A Lady in Hiding (3 page)

And she could do without a few meals.

Mouth tight, she pushed open the gate and let it clang shut behind her. She mounted the four brick steps to the front door and eyed the well-polished knocker.

Doubt stayed her hand as her heart fluttered in her chest.

She took one last deep breath and lifted the brass knocker. Her fingers shook so much she slammed the cold metal knocker down not once, but twice. She winced at the sound and nearly turned to run away.

A butler, formally dressed in dark blue coat and black breeches, opened the door. He stared down his long nose at her before moving to stolidly block the entrance.

“What do you want?” he asked coldly. His eyes moved from the top of her head down her smock to her dusty shoes. “Tradesmen use the back entrance.” With that remark, he started to close the door.

She shoved her foot in the crack. “I’m here on business.”

“If it’s a bill, you may leave it with me.”

From the depths of her past, she pulled forth a tattered memory of the manners of those who did not work for a living. She raised her chin and stared down the length of her sunburned nose.

In the richest tenor she could manage, she replied, “It is a private matter. Announce me.”

The butler eyed her another moment before opening the door a foot or so and standing aside.

“You are?”

“Mr. Samuel Sanderson.”

“Very good. Wait here.”

Without deigning to glance at him again, Sam entered. She stopped a few feet beyond the door and stood still, hat bunched between her hands. Small clouds of reddish brick dust gently settled on the black-and-white marble of the hallway, surrounding her in a rust-colored pool that looked very much like dried blood.

William Trenchard sat in his office with his feet up on the desk, mindlessly bored and staring at the naked angels painted on the ceiling. His associate and employer, Mr. Knighton Gaunt, had neglected to repaint the ceilings when he refurbished the elegant townhouse to turn it into offices. He then added to his neglect by failing to give William any sort of meaningful work, which was rather exasperating.

So, floating above William was an entire harem of angels, and he had absolutely nothing to do but stare at them. There was one voluptuous, fair-haired beauty he was particularly fond of, with a flowing white scrap of material clinging to one plump shoulder. Her drapery managed to cover only a small portion of one arm and her waist while leaving all the more interesting bits quite well displayed.

He closed his eyes and imagined the angel walking into his office, weeping and imploring him to assist her in finding her dear, late husband’s foul murderer. Of course, she’d have to wear more clothing during the initial interview. After that, well, it was quite convenient to have his apartment right upstairs.

His desk was also quite large and solid.

Very convenient, indeed.

“Sir,” Sotheby asked from the doorway. “There is a person here.”

William turned his head, but didn’t bother uncrossing his ankles. There was a tone in Sotheby’s voice that made William’s chest spasm with a suppressed laugh. “What sort of person?”

“A—a common laborer, sir.”

“Really?” William sat up, removing his feet from the desk. “Well, show him in.”

A laborer? What on earth would a common laborer want with an inquiry agent? He stared at the door that Sotheby held open. The butler’s nostrils pinched as if he smelled a disagreeable odor.

To William’s surprise, a slender man walked in. Small puffs of reddish dust delicately swirled in his wake. The young man examined him while William half-stood, leaning over his desk with a hand outstretched. Finally, the lad clasped his hand in a firm handshake, his fingers hard with calluses.

“I’m Mr. Trenchard. And you are?” William asked.

“Samuel Sanderson, sir.”

A pair of clear gray eyes met his. Steady, honest eyes fringed with ridiculously long lashes that gave him a faintly feminine look. William sat back in his chair and motioned to his visitor to take the seat opposite the desk.

The man was indeed a laborer. His smudged and torn linen smock had large red patches of brick dust. Grit obscured his face and hands. His short, brown hair had long streaks of blond, bleached from constant exposure to the sun, no doubt. Large, intelligent eyes dominated his face. He stared at William directly, measuring him even as he weighed his odd client.

Firm mouth, square chin, and a short, straight nose. William instinctively liked the lad, feeling a sudden and surprising rush of warmth. He looked like someone’s younger brother, in trouble and manfully resolved to admit it. Although his clean features appeared very young, no more than eighteen, there was something in his gaze that made William think his client was older. Still, Sanderson’s narrow shoulders and slight build spoke of hardship and near starvation, as did the hollows under his stark cheekbones.

Something caught suddenly in William’s chest in a ripping pang of sympathy.

