Strangers at Dawn (19 page)

She might as well have saved herself the bother and her husband the expense. No one of any note ever came to Longfield. Their circle of friends had been drawn from the limited society in which they’d found themselves: the local doctor, the vicar, retired army types, and others of that class. But that was before Sara’s trial. In the last three years, their friends and acquaintances had dwindled to almost no one.

It could
all
have been so different if Sara had only married the Viscount Hale. Such opportunities did not come a young girl’s way too often. She, Constance Carstairs, had been the driving force behind that match. Her burning ambition had been to climb the social ladder. With a title in the family, with the right connections, they would have moved in far superior circles than Stoneleigh had to offer. But Sara could not be persuaded, and Samuel Carstairs had not insisted. Sara always got her own way.

If she was bitter, thought Constance, she had good cause. Her husband had never really got over the death of his first wife. He’d put Maria Carstairs on a pedestal, just as he’d done with Sara. They did not lack for common sense,
he was fond of saying; they knew the value of money; they did not pine for the bright lights of the city. The list of their virtues went on and on. All that might have been forgiven if Samuel had rewarded her for her years of devotion, but
all
she’d got was her widow’s portion, and it wasn’t nearly enough to support her and her three children in style.

And now Sara was going to be married.

She needed a drink. Badly.

She turned from the window and looked at the other occupants of the room. Her sons, Simon and Martin, were hotly debating the merits of two prize pugilists who were to meet that week in nearby Romsey, and her daughter, Lucy, was curled up in the sofa with, it went without saying, her head in a book.

They wouldn’t notice if she slipped upstairs to the secret bottle of brandy that was hidden in her clothes press. On the other hand, Sara and her betrothed could arrive any moment, and Sara would know. Sara always knew.

Sara was going to be married.

She hadn’t believed Simon and Martin when they’d told her. But there was no getting around the letter from Sara. Well, she had herself to think about now. There was one virtue she possessed that put all the Carstairs in the shade: She had more ambition than all of them put together. Sara and Anne had let their opportunities slip through their fingers. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake. And if no opportunities presented themselves, she’d make her own.

She’d made a beginning. She’d acquired a powerful ally who could open the right doors for her if only Sara would agree to sponsor a Season in London for Lucy. And if Lucy went to London, her mother, quite rightly, would accompany her. And why not? She was far too young to bury herself in this depressing tomb of a place. And when they reached london, she would shed the name Carstairs. It was a millstone around her neck, just like this house, this monument
to her late husband. No one would connect Lucy Streatham and her youthful mother with the scandalous events at Stoneleigh. And if things worked out the way she wanted, she need never come back.

But it was all in Sara’s hands.

Sara, on her own, wouldn’t be too hard to persuade, because she had a soft spot for Lucy. But Sara’s betrothed was a different matter. Until she’d sized him up, she wouldn’t know how to play her cards.

No. She’d better not have that drink until after she’d met the mystery man.

She spoke abruptly to her sons. “Sara must have given you some hint about this man she means to marry.”

“She didn’t,” said Martin glumly. “All she said was that when she was married, her husband would have control of her fortune.”

Constance twitched her skirts and sat beside Lucy on the sofa. “Sit up, Lucy,” she commanded. “You’re not a child now. When I was your age, I was already married.” She stopped when Lucy obediently sat up and laid aside her book. Her daughter, thought Constance, did not lack for beauty or intelligence, but the girl had no style. She was too unworldly for her own good.

Simon yawned and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’ll know soon enough what he’s like,” he said. “They can’t be much longer now.”

Constance frowned at her elder son. “You’re taking this much too lightly, in my opinion, Simon. You do realize what this can mean to our family? The man is probably a fortune hunter. I mean, what kind of man would marry a woman who had stood trial for murder?”

“She was acquitted,” he pointed out quietly.

“That’s not the point!”

Constance drew in a long, angry breath. She was surrounded by idiots, it seemed. She was the only one who
took the threat of this marriage seriously. Even with Simon, she had to watch her step. After all the sacrifices she’d made for him, she had a right to more loyalty than this.

She went on, “All I’m saying is that he may be an unprincipled fortune hunter.”.

“You mean,” said Simon dryly, “like us?” When it looked as though his mother might explode, he grinned disarmingly. “Mother,” he said, “Sara is many things, but she is not stupid. If he’s an unprincipled fortune hunter, she’ll show him the door.”

Constance glared at the son who had once been the apple of her eye. She said coolly, “Don’t let Oxford go to your head, Simon. We’re the poor relations here, and you’d do well to remember it.”

“How could I forget when you keep reminding us?”

“Just be sure you do or say nothing to upset Sara. No snide remarks. No temper tantrums. And that goes for you too, Martin.”

“Now just a minute,” began Martin querulously, “I haven’t-”

His mother’s voice-drowned out his words. “Lucy, do try to show a bit of spirit. Remember, our future rests with you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” interjected Simon, “she’s just a child.”

Constance’s eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “You had your chance, Simon, you and Martin both, and you made a mull of it. Now it’s Lucy’s turn, and I won’t have you spoiling things for her.” When no one contradicted her, she went on, “There will be no sneaking off to the local taverns, no cockfights, no gambling, and no prizefights while Sara is here. Understood?”

“We’ll just be one big happy family, same as always,” murmured Simon.

His mother chose to ignore the sarcastic remark. Her eyes strayed to the clock, and she wondered for the tenth time in as many minutes what on earth was keeping Sara.

