To Kiss a Thief (15 page)

St. John cut a speaking glance toward the footman but made no other reply.

“Some family heirloom stolen by your bride, as I remember it. Didn't you call a man out?”

“Yes,” St. John reluctantly confessed. He had hoped that the old scandal had been erased by Sarah's supposed death, or at least replaced by something new over the years. What a timely reminder that even on the wild coast of Devon, seemingly out of Society's reach, he still was not free of the past. Under the right circumstances, sins might be forgiven. But forgotten? That was another matter entirely.

In a little less than a week, he had grown surprisingly comfortable with the role of Lieutenant Fairfax. It had felt right, somehow, to work with his hands building stalls for a charity bazaar, to trade barbs with the village baker. To sit beside the fire in a simple cottage and tell stories to the golden-haired child curled against his side.

But he would do well to remember he was supposed to be playing a part. Amateur theatricals staged for an unwitting audience.

“Risky business, duels.” Haverty sanded his letter, folded it, sealed it, and held it out to the footman, who stepped forward, expressionless, to take it. But the earl did not immediately relinquish the missive. “Yes, you're lucky to be here—and luckier still that the thieving strumpet drowned. I mean, fancy having to give your name to another bloke's get, eh?”

A vision of Clarissa's golden-brown curls and violet eyes rose before St. John, and the annoyance in his gut twisted and coiled into something stronger, something very like fear.

In daring to think of the future, he had neglected to consider the Havertys of the world and the damage they could do. It did not matter whether he forgave his wife, or even whether he'd begun to believe there was nothing to forgive. Society had not forgotten Sarah's disastrous debut performance. And Clarissa would be the one to suffer for it.

“Much obliged, Bessmer.” With a stern frown he snatched the letter from Haverty's plump fingers and slapped it into the footman's hand as he strode past him and out the door.

By opening himself to Sarah and her daughter, he was opening himself to heartache.

And that was a pain he meant never to feel again.

* * *

“I finished it. Wednesday teatime, just like I promised, Mrs. F.,” a beaming Emily Dawlish announced as she stood on the front step of Primrose Cottage, extending a paper-wrapped parcel. At Sarah's puzzled look, she added, “The new dress.” And winked.

Sarah stepped back to let her in. “I hope it's nothing too fancy, Emily. I don't think it would suit, under the circumstances.”

“And which circumstances would that be, then? Your husband's bein' alive—and as beautiful as one of God's angels—and a lieutenant?” she asked as she unwrapped the dress and held it out for Sarah's inspection.

Sarah reached out to touch the blue-sprigged muslin, but her fingertips hesitated in midair. It looked so delicate, so elegant. And the flowers. Sarah had thought never to wear blue again, although it had always been her favorite color.

“Don't you like it?” Emily sounded hurt.

“Oh, Emily.” Sarah shook her head. “It's beautiful.”

“Mrs. Gaffard had a new
Lady's Magazine
in—said this is all the rage now. I copied the style as best I could from the pictures. Seems awful plain to me,” she confessed, frowning slightly, “but I thought you might like it.”

“It's perfect.” Sarah studied the dress's unfamiliar lines, the higher waist and softly gathered neckline. “What does one wear—underneath?”

“Not much and that's a fact. I made a petticoat to go along with it—bit of extra cambric from one of Lieutenant Fairfax's shirts, don't you know,” she added with a sly smile, indicating a silky garment trimmed with wide sapphire ribbon that must have cost a pretty penny. Sarah hoped that St. John was particularly unobservant when it came to paying his bills.

“This dress means more than you can imagine,” she said, taking the mound of fabric in her arms.

“Oh,
pshaw
, Mrs. F. It's just a trifle,” Emily insisted. “Not more'n you deserve, and that's a fact—you, who's always thinkin' o' somebody else.”

“Yes, well. I wanted to do what I could to give back.” Sarah's gaze wandered out the window to the sky, which had been filled with leaden clouds all afternoon, although the rain had diminished. To her surprise, the sand and water glowed with the pinkish-red light of a setting sun. “Would you look at that?” she marveled.

Emily darted a glance toward the window. “Oh, aye. Tomorrow'll be fine. No cause for worry there.”

Sarah swallowed against the lump in her throat and then picked up the note lying on the table beside her, running her finger along the crease and pausing to finger the Haverty seal, pressed deep into the disc of red wax. “I suppose you heard that the new Lord Haverty intended to call off the festival?”

She still did not know what had happened to change his mind. Perhaps Mr. Norris had talked further with him. Surely Abby must have been as distraught as she at the idea that their efforts to help had been so abruptly forestalled.

