Stand and Deliver Your Love (21 page)

Chapter
Twenty-One

Byron swore and kicked Bacchus into a fast trot. The horse tossed his head in protest, pinning his ears, but sprang forward into the busy London traffic. Byron let the horse pick his way amongst the carriages, handsome cabs, vendors’ carts and foot traffic without paying much attention. He kept his eyes on the crowds for any glimpse of Sarah.

Where is the woman?
She couldn't have just vanished into thin air, but that was exactly what it appeared she had done. For two days now he had searched every orphanage, street, ship and dock he came across with no success.

Seeing an alehouse he stopped and dismounted, handing his reins to a young boy. He needed to slake his thirst and drown his anger. He promised the lad a hal
fpenny when he returned, if he held the horse, and strolled into the inn.

A buxom young serving girl hurried to his side immediately and guided him to a dirty table in the
corner of the room. “What can I get for you, my lord?” She gave him a seductive smile and leaned over to make sure he noticed her large bosoms.

He ignored her blatant attempt to entice him. “Bring me a bottle of blue ruin.”

She tossed her black curls, gave him a pretty pout and flounced off, her hips swaying in a practiced, provocative way.

Byron glanced around the room. Mainly middle-class men were drinking and playing cards. Maybe one of them knew where he might find Sarah. When the barmaid
returned with his bottle he gave her a winning smile.

 
With a giggle she plopped down onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. Pushing her ample breasts in his face she giggled again, no doubt hoping he would ask her to go upstairs with him. “I am looking for someone.”

The girl giggled. “Then you came to the right place. I can be that someone.”

He winked at her. “Yes, you could, but unfortunately you are not the one I am searching for.”

The girl pouted for a moment then favored him with a coy smile. “Perhaps you would be grateful if I was to help you find this someone, eh?”

“Perhaps,” Byron said, playing her game.

She eyed his glass. “Perhaps enough to share your bottle with me?”

He poured himself a glass. “Mayhap enough to give you the rest of this bottle.”

The girl
licked her lips. “Perhaps, you might also be grateful enough to come with me up yonder?” she tipped her head toward the narrow stairs to the rooms above used by the barmaids to entertain paying customers. Byron shifted her weight to keep her from gyrating her buttocks against his inflamed manhood.

“We shall have to see.” He was fast getting tired of the game but was unwilling to give it up until he knew if she had any information useful to him. “I am looking for a blonde girl about this high.” He held his hand up about Sarah’s height. “Her name is Sarah Wellington. She looks after orphans.”

The barmaid gave him a triumphant smile. “I know a Mistress Sarah. She might be the one you seek. I used to work for the abbess and met her there.”

“Does she live around here?”

“Aye, she has a warehouse on Dewberry Street. She’ll be there this time a day ‘cause it is just about the time when the dandies come round.”

Byron jumped to his feet. The startled barmaid yelped, falling to the floor in a heap. He tossed the girl a shilling and hurried out the door as she began to curse at him. No doubt she
hoped to earn more than a mere shilling by getting him upstairs, he thought. Tossing a coin to the boy who was still dutifully holding his horse, Byron took the reins, mounted, and headed for Dewberry Street. The closer he got to the house of ill repute the angrier he got. How dare Sarah run away and prostitute herself! Had she no morals? He would kill any man who touched his wife.

When he turned onto the street he slowed and scanned the shabby houses there. Somehow he imagined the nunnery would look different than these, grande
r at least. A small boy darted into the street right under his horse’s nose. Before he could pull the animal up, it reared and knocked the frightened boy onto his backside in the dirt. Fearing the child would be trampled, Byron reached down and scooped the boy up onto the saddle in front of him.

He steered his horse over to the side of the street. “Do you want to be killed?” The boy looked up at him, his eyes filled with terror. Byron pulled the horse up short.
“Well, well, if it is not my good friend, Dickie. Pray tell, where is your Mistress Sarah?”

“She is at home, sir,” the boy mumbled.

“My lord,” Byron corrected. “Show me where she is, Dickie.”

The boy pointed to an old storehouse two doors down. Byron set him back on his feet on the boardwalk. “Thank you, Dickie. Now go and play somewhere safer like a good lad.” The boy looked up at him, but stayed where he was. Byron shook his head and rode on to the warehouse.

Two little girls were sitting on the doorstep playing with wooden sticks wrapped in cloth. He stopped his horse before them. The sticks apparently were supposed to be dolls, the scraps of cloth their clothing. The little girls continued moving the sticks back and forth, oblivious to his presence until he dismounted. They looked up at the big black horse towering over them and scrambled to their feet wide-eyed.

He backed the horse up a step. “I am looking for Mistress Sarah, is she here?”

One little girl nodded and ran into the warehouse while the other stared up at his horse, clearly fascinated with the animal. “Orsey?” She pointed to Byron’s horse. Bacchus lowered his head and sniffed her fingers.

Byron glanced
at the door and back at the little girl, “Yes, horsey.” He scanned the street to see if anyone could over hear his undignified discussion. When Bacchus snuffled the girl’s hair she giggled and Byron couldn’t help smiling.

 
A short older woman opened the door. She wiped her hands on her apron, regarding him with a suspicious air. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I am Lord Cobbett. I am looking for my wife, Lady Sarah.”

The woman’s eyes widened in disbelief and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Byron cleared his throat. Obviously she knew who he was which meant Sarah had been there recently. “Is she here?” The woman nodded and scooped the small girl up into her arms. “Bertie,” she called over her shoulder. “Can you take his lordship’s horse?”

