Saving Sarah
Autore
Gail Ranstrom
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Chapter One
London, May 1818
Tension thickened the air in Lady Sarah Hunter’s private parlor. The cheery blue and yellow decor and the light streaming through the tall second floor windows did nothing to brighten the mood. Four women seated around a low tea table glanced at one another anxiously. The decisions they made at such times were never easy. And rarely pleasant.
The fifth woman in the room was a virtual stranger to them. Gladys Whitlock, an agreeable but unremarkable looking woman in her mid-thirties, had been referred to them by Madame Marie, the ton’s premier modiste. Periodically throughout telling her story, she would touch a thin scab at the base of her throat.
When she finished, Mrs. Whitlock dabbed a linen hankie at the corners of her eyes. “I feel so foolish telling you all this, but Madame Marie hinted that you might be able to help. In fact, you are my only hope.”
Sarah placed her teacup back on the saucer with a sigh and tucked an unruly wisp of hair behind her ear. She feared she was becoming quite jaded and wondered if all twenty-four-year-olds felt as world-weary as she. She returned her attention to the group as Grace Forbush, an elegant widow in her mid-thirties who disdained the curly hairstyles of the day in favor of sleek chignons, attempted a précis of the problem.
“In summary, Mr. Harold Whitlock has hidden the three children and continues to abuse and assault Mrs. Whitlock. As he spends more and more time in the opium dens, he grows more and more unpredictable. Mrs. Whitlock fears for the safety of her children, and for her own life. Time, I collect, is not in her favor.”
Sarah glanced at the other women and shrugged. Someone had to say it. “’Tis time he is put out of the way.”
“We could petition the court—” Charity Wardlow began, her deep blue eyes wide with earnestness.
Grace shook her head. “The courts are at fault here. Mr. Whitlock is a highly placed bureaucrat, not to mention a man of considerable influence. He may abuse his wife and stepchildren at will and no one will say him nay. He has every legal right to take the children away to punish his wife—or for any reason whatsoever. Furthermore, as her marriage contract has no provision for a separate estate, he may take her inheritance from her father’s death and use it as he pleases.”
“He has likely squandered it all,” Gladys Whitlock sighed, waving one hand in the air. “But I do not care about my inheritance. ’Tis the children. I cannot find them, and I cannot pry, cajole, beg, trick or seduce their whereabouts from him. You see, he knows I dare not leave or show any defiance as long as my babies are missing.”
The ladies glanced around the circle again. “He would not…that is, surely he would never actually harm—” Charity ventured. She shook her head in disbelief, setting her blond curls bobbing. “Would he, Mrs. Whitlock?”
The woman’s reddened eyes filled with tears again. As she wiped at them, a coating of rice powder came away to reveal a greenish-yellow bruise beneath the eye. “I would put nothing past him. He is completely void of natural affection. Why, last week he beat a small sweep for becoming lodged in the chimney. I had sent for masons to remove mortar and brick to free him, but when Harold arrived home, he said ’twas the sweep’s fault for being stuck. He said I should have lit a fire and the boy would have freed himself fast enough.”
“We must take action at once,” Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, said. The petite brunette’s eyes flashed green fire and Sarah knew for a certainty that Gladys Whitlock’s cause had become their own.
She nodded to Annica, recognizing that they were in complete accord on this issue. “Mr. Whitlock must disappear without a trace,” she said.
Charity’s blue eyes widened. “Sarah! You cannot be suggesting what I think you are. You…” She lowered her voice. “You would not ‘do away’ with him, would you?”
Sarah glanced at the man’s wife. What must she be thinking of them? “Mr. Whitlock held a knife to her throat last night and drew blood. He threatened to kill her and the children, wherever they are hidden. He must be dealt with quickly and completely. But, I am not advocating assassination.”
Mrs. Whitlock nodded, now twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “I have wondered if the children may be dead even now. If they are…” She fell silent, her gaze dropping to her lap.
Knowing she would never have children of her own made Sarah’s heart ache. She resolved that, no matter what the outcome of the meeting or how the Wednesday League voted, she would begin hunting for those children at once.
“We must not be rash,” Lady Annica warned.
“To the contrary, I am not rash at all. I have carefully considered it,” she defended. “I am thinking a voyage around the world might give Mr. Whitlock sufficient time to reevaluate his behavior. Give him a fresh perspective, as it were.”
