After three days at the house party, Sarah was fighting the urge to order her carriage and escape. Charlotte had not arrived, instead sending a message to say that something had come up concerning the school and she would be there as soon as she could.
Some of the more disreputable house guests had taken Charlotte’s absence to mean Sarah would be susceptible to their charms, which was more than a little insulting. Jeremy Parkswick was typical. He found her on her own in the stables when she lingered to feed an apple to her mount. “I am pleased to see you here without your twin, lovely Sarah,” he said in a husky voice that she presumed she was meant to find appealing.
As if Sarah, without Charlotte, would not have the brains to see that Parkswick was all glitter and no substance! She moved away from the corner to which he was trying to herd her. “And why is that, Mr Parkswick?”
He shifted to block her exit. “I mean no offense, dear lady. Lady Charlotte is very worthy, I suppose. But she is a bluestocking and a prude, and out to spoil a man’s fun.”
In their first year as debutantes, Society had dubbed Sarah the Diamond and Charlotte the Saint. They seemed to think Sarah’s fashionable colouring and figure were the sum total of her person, and being beautiful must necessarily mean being stupid. Charlotte’s preference for a quieter social life and her dedication to educational causes meant, in their eyes, she was some kind of a religious fanatic, determined to spoil their fun.
Parkswick’s fun, in this case, fetched him sore toes from Sarah’s riding boot. The fool did not take the hint, spreading his legs to move his feet away from her stamp and wrapping her in an embrace that stank of an over-floral cologne, male perspiration, and brandy. “Clumsy, clumsy, my pet. If you want to play, I have some better ideas.”
“Release me immediately, Mr Parkswick, or I shall ask my cousin Drew to teach you some manners,” Sarah informed him. The threat would provoke less gossip, if a lower degree of personal satisfaction, than a sound punch to his mating equipment.
Drew’s marksmanship had become legendary in his first months in England, when he had shot the buttons off an opponent’s jacket in a duel, then repeated the feat at Manton’s with a succession of volunteers. He was equally skilled with a sword and with his fists. Parkswick let her go and slunk off muttering that he only meant to steal a kiss, and she was as cold as her sister.
Sarah hadn’t, in fact, told her cousin. Drew presented as an affable easy-going young man, slow to take offence and always ready with a joke to diffuse a tense situation. But scratch that surface, and the warrior lurked beneath. As her escort, Drew would take any threat to her seriously, and—while Parkswick probably deserved to be thrashed—any such intervention would itself generate gossip. Sarah had no wish to become an object of pity or, for that matter, the villainess of the piece, luring hapless rakes into fights with her formidable relative.
Besides, on their way to the house party, she had asked Drew to give her space to get to know the three gentleman guests who were on her husband shortlist, and she hated to have to admit that was a mistake. However, if the rakes and scoundrels refuse to take my ‘no’ for an answer, I shall have to enlist Drew to have a quiet word with them.
Sarah sighed. Her husband list was shrinking, too. Out of three candidates at this party, two had disqualified themselves already. Drew had taken her aside after dinner on the second day. “Lord Hurley is a dedicated gambler, cousin. Most of the men here will not play with him, as he is falling further and further into debt, and has already sold the estate he inherited and much of his other property. He needs a wealthy wife to fund his habit.”
Sarah had no objection to a man marrying her for her dowry, but not if he was likely to wager it away and leave her and Elias penniless.
Lord Colyford had seemed promising. He wanted a wife to mother his little girls and provide a son or two. Since Sarah wanted a father for her son and more children, it would be an even bargain. He was pleasant to talk to, treated her as if her opinions had value, and showed no signs of descending into sentiment. This was to be a practical marriage, with respect and affection certainly, but Sarah had done with love.
The twinge when she thought of Nate was a scarred-over wound, mostly sound but subject to the occasional phantom pain. That was what she had been telling herself, trying not to build anything on the visit her sister had written about, or his expressed desire to explain himself.
Then, yesterday, she had been out for a walk with Colyford and several other guests. They had rounded a hedge and come across the nursery party. Elias had run to meet Sarah, his face alight with pleasure. What a far cry from the nervous little creature Mrs Wakefield had brought her just eight months ago. Sarah returned the child’s bow, then crouched to present her cheek for a kiss.