“So, Mr. Sanderson, what can I do for you?”

Sanderson nodded sharply and fumbled under his smock for a moment before pulling out a worn leather purse. “Money’s always first. There is nearly a guinea here. I don’t carry more, but I can pay you an additional sum when the work is completed. Within reason.”

William stared at him, trying not to appear surprised. A guinea? Mr. Sanderson obviously had no idea how much Second Sons normally charged their illustrious—and generally noble—clients.

Still, business had been slow. And he had a desire to prove to Mr. Gaunt that he wasn’t just another bored boudoir bantam who thought working as an inquiry agent might be amusing.

And William’s curiosity had been aroused.

“And what would be reasonable?” William asked.

“Five pounds. No more. That ought to be enough,” Mr. Sanderson said, his chin rising slightly.

“Enough for what?”

“There was a man murdered this morning.” Mr. Sanderson scrabbled about his person again before he pulled out a scrap of paper. He threw it into the middle of the desk.

William picked up the note and read it over twice before raising his brows. “Did you kill him?”

“Certainly not. I was to meet him this morning. He was murdered before I could.”

“Then why come to me?”

Mr. Sanderson’s remarkable eyes stared back. William thought he saw a flicker of disappointment and then fear, quickly submerged in their clear depths. “I want to know what he knew.”

William leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes studying Sanderson. That brief glimpse of dissatisfaction in the lad’s eyes annoyed him. He had noticed it too many times before when others had seen only a handsome exterior and failed to note that William also had a keen wit, when he chose to exercise it.

After a few years as an indolent rake, he had decided he was not cut out to be at the beck-and-call of every beauteous lady who wanted a handsome gallant with no opinions of his own to escort her when her husband was unavailable. The church and the military held equally small appeal, although his family had encouraged him to pursue one or the other. Those careers were appropriate for a younger son.

William, however, failed to appreciate the suitability of either selection. So he ignored their gasps of horror and told them he had made a quite different decision.

He had joined Second Sons.

At first blush, it seemed to be a reasonable way to exercise his intellect. However, finding stray, light-fingered maidservants had not been the challenging sort of assignment he hoped to receive. And he spent considerably more time staring at the nymphs on the ceiling than doing anything even remotely interesting.

He was beginning to wonder if this “career” was not yet another blind alley, leading nowhere but down.

“About this 1806 fire?” William prompted his visitor.

“Yes, sir. It was a fire down Longmoor-way. The Marquess of Longmoor’s place. Elderwood it was called back then, while it still existed.”

“And what is this matter to you?”

“I was orphaned by the fire.”

“I see,” William said. “And you would have been, what? About nine at the time?”

“More or less,” Sanderson replied. His glance moved restlessly, focusing on the bookcase on William’s right. There was a brief gleam of interest in the gray eyes before he blinked and caught William’s gaze again. “This major had information about it. I want to know what.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you conducted your own inquiries?” William asked.

Five pounds would not cover his expenses. Mr. Gaunt would not be pleased, either. However, William was bored, and he had a small income of his own. He wasn’t averse to spending a few shillings if the prospect was intriguing enough.

Murder was oft-times of compelling interest.

There was also the lure of finally showing that he had an ounce or two of brain matter, which most of his acquaintances laughingly refused to acknowledge.

“I thought this place belonged to a gent named Mr. Gaunt,” Mr. Sanderson asked in an abrupt change of subject. “Do you work for him?”

William’s mouth twisted wryly. “We are associates.”

“Then you work for him. Perhaps you don’t have the authority to take on new cases? Where is Mr. Gaunt?”

So his client was sharper than his appearance suggested.

William revised his previous favorable opinion of Mr. Sanderson downward as his voice hardened with the steel snap of determination. “Mr. Gaunt is away. On another case. I assure you, I have complete discretion in the matter of accepting new cases.”

“Then you’re afraid?” There was something in his tone that suggested what he really meant was that he thought William was an idiot.

“I beg your pardon?” William asked, forcing his face into a bland mask as his annoyance blistered with low-burning anger.

“Well, you’re dithering, aren’t you?” Sanderson asked.

He wanted to reply that it wasn’t the danger in trying to find a killer that bothered him. It was the ridiculously low payment Mr. Sanderson offered.

