Strangers at Dawn (16 page)

He spoke tersely. “God help me, I
am
attracted to you,
whether I want to be or not. And yes, I wanted the story for the
Courier.
I’m a newspaperman, and I can’t change my stripes, not even for you. But I want to help you, Sara.”

She crouched as though she would spring at him. “You’re the one who’s been stalking me all these months. You’re the one who’s been sending me these terrifying notes.”

“What notes? What are you talking about?”

“William!” she burst out. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.” Tears stung here yes. “From the very beginning, the
Courier
was against me.
You
set yourself up as judge and jury. And having found me guilty, you hounded me. You’re still hounding me.”

He came toward her with one hand held out in a gesture of appeal, but when she recoiled, he halted again. “Will you calm down and listen to me? I didn’t know how difficult I’d made things for you. I swear I didn’t know until recently, when I went to see …” He stopped in mid-sentence.

“Whom did you see?”

“One of my reporters, Peter Fallon. I sent him to Stoneleigh to gather information.”

“You’ve been
spying
on me!” she cried out.

“I was trying to help you! You wouldn’t tell me anything, so I decided to find out for myself. That’s when I heard about the fire at one of your properties and that the reward I’d posted in the
Courier
had-well, had stirred things up. I didn’t know, never imagined how much harm it would do. I’m sorry, bitterly sorry, and that’s the truth.”

“Well, that’s just dandy, but if you’re looking for absolution, you’ve come to the wrong person. I shall never forgive you.”

“Fine. That’s not important now. I want to hear about those notes.”

“Why? So you can put a noose around my neck?”

“So I can protect you.”

She started to laugh, then cut herself off abruptly.

“Sara,” he said softly, placatingly, “let’s sit down and talk this through like rational people.”

No response.

He tried again. “Tell me about these notes. Did they come from William? Is it William who is stalking you? Is that what you think?”

“Do you really belive I would trust you after
all
you’ve done to me?”

“Don’t you understand? I’m trying to make amends. Now, where are these notes? I’m warning you, Sara, I’m not giving you a choice. It’s gone beyond that. If you’re in some kind of danger, I want to know about it.”

Alarm raced through her, making her stomach churn. This was the man she feared, relentless, coldly determined to have his own way. He would keep at her and keep at her till he got the truth. Then he really would put a noose around her neck, not in a court of law, but on the front page of the
Courier.

She knew how to hate, but in that moment, there was no one she had ever hated as much as she hated Max Worthe.

Her shoulders heaved once, twice, then she let out a long shuddering breath. “They’re upstairs,” she said quietly, “in my room.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the key and I’ll get them.”

She hesitated, then felt in her pocket and produced a key. “They’re in my reticule, inside the top drawer of my dresser.”

She ignored his outstretched hand and put the key on the table.

Max’s lips flattened when she retreated, keeping well out of his reach as he moved to the table to pick up the key. “Sara-”

She turned her back on him.

Wordlessly, Max left the room.

When the door closed and she was alone, she put her fist
to her mouth. Thoughts chased through her head in heedless abandon. Max Worthe had witnessed her trial, had heard all the sordid details about her depraved love affair with William. He’d ruined her life, separated her from her family, and all for a story for his tawdry paper.

The
Courier.

He would never give up until her got his story.

Without consciously making a decision, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. The back door leading to the courtyard was on her right. She moved toward it. Outside, the rain was driving down. The only light came from lanterns on the wall. She saw nothing, heard nothing. Her mind was numb.

She didn’t stop to take her bearings or take the time to return for her coat. She didn’t know or care where she was going. All she wanted was to get away from Max Worthe.

A
S HE MOUNTED THE STAIRS, MAX CONSID
ered how he was going to make things right with Sara. Her anger he could handle, but it was the stricken, haunted look that had come into her eyes when he’d told her he was the
Courier’s
owner that had shattered him. He didn’t want to hurt her. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. He’d had every intention of telling her about his connection to the
Courier
after he’d dealt with Townsend. But Townsend had taken his revenge before he’d had a chance to explain, and now the damage was done.

But it wasn’t irreparable. He knew, hoped, he could make her see reason, because he wasn’t the only one at fault here. She’d kept secrets from him as well. He would apologize. He was even prepared to grovel, up to a point. But what he would not tolerate were these appalling risks she ran.

She’d received notes from William Neville. Was that what had prompted this insane scheme to marry Townsend? She still had a lot of explaining to do.

He was sick and tired of playing games with Sara and equally sick and tired of all the lies she’d told him in return. But what really made him burn was how far she was prepared to go in this misbegotten scheme that only she understood. He hadn’t believed she would go through with it. He’d been confident when it came down to it, her nerve would crack and she wouldn’t show up.

And how wrong he’d been!

He found her reticule where she’d told him it would be, and though he was tempted to go through it and read the notes at once, he decided it would be better if Sara gave them to him in person. Then she couldn’t accuse him of being underhanded.

When he returned to the parlor, he saw that it was empty. He wasn’t alarmed. He had her reticule, and her leather bag was still on the floor where she’d dropped it. If she’d left her bag and reticule, he reasoned, she couldn’t be far away. She’d be back for them.

He straightened the chair that had been overturned, poured himself another glass of brandy, a generous one this time, and sat down to wait for her. When ten minutes had passed and she had not appeared, he felt the first stirrings of alarm.

He left the room at once, but halted in the corridor when he saw the back door was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped outside.

