Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (39 page)

Sarah’s reaction was instinctive. Pulling free of Lizzie, as if she could protect her sister by distance, Sarah climbed out of the bed and stood barefoot on the rug, her body harshly protesting every move.

The duchess, still tall and gentle and beautiful, with her modest brown hair and kind blue eyes, stepped up to take Sarah’s hands in hers. “You should be back in bed, young lady. It seems you have seen the worst of my house.”

Sarah felt herself dislocated, standing there and yet back in the sunny salon at once, a small, awkward girl who knew she was being judged and found wanting. The kindness in the duchess’s eyes was the only constant. “Only your cellars, your grace. Thank you for your hospitality since.”

The duchess helped her back up on the bed. “An easy matter, since you couldn’t walk yesterday. I sent a message to let your family know you were here. I have just received their reply. They are glad of your safety and anxious to see you at home.”

Sarah might have accepted the wishes with equanimity, if the duchess had not used that word.
Home.

Poor Fairbourne. Could she continue to devote so much energy to it now that she knew it had never really been home? Would she fight so hard for it, or would she be happy to escape the place where she had spent the most devastating days of her life? Where she had met Ian and lost her peace.

“I will be glad to see them as well,” she said, knowing it was expected. “If I might borrow a dress, I could be on my way now. I assume I am not needed anymore?”

The duchess looked vaguely surprised. “Since no one said anything to the point, I assume not. I do wish you would rest up another day before going, though, child. I could not in good conscience send you out on the road looking as you do.”

Sarah smiled as best she could. “I am certain I look far worse than I feel, ma’am.”

A lie, but the longer Sarah stayed here, the harder it would be to reclaim her life.

“Just until tomorrow,” Lizzie pleaded. “You and Pip and I could toast cheese in front of the fireplace and tell lies, like we did before.”

Even though it hurt, Sarah smiled. “’Til tomorrow.”

As if she had been waiting for those very words, Pip pushed into the room. “I knew you’d say yes,” she caroled, and ushered in a maid burdened with a loaded tray. Once again bestowing her gentle smile, the duchess made a strategic retreat and left the girls to their reunion. Sarah was provided with a dress of Margaret’s, and a maid to do her hair, and various nostrums and creams for her hurts. But the best medicine was the laughter she shared with her friends.

Catching up took all day. Lizzie made tea, and they sat on Sarah’s bed, and Sarah told as much of her story as she could. Pip spoke of her own years on the marriage market and the marriage offers she had declined in hopes that her brother’s friend Beau Drummond would finally notice her. Lizzie, too, had passed three seasons without a match. She talked instead of her charities, and the help she had been able to provide her brother. There was no man in her life, she insisted, nor did she particularly care. Watching the faint shadows pass across her expression, Sarah wasn’t so certain.

They toasted cheese and snuck pear tartlets from the kitchen and vowed that they would always be close. And for the first time, Sarah truly believed it. When she returned that night to her indecently comfortable bed, she lay awake holding on to her moments with Ian, with Lizzie and Pip, the people who
were
her home. And then she woke the next morning ready to return to Fairbourne.

“Are you sure you should go?” Pip asked, standing behind Sarah as Lizzie’s maid arranged her hair for the last time. “How can we know you’ll be safe?”

Sarah smiled at her friend. “My neighbors will help. As much as I would love to remain curled up in this room with you and Lizzie, I have work waiting for me. My animals need me. My family needs me.”

“How can you call them your family?” Lizzie demanded, her serene face unusually rigid. “I have heard how they treat you.”

“They are my family because I say so.” And oddly, she missed them.

The duchess called her own barouche up, and met Sarah in the hall with a basket of food for the ride and a maid for countenance. Pip and Lizzie kept their silence, even though Sarah knew they wanted to protest. The only thing that made her leave-taking bearable was that Ian was already gone. If she had had to part with him in public, she wasn’t at all certain she could have done it.

She was exchanging hugs with her friends in the high, echoing foyer when the great front door burst open.

