Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (22 page)

Determined to stop the destruction, he grabbed the pig’s rope, which was entangled in yet another rosebush. That bush went over as well, making an odd sucking sound. Willoughby whuffled into the resulting hole.

Ian took another tug on the rope. This time Willoughby looked up at him, as if surprised to see him there.

“Come along, then,” Ian coaxed, pulling the pig away from the roses.

Amazingly, Willoughby followed. Tying him to a nearby tree, Ian returned and grabbed the rosebush. The least he could do was shove it back in. Maybe Sarah wouldn’t notice.

Kneeling, he shoved his hand into the hole to widen it. Instead he hit something solid. Something soft and…oddly familiar. Ian yanked his hand back. What the blazes? His heart was suddenly pounding again, and his chest hurt.

“Willoughby,” he murmured, back on his heels. “What have you found?”

Reaching down, he pushed aside more dirt, upending another rosebush. No wonder Willoughby wanted to dig. There was a blanket buried beneath the roses, and it was wrapped around something solid. Ian gave a good yank, and a corner pulled free. The stench that escaped sent him rearing back. He stopped. There was no question now. He knew that smell all too well.

Careful now, dreading what he would see, he went back to work, opening the hole wider. Beside him Willoughby squealed and tugged at the arbor. Ian looked into the hole and saw why. There was more wool down in that hole. Red wool. Crimson wool with orange facings. A uniform jacket from the 35th Foot.

Chapter 11

Sarah found herself standing in front of a hat shop, looking at nothing. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything, still too overwhelmed and upended for sense. It had been more than twelve hours since Corporal Briggs had attempted to…attempted…Lord, she couldn’t even think the word. She swore she could still smell the sour stench on him, still feel the sharp edge of that knife against her throat. She hadn’t slept more than moments since without startling awake, swearing she heard his voice in the corners of her room.

But the attack alone wasn’t what was still provoking the shivery, liquid feeling that beset her. The rescue was. She couldn’t remember ever experiencing such an intense rush of terror, relief, and gratitude in her life. Nothing could compare with the feel of Ian’s arms around her, of his gentle comfort. She wasn’t used to being held. No one had ever thought to do it. No one but Ian had ever offered her safe haven.

He had been so caring, so calm, that only when she sat with her ear pressed tightly against his chest had she realized how hard his heart was beating. Only by closing her eyes and being very still had she felt the tremors in his arms. He had hugged her, and he’d hugged hard. And Sarah had never, ever, felt so safe.

She wasn’t, though; that feeling of safety, of protection, was an illusion.

Oh, what was she to do? She couldn’t bear the sweet, sharp flood of yearning that swept her. She
wanted.
She wanted Ian’s arms around her. She wanted to hear his voice and catch the substance of him in her hands. She wanted to share secrets and laughter and the comfort of embraces. She wanted to etch the memory of herself on Ian’s soul.

But that was something she would never do. He had an entirely different future to follow. He had a fiancée, who would stride with him through the world with purpose and do great things. As for Sarah, she would wait here, hoping for occasional word from Fiona about how he was doing.

“Sarah, for heaven’s sake,” she heard next to her. “You have stared at that window for ages, and there is nothing in it but a perfectly hideous bonnet you wouldn’t buy anyway. At least I hope not, because I would never be seen with you in it.”

Blinking, Sarah turned to find Artemesia glaring at her. They were standing in front of Mrs. Ames’ Milliners on Broad Street in Lyme Regis.

“Oh, I don’t know, Artie,” she said, tilting her head at the immense concoction of silk, lace, feathers, and fruit. “Don’t you think that would look fetching on Elinor?”

Artie giggled at the image of feathers on a pig.

“A relative, ma’am?” Sarah looked up to see Mrs. Wilks step into her doorway.

Sarah kept her countenance with some difficulty. “A very dear friend.”

Artie’s giggle was more carefree than Sarah had heard it in a while. “Oh, no, Sarah. I don’t believe it suits her coloring at all.”

Sarah shared sly glances. “True. I also suspect she lacks the height to carry the look.”

