Strangers at Dawn (15 page)

“No,” said Max. “That was a different lady.”

He stood there quietly, fitting together the fragments of Bloor’s conversation: she wanted a man with character, age and fortune immaterial; her pockets were well-lined; she’d placed an advertisement in the paper; a marriage of convenience.

He was thinking of Miss Beattie, and it didn’t add up. But it didn’t add up with Sara, either. He couldn’t figure out why she would go to such lengths.

All the same, it made him uneasy, and he made up his mind to do a little investigating.

The following morning, he started with the
Chronicle,
since, in his experience, newspapermen knew far more than they dared print in their newspapers, and Tom Kent, the
Chronicle’s
publisher, did not disappoint him. At the
Chronicle,
they were betting that the mystery woman who had placed the advertisement was Miss Beattie for the simple reason that it was her serving girl who had picked up the replies. But it wasn’t Miss Beattie whom Max had surprised in a téte-å-téte with Townsend at the Sydney Hotel, and he reached his own conclusion.

Kent was as equally candid about Townsend, but only because he was talking to another newspaperman and knew he could count on Max’s discretion. And what he told Max made his hair stand on end.

But Max did not let it rest there. He used his considerable charm to dig even deeper, and when his charm failed, he used bribery and corruption. At the end of three days, he had gathered enough evidence to convince himself that the prospect of Sara’s marrying Townsend was anything but fantastic.

She was going to marry a man twice her age! Did she know about his debts? His character? Did she care?

What in hell’s name was she up to?

Nine

S
ARA DID NOT BEGIN TO RELAX UNTIL HER
chaise was well clear of Bath. Her destination was the small cathedral town of Wells. Mr. Townsend had left that morning, but she had decided to wait for cover of darkness. She didn’t want anyone to see her. If anyone called at their lodgings, Bea would say that she’d already retired for the night. And in the morning, it wouldn’t matter what Bea said. She’d be married to Mr. Townsend.

He was already in Wells, setting things up. He had the special license; he’d found a minister to marry them, and he’d arranged accommodations at the Angel in the High Street. Tonight, he would sign the marriage contract, and tomorrow she would become Mrs. Townsend.

It was too easy. Everything was going too smoothly.

Mr. Townsend had capitulated almost at once. The sum of money he’d asked for was well below what she was willing to offer. When she’d told him her real name, he’d been shocked, of course, but he was far more anxious about
her
future prospects than his own. It hadn’t been easy to make him believe that this was no sacrifice on her part. She would never want to marry.

Max,
her heart seemed to cry out.

Dear God, what was the matter with her? Everything was working out exactly as she’d planned. She should be glad; she shouldn’t be plagued by
all
these uncertainties. Max Worthe was a dangerous complication, and that’s all he was.

End of story.

End of something that should never have started.

She was so cold that she was shivering. Just a half hour before, she’d removed her coat because she was too hot. She shrugged into it and did up all the buttons, then she stared out the window.

There was nothing to see but the hedgerows that were picked out by the light from the chaises’s box lamps. It couldn’t be much longer now. Wells was only a two-hour drive from Bath, three hours at the most in these conditions. And in the morning, after the clergyman married them, Mr. Townsend would return to Bath, and she would set out for Salisbury, where Bea would catch up to her.

She wasn’t running away anymore. She was going home to face all her demons.

I
T WAS RAINING WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE
Angel. The doorman, who seemed to be watching for her, came forward with an umbrella as she paid off her post boys. She had only one box and a leather bag that she insisted on carrying herself.

The hotel was much like the Christopher where Max was staying. It was of Tudor origin, with small rooms and long narrow corridors. Her chamber looked down on the courtyard. She was on the point of opening the window when she remembered another courtyard and another hotel.

She shut her mind to thoughts of Max, latched the window, and threw her bag on the nearest chair. It did not take her long to tidy herself. Then she picked up her bag and
made her way downstairs to the front desk. The private parlor that Mr. Townsend had reserved was, the clerk told her, on the ground floor at the back of the hotel. She would find Mr. Townsend there.

She took a deep breath and pinned a smile on her face before entering the parlor. The sight that met her eyes froze her on the spot. A chair was overturned, and Mr. Townsend was slumped in a chair holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to his nose. Her gaze shifted to the figure who was negligently propped with one arm along the mantelpiece while he sipped from a glass of amber liquid.

Max.

She felt the blood drain from her face; her pulse slowed and she reached for the back of a chair. Any last, lingering doubts slipped away. She’d been right to be afraid. Max Worthe was unpredictable and more dangerous than a jungle cat.

As though oblivious to the carnage around him, Max raised his glass in salute. “Miss Childe,” he said, “at long last. Townsend and I were beginning to wonder what was keeping you.”

Miss Chi/de.
Her fear abated a little. Mr. Townsend had not told Max that she was Sara Carstairs.

When Mr. Townsend made an inarticulate sound, she dropped her bag and hurried to his side. “What’s going on? What is Lord Maxwell doing here? Here, let me help you.”

Townsend threw off her hand. “I can manage.”

Max ground his teeth together. “Don’t waste your sympathy on him. He deserved what he got.”

“How could you do this?” she cried, then to Townsend, “Shall I fetch a doctor? Are you all right? Speak to me, Mr. Townsend.”

Max sounded thoroughly bored. “It’s only a bloody nose, for mercy’s sake.”

She rounded on Max. “I’d like to hear what Mr. Townsend has to say.”

“He attacked me,” said Townsend. “For no good reason, he attacked me.”

“All I did was stop him running away.”

Her eyes met Max’s. It was so hard to read him sometimes. He always looked easygoing and relaxed. But she’d learned that that was only one facet of his character. Beneath the charming veneer, there was cold, hard steel. His eyes never wavered from hers, intelligent eyes, alert and, right this minute, brilliant with emotion.