“Oh, y’r grace,” a footman gasped, almost knocking Sarah on her bottom, “’er ’ighness. She’s ’ere!”

For a split second the duchess paled. “Oh, my goodness.” Then, because she was the duchess, she smiled. “Ah, well. Have Barton gather the staff. Sarah, after the princess passes, we will be able to board you from the east door.” Sharing a brief, trenchant glance with Sarah, she looked to the door of a small sitting room off the foyer. “Elizabeth, you will attend me, please.”

Lizzie briefly looked as if she would rebel, but Sarah never gave her the chance. Dropping a curtsy to the duchess, she quickly retreated through the door. It was another lesson in her proper place. As the ladies stepped through the great doors, she took her place in the little side room, cracking the door enough to see the princess pass.

She could see Lizzie give her hair a pat and follow the duchess to the top stair of the portico, Pip at their back and the majordomo behind her. From the bowels of the building, footsteps thundered up the steps, the butler directing his army like the best general. Sarah watched, enjoying the speed with which order was created from chaos. By the time the princess’s ornate, crested carriage rolled to a stop before the steps, the staff, like their mistress, were in position, calm, collected, and ready to act.

Sarah found herself holding her breath. Princess Charlotte, the heir to the throne of England. Only eighteen and yet already enmeshed in international politics. The focus of a scheme to overset the government. In only a few moments, she would be close enough for Sarah to speak to. To warn.

One look at the girl settled that idea for the nonsense it was. Allowing one of the equerries to hand her out of the carriage, the princess, a prettily plump girl with speaking eyes, all but bounced up the stairs to greet the duchess.

“Cousin,” she trilled, beringed hands out. “We are
delighted
to be here. Weymouth has been positively
gloomy.
It is a relief to be somewhere one can be assured of comfort and good company.”

Like a strong wind, the young princess swept up the steps and into the house, talking nonstop, her hand in the duchess’s as a train of staff and companions followed in her wake like the trail of a comet. Out on the front drive, what seemed a half a regiment of guards snapped to attention under the eagle eye of a tall, ramrod-straight officer.

Sarah couldn’t help but shudder. Thank heavens she and Ian had not had to breach the manor after the princess had arrived. Ian never would have had a chance.

She took one last look at the princess’s entourage. Could one of them be a traitor? Could someone already have the ear of the girl who would one day be queen? From what Sarah had read, Charlotte would seem an easy target for persuasion; emotional, mercurial, headstrong. The accounts had failed to mark her effervescence, however, her native intelligence. Her spirit that made one want to smile.

Comfortable that none but the servants remained in the great echoing foyer, Sarah stepped out of the small parlor and shut the door.

“Lady Clarke?” a man’s voice addressed her.

She swung around to see one of the guests stepping back into the foyer. A bit under six feet, he was dark, with lustrous brown eyes, and thick, curling, almost black hair. Sarah had never met him.

“Do I know you, sir?” she asked.

He smiled, which almost made Sarah gasp. His face, which had been closed and saturnine, metamorphosed with that smile. Suddenly he was compelling, beautiful. Delicious. It was the only word one could use for him.

“I bring a message from Ian Ferguson,” he said, his voice soft.

Sarah felt the air catch in her chest. “And that is?”

“He said to tell you that Raul has confessed in his part in Stricker’s death, which clears Ian of any charges in the incident.”

Sarah’s heart stuttered. Her knees all but went weak. “The charges of treason?”

He briefly bowed his head. “That is a bit more complex. I hope that someone will let you know as soon as the matter is concluded.”

Someone.
Not Ian. No, that would be unwise. A sharp pain twisting in her chest, Sarah nodded. “Of course. Well, thank you very much, Mister . . .”

“Beau!!”

They both turned to see Pippin racing across the foyer. “You’re here! Have you come with the princess?” Her smile grew impish. “Or did you decide you simply couldn’t stay away from me any longer?”

