Lady Sarah's Redemption (28 page)

She craned her neck up to meet his anguished gaze. “Sir Richard set
out to humiliate you. If that is how you feel, if it is humiliation that now
prevents you from seeking what you want, then victory is his.”

With a soft groan, Roland crushed her hand within both of his and
brought it to his lips. “I’ve told myself the same thing, over and over,” he
whispered, his hot breath sending shivers of longing through her. “It’s the
knowledge of my weakness, my
undeservedness
,
that’s kept me from returning to you all those days and nights of wanting you
so badly I thought I’d lose my mind.”

For a brief moment she had dared hope, but his tortured expression
stripped all that away. Too much still stood between them. She could see it in
the rawness of his continued humiliation, his refusal to forgive himself. She
had no words for the pain that sliced through her.

 
“Sarah, don’t you see?”
He clenched her hand so tightly it hurt. “I uttered the words that surrendered
you to him, I made the choice to deliver you to horrors undreamt of. I have to
live with that every day of my life.”

“You were
forced
, Roland.”
She spoke through gritted teeth. “By knifepoint.” She took a deep breath for
courage and tentatively rested her head against his chest, melding her body
against his, hoping to coax the loving softness from him for which she longed.

He averted his head, but stopped short of pushing her away.

“Roland, you came here to make me an offer—” She pressed
herself closer, raising her head.

He looked down at her. There was longing in his expression but still
he resisted the invitation implicit in her pleading eyes, her pouting mouth.

“Captain Fleming is a good man,” he said, gruffly, setting her away
from him. In ten years you’re far more likely to still be happy in a steady,
reliable alliance with a man you’re fond of than you would with me.”

“Nonsense!” she cried, reaching up to clasp her hands behind his
neck. “You know I’ve loved you, wanted you since I first came to Larchfield.”
She was not yet ready to give up. If he could just accept that she did not
share his fears. “You feel the same, I know you do.” She raised her head,
offered him her lips, but these gestures seemed only to increase his anguish
and harden his resolve.

“Sarah,” he ground out, “I owe you my life. Do you know how
worthless that makes me feel after what I’ve done to you? Fleming has come to
your rescue. If you love me, you must not hold me to the hasty and inferior
offer I made you when I entered this room.” A muscle worked at the corner of
his mouth. Sighing, he ran his hand across his eyes. “If you marry Captain
Fleming you’ll please your father. It’s a sensible match. He’s open and honest
and holds you in the greatest affection.” He dropped his eyes, adding in
tortured tones as he turned away from her, “I can only be a constant reminder
of the horrors you do battle with every day.”

A heavy, stifling lethargy crept upon her. He was resolved. Nothing
she could do or say would change his mind. Dully, she asked, “Or is it that you
cannot gaze at
me
, Roland, without
being reminded of what I was in Sir Richard’s hands? Perhaps it is not your
humiliation that stands between us. Perhaps
I
am the constant reminder.”

Defeated, she stepped back. It was like stepping out of the life
embodied by all her dreams and hopes, and into another. One she didn’t want, at
all.

Silently, they stared at one another.

“I love you, Sarah.” His voice was clear and direct, only the
whiteness of his knuckles clenching the top of his cane betrayed the depth of
his emotion. “But when a man more worthy than I is willing to offer you comfort,
security and affection, I refuse to stake my claim.” Bowing, he turned.

Sarah watched him through a sheen of tears. “I marry James in six
weeks,” she said, brokenly as his hand gripped the doorknob. “If you change
your mind before then” — she exhaled on a shuddering breath — “I
will be waiting.”

Roland stumbled into the street. Self disgust clawed at him. How
could he have imagined they had a future in view of all that had happened?
Weaving his way through the traffic, He made blindly in the direction of St
James. Passers-by jostled him, a dirty-faced boy in a greasy cap and coat too
big for him tried to beg a penny. He was oblivious to everything but the pain
that sliced through that treacherous, fallible organ, his heart.

 
“Have I got summat to tickle
yer fancy!”