Grace squeezed a lemon wedge into her cup. “You would send him on a grand tour?” she asked.
“Of sorts.”
“What would prevent him from returning and carrying out his threats?” Charity asked.
“Ah, there’s the rub.” Sarah smiled. “But if he were conscripted by the Royal Navy, he would not be able to return for a good long time. At least two years. By then, we will have located the children, Mrs. Whitlock will have liquidated their assets and, together with the children, will have disappeared. I hear many ‘widows’ are making a new start in Australia. The Americas might be better, though, as it is a different country independent of England’s laws. Mr. Whitlock would be less likely to find her, were he to go looking, or be successful in gaining the cooperation of the authorities there.”
“No,” Mrs. Whitlock said, her manner as firm as her voice. “Nothing must happen to Harold until I have my children back. I cannot risk that they will not be found, or that he would retaliate against them for my actions if he learns of our plans.”
Though patience was not Sarah’s strong suit, she nodded her agreement. “Very well, Mrs. Whitlock. But once we have located the children we must act quickly and decisively in putting him out of the way. He must have no opportunity to gain the upper hand again.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Whitlock said.
“I’ve never heard of an official being conscripted,” Charity mused. She looked at Sarah for clarification.
“One is apt to claim anything if one is attempting to avoid conscription. Mr. Whitlock will appear to be just another deserter claiming position or consequence to save himself.”
Lady Annica smiled. “How very clever of you, Sarah. I like the idea of conscription. I am certain Mr. Whitlock could benefit from two years at sea. Shall we employ Mr. Renquist to handle the details?”
“Yes,” Sarah confirmed. “He still has friends in the Royal Navy who, for a price, will swear that Mr. Whitlock is a deserter. In fact, I believe he knows of an excellent forger who could provide Mr. Whitlock’s Last Will and Testament to facilitate Mrs. Whitlock’s claim.”
“Yes, I believe we could produce witnesses who will see Mr. Whitlock fall into the Thames,” Lady Annica said.
“Shall we ask Auberville’s assistance?” Grace asked. “He must have connections in both government and military.”
Annica shook her head. “If we involve him in any aspect of this, he will insist upon knowing everything. He has only agreed to ask no questions so long as he has my promise that I will do nothing illegal and will tell him if there is imminent danger. We have always agreed that the Wednesday League’s dealings are of the highest confidentiality.”
Sarah waited a moment but there were no further objections. She put the issue before them as a silent Mrs. Whitlock held her breath. “Those in favor of sending Mr. Whitlock on a ‘grand tour’?” she asked.
Four hands went up. Unanimous, as always.
“Sarah, will you lead this particular cause since you have such an excellent grasp of the situation?” Lady Annica asked.
“With pleasure. I shall begin immediately.” She gave Gladys Whitlock a reassuring smile. “I may look insignificant, Mrs. Whitlock, but let me assure you, I am tough and tenacious.”
“A woman to be reckoned with,” Lady Annica confirmed.
Sarah very much feared she had lost her conscience, along with her innocence, on a darkened path in Vauxhall Gardens two and a half years ago. Pray she found Mrs. Whitlock’s children before they lost their innocence.
Snuffing the candle on her bedside table, Sarah turned toward her window and pulled the woolen jacket closer about her. She pushed stray chestnut tendrils beneath her cap, wondering why she could never make her unruly hair behave.
The clock on the upstairs landing struck the hour of twelve and then fell silent. Nothing, not even a servant, stirred in the cavernous manse. All four of her brothers would be deep in the gaming hells, and when they returned home shortly before dawn, they would not dream of checking her apartments on the second floor at the rear of the house. The stable boy and groomsman would report that she had returned home before midnight and had immediately retired for the night. None of them knew she never slept till dawn, and hadn’t since…well, since that night in Vauxhall Gardens.
There was one advantage of having only brothers, Sarah thought as she lifted the sash of her bedroom window. They provided an endless supply of outgrown lad’s clothing and never suspected their little sister of any form of deviousness. To them, she was simply a sweet but inconsequential inhabitant of the same house. Only Reginald, her oldest brother and guardian, considered her as more.
Since her father’s death last year, Reginald had been plotting how he might marry her off to advantage. She knew he had affection for her, but he rarely thought of her as having preferences.