So this was Beau Drummond, Sarah thought. No wonder Pippin had held out for him. She wondered if Drummond had an inkling of the depth of Pippin’s regard.

He greeted her friend with a scowl. “Really, Brat,” he said, his dissatisfaction bringing her to a screeching halt. “Haven’t you learned basic etiquette yet?”

“Better than you,” Pip challenged, her eyes squinted up at him. “You haven’t even introduced yourself to Sarah.” Quickly she turned. “Lady Sarah Clarke, may I present to you Beaufort William Villiers Francis, Viscount Drummond. Or, to those of us unimpressed with his lofty position, Beau. Beau, you have met Lady Clarke.”

Sarah almost grinned. It had been a deliberate slight. It was simply not done to ask the commoner if she would be introduced to the viscount, and from the expressions on both Pippin’s and Drummond’s faces, they both knew it very well.

“I must go, Pip,” Sarah said. “I am certain the coach is here.”

“Talk her out of it, Beau.”

He frowned. “Why would I ever do that, Brat? Now, if you don’t mind, I am here to attend the princess.”

Poor Pip. Sarah could see that she was torn between saying good-bye to Sarah and following the man she loved. Sarah made it easy for her. Giving Pip a crushing hug, she strode off toward the east portico before Pip could object. Her conveyance was finally here. It was time to go home.

The next three weeks were the hardest of Sarah’s life. She did return to the farm and resume her duties, but everything was different. At first she was feted as something of a heroine. Word had gotten around about Ian’s daring capture of a dangerous spy and Sarah’s part in the adventure. The entire household clucked and fussed over the fading bruises on her face and the dowager made much of her own trials. Artemesia declared herself in love with one of the militiamen who had come to set them free.

Just as Sarah hoped, routine quickly returned. Within two days the dowager was back walking the undercliff with Rosie, and Artie was enjoying the status of Brave Victim among her friends. Willoughby greeted Sarah as if she had deserted him for a year with no food. However, he did stay closer to home.

Sarah found that she faced the usual drudgery with more tolerance and her little family with more patience. They had not become good friends overnight, but Sarah thought they understood each other better.

She failed to regain her hard-won contentment, though. She went to bed each night aching to share all the little incidents of the day with Ian. To hear his hearty laughter at her neighbor’s antics, or Willoughby’s latest passion. She dreamed of his arms and woke restless and hungry for his lovemaking. But the worst was that she had been right on that night Ian had taken her from the house. When she had walked out that door, she had left the known world and entered a place she didn’t recognize. She had been forced to strip away all the lies she told herself to make her loneliness bearable. What she had once tolerated now grated like sand against her skin. What she accomplished meant nothing but another day of work. What she had celebrated as victories became nothing more than another day of drudgery in a world gone gray.

At least she had been able to close one chapter in her book. Boswell finally came home from the wars.

It was George who brought the news. Grim-faced and gentle, in his best Sunday suit and shined shoes, invited into the Oriental Salon. “I wanted to bring you the news soon as I heard, your ladyship,” he said, and knelt at the older woman’s feet. The dowager’s face went white. “I have some friends,” George said. “They travel to Belgium, you see, and I asked them to look. For Boswell.” He briefly bowed his head, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m so very sorry.”

The dowager never wept. She simply grew still, her usual histrionics absent in the face of true tragedy. “My Boswell is coming home,” she said finally, holding tightly to Miss Fitchwater’s hand. “I am glad. A man should rest on his own land.”

Sarah, sitting across from the dowager, saw real, raw grief briefly twist the dowager’s face. Then her eyes bright with unshed tears, the older woman rose to her feet, and everyone else followed. “My thanks, Mr. Clark,” she said to George. “You have been a good friend to this family.”

And then, taking the grave young man’s hand, she offered a smile. Just that. And Sarah could see that another lost child had been acknowledged.

It was Rosie who led the dowager from the room, quiet, solid Rosie, who had always taken better care of the dowager than the baron ever had.