“Ladies, gentlemen, may I make known to you my ward, Master Elias Winderfield?”
Several of the ladies bent for a word with the little boy. Some of the gentleman, too, bestowed a smile on him from their various heights. Not, Sarah noted, Colyford.
“What are you up to today,” Jessica Grenford asked Elias. Jessica was one of the Duchess of Haverford’s three wards. They were all, though the ton pretended not to notice, base-born daughters of the Duke of Haverford, and therefore half-sisters to one another and to the Marquis of Aldridge.
Jessica’s attention proved too much for Elias, who muttered something unintelligible.
“Oh, he is shy,” one of the other ladies cooed. “How sweet.”
Sarah stood and claimed the child’s hand. “Time to return to nurse, dearest,” she suggested, and led Elias a few paces away to where the nurse waited. Another kiss, and the child and nurse re-joined the rest of their group, Elias recovering enough to turn to wave to Sarah.
As they continued on their walk, the ladies chatted about how handsome Elias was, and how sweetly he bowed. “You haven’t had him for long, have you?” commented one of the silliest debutantes. “I thought he would be rougher. Because of...” she trailed off, as one of her friends poked her.
Sarah thought it kinder to ignore the remark, and the whispered aside to the helpful friend. “Well, everyone knows that she took him out of a workhouse.”
Jessica, bless her, said, “I believe we are to have dancing after tea tonight, and a picnic at the ruins tomorrow, if the weather holds.”
The distraction worked, the rest of the party more than happy to talk about their own entertainment rather than the dubious origins of the newest chick in the Winderfield nest. Elias wasn’t mentioned again until they were returning to the house. The party had spread out by then, and Sarah was walking on Colyford’s arm.
Colyford’s voice was stiff and cold when he said, “I had been told that you’d taken guardianship of your brother’s er—love child. Or is he your father’s?”
Sarah shrugged. Few people had asked her outright, but she had developed an answer that avoided lying. “It does not matter, Lord Colyford. He is a Winderfield, as anyone can see by looking him.”
Colyford harrumphed. “I cannot think it suitable, Lady Sarah, an unmarried lady like yourself having charge of a child like that. One would commend the duke for providing appropriate support for such a child, but making the brat the responsibility of a maiden lady is hardly appropriate.”
Sarah was finding the man less attractive by the minute. She didn’t bother asking him what he meant by ‘such a child’; his attitude answered the question. “Elias is my ward, Lord Colyford, not my uncle’s. I ‘took him in’, as you put it. His Grace has been good enough to support my decision.”
Colyford stopped in his tracks and turned to her, so that she had to drop his arm or be indecorously close. He picked up her hands, and gave his most charming smile, softening his voice to coax rather than hector. “Now, my dear, I do not mean to scold you. Of course, at your age, you want a child to care for. That is perfectly understandable. But this is not the way, my lady. You have been poorly advised, I can see. His Grace, while a very good sort of man, does not understand English Society, and who can wonder.”
Sarah, struck speechless by the sheer arrogance of the man, did not reply, and he took her silence as consent, tucking her hand back into his elbow and patting it with his other hand as he led her towards the house.
“You must have noticed that I have been particular in my attentions, Lady Sarah. Or may I call you Sarah, perhaps? I think I have the right to advise you that you must be prepared to give up your ward. Your uncle has the means to keep him, if he so wishes. Indeed, given the example of the Duchess of Haverford, it is a wonder we are not overrun with people of the most shocking origins, all of whom we must treat as if they are worthy of respect. Even marrying among us!”
He chuckled, and patted her hand again, and Sarah contemplated hitting him with it. “Well, Lord Hamner is a fool. The younger Miss Grenford is a better prospect, perhaps. At least we may be permitted to believe her mother to be of a more elevated position, even though of unfortunate morals. And she has been raised as a lady, at least, as has Lady Hamner. They say your little ward was found in a workhouse!
