Книга - Married For His Convenience

Married For His Convenience
Eleanor Webster


A plain countess…Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal which will take her one step closer to finding her half-sister, she can’t refuse!Sebastian’s dreams of romance died with his late wife’s affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can’t deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life – and into his bed!







A plain countess...

Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal that will take her one step closer to finding her half sister, she can’t refuse!

Sebastian’s dreams of romance died with his late wife’s affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can’t deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life—and into his bed!


She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.

‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.

‘No, thank you. Indeed, I will get straight to the point.’

‘Please do.’ She exhaled with relief. ‘I much prefer blunt speech.’

He straightened his shoulders and shifted to face her more squarely, as though putting his mind to an unpleasant task.

‘Miss Martin, I need— May I have the honour of your hand in marriage?’


Author Note (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

I fell in love with the drama of the French Revolution when my mother and I attended a showing of the movie A Tale of Two Cities.

To say the film was old is an understatement. Even in the seventies it bordered on antiquity—a black and white 1935 release, with Ronald Coleman as Sydney Carton. But that film captured my imagination in a way that few films have done before or since. I remember blinking dazedly at its conclusion, literally feeling as though I had been transported to another place and time and was myself waiting on that tumbril.

Those timeless words—‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known’—continue to thrill. Thank you, Charles Dickens.

Later I became fascinated with the history of the Revolution: with its ideals—which so soon dissolved into bloodthirsty chaos—and its impact not only on France but on the world.

One day I will set a novel based at its epicentre. But for today I am thrilled that Married for His Convenience at least touches this fascinating period.


Married for His Convenience

Eleanor Webster






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ELEANOR WEBSTER loves high heels and sun—which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences—including a nasty glue gun episode—have proved that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in psychology, and holds an undergraduate degree in history. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.



Books by Eleanor Webster

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

No Conventional Miss

Married for His Convenience

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).


In memory of my mother, who loved history and books and inspired me with that love. To my father, who loves history, the English countryside and all creatures great and small. To my childhood pets, who greatly added to my joy, and to Oreo, a special rabbit who shared our home for all too short a time.


Contents

Cover (#ub26de665-3808-5943-bc1e-54541bab40e9)

Back Cover Text (#u31c5efe5-0eca-56a7-8a63-e4f5eefb8e13)

Introduction (#ue1950fb8-8122-56df-b51a-123f2646ddf2)

Author Note (#u841f0e0f-0372-59f0-aa36-e0e8bea0dd27)

Title Page (#u6d7c8a4a-deb7-5343-9811-f32c0e3131b3)

About the Author (#u288b0da5-0b22-5c5e-9076-2a4516d2967c)

Dedication (#u964cadf6-04d0-5de0-ad4c-67e8500885fb)

Prologue (#u44f5a699-2650-5cdb-8654-a068a0b80135)

Chapter One (#ufd89e0ba-d515-5804-97a5-4857546f340a)

Chapter Two (#u2b8bd1f4-e1b6-5580-9744-0e1bcc02d17f)

Chapter Three (#u90d1e456-fffb-53dd-9020-ae39e0a42e96)

Chapter Four (#uf16ad9b8-c21b-538e-ade8-05a891484501)

Chapter Five (#uf31dae8e-d357-5ae8-a708-c6e1e12a8c88)

Chapter Six (#u78a67832-fe54-5fb9-be81-8dc675e24176)

Chapter Seven (#u86969370-0f45-56b5-a8ac-dbcc6bca60f7)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

November 8th, 1793

The severed blonde curl lay in stark relief against the polished wood of the desk.

‘Hardly conclusive evidence of my wife’s demise.’ Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, kept his glance dispassionate as he lifted his gaze from the silken strands.

‘This might be more convincing,’ Beaumont said, removing a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and smoothing it out with meticulous care.

A death certificate.

‘I did not realise the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety had sufficient time to document Madame La Guillotine’s every victim,’ Sebastian drawled.

An ugly colour suffused the other man’s features. He was tall and had quick eyes set within a narrow face; everything about him was angular except for the pouches under his eyes and a lax softening of his chin.

Sebastian had always disliked Beaumont, but that was a pale sentiment compared to his hatred now.

Sebastian wanted to kill him.

He wanted to squeeze the man’s throat with his bare hands until his eyes bulged and his face purpled into lifelessness.

But he would not do so. He could not do so or any hope of recovering his children would be lost.

‘Given my wife’s apparent demise, might I enquire after the welfare of my children?’ he asked instead, keeping his face expressionless and his tone bland.

‘They are in my care.’

‘How reassuring. And what will it take to get them out of your care and into my own?’

Beaumont smiled, the thin lips curving upward to reveal neat white teeth. He leaned over the desk and Sebastian smelled the cloying sweetness of the man’s cologne. ‘Your children will be returned for a price.’

‘And if I am unable to meet that price?’

Beaumont reached for the blonde curl, twisting it through his well-manicured fingers. He moved it slowly—around, between, under and over. ‘Efficient lady—Madame La Guillotine.’

Sebastian stood, the movement violent and impossible to contain. His chair crashed against the wall. It fell sideways and banged to the floor.

Beaumont jumped back, but Sebastian rounded the desk and was on him. He had the man by the throat, pulling him so close he could see the pores of the man’s once-handsome face.

‘I promise you one thing,’ Sebastian ground out between his clenched teeth. ‘If my children are hurt, you will not live.’


Chapter One (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

April 7th, 1794

Sarah Martin lifted her skirts. Her feet sank into the mud and water dripped rhythmically from the bushes bordering the woodland path.

Neither fact lowered her spirits.

Smiling, Sarah sniffed the earthiness of the English countryside and held her skirts higher than was respectable.

Mrs Crawford would have frowned, but then Mrs Crawford spent considerable time in that occupation.

Sarah’s sun had risen, metaphorically, shortly after luncheon with a last-minute dinner invitation from Lady Eavensham to even the numbers at her dining table.

Such events did not often happen to Sarah, although they occurred with delightful frequency in her writing. Her current heroine, Miss Petunia Hardcastle, had just recently made a stunning entrance in a diaphanous blue dress created from her grandmother’s ball gown.

Unfortunately, Sarah’s dress was neither diaphanous nor blue, but a serviceable grey. Moreover, unlike Miss Hardcastle, Sarah’s longing for fashionable company had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with London. The mere mention of that city gave her a wonderful thrill of hope, a prickly sensation like the goosebumps she used to get at Christmas.

One day she would go there. One day she would keep her promise. One day—

A crackle of twigs and leaves startled her out of her reverie. She stopped. A second scuffle caught her attention and she peered into the ditch. ‘Pauvre lapin,’ she spoke quickly in her mother’s language.

A rabbit lay, sprawled among the weeds and grasses. Its back paw was entangled in a poacher’s trap, its brown sides moving in frantic undulation.

Sarah bit her lip. Kneeling, she placed her valise to one side. She eyed the trap, but did not touch the mechanism for fear of hurting herself or causing the animal harm. She was familiar with the device, but it was vastly different to manipulate its jaws whilst they were empty than to contemplate doing so while this petrified creature lay within its grip.

Carefully, holding her breath, she pushed her fingers against the metal. It felt cold and hard and did not budge. Then, with a snap, it released.

The animal lay briefly frozen before bursting into frenetic life, its hind legs sending a tinkling cascade of pebbles into the ditch.

‘No, you don’t.’ She caught the creature and, pulling her shawl from her shoulders, immobilised its hindquarters within the folds of cloth.

Bending closer, she inhaled its dusty animal scent as her arms tightened against its soft, warm weight.

Now what? The animal was injured and would be fox fodder if she let him go. But she had no time to go home. Already, daylight was dimming and the air shone with the pewter polish of early evening.

Besides, in many ways, Eavensham was more her home than the stark austerity of the Crawford residence. Shrugging, Sarah made her decision and, tightening her hold on the bundle, picked up her valise and stepped forward.

Some five minutes later she exited from the overhanging trees and on to Eavensham’s well-manicured park, the change between woodland and immaculate lawn joltingly sudden. Without pause, Sarah skirted the impressive front entrance, veering away from the lamps and torches bidding welcome.

She would hide the rabbit in the kitchen or scullery. Hopefully, the butler would be elsewhere. Mr Hudson was not overly fond of rabbits.

Except in stews.

The path wound towards the kitchen garden, a narrow track sandwiched between the house and dairy. As she expected, the kitchen was bright and the smell of cooking wafted into the garden.

Carefully, she stepped towards the window, then froze at the snap of a twig. She caught her breath and turned, scanning the darkened outlines of the hedge and vegetable frame.

Nothing. She stepped back to the kitchen. Likely she’d only heard a fox or stable cat. She was too practical for foolish fancy.

But even as the thought passed through her mind, a hand clamped across her mouth and she was pulled against a hard, muscular figure.

She tasted cloth. Her heart beat a wild tattoo. Her body stiffened, paralysed not only by fear but an almost ludicrous disbelief as she allowed her valise to slip from her hand.

Dramatic events never happened to her. Ever.

‘If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?’ The voice was male. Warm breath touched her ear.

Sarah nodded. The man loosened his hold. She turned. Her eyes widened as she took in his size, the breadth of his shoulders and the midnight-black of his clothes.

‘Good God, you’re a woman,’ he said.

‘You’re...you’re a gentleman.’ For the cloth he wore was fine and not the roughened garb of a common thief.

She grabbed on to these details as though, through their analysis, she would make sense of the situation.

‘What was your purpose for spying on me?’ His gaze narrowed, his voice calm and without emotion.

‘Spying? I don’t even know you.’ The rabbit squirmed and she clutched it more tightly.

‘Then why are you hiding?’

‘I’m not. Even if I were, you have no reason to accost me.’ Her cheeks flushed with indignation as her fear lessened.

He dropped his hand, stepping back. ‘I apologise. I thought you were a burglar.’

‘We tend not to get many burglars in these parts. Who are you anyway?’

‘Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, at your service.’ He made his bow. ‘And a guest at Eavensham.’

‘A guest? Then why are you in the kitchen garden?’

‘Taking the air,’ he said.

‘That usually doesn’t involve accosting one’s fellow man. You are lucky I am not of a hysterical disposition.’

‘Indeed.’

Briefly, she wondered if wry humour laced his voice, but his lips were straight and no twinkle softened his expression. In the fading light, the strong chin and cheekbones looked more akin to a statue than anything having the softness of flesh.

At this moment, the rabbit thrust its head free of the shawl.

‘Dinner is running late, I presume.’ Lord Langford’s eyes widened, but he spoke with an unnerving lack of any natural surprise.