“Oh, aye. And that Lieutenant Fairfax went to him and asked him to have it on again. That's been all around Haverhythe twice, you can be sure.”

“Lieutenant Fairfax?” Suddenly nervous, Sarah clutched the note to her chest. His generosity seemed out of character—at least where she was concerned.

“So they say, mum.”

“Why would he have done such a thing?”

“Ain't it obvious, Mrs. F.?”

She had tried all afternoon to restrain a mind, a heart, and a few other parts quite enthusiastically determined to relive the memory of the pressure of his fingertips tangled in her hair, the heat of his palm against her breast, the brush of his lips against her flesh. She had tried to forget—and had failed utterly.

Desperate to avoid Emily's knowing smile, Sarah darted her eyes away. Unluckily, her gaze fell on the book he had given Clarissa, and she recalled first the charming story he had told their daughter, and then the terrible story he had told her later. His time in the West Indies had certainly changed him. In many ways, he was not the man he had been when he left.

But had he changed in the ways that mattered?

He had gone to the earl and persuaded him to allow the festival to continue. One nobleman to another. She wished she could believe that either of them really understand what the festival meant to this village. As a wealthy young woman in a thriving port town, she had been largely unaware of the hardships plaguing rural Britain. Now, however, she knew firsthand how people suffered, and how indifferent the landed aristocrats seemed to be to their plight.

Things cannot stay as they are
, he had vowed.

Did the unexpected kindness St. John had shown toward the people of Haverhythe foretell a changed heart regarding his own responsibilities as the future Marquess of Estley?

Did last night's embrace mean his feelings toward her had begun to change, too?

Or were those things, even his time in Antigua, just paltry gestures of penance, while the larger problem at their root remained untouched?

“M
ama!” Clarissa looked up from her bowl, as much porridge on her face as on her spoon. “Pretty dress.”

Sarah smoothed her palm down the sprigged muslin as if to reassure herself it was still there. The fabric draped over her limbs with unaccustomed softness. She felt rather naked out of mourning—although admittedly, not as naked as she had felt in the watchman's hut. And she had never really been a widow, of course, even with the black dress. Now all of Haverhythe knew it.

Today, they—and she—would discover who she was without it.

Mrs. Potts cast an appraising eye over her. “You do look fine. But where in God's creation did you get that hat, if you don' mind me askin'?”

Wishing she could have seen a bit more of herself in the small square looking glass over her washstand, Sarah reached up a hand and gave a little smirk of satisfaction as her fingers brushed the new flowered trim of the tiny chip bonnet. “Oh, that's Emily's doing. But I promised I wouldn't tell her secret.”

“Looks like the kinda thing Fanny Kittery would sport—only on you it looks all right,” she added. It was perhaps the closest Martha Potts had ever come to giving a compliment. “'Tain't very practical, though.”

Sarah's smirk widened into a genuine grin. “I know. Isn't it wonderful?”

In a bid to recapture her mother's attention, Clarissa chose that moment to proclaim that she was not hungry and pushed her bowl away.

With a practiced hand, Mrs. Potts caught the half-full vessel before it clattered to the floor. “Wee ones who don't eat their breakfast shouldn't expect to go to the festival,” she reprimanded, taking a cloth to the girl's face.

“Mama!” protested Clarissa.

Sarah shook her head. “Mrs. Potts is right, dear one. Although,” she added, eyeing the tea and toast askance, “I don't feel terribly hungry myself.”

“Nerves, mum,” Mrs. Potts said, guiding Sarah to her recently vacated chair. “That's all. But you couldn't ask for a nicer morning. It'll all turn right th' end.”

Sarah choked down a few bites, then drained her teacup. Mrs. Potts was right. Especially about the nerves. Still, she could not help but wonder what it would be like to see St. John today. Her forgiving heart wanted to believe he had avoided her the day before because he felt too much. But she ought to know by now that it was far more likely he felt too little.

Standing, she leaned across the table to kiss her daughter's forehead. “I'd best be off, Mrs. Potts.”

“All right. I'll bring Clarissa down in an hour or so.”

Sarah stepped out into the crisp, clear late-September morning and walked down the narrow lane that ran in front of the row of cottages overhanging the strand. In the miscellany she had borrowed from Abby, she had read several descriptions of out-of-the-way spots travelers deemed picturesque and charming. It had been one of the things that had given her the idea for the festival. This morning, she tried to imagine she was seeing it all for the first time—the colorful boats and wattle-and-daub houses and gray-green water. A rough pen-and-ink sketch touched in places by an artist's brush. Would the festival visitors see Haverhythe as she had come to see it? Or would their hearts remain untouched?

