for visitors, but for residents as well. And Mrs. Hastings will be there to introduce us around.”

Miss Beattie made a short, sharp derisory sound. “Mrs. Hastings,” she said, “is a silly, vulgar woman. Do you know what she said to me last night when your back was turned? She winked and said that she had quite a reputation as a matchmaker, and if she couldn’t fix me up, no one could. What exactly did you say to that woman in your correspondence?”

Sara put her cup to her mouth to conceal her smile. After taking a sip of tea, she said, “What we agreed upon, of course, that you are my employer and I am your companion.”

“I think you must have said a lot more than that.”

Sara shrugged. “I may have given the impression that you were lonely.”

In fact, Sara had been delighted with the tone of Mrs. Hasting’s letters. She’d realized that the woman was a busybody. Normally she would have avoided such a person, but for her present purposes, Mrs. Hastings was a godsend. Sara had hinted that her “employer” was husbandhunting. That way, she’d reasoned, it would be easy to quiz their landlady on all the gentlemen who replied to her advertisement.

Miss Beattie drained her cup and set it down carefully. “So I’m your employer and you’re my paid companion. Is this charade really necessary, Sara?”

“Absolutely, and you know why. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I don’t want to be recognized. No one will spare a paid companion a second glance.”

This was something that irritated Miss Beattie. She’d had visions of Sara buying new clothes, prettying herself up, enjoying herself. But she was still dressed in the mode of a governess.

“Bea, don’t be difficult. Please?”

Miss Beattie could not resist that appeal. “Who’s being difficult? Well, come along. Don’t dawdle. Let’s set Bath on fire.”

S
ARA WAS IN HER ROOM TYING THE RIBBONS
of her bonnet under her chin when her thoughts strayed from her three likely prospects to Max. She’d thought about him constantly in the last few days, but it was only now,
when she’d put some distance between them and was confident that they were not likely to meet again, that she could look back on their encounter with a calm and critical eye.

It seemed strange, almost laughable, that he, a Corinthian and a fop, should be the one to overcome her deep distrust of men. He’d done a lot more than that. He’d aroused sensations she hadn’t known existed.

Passion. How was it possible for a man she did not know to have such an effect on her?

Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. He was the kind of man a mother would warn her daughter against-handsome, charming, experienced, and with the morals of …

No. She couldn’t fault his morals. He wasn’t like William. He was gentle and kind, and that’s why she’d been susceptible to him. He could have seduced her easily, but he had let her go.

She wished now that he hadn’t been so chivalrous. It would have been a beautiful memory to warm her in the cold nights ahead. She wasn’t sorry that he’d climbed through her window. Every woman should have a Max Worthe in her past, if only to remind her that once, some man had found her beautiful and desirable. And this man had meant it.

She gazed wistfully into space as she remembered that night, and by small degrees, before she was aware of it, all her senses came alive. She remembered his powerful body pinning her to the mattress, the brush of his hands from her breast to waist to thigh; he was no longer coaxing her, he was devouring her. The memories were so vivid, so erotic, that she felt as though he were actually touching her now.

“Sara!” Miss Beattie poked her head around the door. “What is it? What’s keeping you?”

Sara stared, stuttered, then came to herself with a start. “Nothing,” she said breathlessly, “nothing at all.” She picked up her reticule and hurried from the room.

T
HIS WAS SARA’S FIRST VISIT TO BATH. THOUGH
she liked what she saw on the short walk from Queen’s Square to the Pump Room-a city of gleaming Bath stone built in the neoclassical style-her pleasure was dulled by the constant fear that someone might recognize her.

She had to go through with it. She couldn’t do what she usually did when she was recognized. In the past, she’d solved her problems by starting over somewhere else. But now she was cornered. She had no choice but to fight back. All she had to do was keep out of William’s reach a little while longer …

And marry a man who would take her on her terms.

It had started to rain. Miss Beattie, always prepared, unfurled a black umbrella. “Maybe we should have taken a chair,” she said, indicating one of the many sedan chairs that had passed them on the way to the center of town.

“I’ve never seen so many sedans at one time,” said Sara. “I suppose it’s because the hills are too steep for carriages to navigate.”

“Or,” said Miss Beattie tartly, “it could be that the clocks in Bath stopped in the last century. At least, that’s my impression.” To Sara’s questioning look she elaborated, “Sedans? Gentlemen in breeches and powdered hair? I feel as though I’ve taken a step back in time.”

Sara laughed. Miss Beattie was right. The majority of people coming and going were, if not elderly, past their prime. The ladies had adopted the current fashions of high-waisted gowns, but the gentlemen’s garments were out of date. Few wore the knit trousers and tight-fitting coats of the smart set in London.