‘The creature is hurt and I need to bandage him, except Mr Hudson, the butler, is not fond of animals and I wanted to ensure his absence.’

‘The butler has my sympathies.’

Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the rabbit, suddenly spooked, kicked at her stomach as it clawed against the shawl. Sarah gasped, doubling over, instinctively whispering the reassurances offered by her mother after childhood nightmares.

‘You speak French?’

‘What?’

‘French? You are fluent?’

‘What? Yes, my mother spoke it—could we discuss my linguistic skills later?’ she gasped, so intent on holding the rabbit that she lost her footing and stumbled against the man. His hand shot out. She felt his touch and the strangely tingling pressure of his strong fingers splayed against her back.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes—um—I was momentarily thrown off balance.’ She straightened. They stood so close she heard the intake of his breath and felt its whisper.

‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you could see if the butler is in the kitchen? I do not know how long I can keep hold of this fellow.’

‘Of course.’ Lord Langford stepped towards the window as though spying on the servants were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can see the cook and several girls, scullery maids, I assume. I believe the butler is absent.’

‘Thank you. I am obliged.’

Tightening her hold on the rabbit, Sarah paused, briefly reluctant to curtail the surreal interlude. Then, with a nod of thanks, she stooped to pick up the valise.

‘Allow me,’ Lord Langford said, opening the door. ‘You seem to have your hands full.’

‘Er—thank you.’ She glanced up. The hallway’s flickering oil lamp cast interesting shadows across his face, emphasising the harsh line of his cheek and chin and the blackness of his hair.

She stepped inside and exhaled as the door swung shut, conscious of relief, regret and an unpleasant wobbliness in both her stomach and knees.

That wouldn’t do. Petunia Hardcastle might swoon, but Sarah Martin was made of sterner stuff.

Besides, Petunia was always caught by the handsome hero and no hero would catch a poverty-stricken spinster of illegitimate birth lurking within the servants’ quarters.

With this thought, Sarah straightened her spine and hurried into the Eavensham kitchen.

* * *

Sebastian rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension knotting his back. Goodness, the strain must be affecting him if he was reduced to accosting servant girls.

A branch cracked. Instantly alert, Sebastian slid noiselessly into the shadows. He heard a second louder crack and smiled. This was no French spy, or at least one very poorly trained.

‘You can come out, Kit,’ he drawled.

The foliage opposite trembled and swore. Sebastian clicked open his gold snuffbox. He took a pinch and inhaled. The ‘English Lion’ chose unlikely messengers and Sebastian would have lost patience with his eccentricities long ago, except his methods worked. The Lion had saved many lives from the guillotine.

Besides, Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of choice. Right now, the Lion was his son’s best hope.

His only hope.

Kit Eavensham emerged from the bushes. The young man wore a dark cloak clutched about his person and had pulled the hood low to cover his face and fair hair.

‘You got my note?’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

‘I could hardly miss it as it was in my chamber pot.’

‘I thought that a good place,’ the lad said.

‘A trifle obvious to the servants, but no matter—what is your news?’ Sebastian swallowed. His throat hurt and every particle in his being waited for Kit’s answer.

‘I met the Lion at Dover.’

‘Yes—and—my son?’ Sebastian pushed the words through dry lips.

‘The Lion contacted every source in Paris, but found no record of Edwin’s execution or evidence of his death.’

Sebastian breathed again. It seemed his heart had missed a beat and was now thundering like a wild thing. ‘And Beaumont?’

Kit shrugged, the thick cloth of his cloak rustling. ‘The rumours are true. He escaped the Bastille.’

A mix of hatred and relief twisted through Sebastian. Beaumont had seduced his wife and kidnapped his children. Sebastian wanted him dead and yet, conversely, his survival gave him hope.

‘We must find him,’ he said.

‘He has not turned up here? In England?’

Sebastian shook his head. ‘I have heard nothing. Your mother tried to help by befriending the French émigrés in London. Until she broke her ankle. I’ll have to find some other female now, I suppose.’

Sebastian sighed, for once regretting his lack of female relatives—other than a great-aunt who lacked tact, or basic civility, for that matter.

Kit nodded, raising his hand towards Sebastian’s shoulder as though to offer comfort but, perhaps seeing Sebastian’s expression, allowed his palm to drop with a soft thwack against his leg.

Then, nodding a quick farewell, he left.

Alone again, Sebastian scanned the darkening landscape; the garden was tranquil except for the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen and, overhead, the rhythmic, feathered movement of a bird’s wings.

‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’ He repeated Kit’s words, giving them rhythmic cadence. ‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’

There was hope.

And while it hurt to hope, the alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

When Sebastian entered the drawing room, he saw that Lady Eavensham sat alone beside the fire with her ankle propped on a stool.

‘Lovely to have your company, dear.’ She smiled her welcome. ‘Lord Eavensham is showing the others a painting of his new horse, but I chose to remain seated. Getting around is still not easy. Anyway, we’re not missing much as it is not a good likeness. Animals are so difficult to paint, don’t you know, and can look dreadfully stiff. Make yourself comfy and pour yourself a brandy.’

She spoke in a trumpet of a voice, her husband being many years her senior and going deaf. Sebastian complied, sitting close to the fire’s crackling warmth. His parents had been friends with Lord and Lady Eavensham until his mother had slept with Lord Eavensham, cooling the friendship. Of course, his father’s friendships had been largely cooled with everyone—except the bottle.

She was dead now—his mother, that was.

Sebastian had remained friends with Lady Eavensham, but had seen her most frequently in London. He hadn’t been to the country estate for years, but felt an instant familiarity with the place. It typified all that was good in a country house: the huge fireplaces, shabby comfortable chairs, worn rugs, thick curtains and the mingled smells of food and smoke and dog hair.

A mirror hung over a massive stone mantelpiece and ubiquitous cupids decorated the ceiling, all pink-skinned legs and plump bellies.

‘The leg is improving?’ he asked, belatedly remembering his manners. ‘And you are not finding the country too dull?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not miss London. The conversation at the salons is not nearly as lively as in my young days. In fact, I have determined to spend more time here. There are more horses and really I find them much better company than most people.’

‘Doubtless.’

She glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. ‘Do I detect a smile? Lud, I remember when you always had a joke and ready wit.’

‘Those days are past,’ he said.

Her rosy face puckered at his tone. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. You have little to smile about. By the by, how is Elizabeth?’

He stiffened at this abrupt mention of his silent child. ‘Physically well.’

‘And the governesses?’

‘Resigned or dismissed.’

‘Oh, dear, was that wise?’

‘Yes, when they think disciplining a frightened child will make her speak.’ He spoke grimly and felt a tic flicker across his cheek.

‘Maybe I should look for someone suitable? It’s so hard for a man.’

‘Thank you, but, no.’ He spoke too curtly, he knew.

Lady Eavensham did not take umbrage. She reached forward, patting the arm of his chair with a plump hand, her rings flickering in the firelight. ‘Be patient, dear. Heaven knows what the poor child endured in that dreadful prison or wherever he kept her.’

He flinched. The pain was physical, so sharp it winded him. He shifted, needing to distance himself, to guard his emotions even from this kind well-meaning woman.

With relief, he saw the door swing open as Kit and several ladies entered.

Three ladies, in fact, although one slipped unobtrusively towards the back of the room. Indeed, her obvious desire to remain unnoticed caught his attention. Her appearance was so jarringly drab juxtaposed to the other ladies’ finery, her hair mousy and her face kindly, but certainly not in the first flush of youth.

He felt a start of recognition. The rabbit girl, without the rabbit.

The light made the plainness of her face and gown all the more evident. Her hair was scraped into an unforgiving bun. She had high cheekbones, straight, dark eyebrows and a mouth too wide for fashion.

Lady Eavensham smiled in her direction. ‘Ah, Miss Martin, let me present you to our guests. Miss Martin is the Crawfords’ ward and lives nearby.’

The ladies turned, nodding and smiling, their movement so uniform as to appear choreographed.

‘Mr Crawford’s ward? Mr Leon Crawford, I presume. I never met him. Will he be here tonight?’ the elder lady questioned.

‘That would be difficult. He is deceased. I live with his widow, Mrs Crawford, now,’ Miss Martin replied.

Her dress, a grey muslin, looked years out of date and hung loose as though it were second-hand and poorly altered.

Yet she had something, he thought. Poise—that was it—and a certain irrepressible quality as though, despite its hardship, she found life a humorous affair. There had been a time when he might have shared the philosophy.

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ Sebastian bowed.

She looked up. Her gaze met his and he saw her blink in startled recognition. Her eyes were a grey-blue, not a flat shade, but deep and intense, framed with long dark lashes.

‘Good evening, Lord Langford. I trust you have had a chance to enjoy the country air?’ Her voice, pleasantly low, rippled with mirth.

Unaccountably, he smiled.

‘Gracious, his lordship has only arrived. He is not likely to go out,’ Lady Eavensham bellowed.

‘I thought he might have been enticed for a stroll.’

‘A pleasure postponed for another day,’ Sebastian said.

‘Watch out for burglars.’ Merriment sparkled in her eyes. Her lips curved, a lopsided dimple denting her left cheek.

‘Burglars? Good gracious, we are not so ill-bred as to have burglars. Oh, I do hope the weather will improve. Miss Martin, look outside and see if the sky looks promising.’ Lady Eavensham waved her hands in the direction of the curtains. Her jewellery jangled.

Miss Martin complied, her head bent so demurely that Sebastian wondered if he’d imagined that look of devilment moments earlier.

‘Windy, but I can see the moon.’

Sebastian could see it also, peeking through fast-moving clouds. The white orb silhouetted her profile, touching her pale skin with moonlight and giving it a luminescent quality.

He wondered now if he had been entirely accurate with his initial assessment of her looks. No beauty and yet—

‘Good, we run with the hounds, you know,’ Lady Eavensham said. ‘Well, I don’t with this foot, but Lord Eavensham loves a good hunt.’

The curtains swished into place as Miss Martin turned towards the room, the movement abrupt. A flicker of distaste flashed across her countenance and her shoulders tensed under the drab gown. Sebastian wondered if she now intended to denounce fox hunting. Given the rabbit incident, he presumed it possible.

Before he could comment, the younger of the two ladies claimed his attention, leaning towards him with a breathy gasp. ‘Tell me about London. I long for it, you know, and have been so looking forward to the Season.’

Sebastian groaned inwardly. Debutantes. The curse of modern man. They hadn’t a brain between them while having an excess of pastel muslin, pale skin and manipulative wiles. He glanced towards Miss Martin, half-expecting to see another flash of wry humour cross her features.

