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Carefully, holding her breath, she pushed her fingers against the metal. It felt cold and hard and did not budge. Then, with a snap, it released.
The animal lay briefly frozen before bursting into frenetic life, its hind legs sending a tinkling cascade of pebbles into the ditch.
‘No, you don’t.’ She caught the creature and, pulling her shawl from her shoulders, immobilised its hindquarters within the folds of cloth.
Bending closer, she inhaled its dusty animal scent as her arms tightened against its soft, warm weight.
Now what? The animal was injured and would be fox fodder if she let him go. But she had no time to go home. Already, daylight was dimming and the air shone with the pewter polish of early evening.
Besides, in many ways, Eavensham was more her home than the stark austerity of the Crawford residence. Shrugging, Sarah made her decision and, tightening her hold on the bundle, picked up her valise and stepped forward.
Some five minutes later she exited from the overhanging trees and on to Eavensham’s well-manicured park, the change between woodland and immaculate lawn joltingly sudden. Without pause, Sarah skirted the impressive front entrance, veering away from the lamps and torches bidding welcome.
She would hide the rabbit in the kitchen or scullery. Hopefully, the butler would be elsewhere. Mr Hudson was not overly fond of rabbits.
Except in stews.
The path wound towards the kitchen garden, a narrow track sandwiched between the house and dairy. As she expected, the kitchen was bright and the smell of cooking wafted into the garden.
Carefully, she stepped towards the window, then froze at the snap of a twig. She caught her breath and turned, scanning the darkened outlines of the hedge and vegetable frame.
Nothing. She stepped back to the kitchen. Likely she’d only heard a fox or stable cat. She was too practical for foolish fancy.
But even as the thought passed through her mind, a hand clamped across her mouth and she was pulled against a hard, muscular figure.
She tasted cloth. Her heart beat a wild tattoo. Her body stiffened, paralysed not only by fear but an almost ludicrous disbelief as she allowed her valise to slip from her hand.
Dramatic events never happened to her. Ever.
‘If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?’ The voice was male. Warm breath touched her ear.
Sarah nodded. The man loosened his hold. She turned. Her eyes widened as she took in his size, the breadth of his shoulders and the midnight-black of his clothes.
‘Good God, you’re a woman,’ he said.
‘You’re...you’re a gentleman.’ For the cloth he wore was fine and not the roughened garb of a common thief.
She grabbed on to these details as though, through their analysis, she would make sense of the situation.
‘What was your purpose for spying on me?’ His gaze narrowed, his voice calm and without emotion.
‘Spying? I don’t even know you.’ The rabbit squirmed and she clutched it more tightly.
‘Then why are you hiding?’
‘I’m not. Even if I were, you have no reason to accost me.’ Her cheeks flushed with indignation as her fear lessened.
He dropped his hand, stepping back. ‘I apologise. I thought you were a burglar.’
‘We tend not to get many burglars in these parts. Who are you anyway?’
‘Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, at your service.’ He made his bow. ‘And a guest at Eavensham.’
‘A guest? Then why are you in the kitchen garden?’
‘Taking the air,’ he said.
‘That usually doesn’t involve accosting one’s fellow man. You are lucky I am not of a hysterical disposition.’
‘Indeed.’
Briefly, she wondered if wry humour laced his voice, but his lips were straight and no twinkle softened his expression. In the fading light, the strong chin and cheekbones looked more akin to a statue than anything having the softness of flesh.
At this moment, the rabbit thrust its head free of the shawl.
‘Dinner is running late, I presume.’ Lord Langford’s eyes widened, but he spoke with an unnerving lack of any natural surprise.
‘The creature is hurt and I need to bandage him, except Mr Hudson, the butler, is not fond of animals and I wanted to ensure his absence.’
‘The butler has my sympathies.’
Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the rabbit, suddenly spooked, kicked at her stomach as it clawed against the shawl. Sarah gasped, doubling over, instinctively whispering the reassurances offered by her mother after childhood nightmares.
‘You speak French?’
‘What?’
‘French? You are fluent?’
‘What? Yes, my mother spoke it—could we discuss my linguistic skills later?’ she gasped, so intent on holding the rabbit that she lost her footing and stumbled against the man. His hand shot out. She felt his touch and the strangely tingling pressure of his strong fingers splayed against her back.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes—um—I was momentarily thrown off balance.’ She straightened. They stood so close she heard the intake of his breath and felt its whisper.
‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you could see if the butler is in the kitchen? I do not know how long I can keep hold of this fellow.’
‘Of course.’ Lord Langford stepped towards the window as though spying on the servants were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can see the cook and several girls, scullery maids, I assume. I believe the butler is absent.’
‘Thank you. I am obliged.’
Tightening her hold on the rabbit, Sarah paused, briefly reluctant to curtail the surreal interlude. Then, with a nod of thanks, she stooped to pick up the valise.
‘Allow me,’ Lord Langford said, opening the door. ‘You seem to have your hands full.’
‘Er—thank you.’ She glanced up. The hallway’s flickering oil lamp cast interesting shadows across his face, emphasising the harsh line of his cheek and chin and the blackness of his hair.
She stepped inside and exhaled as the door swung shut, conscious of relief, regret and an unpleasant wobbliness in both her stomach and knees.