Roland stepped around the lightskirt who sought to detain him with
an insinuating pout and thrust of her skinny bosom. Head down he continued
towards Whites, his Club, intent upon burying his sorrows in a news-sheet.

An insistent tug of the sleeve made him look up in irritation. An
instant later recognition dawned.

“Kitty!”

Smiling, she took his arm. “Right glad I am to see yer got yer
colour back, sir. Thought you was bound for your eternity box, I did, and
that’s the truth!”

“It was a close thing.”

“Yer still look as if you could do with a mite cheering up.”

Garnering his wits and his manners, he smiled apologetically, in a
strange way glad of the diversion. “I’m afraid I’m not in the market, Kitty,”
he said, adding quickly at her crestfallen look, “although if I were, I’d
definitely court your kind offices.” His gaze skimmed the length of her, from
her glossy brown hair and bright eyes to the boots in need of mending which
peeped from beneath her tawdry lilac gown. “So you’ve gone out on your own,
have you? Escaped that evil den of vice and bondage?”

She frowned as she digested this, her hand still on his sleeve.
“Didn’t I tell you I signed a piece of paper wot gives Mrs Hollingsworth rights
over me person ’til I’ve paid her back in full? That ain’t fer another three
years or more. After that she says she’ll ’elp me set up on me own.”

“Then you’re not unhappy with the Hollingsworths?”

“Lord, I’d leave tomorrow if I weren’t obliged to ’em!”

“Why don’t you just leave, now?”

Kitty looked at Roland as if he were queer in the attic. “And get
sent to Newmarket for me pains? The law ’ud be onto me in no time. Weren’t you
listening?”

“I daresay they’ve come to rely upon your trusting nature,” Roland
said, ironically.

“Young Mr Hollingsworth gives me special leave, s’long as I give him
’arf wot I earns in the street. The rest I gets to keep meself. The missus
don’t know, it’s just his and my little arrangement and it ain’t arf bad. I’ll
be able to set myself up right and proper, just like me friend, Queenie
Featherlove, once I’s paid me debt.”

Kitty batted her eyelashes and squeezed his arm. “Come along, sir.
Just for old times’ sakes, eh?”

“And have half your earnings line young Mr Hollingsworth’s pockets?
Thank you, Kitty, but no.”

“On the ’ouse, sir. It ’ud be a pleasure.” She cocked her head and
looked at him, coyly. “Ain’t every day I gets to pleasure a gennulman o’ me
choice. Tells yer wot - there ain’t many what are as ’andsome and obliging as
yerself.”

Roland gave her a wry smile. Then thrusting his hands into his
pockets he withdrew, to Kitty’s wide-eyed amazement, a pound note. “Why don’t
you give that to your friend Queenie Lovelyfeather or whatever her name is, for
safe keeping on your behalf. If she’s what you aspire to, she’s obviously doing
something right. If you don’t trust her, then keep it in a safe place until you
need it.”

Kitty took the note from him and rubbed it against her cheek, eyes
closed in rapture. “I ain’t never had a pound note afore, sir,” she breathed
before letting out a regretful sigh. “Contrary to expectations, poor Queenie
ain’t in no position to ’elp me, sir, since you might be interested to know
she’s got fiddle-stick’s end of the bargain with our old friend, Sir Richard.
It might make yer feel better to know he ain’t just into trickin’ coves what’s
got money. Although ’es done plenty more of ’em than just you, sir, and that’s
the truth!”

Roland’s first inclination was to wince at the name, his next was to
ask, carefully, “Sir Richard did the dirty on a deal with your friend? How was
that?”

“Oh, all sorts,” said Kitty, warming to her theme. “Queenie’s a
perticular favorite with a lot of the fancy coves, but she’s the only one Sir
Richard’ll see. They had some kind o’ ’rangement, only he’s gone an’ diddled
her … feathered ’is nest at ’er expense, so she ain’t about to set ’erself up,
after all.”