He didn’t. Instead, her countenance held such wistful longing that he looked away. Of course, once she must have hoped for London and marriage, as did they all.

It was a sad life, he thought, then frowned. What foolishness. He had no time to worry about the emotions of country misses. With his meeting with Kit over, he should focus on how best to extricate himself from the monotony of a country weekend and return to his silent daughter.

And then there was the matter of his great-aunt’s latest foolish insistence that he should remarry. Sebastian drummed his fingers against his leg. He did not have time for debutante balls. He cast a glance towards the simpering misses.

No, he must make his aunt understand that he could not and would not give up.

All his energy and resources must be focused towards his children.

Edwin would be found.


Chapter Two (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

The fox hunt was today.

That stark thought shot through Sarah’s mind the moment her alarm sounded.

Shaking off the remnants of sleep, Sarah shifted in the decadent comfort of Lady Eavensham’s guest bed and blinked blearily at the rose-print wallpaper and pink curtaining.

Of course, she’d stayed the night at Eavensham.

Getting up, Sarah padded across the rug’s thick pile and pulled open the velvet curtains. Bother. Morning sunshine flooded the chamber, turning floating dust motes molten.

She’d hoped for rain. In the happy event of a deluge, the hunt would be cancelled and she could snooze in the unaccustomed luxury of that wonderful bed.

Indeed, she might even have had the opportunity to rescue Miss Petunia Hardcastle from the tower in which she currently languished.

Or she could have breakfasted with Lady Eavensham’s guests and heard something of London. Of course, they were hardly likely to have stumbled upon Charlotte, but just hearing about the city made her feel closer to her sister—as though her quest were more possible.

Sarah sighed. It was not to be. Albert and Albertina must be rescued. They were the only mating foxes within the area. Lord Eavensham seemed bent on extinguishing the local population.

With this thought, she pulled off her nightgown, stooping to pick up her dress. Blood still spotted the sleeve. Bother. She’d forgotten all about the rabbit.

Moving with greater urgency, Sarah splashed water across her face and pulled her hair into a bun. Then, scrawling a note of thanks to Lady Eavensham, she hurried down the stairs and towards the cellar door.

Fortunately, the stubby candle remained where they’d left it last year. She sighed. Animal rescues had been a good deal more fun when Kit had been a rebellious adolescent and they’d done this together.

She lit a match, putting it to the wick so that the candle flickered into reluctant life. Cautiously, she stepped down the stairs and into the murky darkness, her shadow undulating eerily against the casks of wine and gardening implements.

To her relief, the wicker baskets and leather gardening gloves remained and she grabbed both baskets and gloves, hauling them upstairs into the scullery. Fortunately, this room was empty save for Gladys, the scullery maid, who stood washing dishes at the sink. Likely, the other staff were occupied in the kitchen or serving breakfast.

‘Morning, miss,’ Gladys said.

‘How’s Orion?’

‘Orion, miss?’

‘The rabbit.’ Sarah flushed. She had a foolish habit of naming her animal friends and had called him after the constellation.

‘I near forgot. He’s over there, miss. I give ’im some vegetables. The stuff what’s wilted round the edges.’ The girl’s broad-boned, country face remained impassive as she scrubbed the plates, moving reddened hands with methodical rhythm.

‘Um, could he stay a little longer? I promise I’ll pick him up soon, but I have to do something.’

‘I dunno what Mr Hudson’ll say.’

‘Not a word if he knows nothing. Besides, he’ll be too busy preparing for the hunt. By the by, would you have any table scraps left from last night?’

The rhythmic movements stopped. ‘Oh, miss. Mrs Crawford don’t have you on starvation rations, does she?’

‘What? Oh, no, nothing so drastic. I need them for another project.’

‘To do with four-legged critters, I’m supposing. You are a one. Ain’t you ever going to grow up?’

‘Seems unlikely at this point.’

‘Well, there’s a bowl for the ’ounds in the larder. ’elp yourself.’

Sarah did so.

* * *

Within half an hour she had manoeuvred both baskets to the outskirts of the forest and set about propping up the traps.

The bugle sounded.

She started and, biting her lip, glanced about nervously, half-expecting the thunder of horses’ hooves. She’d be lucky if she had time to capture both foxes now. Hurriedly, she pulled out the meat scraps from her handkerchief, placing them within the bottom of the baskets.

A flash of rust-brown fur skirted the periphery of her vision and she spotted two curious eyes, bright pinpoints of light, within the cover of the bushes. Sarah held her breath.

The fox stepped forward—a dainty movement like a cat on snow. Albertina. Her red tail had puffed into a brush, making her body appear ludicrously thin.

Sarah sat so still that each woodland sound was magnified. The woodpecker’s tap-tap-tap, the drip from leaves wet from yesterday’s rain, the rustle of an unseen bird or squirrel.

The fox edged closer.

Finally, with a burst of brave energy and a wild scrabble of claws, she darted into the basket.

Sarah pulled the string. The lid snapped shut.

She hated this part; the frightened yelps, the scratch of paws and the smell of fear and urine.

‘It’s going to be fine, Albertina. It’s for your own well-being.’ She spoke softly in the sing-song voice she always used with animals, throwing in French phrases while pulling the twine tight around the clasp. The basket rocked, creaking noisily with the animal’s exertions.

She’d done this for years now, since she’d first arrived here. It had helped with the sick loneliness.

In those first weeks without either her mother or sister, animals had been her only friends. They’d populated her world, making her life as an unwanted child within a strange household bearable.

Her sister had so loved animals. Indeed, Charlotte had few accomplishments; she was not well educated and could not paint or play the piano, but she had always demonstrated this steady, undemanding kindness. Nor did she discriminate, somehow finding good in scrappy urchins or grumpy shopkeepers.

When Sarah had first come to the Crawfords, life without her sister had felt intolerable. Sarah would dread both sleeping and waking and her whole body had felt hollow and bruised as though she had been kicked.

Sighing, she refocused on the basket, still rocking with Albertina’s exertions. This was not the time to reminisce. She must get the animal to the other side of the stream and, with luck, return to capture Albert. After that, she would go home and work on Miss Petunia’s release and hope that, just maybe, this manuscript would sell and a trip to London might enter the world of possibility.

* * *

The blasted babbling brook did it. The memories hit, the pain dizzying in its intensity. For a second, Sebastian saw his children, real as the hounds and horses. He saw them paddling, laughing, carefree.

His hands tightened reflexively and, seeking solitude, he urged his horse up the hillside and away from the other riders. His mount stopped at its summit and he found himself looking into a picturesque valley, interrupted by a silver stream threading through its base.

Something—a flicker of movement—caught his attention. He stiffened. Some village idiot was wading through the water. Even worse, he saw that the stream looked more like a river and was in flood. It moved swiftly, almost overflowing its banks.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

It was a woman.

He spurred his horse down the slope. ‘Madam! Can I help?’

She did not turn and moved awkwardly, a massive basket propped against one hip. He shouted again. This time she turned, glancing over her shoulder.

‘Lord Langford?’

He started, hearing his name, then felt a jolt of recognition.

‘Miss Martin! What in heaven’s name are you doing?’ He jerked his horse to a standstill, dismounting.

‘I cannot stop—’

She must have slipped and was caught off balance by the force of the rushing water. She lurched backwards, dropped the basket and, hands flailing, fell. She righted herself within the instant, lunged after the basket and tripped again. This time she fell face-first.

At this rate, the woman would drown herself in three feet of water.

Dropping the reins, Sebastian stepped into the stream and grabbed her hand. She straightened, regaining her foothold. Water streamed down her face and strands of hair fell forward in a dripping tangle.

‘Albert—’ she gulped, reaching for the basket.

‘Leave it—’

‘She’ll drown.’ She lunged again.

‘Stay still! I’ll get it.’ He caught the basket, pulling it towards them.

He had meant to take her back to the bank, but the fool woman was already wading to the other side.

He followed, his feet squelching in the mud as he placed the basket on the bank. What—

He stared. The basket rocked as if possessed and a yipping, scratching noise emanated from the wicker slats.

‘What on earth have you got in there?’ he asked.

Miss Martin flushed. Sebastian bent, cautiously peering under the lid. He closed it quickly, stepping away.

‘It’s a fox,’ he said.

‘Albertina.’

‘You have captured a fox?’

‘They would have killed her,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘The hounds.’

‘That is the point. And what a fool thing to do. You could have been hurt. It could have bitten you,’ he said.

‘No. I wear gloves and follow a strict procedure to prevent injury. I do not approve of fox hunting.’

He saw no hint of apology or regret in the stubborn lines of her face.

‘You ruined the hunt.’

‘I saved Albertina’s life. It is a cruel practice. Moreover, their population has been decimated.’ She put her hands to her hips and thrust out a surprisingly full bottom lip. ‘Albertina is a creature that wishes to do no harm.’

‘Tell that to the chicken farmer.’

She opened her mouth as if to argue, hands still at her hips. ‘But—’

‘Enough, enough. I refuse to debate the merits of fox hunting while freezing to death on a riverbank.’

‘I’m not cold.’

‘I am.’

‘If you are feeling the chill, there is no reason for you to remain. Indeed, I should go. I must get Albertina away before they spot us.’ Miss Martin spoke quickly, already bending to pick up the basket.

‘Leave it. I’ll carry it wherever you are going.’

‘I can manage.’

‘So far you have managed only to half-drown yourself.’

‘I was not in any danger. The stream is not deep, although faster than on previous occasions.’

‘You make a habit of this?’ He felt incredulity, irritation and an uncharacteristic desire to laugh.

‘Not a habit exactly.’

‘You’ve done it before?’

‘Yes, but really there is no time for questions.’ She frowned, giving a worried glance towards the ridge.

‘Very well. Where to?’ he asked, bending to pick up the basket.

‘Just beyond those trees. We’ll be hidden there. Oh...’ She paused briefly. ‘I just realised, you must have been part of the hunt. I hope you are not too disappointed?’

‘A rather belated sentiment, but, no, not overly. I’ll be able to get back to London sooner.’

‘You do not enjoy country weekends?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Are the others leaving as well?’ she asked, a little wistfully.

‘I do not know. Had you stayed for breakfast instead of embarking on this fool enterprise you might have ascertained this information in a civilised manner.’

‘You think I am ill-mannered?’

‘I think you are peculiar.’

A grin lit up her face. ‘That is an established fact.’