Reginald had begun, very gently, to urge her to be more flirtatious. More receptive to interest. Less particular in her choice. Sooner or later, he would have to know why she could not marry. But not yet.
She sat on the windowsill and swung her trousered legs out, scooted along the tile slope to the eaves, then edged along to a trellis by the kitchen door. Wedging her boot toe into one opening of the latticework after another, she gained the stone path that led around the house to the street. She entered the lane and hurried toward the Thames, blessing the fog that hid her from close scrutiny.
Sarah was not a fool. She knew, too well, the vulnerabilities of being born female and that when she was dressed as a woman, she drew attention—dangerous attention. But when she secretly dressed as a lad and prowled the lanes and alleys to conduct investigations, she lost all her fears, all her inhibitions. No one noticed a lad. On the streets she was without note, free of the rules, restrictions and vulnerabilities of being female.
Blackfriars was her destination, and a tavern within sight of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The Wednesday League’s chief investigator, Mr. Renquist, would be waiting at his usual table. She had sent him a note last week, detailing all the pertinent facts. By now he would have set his investigation in motion and would already have something to report. Mr. Renquist was extremely efficient.
Feeling especially bold tonight, she tagged a ride from a passing coach by catching hold of the luggage straps and swinging herself up to sit on the empty rear rack. Her weight was so slight that the driver did not feel the sag of coach springs that would betray an unpaid customer.
Just past St. Paul’s, she alighted and darted down White Lion Hill toward the river and the King’s Head Tavern. She ducked her head, pulled her soft cap down about her ears and walked through the door, heading directly to a table in the dimly lit back of the large public room.
Francis Renquist, a short, powerfully built man about Reginald’s age, gave her a discreet wave and nodded to a chair opposite him at the table. Had there been trouble, he’d have waved her off and she would have disappeared into the street again. Tonight, however, all was well.
She slid into the chair and wrapped her hand around a waiting pint of ale. Lord, she thought, I must be some mistake of birth. Truly, I was meant for the low life.
As if to contradict her thought, Mr. Renquist bobbed his head deferentially. “Evening, Lady Sarah.”
“Good evening, Mr. Renquist. What have you got for me?”
“Not much. I set Sticky Joe and Dicken on it,” he said, referring to two of the young street lads he employed on occasion. They lived in the lanes and alleys of the walled city and could appear and disappear at will. “They are looking into boarding schools and workhouses. Mayhap the little ones have been put in orphanages. Dicken should have something soon.”
Sarah sighed. “Very soon, I should hope. There is no time to waste.”
She had memorized the list, and now she felt as if she knew the Whitlock children. Araminta, the eldest at ten years of age. Theodore, second born and six years old last week. And Benjamin, the baby at age five. Their welfare was her chief concern now. She had to find them quickly. Their lives, and their mother’s life, depended upon it.
Mr. Renquist recognized her impatience. “I’ll have Dicken meet you at the steps of St. Paul’s tomorrow at midnight. He’s sure to have news by then.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I fear patience has never been one of my virtues,” she admitted, still keeping her voice low. “But with so much hanging in the balance, ’tis difficult to say ‘anon, anon.’”
“We are not saying ‘anon,’ Lady Sarah. We are strategizing. We are planning and putting affairs in order.”
“Are we, indeed?” She smiled at his attempt at encouragement. “Whose affairs?”
Renquist grinned. “Within the month, a certain ship is leaving for Java. The first mate is anticipating the delivery of a ‘Mr. White,’ a deserter from the Royal Navy, as a deckhand. The ship will not make port until Capetown. If we’ve got the children beforehand, we’ll lock him up in the hull. If not…we’ll snatch him off the street and force their locations from him by any means necessary. Meantime, I’ve hired a forger to draft the Last Will of Harold Whitlock. Seems he’s going to leave everything to his wife and stepchildren.”
Sarah laughed outright, finally believing they could succeed in saving the children and securing their future.
She realized her mistake when Mr. Renquist’s smile faded and he muttered “Bloody hell” under his breath.
“Well, Renquist. What’s this? Feminine laughter? I thought you were a married man.”
Sarah froze, not daring to turn and look at the owner of that deep, amused voice. His speech was not that of the working class, but that of the ton. And what in God’s name would a member of the ton be doing in this part of town after midnight?
“Yes, er, well…” Mr. Renquist hedged.
“Where are my manners?” the intruder said. He moved around the table to face Sarah. “Ethan Travis, at your service, Mistress…?”