That wouldn’t do. Petunia Hardcastle might swoon, but Sarah Martin was made of sterner stuff.
Besides, Petunia was always caught by the handsome hero and no hero would catch a poverty-stricken spinster of illegitimate birth lurking within the servants’ quarters.
With this thought, Sarah straightened her spine and hurried into the Eavensham kitchen.
* * *
Sebastian rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension knotting his back. Goodness, the strain must be affecting him if he was reduced to accosting servant girls.
A branch cracked. Instantly alert, Sebastian slid noiselessly into the shadows. He heard a second louder crack and smiled. This was no French spy, or at least one very poorly trained.
‘You can come out, Kit,’ he drawled.
The foliage opposite trembled and swore. Sebastian clicked open his gold snuffbox. He took a pinch and inhaled. The ‘English Lion’ chose unlikely messengers and Sebastian would have lost patience with his eccentricities long ago, except his methods worked. The Lion had saved many lives from the guillotine.
Besides, Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of choice. Right now, the Lion was his son’s best hope.
His only hope.
Kit Eavensham emerged from the bushes. The young man wore a dark cloak clutched about his person and had pulled the hood low to cover his face and fair hair.
‘You got my note?’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper.
‘I could hardly miss it as it was in my chamber pot.’
‘I thought that a good place,’ the lad said.
‘A trifle obvious to the servants, but no matter—what is your news?’ Sebastian swallowed. His throat hurt and every particle in his being waited for Kit’s answer.
‘I met the Lion at Dover.’
‘Yes—and—my son?’ Sebastian pushed the words through dry lips.
‘The Lion contacted every source in Paris, but found no record of Edwin’s execution or evidence of his death.’
Sebastian breathed again. It seemed his heart had missed a beat and was now thundering like a wild thing. ‘And Beaumont?’
Kit shrugged, the thick cloth of his cloak rustling. ‘The rumours are true. He escaped the Bastille.’
A mix of hatred and relief twisted through Sebastian. Beaumont had seduced his wife and kidnapped his children. Sebastian wanted him dead and yet, conversely, his survival gave him hope.
‘We must find him,’ he said.
‘He has not turned up here? In England?’
Sebastian shook his head. ‘I have heard nothing. Your mother tried to help by befriending the French émigrés in London. Until she broke her ankle. I’ll have to find some other female now, I suppose.’
Sebastian sighed, for once regretting his lack of female relatives—other than a great-aunt who lacked tact, or basic civility, for that matter.
Kit nodded, raising his hand towards Sebastian’s shoulder as though to offer comfort but, perhaps seeing Sebastian’s expression, allowed his palm to drop with a soft thwack against his leg.
Then, nodding a quick farewell, he left.
Alone again, Sebastian scanned the darkening landscape; the garden was tranquil except for the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen and, overhead, the rhythmic, feathered movement of a bird’s wings.
‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’ He repeated Kit’s words, giving them rhythmic cadence. ‘No record of his execution or evidence of his death.’
There was hope.
And while it hurt to hope, the alternative was unthinkable.
* * *
When Sebastian entered the drawing room, he saw that Lady Eavensham sat alone beside the fire with her ankle propped on a stool.
‘Lovely to have your company, dear.’ She smiled her welcome. ‘Lord Eavensham is showing the others a painting of his new horse, but I chose to remain seated. Getting around is still not easy. Anyway, we’re not missing much as it is not a good likeness. Animals are so difficult to paint, don’t you know, and can look dreadfully stiff. Make yourself comfy and pour yourself a brandy.’
She spoke in a trumpet of a voice, her husband being many years her senior and going deaf. Sebastian complied, sitting close to the fire’s crackling warmth. His parents had been friends with Lord and Lady Eavensham until his mother had slept with Lord Eavensham, cooling the friendship. Of course, his father’s friendships had been largely cooled with everyone—except the bottle.
She was dead now—his mother, that was.
Sebastian had remained friends with Lady Eavensham, but had seen her most frequently in London. He hadn’t been to the country estate for years, but felt an instant familiarity with the place. It typified all that was good in a country house: the huge fireplaces, shabby comfortable chairs, worn rugs, thick curtains and the mingled smells of food and smoke and dog hair.
A mirror hung over a massive stone mantelpiece and ubiquitous cupids decorated the ceiling, all pink-skinned legs and plump bellies.
‘The leg is improving?’ he asked, belatedly remembering his manners. ‘And you are not finding the country too dull?’
She shook her head. ‘I do not miss London. The conversation at the salons is not nearly as lively as in my young days. In fact, I have determined to spend more time here. There are more horses and really I find them much better company than most people.’
‘Doubtless.’
She glanced at him, her blue eyes sharp. ‘Do I detect a smile? Lud, I remember when you always had a joke and ready wit.’
‘Those days are past,’ he said.
Her rosy face puckered at his tone. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. You have little to smile about. By the by, how is Elizabeth?’
He stiffened at this abrupt mention of his silent child. ‘Physically well.’
‘And the governesses?’
‘Resigned or dismissed.’
‘Oh, dear, was that wise?’
‘Yes, when they think disciplining a frightened child will make her speak.’ He spoke grimly and felt a tic flicker across his cheek.
‘Maybe I should look for someone suitable? It’s so hard for a man.’