He felt again a reluctant, unfamiliar tug at his lips. How Edwin would tease and even Elizabeth would giggle if they could see him squelching through mud, accompanied by this bedraggled woman while carting a fox within a basket.

Or they would have done.

Before.

Any desire to laugh deserted him, leaving behind that familiar dull, empty feeling. Forgetting always made remembering worse.

The wind blew cold. He shivered in his sodden clothing. Now he wanted only to see this woman was safe and waste no more time on foxes.

‘Is this suitable?’ he asked abruptly, placing the basket on the ground.

They’d entered a copse, darkly cool and scented with bark and moss and mushrooms.

‘Indeed, and please do not trouble yourself further,’ Miss Martin said. ‘I’ll take her to the barn, once I get Albert and the coast is clear.’

‘You’ll what? You are planning to capture a second fox and take them somewhere—’

‘Yes, I have a basket back—’

‘That is the most foolhardy plan!’

Sebastian made a sudden decision. Bending, he pulled loose the string of the basket. It rasped through the clasp as he tugged it free, kicking open the lid.

The fox scuttled out, disappearing within a second.

‘Why did you do that?’ Miss Martin turned on him, her pale face suddenly flushed and her straight, thick eyebrows drawn.

Because it felt so damn good to do something! Because it was a hell of a lot better than waiting.

Of course, he did not say this. Instead, he spoke in calm, level tones. ‘It is foolish to introduce a fox to a farm or wherever you live.’

‘Of course, I do not introduce them. I release them once the hunt is done. I certainly do not wish them to become habituated to human interaction.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘I do not aim to keep them as pets if that is what you are thinking. I aim to save a species which we are likely to drive into extinction.’

She spoke with surprising dignity for someone dripping wet from head to toe. Tendrils of dark hair had loosened from her bun, dangling about her face. He saw also that, under the folds of clinging cloth, her figure was not as nondescript as he had imagined.

‘Well, extinction is postponed for another day,’ he said curtly. ‘The hunt is likely done. Now, I will take you home or to Eavensham before you catch your death.’

‘Your further assistance is entirely unnecessary.’ She placed her hands on her hips.

‘It is entirely necessary and I have every intention of delivering you to safety.’ He whistled for Jester who immediately stepped across the stream and headed up the bank towards him.

‘And I have absolutely no intention of being delivered anywhere. I am not a—a bolt of cloth or a bag of potatoes.’

‘Then perhaps I should tell Lord Eavensham of today’s exploits?’

‘Blackmail? That’s hardly honourable.’

‘But expedient.’ If the last year had taught him anything, it was that the honourable finished last.

‘I will not give in to blackmail.’

‘I can respect that.’ He stepped forward, planning to put her on his horse by physical force, if necessary. He would waste no more time on cajoling or fancy words.

She must have read his intent because she raised two small fists, her well-marked brows drawing fiercely together. ‘Don’t even think of it. Kit taught me to box and I am not afraid to use every trick in the book.’

He stared. She sounded as though she’d swallowed the book or a bad script more suitable for the stage. And she looked such a funny, feisty scrap of thing with her wet clothes and dripping hair.

The unfamiliar urge to laugh returned. His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. The situation was so ludicrous; this diminutive woman was ready to wrestle him to the ground, provided she had sufficient time between rescuing vermin.

The laughter wouldn’t be stopped. It burbled up, ending in a belly roar. He laughed as he hadn’t laughed for a year, as he hadn’t laughed since, well, since the beginning of this nightmare.

When he stopped, he saw that she had dropped her fists and no longer looked fierce, but stared at him as though fearful for his sanity.

‘Do you know you’ve witnessed a miracle?’ he asked, once he had regained the power of speech.

‘I know Mrs Eagan in the village would advise Epsom salts and Mrs Crawford would arrange an exorcism.’

‘Then I’ll stay well away from both ladies.’ His voice still shook with laughter. ‘Truce?’ He put out his hand.

She looked uncertain, but either good manners, good nature or a genuine fear for his sanity overcame her misgivings.

She took his hand. ‘Truce.’

She smiled, the expression transforming her face. She had removed her heavy, leather gloves and he could feel the delicacy of her fingers within his grasp. For a second, it felt right, comfortable even, to have her hand nestled in his palm. He felt a half-forgotten stir of pleasure.

He released her hand and bent, picking up Jester’s reins. ‘Your steed awaits.’

‘You’re still planning to escort me home?’

‘If I may,’ he said, with pretended humility.

‘He’s rather big.’ She looked at the animal with apprehension, surprising for a woman who forded rivers.

‘He is a horse, Miss Martin.’

‘A big horse.’

‘Is it possible, Miss Martin, that despite your ability to capture wild animals, you’re nervous of horses?’

‘Big horses. I haven’t ridden often,’ she admitted.

‘We’ll go no faster than a walk.’

‘A slow walk.’

‘A slow walk,’ he agreed and again felt that odd frisson of pleasure as she nodded, placing her hand in his own.

Sebastian positioned Miss Martin in front of him—no easy task given that she still clutched the basket. He urged Jester forward and they started down the incline, the quiet broken only by the crack of twigs under Jester’s hooves.

Thankfully, Miss Martin did not seem a female addicted to chatter.

‘Would you prefer to return to Eavensham or your own home?’ Sebastian questioned as they stepped on to the country lane at the bottom of the hill.

‘My home, if possible.’

‘Entirely. If you give me directions.’

‘I can. But—’ she shifted and he was aware of her movement and her quick, nervous inhalation ‘—will you drop me at the barn and not the main door?’

‘That would be unusual.’

She glanced back, her face again suffused with that slow, transformative smile. ‘I don’t think anything about this morning could be considered usual.’

‘Perhaps not, but I would still like to see you safe at your doorstep. I’ll not mention your sabotage of the hunt to your parent or guardian, if that is your concern.’

‘No. It’s not that.’ She paused and then continued. ‘My guardian would find your presence without a chaperon exceptional. She worries about my—um—morals, not realising that I am past the age and lack the physical attributes that make concern necessary.’

She stopped speaking and it struck him sad that a woman, still youngish, should dismiss herself so completely.

‘I quite like your attributes.’ He spoke without thought.

Her reaction was immediate. Her back jerked ramrod straight and she twisted about almost violently, despite her apparent fear of large horses and the danger of dropping the basket.

‘Lord Langford,’ she snapped. ‘You will not insult my intellect. I am no beauty, but I am not dim-witted and refuse to be treated as such. I have gumption, if nothing else.’

Good Lord, the woman sounded downright furious.

‘You definitely have gumption.’

She twisted even more precariously. ‘I hope you are not scoffing again.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was only wishing that Elizabeth might meet you.’

Again he had spoken with an uncharacteristic lack of thought.

‘Elizabeth?’

‘My daughter.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know exactly, but she needs—’

Heaven only knew what Elizabeth needed.

But, he realised with a start of surprise, he would tell Elizabeth about Miss Martin when he returned.

He might mention nothing else about this country weekend, but he would tell her about the rabbit, the fox, the mud, the basket and Miss Martin’s gumption.

Elizabeth would not reply, of course, but he would tell her.


Chapter Three (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

The barn was a ramshackle structure of mossy stone with an uneven slate roof patterned with yellowed grass. Sebastian dismounted. As he turned, helping Sarah from the horse, he was aware of a peculiar narrowing of focus. It seemed as though the barn, the trees and everything else except this woman became inconsequential.

He was keenly aware of her proximity, the faint soapy smell of her hair, the long dark lashes outlining her grey-blue eyes and the oddly endearing way she bit one pink lip.

‘I—um—’ She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat. ‘There’s water for your horse inside.’

Everything sprang to sudden life.

‘Thank you.’

He followed her into the dimness of the barn’s interior. Straw covered the floor and the air felt dusty and smelled of hay and animals.

At almost the same moment, a loud, boyish whistle broke through the quiet and Kit Eavensham strode into the barn from the opposite entrance. He drew to a halt immediately upon seeing Miss Martin.

‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘As soon as the hunt proved unsuccessful I knew you were involved. When will you stop such nonsense?’

‘Likely never. That is one advantage of my circumstances. Society expects little of me.’

‘But it is not sensible. I mean, it was fine when we were young and rebellious, but you can’t go round saving foxes all your life. Besides, you look like an undersized drowned rat.’

‘I slipped.’

‘But was fished out quite handily.’ Sebastian stepped forward to make Kit aware of his presence.

Kit’s mouth dropped to form a round ‘O’.

‘Morning, Eavensham,’ Sebastian drawled.

‘Good Lord, Langford helped you? Do you know who he is?’

‘We were introduced. Last night, if you recall,’ Miss Martin said in composed tones.

‘No, I mean—did you know—I mean—well, Langford is well, good ton. Though he hasn’t been about much this past year. Still, a diamond of the first water, don’t you know.’

‘Then I am honoured—Oh!’ She gasped, her gaze drawn to the window. ‘Mrs Crawford is coming. Kit, you must not let her see you or Langford, please. You can lecture me later.’

Then, before Sebastian could say goodbye or even complete his bow, Miss Martin had disappeared through the barn door, letting it rattle shut behind her.

Stepping around the basket which he had placed on the floor, Sebastian went to a small, dirty window. Through its pane, Sebastian could see an older woman approach the barn from a square, stone house set some fifty yards back. She was gaunt, her grey hair pulled tightly from her face and her dark clothes cut for economy, not fashion. Her movements had a nervous jerkiness.

‘Mrs Crawford, I presume?’ he said softly to Kit who had followed to the window.

‘Yes.’

‘She looks strict.’

‘And religious. Extremely so. I mean, she always has been somewhat.’ Kit shrugged.

‘You’ve known her long?’

‘Mrs Crawford. Unfortunately.’

‘No, Miss Martin.’

‘Since she came to live here from London. She is a couple of years older than I am and Mother did not want me to get any romantic notions since she is as poor as a church mouse. Anyhow, my parents decided that the best way to avoid this was to ensure that we spent considerable time together, you know, like brother and sister. It worked, actually.’

‘Practical woman, your mother.’

‘Lucky for Miss Martin or she would have starved, most like. She is quite the zealot.’

‘Miss Martin?’

‘No, no. Mrs Crawford. She wishes to save money for the heathen. Knits socks for them. A dreadful lot of socks. Although the heathen always seem to come from these dashed hot countries. Can’t see ’em needing socks.’

‘Which explains Miss Martin’s lack of fashion.’

‘Lack of fashion? She’s lucky if she gets a decent meal. Not sure she’s quite all there. Mrs Crawford, I mean. Miss Martin is all there, although a tad eccentric. But jolly. Tough life for a girl.’

