might have drowned herself in the lake that night, but what Fred has told me makes me doubt that. I have taken Fred into my employ as an assistant to my gamekeeper and I believe him honest. I do not think he can tell you more than I have already—but it makes me think that it was not Sarah who drowned herself in Forsythe’s lake, but a village girl who had been turned out by her family because she was with child.’
‘Then where is Sarah?’ Charles had been repeating the question over and over again in his own mind ever since his friend’s revelations.
This morning his head felt as if there were a hundred hammers working at his temples. His own fault, he readily admitted, for drinking. Feeling sorry for himself would not help him find his sister—if there was any chance of it! Sarah had been missing for so many months, more than he cared to remember—and all the agents he had employed had failed to find any trace of her. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. His mother believed her dead—had always believed it, even before they had heard of the unknown girl who had drowned herself. Daniel had given him hope, kept on searching when Charles might have given way to despair. Charles had thought her dead, but now he was haunted by the idea that Sarah was alive. His worst fear was that she was trapped in a whorehouse somewhere, living in fear and misery. His sweet, innocent little sister at the mercy of evil men!
‘Oh, God, no! Damn it, no!’ Charles said the words aloud, anger mixing with the agony of uncertainty. He brought his fist down hard on the table in front of him, making the remnants of his meal fly from the plate. ‘I cannot bear it. It shall not be!’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. The landlord told me I might share the parlour with a gentleman. I am sorry if you feel it an intrusion.’
Charles blinked and looked up. Until that moment he had not realised he was no longer alone in the inn parlour. For a moment he stared at the young woman, struggling to focus his somewhat bleary eyes. She was dressed in the height of fashion, clearly a person of some wealth and consequence—and he realised, as he raised his eyes to her face, extremely beautiful, though not in the usual way. The hair peeping from beneath her elegant travelling bonnet was a glossy black and her eyes were very dark, though as he continued to stare at her, he saw a silver spark in their depths.
‘If I am intruding, I can leave…’
‘No, of course not.’ Charles belatedly got to his feet. ‘Excuse me. I was about to go myself. Please feel free to call the parlour your own, ma’am.’ His words were abrupt, harsh, for his mood was bleak, tortured, and he hardly knew what he said or did. ‘I have things to do…’
As he walked from the parlour he was aware that he had probably sounded rude. It was not how he would have greeted such a woman in the old days, for she was certainly a beauty, and the type of woman he most admired. He had admired Elizabeth Travers—the young woman Daniel had recently married—and he had been rude to her too at the start. He had apologised to her later for his boorish behaviour, but at the moment he was too tense, too filled with apprehension to be the gentleman he was at heart. How could he be carefree and charming, when his guilt and remorse haunted him? He ought to have found Sarah by now!
It was unlikely that Fred, the footman-turned-gamekeeper, would be able to help him find Sarah, but Daniel had put him in touch with another man who might help him. Jesiah Tobbold was a man of some resources. He had helped Daniel protect his family from Sir Montague Forsythe. There was nothing to fear from Forsythe now that he was dead. Charles had killed him in a desperate struggle when the villain had tried to escape after kidnapping Elizabeth and murdering Lady Roxborough.
Not for the first time, Charles wished that they had managed to keep Forsythe alive. He should have died at the end of a hangman’s noose, as Daniel had always intended. Perhaps he could have told them where Sarah was…if he knew. Had she managed to evade her captors that fateful night? Or had Forsythe found her and imprisoned her in one of his houses of ill repute? The question haunted Charles. Until he had discovered the truth he would never rest. His mind was made up. He would speak to the assistant gamekeeper and then ask Tobbold for help to continue the search.
Arabella stood for a moment staring after the man who had just left the inn parlour so abruptly. His behaviour had shocked her, not so much because he was rude, but because of the expression of near desperation on his face—and because he so obviously did not recognise her. It was several years since they had met, but she had known him despite the ravages of grief in his face. She was sure it was grief that had given him those dark shadows beneath his eyes, and wondered what had caused him such pain.
Of course they had met only once, at her wedding to Sir Benjamin Marshall. She was sure in her own mind that his name was Charles Hunter and that he had been one of several young men introduced to her that day by Ben. Charles Hunter had been very different then. She remembered that he had teased her, telling her that if she grew tired of her husband she might turn to him. She had laughed at him, for nothing could have made her grow tired of her beloved Ben. Handsome and carefree then, what could have changed Charles Hunter from the devil-may-care young man he had been to this gaunt-eyed stranger? She sensed that he had suffered—was still suffering deeply.
‘Oh, Arabella, they say it will take several hours to mend the wheel of your carriage,’ her companion said, coming in at that moment. ‘The landlord says he can offer us a room for the night, if you wish for it.’
‘We shall stay here if we are forced,’ Arabella said. She glanced round the small room, which was not quite what she was used to when travelling, though clean and adequate. ‘But I would prefer to go on to the White Hart outside Richmond if we are able. My aunt expects us tomorrow and we may send her a message from there to tell her that we have suffered a delay.’
‘What shall I tell the landlord?’
‘Leave it to me, Tilda,’ Arabella said and smiled at her companion. Tilda Redmond was a distant cousin of her mother’s, a spinster lady of middle years, and had come to bear her company after Ben was killed. She had been meant to stay just for a few weeks, but she had shown no sign of wanting to leave and Arabella did not have the heart to send her away. Besides, she had made up her mind not to marry again, and Tilda was always so obliging. ‘I have bespoken nuncheon from our host, and we shall see how they fare with mending that wheel before we decide.’
‘As you wish,’ Tilda said. She went to warm her hands by the fire—although it was the middle of August she felt cold, as she invariably did. ‘I thought we were to share the parlour with a gentleman?’
‘Oh, he left,’ Arabella said with a shrug. ‘I dare say he had finished his ale and was anxious to continue his journey.’
‘It must have been the gentleman I saw calling for his horse.’ Tilda nodded her head. ‘He was quite handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes…’
‘Yes, I dare say that was him,’ Arabella agreed and wrinkled her smooth brow in a frown. This was getting her nowhere! She decided to forget her brief encounter with Mr Hunter. Whatever his problem might be, it was none of her business. She turned as the landlord’s wife came bustling into the parlour with her tray.
‘There’s some nice tomato soup, my lady, and the bread is fresh made this morning—and there’s some fine ham and pickles for after if you should wish for it.’
‘Thank you,’ Arabella, said. ‘We shall have the ham and a glass of your best wine, ma’am, if you please.’ She nodded her approval of the soup, which smelled delicious. ‘And you will let us know as soon as the carriage is repaired?’
‘Yes, of course,’ the woman promised and went off, leaving them to enjoy their soup, which tasted as good as it smelled.