However, when William gazed into those gray eyes, he found his anger ebbing and flowing away into sheepishness.

Only a low cit would haggle over money when someone obviously needed help.

The lurking fear in Sanderson’s gray eyes stirred a deep sense of gallantry in William.

Mr. Sanderson stood and thrust his hand out. “If you can’t make up your mind, then I’ve no need of your services. Good night to you, sir.”

William waved at the chair. “Sit down. I never said I wouldn’t take your case.”

“But you don’t want to, do you?” His shaggy head lifted at the sound of bells in the distance. “And I am missing my supper.”

“In fact, I do,” William said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk. “Now, let’s start again and never mind your supper.” After another glance at Mr. Sanderson’s thin face, he reached back to pull a bell rope dangling down in the corner behind him.

When Sotheby answered, William ordered a tray with a suitable meal for the both of them. Sotheby’s prim mouth pursed at the request, but he departed without lowering himself to the indignity of argument.

Facing his client, William found the young man had remained standing. He waved again at him to sit and grew impatient when Sanderson studied him thoughtfully before complying.

“Then start,” Sanderson said with startling frankness. “What do you want to know?”

Nonplussed, William stared back before forcing a smile. “Tell me about the fire. That is as good a place to begin as any.”

“I can only tell you what I remember,” Mr. Sanderson replied. “And that isn’t much. If I could remember everything, I wouldn’t need you, now, would I?”

William didn’t reply, thinking the remark fairly undeserving of any direct acknowledgement. After a suppressed sigh, he said, “Since you do appear to need me, I recommend you provide me with some information. And do so now—if it isn’t too much trouble.”

As William waited, Sanderson shifted in his seat. Then the lad reluctantly raised one hand to pull back the ragged brown hair hanging over his forehead. On the left temple, an old star-shaped scar puckered the skin.

“Yes, it appears I do need your services.” Sanderson’s brows rose briefly as if he had been about to add something cutting. Apparently, he thought better of it. “I don’t remember much.”

“You lived there? On the Elderwood estate?” William asked.

“Yes.”

“You must have been very young at the time, the child of a servant, I suppose.” William waited for a response, half-expecting an angry denial at his casual decision to cast Mr. Sanderson in the role of a servant’s child.

Mr. Sanderson shrugged and then glanced over his shoulder as Sotheby returned with a maid. They carried heavy wooden trays covered with squares of linen that draped over the sides. William pushed a few papers over to the corner of his desk and leaned back in his chair while Sotheby unloaded their steaming meal.

The butler set down a huge platter of roast beef, surrounded by new potatoes, peas, carrots, and browned onions in the center of the desk while the maid placed a dish of butter and loaf of fresh, fragrant bread at the corner, near Mr. Sanderson’s elbow. She gave a flirtatious glance and smile at him as she edged the pot of butter closer to him. The scent of warm yeast and richly browned meat filled the air of the small office. William’s appetite sharpened in response.

Although it was obvious the lad was exerting a great deal of willpower, Sanderson could not prevent his eyes from growing round with hunger. William pressed his lips together to keep from smiling and leisurely cut the roast, feeling Sanderson’s intense gaze watching him. When Sotheby and the maid left, William took the fork and placed two large slabs of beef on Sanderson’s plate, along with a huge mound of vegetables.

Sanderson waited, his hands knotted so tightly in his lap that the knuckles grew white under the pressure.

William transferred a slice to his own plate. Then he glanced at Sanderson and said, “Go on.”

There was no argument. Sanderson pulled his chair forward and draped one of the napkins over his lap before picking up his silverware. After a few minutes, William joined him, selecting a well-browned roast potato.

The lad ate quickly and neatly, with surprisingly good manners despite his obvious near-starvation. Again, William’s curiosity flickered.

Had Mr. Sanderson really been the child of a servant as he supposed, or something else entirely?

He had remarkably clean habits for a servant’s child who worked now as a common laborer. He knew which piece of silver to use and when. And his accent was an odd blend, as well. In fact, Sanderson presented a bizarre mixture of incongruities as he sat opposite William, eating roast beef as if it was the last meal he would ever have.

When Sanderson’s plate was empty, he delicately picked up the serving fork and poised it over the roast beef until he caught William’s eyes. When William nodded, Sanderson took another large slice, along with a potato and onion.