Turning back to the window, Sebastian watched Miss Martin approach the older woman, taking her arm and leading her towards the house. It struck him as a gentle gesture.

‘Well, I’d best get back home before Father notices my absence. Just wanted to make certain that Miss Martin hadn’t been bitten or drowned. Thought she’d have given up such nonsense.’ Kit sauntered towards the barn door. ‘I think the coast’s clear. You coming?’

‘In a moment.’

‘Righto.’

Sebastian heard the barn door shut and Kit’s boots tap sharply on the cobbles.

Jester whinnied, eager to move again, but Sebastian remained, gazing through the window, his fingers drumming on the sill. He followed the two women’s progress, watching as Miss Martin supported her elderly relative, her head bent as though in conversation.

‘Gracious,’ Sebastian muttered to no one in particular. His fingers stilled. ‘I wonder.’

* * *

Sarah took Mrs Crawford’s hand. It felt cold. Her guardian had lost weight and Sarah could feel the movement of the bones beneath the dry, parchment skin.

‘Come,’ she said gently, rubbing the thin fingers. ‘We must get you inside. You’re chilled.’

Mrs Crawford glanced about, her angular face furrowed. ‘Molly?’ she said. ‘Molly, it is good of you to come.’

‘Of course I came,’ Sarah said.

Molly had been Mrs Crawford’s sister. She’d died twenty years earlier, but Sarah never corrected her guardian when these moments of confusion hit.

‘’Tis good to see you, Molly. You’re wet,’ she said as if only now noticing Sarah’s sodden clothes.

‘A minor mishap, but let us visit in the warmth.’ Sarah pushed open the front door. It creaked as they walked into the hall, dreary after the sunshine outside.

Warm was never an accurate description of the Crawford house, and had never been, not even prior to Mr Crawford’s death and Mrs Crawford’s fanatical economy.

To Sarah, its interior had a frigid stillness as though time had stopped and all within had ceased to live. Like Sleeping Beauty, but with no happy ending. Oh, how she and Charlotte had loved fairy tales.

She smiled sadly and then refocused her attention on the drab hall. ‘Let’s go into the drawing room where we can sit,’ she said gently.

Mrs Crawford allowed herself to be drawn forward. ‘But no fires.’ Her face puckered, her hands fluttering like fragile, useless birds.

‘No fires. Now sit here and I’ll fetch a blanket.’ Sarah helped her guardian to sit, reaching for a crocheted blanket, fuzzy with wear.

Mrs Crawford huddled in the chair but, after a second, her expression cleared and her gaze sharpened. ‘You’re not Molly.’

‘I’m Sarah.’

‘I knew that. Have you said your morning prayers? You have much for which you must repent.’ Mrs Crawford always sounded cross after moments of confusion. Unfortunately such moments were all too frequent.

‘Yes.’

‘You must save yourself from the eternal damnation of your parenthood—a child conceived out of wedlock. And I must help you. It is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford’s voice rose again, her tone fractious.

‘You have done your duty admirably. How about a cup of tea?’ Sarah looked at the clock. She must not forget the rabbit or Hudson would have him skinned and in the pot.

Plus she still needed to change her dress and collect eggs. Hopefully, Portia and Cleopatra had been milked by the lad up the lane.

‘The dinner party at Eavensham. It was not sinful?’ Mrs Crawford asked after a moment.

Sarah grinned. ‘I do not think Lady Eavensham runs to sinful parties.’

‘And you did not enjoy it overly much?’

‘I made certain I was only moderately content.’

‘And no gentlemen made any improper advances?’

‘At six and twenty, such an event is highly unlikely. Now let me put the kettle on and make you a little luncheon.’ Sarah stood, moving briskly.

‘Do not waste food.’

‘I will use the bare minimum to keep body and soul together.’

After settling Mrs Crawford, Sarah entered the kitchen’s warmth, which still smelled pleasantly of the fresh bread Mrs Tuttle, their only domestic, had made earlier.

With the ease of familiarity, Sarah filled the kettle, hanging it on the arm iron to boil before slicing the bread and spreading it with Cleopatra’s creamy butter.

Her knife scraped the pot. She’d have to make more soon. Always so much to do... Plus she’d accomplished nothing yesterday. Not that yesterday had been wasted. Sarah smiled—just hearing about London thrilled her as though being in earshot of the words ‘Westminster’ and ‘Regent’s Square’ made finding her sister more possible.

One day, she promised herself. One day she would get to London and look for Charlotte, the half-sister who had been more of a mother to her than the woman who had given birth to them both.

And once in London, she would scour every street, knock on every door and pray that she was not too late.

* * *

Next morning, Sarah rose early, rushed through breakfast and hurried to feed the chickens in the hopes of escaping to Eavensham to collect the rabbit and her valise.

Yesterday had proved too busy despite her best efforts and she just had to hope that Eavensham’s kitchen staff would have looked after the creature. Likely they would. They had an affection for her from the days when she and Kit had requested treats and other edibles.

‘Miss! Miss!’ Mrs Tuttle’s shrieks interrupted her only seconds after she had started to scatter seed.

‘What? Is Mrs Crawford ill?’ Sarah threw the rest of the grain at the birds and hurried towards the house where Mrs Tuttle stood at the kitchen entrance, her pink face puce as she flapped her arms with agitation.

‘What is it?’

‘Miss Sarah, Miss Sarah, you have a visitor.’

Sarah stopped abruptly. ‘A visitor? Is that all? I thought something dreadful had happened. Is it Mr Kit?’

‘It ain’t Mr Kit.’

Sarah had reached the door now. ‘The vicar?’

‘It ain’t the vicar neither.’

‘Gracious, who is it? Or must I play a guessing game?’

‘’Tis Lord Langford.’

‘His lordship? Why?’ Her voice squeaked and she frowned.

‘I’m sure I don’t know, miss,’ Mrs Tuttle said, her eyes round.

‘You are certain he did not ask for Mrs Crawford?’

‘Yourself, miss. Most specific, he was.’

‘Where is Mrs Crawford anyway?’ Sarah asked, walking into the kitchen.

‘Resting. She felt tired and was confused after breakfast. Should I wake her?’

Sarah paused as she cleaned her hands under the chill water of the kitchen pump. Mrs Crawford would not approve of her meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. At the same time, Sarah had no wish for Mrs Crawford to know about yesterday’s events. Doubtless she would see an acquaintance with his lordship as either the influence of evil or an inherited flaw from her mother.

‘Don’t wake her. I will see him,’ Sarah said with decision.

‘Very good, miss. But what do you think he wants?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea and can think of only one way to find out,’ Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and walking purposefully towards the drawing-room door.

* * *

Lord Langford had not had a pleasant day following the incident at the stream. His host was in a bad mood, likely brought about by the unsatisfactory hunt. Lady Eavensham’s foot hurt and she had taken to her bed while the young ladies kept giggling and engaging him in conversation.

This would not have been such an irritation if he had not needed solitude to think. The idea, when it had first struck him, had seemed ludicrous, the far-fetched scheme of a desperate man.

And yet he could not reject it out of hand. He remembered those few words of fluent French he’d overheard and, more importantly, Miss Martin’s kindness to her elderly guardian.

The idea would, he thought, solve a multitude of problems in an efficient manner. He liked efficiency. Indeed, in the management of his estate, he would never dismiss such a practical solution without consideration. Surely, his personal affairs deserved the same attention.

And so he had listened to Lady Eavensham’s vapid guests while thoughts whirled and he veered between the alternating conclusions that he was mad and eminently sensible.

He had retired, slept poorly, only to have the problem brought to a head the next morning with Hudson’s arrival in the library.

‘A message, milord,’ Hudson announced.

Sebastian took it. As always, he was conscious of that shiver of apprehension, excitement, hope...despair.

It was from his housekeeper. He recognised the script. He scanned the lines which were businesslike and succinct.

The governess had quit.

‘Miss Elizabeth has taken to remaining on her rocking horse for hours. Indeed, it is hard to make her stop even for meals and Miss Grosvenor could not endure the constant creaking of the rockers combined with Miss Elizabeth’s silence.’

Damn. Sebastian crumpled the note, throwing it towards the hearth where it ignited. He watched the flame lick the paper’s edge, the fire growing in momentary strength before subsiding to ash.

Damn and blast. Did not one governess have any backbone or staying power? Did none of these women have the skills necessary to return Elizabeth to some semblance of normality?

And it was then, standing in Lord Eavensham’s library and staring at the dying flame, that had Sebastian decided.

* * *

Sarah found Lord Langford in the drawing room standing beside the unlit hearth. Although not much taller than Kit, he dominated the room and dwarfed the shabby furniture in a way her childhood friend could not.

It was not only his physical size, but his presence and the cold, controlled force of his personality.

Like a volcano under snow.

‘Lord Langford.’ She stepped towards him.

‘Good morning, Miss Martin.’ He made his bow.

‘Did you wish to see me? Or perhaps Mrs Tuttle misunderstood. I could fetch Mrs Crawford.’

‘Indeed, no. I expressly asked for you.’ He spoke in a crisp, authoritative tone.

‘Oh.’ A shiver of nervousness tingled through her. ‘Pray be seated.’

They both sat. Sarah felt stiff, as if her arms and legs had lost fluidity. It had been easier to talk to him while rescuing Albert, as though the very oddness of their occupation had made social conventions unnecessary.

She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.

‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.

‘No, thank you. Indeed, I will get straight to the point.’

‘Please do.’ She exhaled with relief. ‘I much prefer blunt speech.’

He straightened his shoulders and shifted to face her more squarely as though putting his mind to an unpleasant task.

‘Miss Martin, I need—May I have the honour of your hand in marriage?’


Chapter Four (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

Sarah gaped. Her jaw hung loose. Her eyes widened and her breath left her body in a winded gasp.

For a moment, her brain could not make sense of his words as though he had spoken German or another foreign tongue.

Then she understood.

Anger flashed through her, hot and powerful. She bounded to her feet, her cheeks heated and her hands balled with fury. ‘My lord, I am not without pride and I will not allow you to make sport of me.’

He stood also. ‘Miss Martin, I am quite serious and never make sport.’

She stilled. ‘Then you are mad.’

‘I do not believe so. Lunacy does not run in my family.’ He paused, his expression suddenly bleak. ‘I hope.’

‘You expect me to believe that you are serious?’

‘I seldom have expectations, but I assure you that I am serious,’ he said.

She stared at him, taking in his even features, the dark grey eyes flecked with green, the dark sweep of hair across his forehead and the firm jaw. There was nothing about him to hint at madness or jest.