How badly she wanted to believe that a week in Haverhythe had forced St. John to realize she was not the kind of woman he had once imagined her to be.
Innocent
, he had called her. How badly she wanted to believe he had meant it in all the ways that mattered.

Surely, if he felt nothing at all for her, he would never have bought those gifts for Clarissa, would never have gone to the earl, would never have . . .

As she felt a girlish blush heat her cheeks, she gave herself a determined little shake. Hadn't she seen enough of life to abandon that old dream of a fairy-tale romance?

She had never stopped loving him, and she did not think she ever would. But that did not mean she needed to wander around with her head in the clouds and her eyes half-open.

He had broken her heart once, and she had run from the pain and humiliation, found a place to lick her wounds, and managed—somehow—to piece herself back together. Perhaps he had changed. Time would tell. But if she allowed him to break her heart again, the damage would be severe, for she would have lost not only her husband, but also her child.

As for allowing him to make love to her? Well, it was done, and she did not regret it now.

There would be ample opportunity for regret later, whenever she was alone and the memories of his touch refused to be contained.

The first person she spotted on the foot of the quay was Mr. Norris, looking a trifle bewildered as he watched several of the village shopkeepers set out their wares on the newly made stalls. A handful of strangers already walked among them.

“Is Mrs. Norris here?” Sarah asked, coming to stand beside him.

As if surprised to see her, Mr. Norris turned and shook her hand. “Why, Mrs. Fairfax! No, Abigail's feeling a trifle under the weather this morning.”

Sarah frowned. “Again? Not another headache, I hope.”

“Well, er—no. That is . . .”

Sarah had never known the vicar to be at a loss for words. Impatiently, she waited as he watched a young couple stroll past them and up the quay. The bright morning light picked out the silver hairs at his temples. He was a good deal older than his wife, nearly old enough to be Sarah's father, but Sarah had never doubted for a moment that the Norrises were deeply in love. She did not know what to make of his behavior. Was Abby seriously ill?

“It would seem that, um . . .” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, although the morning air was cool. “It would seem that there's going to be a baby.”

“Oh!” It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the staid vicar and planting a congratulatory kiss on his cheek. To Sarah alone had Abby confessed her fear that such an event might never come to pass. “Abby must be beside herself. I have to go to her this instant.”

“No, no.” He held up a staying hand. “I don't think I'm meant to have told anyone yet. But as you are her friend . . .”

“And yours too, I hope.”

“Oh, indeed. It's just that I felt you deserved an explanation for Abby's absence and, well”—he paused to give a sheepish grin—“I'm not very good at telling fibs.”

Sarah smiled. “An occupational hazard, no doubt. But is Abby truly all right? Mr. Kittery has seen her—she is healthy?”

“Yes, yes. All is well. I suspect she'll come down-along a bit later. Mornings are—”

“Difficult,” Sarah supplied with a nod, remembering all too well the queasiness and fatigue. “And when can we expect the happy event?”

“A bit before Easter, I'm told. A proper season for such a blessing.”

“None better.”

Just then, Mr. Gaffard motioned her over to the stalls. Turning toward Mr. Norris, she urged him to go home. “You should be with her. Come back later today, when she's feeling better.”

He gave another nervous smile, nodded, and excused himself. Only as she made her way to Mr. Gaffard's side did she realize she had no idea where she would be when baby Norris made his—or her—appearance in the world. St. John's promise on the quay had secured her place until the festival. But what happened after today?

“Good morning, Mrs. Fairfax. And don't you look as lovely as the day in that new dress? Why, I hardly recognized you,” Mr. Gaffard said with an old-fashioned bow. “So that's what Miss Emily was up to.”

In the same playful spirit, Sarah bobbed a quick curtsy. “Why, thank you, Mr. Gaffard. Isn't it wonderful to see the sun again?”

As the merchant drew her attention to the position of one of the stalls, Sarah turned her back to the water. She did not see Fanny Kittery arrive, nor Mr. Beals and Mrs. Dawlish, each with items to sell.

Nor had they seen her, it seemed—or if they had, like Mr. Gaffard, they had not recognized her. They were standing to her left just a few feet away when Mrs. Kittery's voice reached Sarah's ear.

“That's right—a
thief
. I told everyone in Haverhythe there was something suspicious about Sarah Fairfax the moment she stepped foot in this village. Perhaps next time, people will listen.”

“It just don' seem possible,” insisted Mrs. Dawlish as she began arranging a selection of handkerchiefs and embroidered needle cases. “Why, look at all she's done here!”