Well, if he was angry, so was she, blazingly angry. She said, “What are you doing here, Max? How did you find out about Mr. Townsend and me?”

“I put two and two together,” said Max. “It wasn’t hard to do, once I grasped the fact that you were the woman who had placed the advertisement in the
Chronicle.
I couldn’t believe you would go through with it. But when Townsend left town this morning, I followed him. And here we are.

Isn’t it cozy?”

She ignored the sarcasm. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here or why you attacked Mr. Townsend.”

“Attacked? Now that is going too far. I … ah … restrained him. You see, Sara, when the doorman came to tell us that you were in the hotel, your intended here tried to make a bolt for it. I stopped him. I don’t think he wants to marry you, Sara, not now.”

Though her heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo in her head, she managed to keep her voice calm and her expression neutral. “Whether Mr. Townsend wishes to marry me or not is none of your business.”

“I’ve made it my business. Listen to me, Sara. The man is in debt up to his neck. He can’t marry you for less than forty thousand pounds.
Forty thousand!
Can you afford that? How much did you promise to pay him?”

She shivered, staring at him. “Eight thousand,” she said. “That’s the sum we agreed on.”

Max said quietly, “He won’t marry you for a mere eight thousand, Sara. Ask him.”

Mr. Townsend’s face turned a fiery red. “An allowance of eight thousand pounds a year,” he said stiffly. “That’s what I meant. But, now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’ve had a change of heart.”

He rose slowly, carefully, but at Max’s approach, he quickly sank back in his chair.

Max bent over Townsend until they were practically nose to nose. “You mean that now I’m here to see that you can’t swindle Sara out of her money, you won’t go through with it. Tell me, Mr. Townsend, did you ever have any intention of marrying her? How was this swindle going to work?”

Sara cried, “Stop it! Stop threatening him! Why are you keeping him here against his will?”

Max spoke through his teeth. “Because I knew you wouldn’t believe anything I told you. Well, Townsend is here. Let him deny if he can that he’s drowning in debt. Let’s see if he’s still willing to marry you for a paltry eight thousand.”

Mr. Townsend was beginning to bluster his way out of Max’s accusations, and she couldn’t take any more. Turning her back on both men, she went to the window that overlooked the courtyard and stared out. She couldn’t face what was behind her, the ugliness, the betrayal, so she concentrated on watching the ostlers who where unhitching a pair of bays from a flashy curricle. The ostlers cursed the rain, they cursed the horses, they cursed the driver who had brought them away from their game of dice when all decent people should have been snug in their homes at this ungodly hour.

She was shivering in earnest now, and she wrapped her arms around herself to conceal how shaken she really was.

Max said, “Sara, what do you want me to do with this sniveling coward?”

“Let him go,” she said tonelessly. “You’ve made your point.”

There was a hard edge in Max’s voice. “I hope you know how lucky you are.”

She didn’t know whether Max’s words were meant for Townsend or herself, so she didn’t reply.

Max moved aside, his gaze still on Sara. Mr. Townsend got up, adjusted his rumpled coat and walked to the door. After opening it, he turned to look at Sara. He spoke with dignity. “My motives were pure,” he said, “but you might ask yourself about Lord Maxwell’s motives. He knows who you are. No, I didn’t tell him. He’s not the only one who can put two and two together. I think he wants your fortune for himself.”

Sara whirled around, and her eyes collided with Max’s. He was watching her intently, warily. She shook her head. He shrugged.

“I
was going to tell you later,” he said, “when we were alone.”

“Tell me what?”

He hesitated, then said gently, “I was present at your trial.”

“At my trial?” Her voice was barely audible. “You were at my trial?”

“Yes. I know you are Sara Carstairs.”

She felt numb with shock; even her tongue seemed frozen and she had trouble articulating her words. “You were one of those dandies who came to gawk at me?”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. “I was there to cover the story for my newspaper. I would have told you even if Townsend hadn’t forced my hand. Listen to me, Sara. I couldn’t tell you who I was right away because I was afraid you would go into hiding again. There’s more to us than the fact that you’re Sara Carstairs and I’m a newspaperman. Can’t you see that? And I want to help you.”

“What paper?” she asked hoarsely.

“We’ll talk later.”

“What
paper?”

There was a silence, then Max said softly, “The
Courier.
I own it, Sara. And publish it.”

She had the curious feeling that her mind had exploded, leaving a vacuum inside her head. One hand went out to the window frame as she steadied herself. “The
Courier,”
she said weakly.

Mr. Townsend, who had been following this interesting byplay with a smug smile, chose that moment to get off a parting shot. “Watch him, Miss Carstairs. I only wanted money. He’ll try to put a noose around your neck.”

With a furious oath, Max crossed the room in two strides. Townsend turned and fled along the corridor. Max shut the door, breathed deeply and turned to face Sara. “That’s a lie,” he said. “And anyway, you were acquitted. You can’t be tried again.”

Her numbness was beginning to wear off. She felt the blood rushing into her face, and as her mind slowly came together, everything became crystal clear.

Her words were punctuated by the harsh sound of her breathing. “In Reading … when you climbed through my window … you knew who I was.”

“No. It was only in the morning it came to me that I’d seen you before.” When he took a step toward her and she flinched, he halted. “What happened in your room that night, I mean what happened between us, was real. It was genuine, Sara, sincere.”

Her head jerked back and she stared at him with unconcealed contempt. “There’s nothing sincere or genuine about you. You played the role of the bored aristocrat with consummate skill, pretending that you were attracted to me, when all you wanted was a story for your newspaper.”