T
HEY WERE STUCK, A MILE FROM HOME, IN
ruts in a road that the rain had turned into a bog. Sara had pleaded helplessness and stayed warm and dry inside the coach, while Max stepped down to give their coachmen a hand. It was the first time she’d smiled in a long while, the first time she’d felt that things weren’t all going Max’s way. And when he fell in the mud and came up swearing, she laughed out loud.

She hadn’t felt much like laughing when they’d met up with Miss Beattie in Salisbury. Bea was delighted with the way things had turned out. But Bea didn’t know the whole story. All they’d told her was that Max had persuaded Sara to let him take Mr. Townsend’s place. It wasn’t hard to interpret the twinkle in Bea’s eyes. She was hoping that this marriage of convenience would turn into the real thing.

Sara had wanted to tell Bea who Max was, but he had scotched that idea. It was essential, he said, that everyone believe his only interest in Sara was to make her his wife. That was the bait to lure William into the open. If it became known that he published the
Courier,
his credibility might be called into question. Yes, he knew Miss Beattie wouldn’t say anything deliberately, but a careless word in the wrong ear could ruin everything.

Sighing, Sara huddled into the warm folds of her cloak as thoughts drifted in and out of her mind. Max had invited Bea to come with them, but she’d refused. She’d told Sara privately that she felt she would only get in the way, and Sara had not tried to change her mind.

And that’s how it was left.

So, here she was, stuck in a bog with Max Worthe, the man who had hounded her for the last three years. Was she mad? What on earth had possessed her to make him her accomplice? Certainly not his charm. William had positively
oozed charm when she’d first met him, and look where that had got her.

Max couldn’t browbeat her either, though he’d made a fair attempt, because bullying only made her hackles rise. Then why had she given in?

She hadn’t given in. The truth was, she hadn’t had a choice. A fiancé might not be as good as a husband, but he was better than nothing. And maybe whoever was sending her those notes would be frightened off. At the very least, it would buy her some time so that she could do what she’d come home to do.

Her thoughts drifted to the dower house and the last time she had seen William.

She shivered and looked up as the coach began to move. It didn’t go far, and when it stopped, Max entered.

“Don’t say a word!” he said sternly.

She didn’t, but the laugh that she tried to suppress turned into a giggle.

Max’s lips flattened, then he, too, began to smile. “I must look like a warthog.”

She nodded, eyes dancing.

“So much for the good impression I hoped to make on your family.”

“Why should you care what they think?”

Max stripped out of his muddy cloak and used it to wipe off his boots and trousers. “I’m supposed to be the eager bridegroom, aren’t I? It’s only natural that I’d want to make a good impression on your family.”

“You mean you want them to like you so you can take them unawares? They can’t help you, and I don’t want you badgering them with questions. They’ve suffered enough as it is.”

He looked at her curiously. “I understood you didn’t get along with your family.”

She shrugged. “They think I’m a miser. They think I’m
standing guard on a well of money that will never dry up. But apart from that, we get along reasonably well.”

“Then why weren’t they at your trial?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t they come to your trial to support you?”

“Because I didn’t want them there. They would have been mobbed. Simon, the eldest, was only fifteen. What could he do? What could any of them do? I told Constance that the best way to help me was to stay at home. Besides, I didn’t want them to see me like that … in the dock. I didn’t want them to hear …” Her voice cracked and she shook her head, then she breathed deeply and went on, “Anne shouldn’t have been there either. I was shocked when she went into the witness box. That was my attorney’s doing. He thought the trial was going badly and that Anne’s testimony would help clear me. I knew she wouldn’t stand up well to an interrogation. She gets hopelessly confused when people try to intimidate her. Why are you looking at me like that? What are you thinking?”

“What I think,” he said, “is that your family means a great deal to you. There’s not much you wouldn’t do to protect them, is there, Sara?”

“Don’t start that. My brothers were far too young to have anything to do with William’s disappearance. Lucy was only a child. Anne is too … she’s just above reproach, that’s all. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. And Constance had absolutely no motive for doing away with William. So, you see, I’m not trying to protect anyone, Max.”

He studied her set expression. “I’ve never heard you refer to your brothers as stepbrothers.”

“Why should that surprise you? We grew up together. We lived in the same house. I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“But you never refer to Constance as your mother.”

“She prefers ‘Constance.’ Where is all this leading?”

“Nowhere. I’m just trying to take an impression of your family. When did you last see them?”

“I haven’t seen Constance or Lucy or Anne for three years, but we’ve kept in touch with letters. As for the boys, they’ve visited me from time to time. Not that I wanted them to. I felt it was better to make a clean break. They had their own lives to lead and so did I. But as they got older, and got into scrapes … well, my letters didn’t seem to make any difference, so I decided to talk to them face-to-face.”

“Lecture them, you mean?”

Her lips thinned.

Max went on as though she’d answered in the affirmative. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It never does any good, not with boys of that age.”

“And you could do better?”

“I hope so. After all, I was once a boy myself. What are they like?”

“Who?”

“Your brothers. Your family. You haven’t told me much about them, really.”

“You haven’t told me anything about your family!”

“I asked first.”

“There isn’t much time. We’re almost there.”

“Give me a thumbnail sketch. There’s time enough for that, isn’t there?”

She looked at him as though she did not like him at all, but she complied just the same. “I’ve told you that Simon and Martin are Corinthians. We sent them to Oxford to get an education, and so far, being Corinthians is all they’ve picked up. But they’re quite unalike in other ways. Simon, the elder, is really quite worldly, I suppose you’d say. And Martin …well … he’s only seventeen. I believe it’s quite a trying age in boys.”