That thought eased her fears. Bath was famous for the curative powers of its mineral waters. That’s why there were so many old people here, to cure their ailments. That’s why
it was no longer a fashionable resort. It was too staid, too dull for the kind of people who had flocked to her trial at Winchester.

It took them less than fifteen minutes to reach the Pump Room, and when they entered, they found it thronged with people. Some were strolling around, some were sitting on benches, and some were at the famous pump set in a rounded bay, waiting their turn for a glass of Bath’s beneficial mineral water. Above the hum of conversation, the stately strains of Handel’s
Water
Music, courtesy of a small group of musicians at one end of the room, rose and echoed back from the coved ceiling high above the room’s gilded Greek columns.

It was, without doubt, thought Sara, one of the loveliest rooms she had ever entered.

“Now what?” asked Miss Beattie, not for the first time.

Sara was scanning the crush of people. “Mrs. Hastings said that she would be here to show us around.”

“And if she’s not?”

“We take the waters and wait for someone to notice us.”

They were almost at the pump when a lady swooped down on them. “My dear Miss Beattie! Miss Childe. I’ve been watching for you. And here you are!”

The speaker was their landlady, Mrs. Hastings, a plump, matronly woman in her early fifties with a formidable bosom and a mop of suspiciously brassy gold curls peeping from under a frothy bonnet. Her blue silk gown was smothered in bows and frills. She looked like a woman who was trying hard to look younger than her years. The unfortunate effect was just the opposite.

Miss Beattie, by contrast, was a model of simplicity. Her dark blue crepe gown with its matching shawl, completely unadorned, made her the more elegant of the two ladies.

Miss Beattie assumed her role without awkwardness or hesitation. “Mrs. Hastings,” she said cordially, “how kind of
you to notice us. My companion and I were just saying how lost we felt among so many strangers. Isn’t that so, Sara?”

Mrs. Hastings beamed at them and her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Then let’s remedy that at once. I know everyone in Bath, and before much longer, so will you.”

The next half hour sped by in a confusion of introductions as Mrs. Hastings proved that she did not make empty boasts. Sara’s interest perked up when she heard two names she recognized, two of her likely prospects, Mr. Bloor and Mr. Townsend. They were both in their late forties, the former ruddy-complexioned, hearty, built like a bull; the latter lean, soft-spoken and far more gentlemanly than his companion. But that did not sway Sara. The qualities she wanted in a husband would send any sane woman into a swoon.

But it had to be a man she could trust. She’d survived one William. She did not think she could survive another.

To Sara’s great disappointment, Mrs. Hastings cut their conversation short before they’d had time to do more than exchange a few pleasantries, and she led them toward a bench.

Mrs. Hastings shot Miss Beattie a shrewd look and shook her head. “They won’t do, Miss Beattie, so you can take that hopeful look out of your eyes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The intimidating tone was lost on Mrs. Hastings. “Mr. Bloor and Mr. Townsend? They’re both as poor as church mice.

“My dear Mrs. Hastings-” Miss Beattie stopped short when she caught Sara’s warning glance. She cleared her throat and said in a different tone, “Well, I can’t say I like the look of Mr. Bloor. Too much the country squire for my taste. And he smells of the stables.”

“That,” said Mrs. Hastings, “would be the least of your worries. Bloor is desperate for an heir, a legitimate heir, I mean, and I didn’t think …” She left the question hanging.

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Miss Beattie when enlightenment dawned.

Sara mentally struck Mr. Bloor’s name from her list of prospects.

“I thought as much.” Mrs. Hastings was beginning to hobble. “Would you mind if we sat down? My bunions are acting up and I must take my weight off my feet.”

As Mrs. Hastings lowered herself to the bench, Miss Beat-tie rolled her eyes and mouthed the words, “The woman is impossible.” Sara’s reply was a fierce frown.

As soon as they were all seated, Miss Beattie said, “Mr. Townsend seemed like a gentlemanly sort of man.”

“Oh, he is, but if he marries again, and I suppose he must, it will have to be for money.”

“He’s a widower, then?”

Mrs. Hastings nodded. “His wife died a year ago. In fact, he’s just out of mourning. I don’t understand all the details, but she had a private income that died with her. Poor Mr. Townsend was left with five motherless children to raise and his house mortgaged to the hilt.”

“Mmm,” said Miss Beattie. “Perhaps he’ll be lucky. Perhaps some wealthy lady will be happy to marry him.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Hastings looked curiously at Miss Beattie.

“But it won’t be me,” said Miss Beattie emphatically. “I’ve more sense than to take on five motherless children at my age, and besides, I’m not wealthy.”

Mrs. Hastings laughed. “Oh, I know that! If you were wealthy, you wouldn’t have taken lodgings in my humble home. No, you would have taken a house on the Crescent.”

Sara took advantage of a pause in the conversation to mention something that had been puzzling her. “He looks like a sad little man. Mr. Townsend, I mean.”