“I must tell you, Lady Sarah, that my wife must be above reproach. I have to think of poor Maria’s daughters, but even were that not the case, I could not bring shame upon my name by taking to wife anyone whose virtue could be questioned. Why, those with scurrilous minds are even now suggesting that you would only have taken the little boy in if the relationship was closer than nephew or brother.”
Sarah managed to extract her hand. “Lord Colyford, I am appalled by your attitude to an innocent child, one whose birth circumstance can in no way be blamed upon him. I can see that I have been mistaken in thinking we might share similar opinions of matters of importance. I wish you well on your search for a suitable mother for your daughters.”
Colyford looked more puzzled than indignant or grieved. “Do try to be reasonable, my dear. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. Everyone knows that. I am not blaming the child, but facts are facts, Sarah.”
“I have not made you free of my name, my lord,” Sarah reminded him.
“Sarah?” It was Drew, striding towards them from the house.
Relieved, Sarah told Colyton, “I have no further need of your escort, Lord Colyton.” She swallowed some of her annoyance and added, “Thank you for being honest with me.” After all, even if that was two out of three suitors gone, at least she would waste no further time on someone so totally unsuitable to be Elias’s new father.
She pushed down the recurring and stupid hope that Nate would seek to be considered for the role. He left. Disappeared without a word. Charlotte had told him he’d have the chance to explain, and she would not make her sister foresworn. I will listen to his excuses, then give him his quittance. That was the wise course, was it not?
“I will be back in a day or two,” His Grace of Winshire told his niece, the only one of the immediate family in residence. Not that he was leaving her unchaperoned or unprotected; quite apart from the English servants, he had assigned several of his personal retainers to the protection of each of his family members.
Still, he was not comfortable leaving Charlotte in London without himself or one of his sons. His retainers were fiercely loyal warriors, to a man and a woman, but the political and social challenges the Winshires had faced since their return from Central Asia usually didn’t lend themselves to solutions at the point of a sword.
Charlotte stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon, Uncle James, and the next day I am joining Sarah and Drew in the country. I will be well escorted, and you are not to worry.”
“Don’t take any risks, my dear,” he begged her. His blood ran cold when he remembered how she used to walk to the boundaries of one of the worst slums in London with no more escort than her maid and an unarmed footman. Of course, the ragged school she had founded, and in which she taught, needed to be close to where its students dwelt.
She was her mother’s daughter. Indeed, all of the Winshire womenfolk were actively involved in what his dear departed wife, a devout Christian in the ancient Aramaic Church of Persia, would call the Works of Mercy.
“Yahzak will not allow me to go into danger, Uncle,” she pointed out.
Yahzak was commander of her personal guard. A good man. Winshire had shared with Yahzak the latest inconclusive reports that made him so edgy about leaving Charlotte behind in London.
He hadn’t told Charlotte, not wanting to alarm her. In the back of his mind, he could hear his wife’s dear voice, scolding. Or perhaps it wasn’t Mahzad but Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford and once his dearest love. Both strong-minded women would insist that knowledge was power and ignorance risk. They were right, of course.
“Charlotte, there may be no cause for alarm, but we have reports to suggest that the former Lady Ashbury and her brother did not leave England. Our cousin the Weasel may have been sent off with a couple of decoys to disguise the fact they are still in the country. Possibly in London. When we took Wharton down, we knew another villain would rise to the top. But we now believe that one of the main contenders for mastery in the St Giles slums may be Wharton in a new guise.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. Wharton and his sister had carried out several attacks on the Winshires in the past two years, culminating in a kidnap attempt that had ended in a pitched battle where they were defeated and sent for trial. “And Lady Ashbury?”
“If our identification of Wharton is correct—it is currently based on a similarity of physical type and certain unpleasant personal tastes that I will not discuss with a lady—then he runs a gambling hell that is associated with a brothel. The woman in charge of the brothel is always masked. But she could be Lady Ashbury.”
He shrugged. It was all conjecture. His investigators were exploring leads, looking for proof.
“Be careful, Charlotte,” he said again. “I do not expect trouble. Even if it is them, they are wanted on capital crimes. They would be foolish to attack us again and disclose their identities.”
“Hatred can make people stupid, Uncle James,” Charlotte said, wisely. “And they hate us. I promise I will be careful.”