“Well, my bonnets are all beautiful,” Mrs. Wilks offered. “But very dear.”

The tone was speaking, the look even more so. Ah, Sarah thought, seeing it. So the word had spread. Sarah had heard a similar refrain from the butcher, the coal merchant, and the cobbler. The Clarke ladies’ security was suspect. It made her wonder just what rumors Martin had been spreading.

Artie had greeted the gentle snubs with growing silence. This time she smiled. “Indeed, Mrs. Wilks,” she said. “Perhaps another time.”

Sarah slipped her arm through Artie’s, relieved and proud of the girl. “Well done.”

They progressed down the hill toward the sea, nodding to an acquaintance or two, chatting about the offerings they saw in shop windows.

Lyme Regis was a classic South Coast resort town, built for and supported by the summer months, when tourists flocked in for the sea bathing and atmosphere. Now, as winter approached, the shop fronts looked a bit worn and the atmosphere a touch tawdry, like an aging courtesan in daylight. Only fossil hunters remained, hardy souls like Rosie, who instead of painting, happily tromped the windswept coast for a chance to find a rock imprinted with ghosts of a distant past.

Actually, Sarah wouldn’t have minded spending a day following Rosie around, or Rosie’s friend Mary Anning, learning about their theories, considering a world where great fish swam that were no longer seen. Contemplating a God who, by Mary’s own discovery, had made mistakes. Sarah had seen the creatures Mary had dug out of the blue Lias clay; exotic, unrecognizable things with paddles for hands and thin, long snouts. Creatures God had created. And then what, destroyed? Forgotten? Changed?

Wouldn’t it be lovely to have the comfort to sit somewhere and just think of these things? To have a companion who wished to discuss them? A man who wouldn’t be irritated by a woman’s need for knowledge. A man . . .

“Sarah, you’re wandering again.”

Sarah looked over at the girl with a sheepish smile. “Merely woolgathering.”

Again she thought of sharing her thoughts with Ian. Again she wished she had the right to do so; the leisure, the security, the unspoken understanding that no matter what, each could carry their joys, their worries, their sorrows to the other, knowing that they would be safely received and kept.

Sarah scowled at her own whimsy. By now she should know better. Briskly, she picked up her pace. They passed the Anning’s fossil shop and waved to Mary out at the table. The sea wind whipped up the steep streets, sending bits of paper skittering before it and tugging at skirts and bonnets. Sarah and Artie turned up Coombe Street.

“Sarah?” Artie said, her head down.

“Hmmm?”

“
Is
Boswell coming home?”

Sarah came to a halt. She wished people would stop blindsiding her. “What?”

Artie shook her head. “
Maman
and Rosie refuse to ask. They don’t want to know. They’re too afraid. But I must. I need to prepare.”

The girl looked so frightened suddenly. Sarah wondered how long she had been wanting to ask this one very important question. Sarah’s heart went out to her. Even though Artie could be difficult, she was still a child who had suddenly had her comfortable future exploded on her. And if anyone understood that, it was Sarah.

She wanted to sigh. She would gladly give the responsibility to someone else.

Except, as always, there was no one else. She took Artie’s hand. “I am already prepared.”

Scowling, Artie pulled away. “Of course you are. You’re leaving.”

Sarah blinked. “I am?”

Artie’s laugh sounded sadly like a sob. “Well, naturally. After all, why should you stay? You can go anywhere. Well, go. Nobody wants you here.”

Spinning back around, Artie resumed walking.

It took Sarah a minute to follow her. “Artie,” she said, bringing the girl to a stop. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I have no plans to leave.”

“Of course you do,” the girl insisted, her voice thick with fear. “It is all
Maman
speaks of. How you’ll desert us in our hour of need.”

Sometimes Sarah would love to beat that old woman. What a job she had done dividing her own household with her drama. “I regret disappointing you, dear,” Sarah said, brushing back Artie’s hair. “But I am not going anywhere. You may not consider me your family, but I consider you mine. And I would
never
desert my family.”

She didn’t mention the vow she had made to Boswell that last day that she would be more loyal to his family than he had ever been. The family that had never wanted her. Well, odd as it seemed, she wanted them. They were all she had.