Turning, she rubbed her fingers along the mantel, studying their outline against the wood’s grain as she tried to marshal her thoughts.

The clock ticked.

‘If you are neither mad nor making sport of me,’ she said at length, ‘you must have a reason.’

‘I need someone to look after Elizabeth.’

‘For which one employs a governess.’

‘They have a habit of leaving,’ he said.

‘Marriage seems a somewhat extreme action to ensure continuity of staff.’

‘It does,’ he said.

She raised her brows.

‘My daughter is...quiet.’

‘A quality generally admired in children.’

He did not answer for a moment and when he did, his words were slow as though reluctantly drawn from him. ‘She hasn’t spoken a word in six months. They find Elizabeth’s silence unnerving. She also rocks her body and, according to my housekeeper, has now taken to riding on the rocking horse in a compulsive manner.’

‘I am sorry. Is she ill?’

‘I have two children,’ he answered, his voice still flat and drained of emotion. ‘Their mother chose to leave for France with them and her lover. She was subsequently executed.’

‘How awful.’

‘I presume it was for her.’

Sarah shivered at the detached tone.

‘Both children were held for ransom. I paid and my daughter, Elizabeth, was returned to me.’

‘And your son?’

‘I don’t know.’ A muscle rippled in his cheek.

Instinctively Sarah shifted towards him; the stark loneliness of his grief touched her. ‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded. They fell quiet.

She broke the silence tentatively. ‘But I still do not see why marrying me would help.’

He shrugged. ‘It probably won’t. But there is something about you—’ He paused before stating in a firmer tone, ‘You speak French.’

‘Yes. My mother taught me, but why would it matter?’

‘Elizabeth has been away from England for two years and I presume whoever cared for her spoke French.’

‘And you thought she might be more conversant in that language.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She has always been oddly silent.’

He paused, before continuing.

‘As well, my great-aunt Clara demands that I marry.’

‘What?’

‘My elderly aunt, who is also extremely wealthy, wants me to marry,’ he said flatly.

‘Why on earth would she want you to marry me?’

‘I doubt she would choose you, but she insists that I marry someone.’

‘But why?’

‘She feels it would be better for Elizabeth and that it would help me to rally, to focus on my surviving child and give up on my son.’

‘She would have you stop searching for her own nephew?’

‘She feels the case is hopeless,’ he said, his voice raw with pain. ‘And wants me to look towards the future and rebuild my life.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately. The silence fell again.

She broke it with an effort. ‘But if you are so opposed to marriage, why even agree to your aunt’s request?’

‘The crass matter of finances. Between the ransom and the ongoing search for Edwin, my financial resources are not as I would like and I will not cripple my tenants for my own purpose.’

‘So you chose me to comply, but in a way bound to anger your aunt?’

‘No...’ He paused, drumming his fingers against the mantel. ‘I am not so petty. Nor am I cruel. And it would be cruel to tie a young girl with prospects to one such as myself.’

The clock struck the hour.

‘But you would tie me?’ she asked into the silence.

‘It would seem that your life is difficult at present.’

‘And I have nothing to lose.’ It stung despite its truth. ‘You did not consider that I, too, might have no interest in marriage?’

‘Every woman has an interest in marriage.’

‘I—’ She frowned, thinking of Mr and Mrs Crawford’s union and Lord and Lady Eavensham’s for that matter. ‘In my experience, marriage hardly seems conducive to happiness.’

‘I would concur but, in your case, it might be preferable to living in a cold, bare house with an elderly and perhaps unbalanced recluse.’

‘I...’ She paused, angered by the blunt words. ‘I would not marry anyone merely to improve my circumstance.’

‘How unusual.’

She hated the switch to cold sarcasm more than his earlier bluntness.

‘However, the offer remains if you wish to consider it,’ he said.

It was crazy. One could not marry a man one had only met forty-eight hours earlier, a man one didn’t even like never mind love. Indeed, a man who seemed bitter and angry from his own admission. But—

‘Where would we live?’

‘London for some of the time and—’

But Sarah was no longer listening.

She could think of only two things.

London.

And Charlotte.


Chapter Five (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

Langford left. Sarah heard his brisk stride along the passage, followed by the whine of the front door and the solid clunk as it closed.

She exhaled. Pressing her face against the window’s cool pane, she watched as he mounted his horse; his hair so dark it looked black, his movements fluid and his figure innately masculine with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

She should have seen him out, she supposed. Or called Mrs Tuttle.

But the importance of social convention had been dwarfed beside the stark reality that this man, this peer, this Earl, had asked her, Miss Sarah Martin, to be his bride. It seemed unbelievable. It was unbelievable.

Could Kit have engineered the whole thing as a hoax? No, Kit was high-spirited, but never cruel. Besides, Lord Langford was not the sort to play the fool in someone else’s joke.

No, the Earl had proposed and Sarah had no alternative but to believe the offer was real, however prosaic his motivation.

She glanced towards the mantel where her father, the late Mr Crawford, looked down at her. He’d been dead five years now. They’d never had a close relationship. He had been many years her mother’s senior and had seemed more like an austere visitor than relation whenever he had come to the small London house where they’d lived.

But he had provided for her following her mother’s death, when the occupants of the tiny house were disbanded. Charlotte had not been so lucky. She didn’t even know her father’s name and had had nowhere—

‘Sarah? Is it luncheon soon?’

Sarah jumped as Mrs Crawford pushed open the door, her voice querulous.

‘No. Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘You appear to be daydreaming. I hope that socialising the other night did not put frivolous ideas into your head. Daydreaming interferes with serious thought.’

Sarah smiled wanly. ‘I will keep my thoughts serious.’

‘Sometimes I worry that I have failed in my rearing of you and that your natural disposition might yet win out.’

‘Mrs Crawford, you have done everything possible to instruct me in goodness and quell any leaning towards frivolity,’ Sarah said. ‘Now, sit and I will fetch something to eat and some tea.’

‘A little tea, although we must be frugal,’ Mrs Crawford said as she suffered herself to be led to the chair.

‘Of course.’

‘Did we have a visitor? I heard voices.’

Sarah paused, her hand tightening against the threadbare back of the chair. A glib reply died on her lips. Honesty had been too strongly instilled.

‘Yes, it was Lord Langford. He is visiting at Eavensham,’ she said.

‘A gentleman. I should have been called. It is not seemly that you entertain him alone. We do not wish people to think you sinful. And why would he visit you? This Lord Langford?’

‘He was on an errand for Lady Eavensham.’ Honesty only went so far.

Mrs Crawford nodded, a look of childlike confusion clouding her face.

‘I’ll get the tea. You’ll be all right for the moment?’ Sarah asked.

‘I am not a child.’

‘I know.’ Impulsively, Sarah bent and pressed a kiss against the older woman’s forehead. Mrs Crawford smelled of carbolic soap and her hair was sparse with the dryness of the elderly.

‘Good gracious. What was that for? I do not hold with emotional displays.’

‘Merely a thank you,’ Sarah said.

‘Humph, a hot cup of tea would suffice,’ Mrs Crawford replied, with a return to lucidity.

‘Which I will provide immediately.’

* * *

An hour later, Sarah trudged towards the barn. As always, she felt a sense of relief as she exited the house, but today the need for respite was immense.

She felt filled with high-strung, restless energy which made her movements abrupt and her thoughts whirl. Nothing could distract her, not the familiar fields, the soothing rustle of tree branches or even the homely dank scent of animals and manure.

Straightening, she opened the gate so that Portia and Cleopatra could enter, their bells clanging as they shifted with easy ambling movements.

If she married Langford, she could go to London.

That thought emblazoned itself across her mind like fireworks at Vauxhall.

It dominated her thoughts as she patted the cows’ rumps, dragging forward the three-corner stool and placing her fingers with practised ease on Cleopatra’s warm udder.

And in London, she might find her sister.

The words thudded through her consciousness with the regularity of her own heartbeat. Even the squirt of the milk seemed to echo with its rhythm.

Closing her eyes, Sarah visualised Charlotte as she had last seen her after their mother’s death: a tall girl of fifteen, her blonde hair and white face starkly contrasted against the dense blackness of her mourning clothes.

Cleopatra shifted under Sarah’s lax hands. The bell clanged.

‘Sorry, sweetie, did I fall asleep on you? It’s just I have an enormous decision to make—although truly I cannot believe I am even entertaining the notion. I mean, could I really marry him? What do I even know of him? He hardly seems pleasant or enjoyable company. And certainly not flattering.’

The cow swung her head around, blowing moist, grass-scented breath into Sarah’s face.

‘I’d miss you.’ She stroked the animal.

A mouse scurried into the corner, burrowing into the straw. How did animals know instinctively what to do? How did they know to build a nest, burrow and find food?

Was it easier to lack intelligence and follow instinct? And what would she do if she had little intellect and only instinct?

But that was easy to answer. One need would supersede all else.

* * *

Sarah had not forgotten the rabbit or her few belongings which she had neglected to take when she had left so precipitously to rescue the foxes. Therefore, after milking the cows, she set out along the familiar route to Eavensham.

The path was unchanged from yesterday. It still smelled of grass and leaves, the earth was spongy and birds twittered, unseen, within the woods’ greenery.

Irrationally, Sarah felt a confused anger that all could remain so unaltered while her world had been turned upside down and shaken like a child’s toy.

She’d felt the same after her mother’s death when the routines of London continued amidst her own tragedy. It was egotistical, she supposed, but we are all the hero of our own story.

Upon arrival at Eavensham, she found that Orion had escaped the cook pot, largely thanks to the scullery maids who had kept him in a crate under the sink which served as a makeshift hutch. Sarah cleaned this out. Then she wrapped the rabbit in a scarf, carefully keeping its hindquarters immobilised.

Normally, she would not have minded seeing Lady Eavensham or her guests, but today she found herself as eager to return to the Crawford home as she had been to flee it.

Therefore, she picked up both the rabbit and her valise, thanked the maids and exited into the park.

‘Miss Martin!’

‘My lord!’ Sarah jerked to a stop.

She had been so engrossed she’d almost collided with the man, who appeared to be coming from the stables. ‘You pop up at unexpected moments.’

‘And apparently you always clutch an animal to your person. It has escaped the stew pot?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I escort you home or are you staying for dinner?’

‘No, the vicar’s wife is making up numbers, the vicar being away.’ She clutched the rabbit more closely, shifting her weight awkwardly while trying to think of suitable conversation.

What did one say to one’s suitor?