There had been no letup in the rain for the last hour, and he turned up his collar for the little protection it gave him. When his eyes became accustomed to the shadows, he saw the ostler on duty standing under the stable eaves.

Max crossed the yard at a run, cursing fluently as the rain dripped down his neck and under his collar, cursing even more furiously when he stepped into one puddle after dodging another.

She couldn’t have left the hotel on a wild night like this.

The ostler straightened at Max’s approach.

“Did you see anyone leaving the hotel in the last fifteen minutes?” asked Max.

“A gentleman left for Bath in his chaise, but that were near half an hour ago. Mr. Townsend, yes, that was his name.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“No. He was alone.”

“What about in the last fifteen minutes? Someone on foot?”

The ostler nodded. “A lady, would it be, guv’nor?”

Max’s alarm increased tenfold. “Yes, a lady.”

“I tried to turn her back, but she paid no mind to me.”

“Which way did she go?”

“She went through that there arch and turned right.”

Without waiting to hear more, Max dashed through the entrance arch and into the High Street. It was completely deserted, no carriages, no riders, no pedestrians. It didn’t surprise him. It was after midnight, and Wells was a small country town. There were few lights shining from windows. The town was shut up for the night.

Then where in Hades was she?

His face was grim when he returned to the hotel.

The first thing he did was go through her reticule. There were no notes. He got his coat and told the desk clerk in his most daunting manner not to lock up the hotel for the night until he returned.

He spent the next hour going from one hostelry to another, but Sara had not registered at any of them, and no one had seen a lady of her description.

M
AX
WAS RAPIDLY DEPLETING WHAT MUST
have been his third or fourth pot of coffee of the night when the knocker on the hotel’s front door sounded.

He set down his cup. “I’ll go,” he told the droopy-eyed clerk whom he’d pressed into staying up with him.

The door was unlocked, but only because he’d insisted. If and when Sara returned, he hadn’t wanted any obstacles to stand in the way of her entering the hotel.

When he opened the door, to his great disappointment, it wasn’t Sara who stared into his face, but a great beefy man, fiftyish, with dark bushy eyebrows and an even bushier mustache.

“Constable O’Hanalon, here,” said the stranger abruptly. “And who might you be?”

“That’s Lord Maxwell.” Sara came from behind the constable’s huge bulk and entered the hotel. “I told you he would vouch for me. This has all been a ghastly mistake.”

For one of the few times in his life, Max was speechless. He’d been imagining all sorts-of hair-raising scenarios-Sara attacked by ruffians or footpads, her broken body thrown into the river, or worse. And here she was, whole and hearty, while he was a nervous wreck.

“Oh, do shut the door, Max,” she said from the lobby. “Constable O’Hanalon wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Shut the door,” she repeated.

Max looked at the door. “Right.” He shut the door and joined Sara and the constable in the lobby.

Now that his worst fears were relieved, and Sara seemed none the worse for her rash behavior, he gave free rein to his temper. “Do you know what I’ve been through these last three hours? Can you imagine what I’ve suffered not knowing where you were or what had happened to you?”

“I’m sorry, Max. It was only a case of bridal nerves.” Her gray eyes beseeched him with unspoken messages, then she went on, “Constable O’Hanalon, this is my betrothed, Lord Maxwell.”

“Is that right, sir?” asked the constable. “Are you this lady’s betrothed?”

Max’s eyes narrowed on Sara. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “What scrape has she got herself into now?”

The constable chuckled. “The night watchman found her trying to break into the cathedral.”

Sara said, “I thought the door was stuck. It never occurred to me that the cathedral would be locked up for the night. I thought churches were always open, you know, for people in distress.”

The constable clicked his tongue. “That may be, ma’am, but you refused to give the watchman your name, or any explanation at all.”

“I was”–she looked at Max, then looked away-“upset.”

“If you’d told him straight away, you wouldn’t have had to spend half the night in the city jail. We would have taken you home at once.”

“The city jail?” Max stared at Sara. His voice rose alarmingly. “The city jail? Why didn’t you send someone to get me? You must have known how worried I’d be.”

Sara’s face was pale. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“I … I fell asleep.”

“You
what?”

Max broke off when the hotel clerk, whom he’d forgotten about, slammed from behind the counter and got between him and Sara.

“Miss Childe,” said the clerk, “can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? A sandwich?”

For the first time in a long while, Sara smiled. “Thank you, George. It is George, isn’t it? A cup of tea would be very nice.”

George flashed Sara a shy smile. “I’ll see to it right away, miss. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the parlor and I’ll bring it to you there.”

Sara looked at the constable. “Do I have your permission?”

“I suppose it’s all right, now that this gentleman is here to look after you. But mind what I told you.” He took her
hand, enfolding it in both of his. “You were lucky that it was the watchman who found you. A woman alone at night is asking for trouble.”

“I’ll remember. And I
do
thank you for your kindness to me.” Then to Max. “I’ll see you in the parlor, then, when you’ve finished with the constable.”

Sara left with the clerk, and in the wake of silence that followed their departure, Max reflected wryly that as far as the constable and the clerk were concerned, he was the guilty party here. He looked at O’Hanalon and knew by the set of the constable’s bushy eyebrows that he was in for a scold.

Ten

T
EN MINUTES LATER, WHEN MAX ENTERED THE
little parlor, he saw at once that George had not only brought the pot of tea he’d promised Sara, but also a plate of bite-sized sandwiches. And if Max was in any doubt about whose side George was on, the fact that there was only one cup and saucer to go with the tea was an eloquent pointer.