Artie looked stunned. “But I was sure . . .”

Sarah smiled. “Well, don’t be. You are stuck with me, missy.”

“Even if Boswell…if Martin takes the estate?”

“Even then.”

Tears welled in Artie’s blue eyes. Her face trembled.

Her own heart swelling, Sarah pulled the girl into a hard hug. “We’ll come about, Artie. I promise. Now—” She pulled back and smiled. “Rosie gave us a bit of money to spend. What do you think? After the post office, shall we have tea?”

Artie stopped in her tracks. “Truly? Tea? And scones that don’t taste like . . .”

“Cricket balls?” Sarah chuckled. “And here I thought I was the only one fearing Peg’s food.”

“Oh, no. It’s just that
Maman
and Rosie have a happy knack for not caring. And I am far too polite to hurt Peg’s feelings.”

This time they laughed together.

“Well, let us be off then,” Sarah said, once again linking arms and turning uphill.

As if Sarah had pulled a stopper from an overfull bottle, suddenly Artie was chattering away about her friends, the people and stores around her. Sarah found herself really smiling for the first time in days.

Artie was in mid-sentence when she stopped right in the middle of the walk. “Oh, would you look at her,” she sighed. “Isn’t she the loveliest woman you’ve ever seen?”

Sarah looked up, expecting to see a fashionable fossil hunter. What she saw stopped her breath in her chest. Artie was right. Standing in front of the post office talking with, all people, Mr. Stricker, was the loveliest woman she had ever seen. Vibrant, graceful, lush, with cornsilk hair and a figure to make angels weep. Unforgettable. Which was why Sarah could never have mistaken her for anyone else. It was the woman on the miniature in Ian’s pocket flask.

In the painting she had worn a low-necked dress of silver that offset the wheaten hue of her hair. She had been deftly painted and rouged, with the shadow of her nipples showing through the lawn of her chemisette. Standing on Coombe Street, she was clad in unrelieved black, even to the handkerchief she held to her cheek. The question was, why was she here? And why was she introducing herself to Horace Stricker?

“My dear husband . . .” they could hear over the wind. “Seaside air…recovery . . .”

Artie huffed a bit. “Only if she enjoys winter gales. I would think she’d rather go to Brighton. Or Italy.”

Indeed.

What had Ian said? Sarah tried to pull the memory out of her suddenly whirling mind. An assassin. A clever, deadly assassin named Minette Ferrar. Standing right outside the post office where Ian expected to receive his answer from Drake.

There could only be one reason that woman could be here. Ian had been betrayed.

Surreptitiously Sarah looked around. If that woman was here, others might be as well, watching to see who picked up mail. Sarah’s brain froze; her heart faltered badly. She could not walk into that post office. She was suddenly terrified Minette Ferrar would know exactly what she was there for.

“Sarah?”

Sarah shook her head. “My,” she said, praying her voice sounded natural. “You’re quite correct. She is lovely. Lyme seems to be attracting a better class of people entirely. I hope she doesn’t put us completely in the shade.”

Artie evidently didn’t hear any panic in Sarah’s voice. “Perhaps we should go back and get that bonnet,” she suggested slyly. “At least we’d be noticed.”

Sarah chuckled, as if nothing had changed. Minette Ferrar must have heard her, because she turned. Obviously seeing the astonished admiration in Artie’s eyes, she flashed them a smile that was a masterpiece of etiquette, polish, and lingering sorrow.

Sarah had no choice, of course. She had to get her mail or explain to Artie why she didn’t. Exchanging nods with the woman and Mr. Stricker, Sarah led Artie into the post office.

“Good day, Lady Clarke,” the postmistress greeted her from behind the counter. “Got somethin’ special for you today, don’t I?”

Sarah swore she felt Madame Ferrar’s attention. It was all she could do to focus on her task. On getting Artie safely home so she could warn Ian.

“I’m hoping you have the dowager’s paints, Mrs. Pope,” she said, wondering if she sounded too strident. “If not, I’m afraid there will be no Lulworth Skipper in Lady Clarke’s portfolio.”