Of course, Miss Hardcastle and her lover had discussed Petunia’s eyes at length. Or gazed wordlessly at each other. She doubted Lord Langford wished to comment on her eyes and already the wordlessness had become uncomfortable.

‘May I walk you home?’ he repeated.

‘I’m certain I can manage.’ She sounded ungracious, Sarah realised belatedly.

‘I’m certain you can as well, but this would give me the opportunity to know you better.’

‘You might have been advised to do so before proposing to me,’ Sarah said. Then bit her lip. She’d aimed for humour, but realised that had sounded even less gracious than her previous comment. So absolutely not what Miss Hardcastle would say.

‘Indeed, but then I seldom take advice.’ His lips twisted in a smile, suggesting that despite his brusque manner he was not devoid of humour.

They turned towards the woods, walking in silence across the spongy green lawn until Lord Langford ventured a question. ‘So, Miss Martin, other than rescuing animals, might I enquire about your interests? Needlepoint or the pianoforte?’

‘Neither, actually.’

‘Watercolours?’

‘No.’ She stopped abruptly so that the animal jerked in her arms.

‘Miss Martin?’ He stopped also.

‘Lord Langford, I cannot make polite conversation when your proposal lies between us like an elephant.’

‘An elephant?’ His eyebrows rose and this time the smile widened, reaching almost to his eyes.

‘That’s what my moth—a relative called any topic everyone is thinking about, but no one will mention.’

‘Your relative has a descriptive turn of phrase. And what, do you suggest, is our elephant?’

‘Your proposal of marriage and my response. Or perhaps you have realised that the idea is ludicrous and now would like to withdraw the suggestion—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not vacillate or retract an offer once made.’

‘Of course,’ she said. He would be honourable above all else.

‘So you have considered my proposal?’

‘I have.’ She forced her voice to steady.

A bird twittered overhead and a hawk flew. The stillness was so complete that she heard the feathered movement of its wings.

‘And?’


Chapter Six (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

‘Yes,’ Sarah said.

Sebastian’s gut squeezed, although whether this was due to nerves or excitement he did not know. For the past year—both emotions—any emotion other than the leaden weight of despair had felt foreign to him.

‘I am honoured.’

‘Nonsense and poppycock,’ she said with a sudden return to animation. ‘If this arrangement has any hope of success, we must be honest. I doubt you’re honoured. Relieved at best.’

‘Are you always this outspoken?’ The woman did not mince words.

‘In general. But—’ She looked at him, her forehead puckered. ‘There is one other favour I must ask. I hate to do so as I know it will cost money.’

‘Do not worry, Miss Martin, you will have your own funds for whatever jewellery or knick-knacks you desire.’

‘Thank you, but that is not it. The favour... It is for my guardian, Mrs Crawford. I cannot leave her alone. She has become peculiar. I fear she will starve or freeze or both.’

‘You want her to come with us?’

‘No. I thought of that, but she’s lived here for years. She needs familiar surroundings or I fear she will become more disorientated. I hoped we could arrange for a companion, if that would not be too awfully expensive. I know that your circumstances are straitened—’

‘I can arrange for a companion,’ he said.

‘And you think someone would agree to such a position? She can be difficult.’

‘Money is usually an excellent incentive,’ he said, although it had not helped him retain a governess.

‘I feel I am abandoning her, but I need...’ She paused, as though uncertain.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing. Only that I will visit her when I can.’

‘Of course, you are at liberty to come here as often as you would like.’

They walked forward again, continuing down the tree-lined road in silence until Miss Martin spoke once more in her forthright way. ‘When were you thinking this marriage should occur?’

‘I will talk to the local vicar and arrange for a common licence. I expect we can be married Monday.’

‘Monday? This Monday?’

‘It would save the necessity of chaperons on our trip to London and allow us to expedite our plans. If that is convenient?’

‘I have nothing planned for the day,’ Miss Martin said.

He met her gaze and they both smiled in recognition of the ludicrous nature of the statement.

‘I must also ask your guardian for your hand.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’ Her face creased into a frown as though she were more worried about this than getting married within the week. ‘I do not know how she will react. Don’t come today. It is too late. She is more alert during the mornings.’

‘Very well. But do not worry. I see no reason for her to disapprove of the match. I will, by the way, set up an account at the local seamstress’s establishment so that you can purchase a wedding gown.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I doubt poor Miss Simpson could make a dress so quickly.’

‘Again, money is an excellent motivator.’

‘You have a jaundiced view of human nature,’ she said.

A smile tugged at his mouth. His whole life people had pussyfooted about him because of his position, money or, more recently, his temper.

‘I would say realistic as opposed to jaundiced.’

‘But people can also be caring and compassionate,’ she said softly, glancing up.

She had long lashes—dark, delicate fans which formed pretty patterns against her pale cheeks. He stiffened. His sense of ease dissipated. He should not be noticing her eyes, her lashes or that her skin had a creamy smoothness that made him want to touch it...

‘People tend to care only when it is in their interests to express the sentiment. Moreover, now we are on the subject of emotion and motivation, I must emphasise that this is a marriage based on sound business principles.’

‘Business principles?’ Her eyes widened, her brows rising with a trace of mockery.

‘Indeed, I gain a mother for my child and access to my great-aunt’s largesse and you escape the drudgery of your current life. There is no sentiment involved.’

‘And you do not feel cheated?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Most men would wish to at least like their wife.’

‘Most men have not witnessed their parents’ infidelities only to have their wife run off with a Frenchman, taking his children with her. Romance is too fragile a base for a lifelong contract.’

He clenched his jaw, wishing the words unsaid. There was a vulnerability in such anger.

They had exited into the small clearing which marked the end of the woods and the beginning of the Crawford property. By mutual consent, they paused, facing each other.

Her clear gaze met his own. ‘I will ensure that it is a marriage without sentiment. I could develop some annoying habits if that would help.’ Her lips twisted wryly, amusement glinting in her clear, candid gaze.

Again he felt his own sense of humour awaken. His smile broadened.

They should move on, but he found himself loath to break the moment and, as though of its own volition, his hand touched the smooth satin of her cheek.

Her mouth opened. He saw the sheen of moisture on her bottom lip. He heard the quick exhalation as her gaze widened as if in surprise or awareness. He stepped closer. The top of her head brushed his chin. He leaned towards her. Her hair smelled of—

What in the name of—

Jumping back, he stared at the wriggling creature in her arms.

The rabbit.

Her grip must have loosened and the animal scrambled free, landing a few feet away.

‘Orion, come back here!’ Sarah called.

It loped in the opposite direction, its left foot dragging behind it.

Sarah squatted on the ground. She pulled a carrot from her pocket. Good God, the woman would have a carrot about her person—and pushed it towards the miserable creature.

‘For goodness’ sake, you’ll get yourself filthy. I’ll catch it,’ Sebastian said.

‘Don’t frighten him and his name’s Orion.’

‘You’ve named him?’ Sebastian took the vegetable and thrust it towards the animal.

‘It makes one seem friendlier. Less likely to put him into a stew pot.’

‘An excellent place for him.’

‘Don’t say that. He’ll never come.’

‘I don’t believe Orion is conversant with the King’s English,’ Sebastian said irritably.

‘Animals know more than we think.’

‘Right. Well, Orion, you’d better come to Miss Martin promptly or you’ll end up as fox fodder.’

The rabbit hopped again in the opposite direction. Sebastian pulled off his coat with difficulty and approached the animal.

Of course Orion zigged and zagged. Sebastian threw down his coat, hoping to entrap the creature. On the second attempt, he covered the rabbit and, in a move reminiscent of schoolboy rugby, scooped it up.

‘Well done,’ Miss Martin enthused.

‘We’d best continue promptly before he gets out again,’ Sebastian said.

‘I can take him. Truly you do not need to walk me home.’

‘If I am to reclaim my coat, I do.’

‘We could unwrap him,’ she suggested.

‘Better not. I have no wish to repeat that performance.’

They continued forward. He said nothing and was glad of her silence. What had that moment been about? He hadn’t had thoughts like that since he’d met Alicia at her debut. Not even the mistresses he’d sought after his wife’s desertion had evoked such feeling. Lust, yes. But not this confused mix of desire, humour, irritation and something else he could not even identify.

And now, instead of relief that he’d solved his childcare and financial problems in one master stroke without involving a single debutantes’ ball, he felt fear—panic—and a deep, growing conviction that he’d made one hell of a mistake.

* * *

Next morning, Sebastian stood within the spartan confines of the Crawford drawing room. No fire warmed the hearth and the walls were bare except for an amateurish portrait of, he presumed, the deceased Mr Crawford. The scent of lemon wax permeated the air.

‘Lord Langford, Sarah said you would be calling and wished to speak to me?’ A crisp voice interrupted his musing and he turned, bowing.

Mrs Crawford stood tall, but her clothes hung loosely from her angular frame as though she had recently lost weight. She wore black, the shade relieved only by a silver cross. Her hair was scraped back into a bun and her skin appeared sallow, stretched taut across her cheekbones.

‘Mrs Crawford, it is delightful to meet you,’ he said.

She nodded, advancing a few steps over the threshold, but she neither sat nor invited him to sit.

‘I must ask you to be brief. It is almost time for my morning prayers.’ She spoke quickly, her left hand already touching the silver cross.

How different this was from his first courtship, from Alicia’s coy expression and her mother’s avaricious joy.

Sebastian inhaled. ‘Mrs Crawford, I wish to ask for Miss Martin’s hand in marriage.’

Shocked surprise flickered across the older woman’s face. Her intense gaze turned on him, her eyebrows drawing together almost fiercely. ‘Did she do something inappropriate? Blood will out, you know.’

‘I assure you, Miss Martin was entirely appropriate.’ He did not have to force the haughtiness into his tone. The indignation he felt on Sarah’s behalf surprised him.

‘She is not young.’

‘Her age is immaterial.’

‘She has no money and her background is dubious. Her mother—’

‘Her background is immaterial.’ He spoke quickly, cutting off her words, conscious of an almost physical aversion to the woman.

‘Then I have done my Christian duty to warn you. You cannot say I have not.’

‘Miss Martin cares for you. I am surprised you would speak ill of her.’

‘I speak honestly as is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford clutched at her cross, so tightly that he could see her knuckles through her parchment skin.

‘You have certainly dispatched your duty thoroughly. Will you now give us your blessing?’

‘You have my permission. I am no cleric and cannot give a blessing.’

‘Of course not.’ He paused, uncertain how best to broach the subject of a companion to this thin-lipped woman.

‘Was there something else?’