Sadly, Kitty handed back the pound note. “So it’ll just line young
Mr Hollingsworth’s pocket, after all, sir and I ain’t got nowhere safe to keep
it.”

Roland folded the note and put it back in his pocket, looking
thoughtful. Then he took Kitty’s arm and began leading her towards a dark,
narrow laneway which led off the main thoroughfare.

“Perhaps poor Queenie can realize her ambitions, after all, Kitty,”
Roland said, smiling into her questioning brown eyes, “with you well rewarded
in the process.”

“THE WHITE
LUTESTRING is more appropriate, Caro, dear.”

Mrs Hawthorne put down her needlework and leaned back in her
armchair with a complacent little smile as she surveyed Caro’s choice of gowns
for her grand come-out ball in a few days’ time.

“The ruby velvet is more becoming to my complexion,” Caro protested
as she caressed the gown’s lustrous folds. It was draped, together with the
white lutestring, over the arm of a chair in the drawing room of their London
townhouse.

Though she had no intention of wearing scarlet, she was going to
have to use all her wiles to avoid being forced to wear the white, which made
her look even more sallow.

 
“Imagine wearing ruby
velvet for a come-out ball! That sounds like something your mother would have
done!”

Caro gritted her teeth as she gazed longingly at the dress in
question. She thought it made her look more striking than she had ever looked.

She turned to her aunt. “
And
she’d have put everyone else in the shade! Insipid pastels make me look like
I’m permanently suffering the ague,” she grumbled, adding under her breath,
“Sometimes I wonder if that’s your intention.” With a sigh she began to pace
between the deep bay window and the fireplace then stopped to look out into the
sunlit street. “Lady Sarah,” she said defiantly, though with a wary look at her
aunt, “says I need vibrant colours to ensure I’m noticed and that, surely, is
the purpose of a coming-out ball.”

Mrs Hawthorne dropped her cross-stitch and stared, open-mouthed.
“How dare you mention the name of that disgraceful … imposter?” she snapped.
“If it were not bad enough that she impersonated a dead woman — or, at
least, someone she thought was dead — in order to draw you girls
dangerously under her influence, her recent disgrace has rendered her
unacceptable to polite society. I doubt you will be seeing her at any
respectable
event this season.”

Caro’s eyes flashed. “Lady Sarah is a victim of injustice and the
gossips. Since it is my understanding that the purpose of my come-out is to
secure a husband, something I may do within six months, I believe I’m adult
enough to speak as I choose.”

This time Mrs Hawthorne’s eyes flashed. The flowers adorning her
bonnet swayed menacingly as she leant forward. “Don’t answer back, young lady!
You are not out, yet! Roland, what have you been teaching your child?” she
asked, as the master of the house entered the room, looking for some mislaid
article. “Once I pooh-poohed your fears she would turn out like Venetia. Now
she is the spitting image!”

Roland sighed, pausing at the escritoire in which he had been
rummaging. Cecily was clearly very angry and he had not the energy for tact.

 
“Caro is as far from
being like Venetia as is possible – with regard to Venetia’s venal points
to which I presume you allude, my dear Cecily.” He looked at her, a warning in
his voice. “Nor have I ever feared she was in danger of inheriting her mother’s
less than commendable traits. The only difference between now and a year ago is
that Caro understands her own mind.” He nodded. “Please excuse me.”

Gaining the sanctuary of his study he stood by the French doors that
stood open to the gardens and remembered the times he’d gazed upon Sarah taking
a walk with the children along the path that led to the woods.

He might not have been able to save her from her indignities at Sir
Richard’s hands but at least he was no longer wallowing in the self disgusted
lethargy that had plagued him during the months he had been in Switzerland with
Caro.

After a lifetime spent fighting for justice for the disenfranchised,
he was now fighting for justice for Sarah.

Revenge is a dish best
served cold
. He smiled. He had done his homework
and laid his trap carefully. Sir Richard had acted with impunity for long
enough; but he had not chosen his victims wisely.

Roland just wished Sarah would be around to witness the villain’s
impending fall from grace.