“
Humph
,” snorted Mrs. Kittery. “I'll wager that if folks got their hands on the record of donations made to the Fishermen's Relief, they'd find more than a few irregularities. Once a thief, always a thief.” Stacks of paper-wrapped cubes of soap rose beneath her hands. “I'm just glad I never trusted her with any of
my
money for this little scheme of hers.”

“Yet you're here today . . .” Mr. Beals's deep voice cut through the noise of the growing crowd, although he had spoken the words under his breath.

“Yes, well, I promised Mrs. Norris—and it's to her I intend to make my contribution.”

“Still, it don' seem possible,” Mrs. Dawlish said again. “I'd like to know who'd say such a thing.”

A pregnant pause to whet the listeners' appetite. Sarah's skin prickled.

“Lieutenant Fairfax.”

“No!”

Sarah jumped, fearful that the exclamation had escaped her own lips. But Mr. Gaffard droned on as if nothing was amiss.

“God's truth.” Mrs. Kittery's nasal tones cut through the pounding in Sarah's head. “This festival wasn't the only topic of conversation when he paid that call up at the court. Lord Haverty and Lieutenant Fairfax had some prior acquaintance, you see, and his lordship mentioned the lieutenant's wife, who stole some valuables . . . and ran off with another man!” She waited, allowing the full import of her words to sink in. “Everyone, even Lord Haverty, believes she died. But we know better, don't we? That's how Sarah Fairfax came to Haverhythe, and why Lieutenant Fairfax tracked her here.” Her audience's faces must have expressed some doubt, for Fanny Kittery's voice rose when she continued. “It's true, I say. Lady Haverty's maid came into the shop after a tonic for her mistress, and she had it from a footman who overheard the whole thing.”

“Perhaps his lordship needs to keep a sharper eye on his servants,” rumbled Mr. Beals.

“Oh, posh. Why shouldn't it come out that we've a viper in our midst?”

“We've that, right enough.”

Sarah heard Mr. Beals's heavy step as he strode away, and the women's voices were lost amid the rising chatter surrounding them.

“But if we moved it over here—” Mr. Gaffard was saying.

“I'm sure you know best,” Sarah interrupted. “Will you excuse me?”

Startled, Mr. Gaffard blinked at her. “Of course.”

Sarah bowed her head and ducked between the two nearest stalls. She knew there was nowhere to run, but run she must, for she was dreadfully afraid she was about to be sick.

* * *

Although he'd been looking for over an hour, St. John had still seen no sign of Sarah when he came upon a weary-looking Mrs. Potts being dragged along the foot of the quay by Clarissa.

“Good morning,” he said with a tip of his hat. “Is Mrs. Fairfax not with you?”

“Nay. I've been lookin' for her meself. 'Course, she'll be tough to spot in all this.” The woman glanced about her uncertainly.

“Indeed.” St. John wondered if Haverhythe had ever seen so many strangers. “She and Mrs. Norris must be pleased with their triumph. What a crowd!”

“I figured the rain would keep folks away.”

“The roads are still good—or so I've heard.” The crowd at the pub—locals gathering to pay their rent to Haverty's steward and visitors clamoring for a pint or a bed—had nearly overset poor Colin Mackey. St. John had thought it wise to leave before the man asked him to share his room with another guest or two. “The storm settled right along the coast, it seems, and didn't reach far inland.”

“Clarissa!” Mrs. Potts admonished. “Stop a-tuggin' on my arm.” Clarissa relented for a moment, but the sights and sounds of the festival proved too strong a lure. “Can't you see I'm talking to your—to the lieutenant?” Mrs. Potts caught herself, but her lips pursed in a frown of disapproval at this continued deception.

St. John laid his palm on the top of Clarissa's head, and the girl stopped moving long enough to look up and smile.

He still did not know what he meant to do on the morrow.

Oh, it was easy enough to vow to be ruthless when confronting Haverty's sneer of contempt. More difficult when he looked into Clarissa's dancing violet eyes. Nigh impossible when he recalled the silk-soft skin of Sarah's thighs.

“I want Mama,” the child announced.

“I know, poppet,” replied Mrs. Potts, her tone gentler. “Mrs. Fairfax left bright and early,” she explained to St. John. “I told her I'd bring the wee one along after a bit, but . . .”

“I imagine she and Mrs. Norris are off somewhere, for I haven't seen either of them. Some crisis to be averted, perhaps.”

Mrs. Potts looked into the sea of unfamiliar faces. “Mebee.”

But St. John had the distinct feeling that Mrs. Potts suspected an entirely different reason lay behind Sarah's absence.

He wished to God he had never come to Haverhythe. If he had just misinterpreted his stepmother's note—or pretended to—he might still be ignorant of Mad Martha, little Miss Clarissa, and the Fishermen's Relief Fund.