Mr. Renquist looked at her helplessly.
“Sadie,” she supplied as she lifted her face to meet the stranger’s eyes. “Sadie Hunt.”
“Miss Sadie Hunt,” he repeated in softer tones and added a lopsided smile and a courteous bow.
Sarah’s insides liquefied. Mr. Ethan Travis was tall, dark and decidedly handsome. His hazel eyes held a little more green than brown, and his hair was a dark polished brown that was an inch or two longer than fashionable. In all, he was unforgettable.
That came as a relief, since she realized he could not possibly be a member of the ton. She would have noted him had he ever been in the same room—even a crowded room. In fact, she wondered how he could have been in the same city without her knowing it.
“I’d say well done, Renquist, were you not newly wed,” Mr. Travis said, a hint of cynicism in his voice. “What would your wife say, I wonder?”
Sarah was amazed to see Francis Renquist color the shade of an apple. How unusual. She supposed she must rescue him again. “I perceive your comment as a warning to me, sir, and I thank you for it, but it is entirely unnecessary.”
“You know he is married?” The man arched an eyebrow, a smile curving his sensual mouth.
“Know it, and know his wife, sir. I believe you have misunderstood our meeting. We are conducting business.”
The man’s head tilted back in a deep laugh. “Business? I never would have guessed it. Past midnight. Darkened corner of a pub. A woman alone. Ah! I begin to see.”
Now Sarah felt her face flood with heat. Ethan Travis thought she was a prostitute!
Mr. Renquist found his voice at last. “Here now, Travis. La—Miss Hunt has hired me to…to find her missing brooch.” His hesitation gave lie to his words.
She held one hand out in a gesture of interdiction. “Do not explain, Mr. Renquist. This is none of his business. Who is he, anyway, to question us?”
“No one of consequence, Miss Hunt,” Ethan Travis answered for her companion. “I was merely passing when I heard you laugh. That is not a sound common to this place. Please accept my apology for interfering in your…affairs.” He offered a curt bow before turning and walking away.
Anxiety burned in her. Or was it excitement? “Have we been found out, Mr. Renquist? Will he tell?”
“Mr. Travis will not talk. He is discreet to a fault. And that is the only good thing I can say about him.”
“Oh?” She turned to watch the man exit. “Do you think he might be of use to us?”
“Good God! You cannot be serious. What would we want with the ‘Demon of Alsatia’? There is a high price to be paid for dealing with men like Travis.”
Alsatia! That most disreputable of neighborhoods where thieves and murderers used to find sanctuary! Though cleaned up somewhat since its heyday, the area still suffered an unsavory reputation. She did not know many people who would willingly go there after dark. Mr. Travis must be a very brave, or very dangerous, man.
“High price? Cost is not a consideration, Mr. Renquist. The Wednesday League has adequate resources.”
“Your soul?”
Sarah shivered. “My soul, Mr. Renquist, has already been forfeit.”
Mr. Renquist glanced away, always sensitive to her past. “Remember, Lady Sarah. Tomorrow at midnight. The west steps of St. Paul’s.”
Ethan Travis closed the door of the King’s Head Tavern behind him and moved silently into the mist with a rueful smile. What had possessed him to involve himself in Francis Renquist’s personal business? That was not like him at all. What other men did was of no interest to him.
Ah, Sadie Hunt’s laughter! That must have been it. He hadn’t heard that sound in years. Oh, he’d heard laughter—polite, patronizing, or purchased—but not the sweet, unaffected rippling of true amusement.
The little strumpet was the most unlikely “light skirt” he’d seen since coming to Blackfriars. No exposed décolletage, no brash face paint and no hollow, empty eyes. Who could have suspected a waiflike figure dressed in trousers could be so erotic? Who could have thought curling tendrils of chestnut hair escaping a boy’s cap and deep violet eyes would awaken long-dormant feelings? Certainly not he.
Was she new to the fallen sisterhood? Would it be too late to save Sadie from the soul-stealing profession? Did she even want to be saved? Ethan gave a self-deprecating smile. He was scarcely the man for such a task. The blind leading the blind? Not likely. What he could and would do, however, is remember her name. Perhaps, some night when he was drunk enough, lost, dissipated and desperate enough, he’d track her down, pay his money and see if she could still laugh like she meant it. And if he was still capable of passion.