  The old sailor Byron remembered from the cottage came out. He scowled when he saw who it was but took the reins and led the horse around the side of the storehouse without a word.

The woman ushered Byron inside. “Mistress Sarah is in the nursery.”

Byron removed his hat and stepped into the warehouse. Just through the entrance way was a parlor of sorts. A few old, but serviceable chairs were placed near the fireplace that held the remains of what looked like the previous night’s fire. He stepped over a set of crudely painted children’s building blocks and frowned. This certainly didn't look like a house of ill repute, so it must be the orphanage Sarah looked after.

A small boy ran into the room wailing, great tears running down his dirty face. The housekeeper set the little girl on the floor and picked up the crying boy. Then the little girl began to wail, holding her arms up to be picked up again.
“Oh dear,” the woman muttered, trying to console both upset children.

Byron cleared his throat. “I see you have your hands full. Perhaps you could just tell me where to find the nursery?”

The woman nodded in the direction of the hallway. “Down there, up the stairs, first room on the right.”

Byro
n didn't bother to thank her instead turned, heading down the hall. Reaching the staircase he gripped the rickety banister and made his way up the steps, his anger resurfacing. When he reached the landing he turned right. The first door stood open and he could hear a soft feminine voice. He peered inside.

 
Sara was seated on a chair between two small wooden beds with an open book in her lap. Two little girls in patched dresses peered over her shoulder in rapt attention. “Unhand the princess!” Sarah commanded in a masculine voice. The two girls gasped, their little fingers clenching the bedclothes. “The handsome prince threw a bucket of the magic water on the wicked witch. And then the wicked witch cried, I am melting!” Sarah said in a cackling voice. This brought giggles from the two little girls. She smiled and continued, “The witch turned into a puddle of green water and the princess lived happily ever after.” She closed the book and placed a kiss on each of the little girls’ foreheads.

“Now if you do not want to turn into a green puddle like the bad witch, you two had better take your nap.” The two little girls giggled as she tucked the blankets up underneath their chins and smoothed back their chestnut curls.

  When she stood and looked up, her face blanched. “Byron,” she breathed.

“Mistress Sarah,” Byron growled, stepping into the room, “I have scoured most of London for you.”

Her eyes darted to the doorway. “I … I was right here … all the time.”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “And you just forgot to tell me?”

  She hurried forward, ushering him out of the room then closed the door behind her. “Can we discuss this somewhere else?”

Byron lowered his voice. “There is nothing to discuss, we are going home.”

She crossed her arms across her chest and glared at him. “I will do nothing of the sort. I am staying right here.” 

Byron grasped her by the elbow and propelled her down the stairs. “And I say you are coming home, right now.”

She pulled from his grasp. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

 
Byron clenched his teeth, trying to control his anger. “I most certainly can, my lady. I am your husband. Do not ever forget that.”

“That is just the problem!” she spat, “I cannot forget it.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Byron dragged her along to the parlor. “All of London has been gossiping. I had to tell the duchess you were ill from the excitement of the wedding to explain why you have not accepted her cards.” He towed her through the room.

“Byron, you are hurting me!”

He softened his grip, not intending to cause her harm in his haste to leave.

The housekeeper followed them to the front door. “Your lordship, please wait.”

Byron ignored her and flung it open. Bert stood on the other side scowling ferociously. “Stand aside,” Byron growled.

The old sailor crossed his arms. “Will you not listen to what the lass has to say?”

“No. There is nothing she can say to make up for the embarrassment she has caused me.”

Bert shook his head but stepped out of the way.

With a grunt Byron slung Sarah over his shoulder as she dug in her heels and refused to move.

“Bert
,” she yelped. “Do something!”

Bert shook his head as Byron packed her from the house. “Nay mistress. He is your husband and I’ll not interfere.”

“Ann,” Sarah screamed.

“Stubble it!” Byron barked, tossing her over the back of his horse, “Do not cause more of a scene.” He climbed up onto the horse behind her and turned the animal towards home. When she tried to slid down from the horse’s back he flipped her face down across his lap and kicked Bacchus into a brisk trot.

“I … hate … you!” she gasped, the horse’s bumpy gait leaving her short of breath.

Byron snorted and kicked the horse into a rough canter silencing any further outbursts. So she hated him. It didn't matter he told himself. She was his and therefore her likes or dislikes mattered not to him. He looked down at her backside bouncing across his knees with the pace of the horse. Her breath was coming in short strangled
gulps. Guilt ridden, he slowed the horse to a slow jog and prepared himself for her scathing tongue, however she remained silent the rest of the ride home. When he stopped in front of his townhouse she slid down from the horse and marched up the steps.

He leaped from his mount and followed her. “My study,” Byron said with grim determination to settle their feud
. “Now.”

Her back straightened. “I have nothing to say to you,” she spat.

“Well I have plenty to say to you,
wife
. You will join me willingly, or I shall throw you over my shoulder again like a naughty child for all the staff to see.”

Fortunately, she headed for his study, flinging herself into the nearest chair and staring into the fire as he slammed the door behind them. He crossed to his desk, poured himself a brandy and perched on the edge trying to control his temper.

“I do not understand. I saved your life at great risk to my person and my reputation. I gave you my name, a home and offered everything you need, and how do you repay me? You run away.”

She crossed her arms across her chest. “I did not run away, I went home.”

“Home? This, my dear wife, is your home. I will not have you walking the gutters of London.”

“This will never be my home. My home is with the children, they need me. I love them. I gave them my word I would take care of them. I will not abandon them.”