‘Miss Martin is worried.’ His fingers drummed against his thigh. He stopped their movement. ‘She doesn’t like to leave you alone and I wondered if you’d allow me to arrange for a companion—’

‘A companion? I cannot afford another mouth to feed or a room to heat.’ The thin hands fluttered about the dark cloth of her dress. ‘I need to save, for the missions, you know.’

‘I will ensure that any financial difficulties are covered.’

‘I am no charity case and you are too free with your money. I hope you give also to the Lord’s work. It would do your soul more good to give to the heathen than to me.’

‘It would do my bride’s peace of mind more good to know that you are comfortable.’

‘Her peace of mind would be better assured through prayer. Do you pray, Lord Langford?’

‘I—’ Then he remembered Elizabeth.

And Edwin.

‘I have of late,’ he said.

But even as he finished the sentence, he saw Mrs Crawford’s face change. Her gaze altered, becoming vague.

She stepped back from him, her expression confused.

‘Who are you?’ Her tone was high and wavering whereas seconds earlier it had been firm and strong.

‘Mrs Crawford?’ He softened his voice.

‘Where’s Molly? I lost my doll. I want it. I want it back.’

‘Your doll?’

‘Molly will find it. Or Sarah. I feel stronger when she is around.’

‘Sarah or Molly?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, the taut shoulders drooping. Sebastian shifted his weight uncertainly. He realised now why Sarah had said that Mrs Crawford would need a companion. He saw also that her acceptance was moot—she would soon be in no position to refuse.

‘Are you good at finding things?’ Mrs Crawford asked, her voice tremulous like that of an overtired child.

‘I—’ He thought again of Edwin. ‘I pray to God I am.’

* * *

Sarah sat within her bedchamber.

Her betrothed—her mind stumbled over the word—had come and gone. She’d heard his footsteps in the front hall. She’d heard the door open and close. She’d heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

Permission granted, she presumed.

This thing, this marriage, was gathering momentum, moving and surging with the unstoppable power of an ocean’s wave. They would be married Monday. She would marry a man she did not even know on Monday.

On Monday—the day repeated in her mind as though the idea would be less bizarre on a different day, a Tuesday or a Wednesday perhaps. Five days from now. One hundred and twenty hours.

Her fingers tightened about the locket her mother had given her. She opened it, touching the dry strands of her sister’s hair she had treasured for so long.

It would be worth it. If she could find Charlotte, it would be worth it. Her sister, Charlotte, who had always been there, so much more motherly than the laughing, glamorous woman who had birthed them. She could not...must not fail her—not when this opportunity was within her grasp. Besides, countless women married for convenience or money or a title or because their parents told them to. She was no different.

Her solitude ended when Mrs Crawford appeared. She stood within the doorway, her body rigid and her fingers tightly clasped about the wooden frame as though needing its support.

‘Lord Langford has asked for your hand in marriage. You have agreed to this?’

Sarah nodded.

‘Then there is little more to be said. Apprise me of the arrangements and I will, of course, pray for you.’ Mrs Crawford turned as if to go.

‘Um—’

Mrs Crawford paused, her hand dropping to the doorknob. ‘Yes?’

Doubts and questions weighed on Sarah like the oppressive mugginess of a thundery day. The region under her breastbone ached with that familiar pain, that suppressed longing for affection.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.

‘Then you must look to the Lord for comfort.’

And that was it. The conversation was finished before it had begun.

Sarah watched as her guardian turned and left, her progress marked by the brisk click of her footsteps. The ache deepened. She could not blame her. Sarah’s arrival at the Crawfords’ residence must have represented the older woman’s worst nightmare. While Sarah and her mother remained in London, Mrs Crawford could ignore her husband’s infidelity. She could pretend the tiny house in one of London’s dubious neighbourhoods did not exist.

But then her mother had died. The house had been emptied and Mr Crawford had transported her here.

She shivered, remembering that chilly reception. Bending, Sarah pulled out an ancient hatbox from under the wooden bed frame. She lifted the lid, inhaling its familiar musty mix of perfume and ink.

Charlotte’s letters.

She knew them by heart. She knew every ink blot and loop of her sister’s childish hand. She should. She’d devoured them, reading and rereading them a hundred times a day. Sometimes she’d even placed them under her pillow, slipping her hand underneath to feel the edges against her fingers and hear their rustle, taking comfort in the knowledge that her sister had held them, folded them, mailed them.

A tangible reassurance that someone loved her.


Chapter Seven (#u03f91c07-f4c5-5163-aa79-be71aa34ab91)

Sarah went to Miss Simpson. She chose the cloth for her wedding gown and requested that the dress be ready within four days.

Miss Simpson agreed, but paused, fingering the grey material, as though uncertain. ‘This is for your wedding?’

Sarah nodded.

‘I know it is serviceable and of excellent quality, but wouldn’t you care for something brighter for a wedding?’

Sarah looked about the tiny shop at the bolts of multicoloured cloth haphazardly stacked. Her mother had worn such clothes.

‘Bright colours do not suit me,’ she said.

Her mother had told her that often enough, frowning with displeasure at Sarah’s pale skin and unruly, mouse-brown hair.

‘I am not suggesting you wear a rainbow, but what about this lilac?’ Miss Simpson pulled down a bolt. ‘The colour would work well on you. It would brighten your skin and bring out the chestnut in your hair.

Sarah hesitated. Violet would so help her feel like Petunia. And Petunia would cope so much better with a wedding than Miss Martin.

But this was a business arrangement. Her primary role was that of governess and she refused to entertain notions which might suggest otherwise.

She was not Petunia.

‘The grey is more serviceable,’ she stated resolutely.

* * *

Sebastian, or rather his man of business, found a companion for Mrs Crawford with remarkable dispatch.

The individual, a Miss Sharples, was delivered by his lordship’s groom the day before the wedding. She was a short, pleasantly dressed individual with a plump face and determined chin at odds with the general roundness of her physique.

‘Did his lordship explain the matter to you?’ Sarah asked after leading Miss Sharples through the drab hallway and settling her into a chair within the equally drab drawing room. If she ever had the chance to decorate a home she would colour it butter yellow, like sunshine.

‘Indeed, and I am used to invalids.’

Sarah frowned. ‘Mrs Crawford is not infirm, at least not physically. She gets confused and is determined that we must save money for the church.’

‘Do not worry, miss. My last employer was interested in the paranormal and felt he had been a Roman emperor in a past life. He’d hide in his bed on the Ides of March. He did not, however, escape death, dying in his sleep in August. Though, despite his oddities, he was easier than his predecessor, who was forever catching the bed curtains alight. Eventually, I had to hide the matches.’

At that moment, Mrs Crawford’s brisk footsteps could be heard down the hallway. By common accord, Sarah and Miss Sharples stood as Mrs Crawford stepped into the room.

‘Mrs Crawford, this is Miss Sharples. She is to stay with you when I leave.’

‘So I hear. A totally unnecessary expense. I hope you knit.’

‘Very well,’ Miss Sharples said.

‘We knit for the heathen.’

Miss Sharples nodded. ‘I always say many hands make light work.’

‘Hardly original, but appropriate, I suppose.’ Mrs Crawford grunted in what might have been approbation.

‘This is a beautiful room,’ Miss Sharples ventured. ‘With excellent proportions.’

‘The house has been in my husband’s family for many years.’

Miss Sharples nodded. ‘But it needs furniture.’

Sarah quaked at this bald statement.

‘I sold it to send money for the heathens,’ Mrs Crawford explained fitfully.

‘But one cannot have the vicar to tea without proper furnishings and one needs to do so, that way one can properly direct him in the guidance of his flock.’

Sarah felt her lips twitch. Miss Sharples might just suit after all.

* * *

On her last evening, Sarah walked to the barn to bid her creatures farewell. She would miss them, particularly Portia and Cleopatra. She’d miss their animal smell, the warmth and understanding in their bovine eyes, the fact they did not know about mousey hair.

Or bastard daughters.

‘I’m sure I won’t find cows half as nice as you in London.’ She stroked the scratchiness of their rounded sides. ‘I’ve arranged for the boy next door to milk you and I am certain he will do a good job.’

On her return to the house, she had anticipated going straight to bed, but light shone from under the crack of the drawing-room door.

Pushing it open, she found Mrs Crawford sitting in an uncomfortably upright chair by the hearth. A small fire flickered, casting weird, elongated shadows.

‘I am glad you’ve come in,’ her guardian said. ‘I suppose you were talking to those animals. One of these days you’ll be saying they talk back.’

Sarah smiled. ‘They do, after a fashion. Did you need something?’

‘To talk to you,’ Mrs Crawford said, her back more ramrod straight than usual and her hands for once unoccupied, tightly clasped.

‘I would like that,’ Sarah said, sitting on the seat opposite.

‘I realised that I’m the closest thing you have to a mother now.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘And I recognise that somebody must speak to you and, given the situation, that person must be me.’ Mrs Crawford’s thin fingers unclasped to pick at a loose thread within her knitted shawl.

‘You need to speak to me?’

‘To warn you.’

‘About?’

‘A man’s needs.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah’s face flushed, as she suppressed a giggle. What a delightful scene this would make. But rather nicer to write than to live through.

‘You don’t need to—I mean, I understand a little. From the animals, of course.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s just it.’ Mrs Crawford’s hands worked at the wool with almost frenzied speed. ‘It is a system of procreation meant for animals.’

Sarah had never heard it referred to as a ‘system’ before. Not, she thought wryly, that it was a topic discussed at her limited social engagements.

‘Mrs Crawford, please do not upset yourself. Truly, I understand the basic concept and it appears most women survive. It will be no worse and no better with Lord Langford than with any other man, I suppose,’ she said, with determined practicality.

‘You mustn’t enjoy it.’ Her guardian spoke more strongly now as though, with the first awkwardness over, she had warmed to her task. ‘Only women like your mother enjoy it and they lead good men astray. Promise me that you will not enjoy it.’

‘I will do my—um—best not to enjoy it.’ Sarah touched the agitated fingers, stilling their movement.

‘It is a duty, that is all. A duty.’

‘A duty,’ Sarah repeated. ‘And if it gets me a child, it will be worth it.’

A mix of emotions flickered across the older woman’s face. ‘I used to think that. I used to hope, you know. I let him do it when I thought it might result in a child. I wanted a child.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said, seeing, with sudden sympathy, the barrenness of this woman’s life.

As though exhausted by the conversation, Mrs Crawford allowed her spine to bend. ‘Yes, I hope...I hope you are luckier,’ she said.

‘Thank you. You are... You have been kind.’

‘Well, I’ve done my Christian duty by you. I have never shirked my duty.’





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