Strangers at Dawn (11 page)

She shouldn’t be surprised, she told herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d sensed the steel in him. On the surface, he was all casual charm and easy smiles, but there was more to Max Worthe than that. He was a dangerous male animal, and she’d be a fool to forget it.

“Sara? What did I say?”

She ignored the hand he held out to her. “You’ve been following me for two days and two nights. You’ve been sneaking around behind my back, asking questions about me. Why are you doing this? Why?”

“You know why.”

Their eyes met and held. She trembled. He frowned. Heat and passion flared between them like a flash fire. Max was shaken. Sara was appalled.

She dragged her eyes away. “I’m going to be married, Max. I told you that already.”

“I don’t believe you. Where is this suitor?”

“There’s been a delay. But he’ll be here soon. Please, Max, don’t spoil this for me.”

He shrugged carelessly, but she could still sense the banked fires beneath the control. “He’s a fool to leave you unprotected.” When her eyes went wide, he said impatiently, “Don’t let your imagination make something of that last remark. I won’t hurt you, Sara. But I’m not going to stay away either.”

She’d learned the value of keeping her emotions under a tight rein. A woman who was at the mercy of her feelings was vulnerable, and that was something she could not afford to be. Slowly and deliberately, she gathered her dignity. “You’re way off the mark if you think you can make me do what I don’t want to do, Max.”

His smile dazzled her. “I don’t know, Sara. You’ve been calling me ‘Max’ for the last little while. The trick is in knowing how to manage a woman.”

“And you’ve had plenty of practice, I suppose?”

He laughed, reached past her and accepted a fresh glass of water from the pump attendant. “Just watch me, Sara, just watch me.”

Not a word passed between them as they returned to the bench where they’d left the ladies. Sara inwardly fumed, but as much as she wanted to send Max Worthe about his
business, she was afraid of a scene. She sensed a recklessness in him that alarmed her. If she didn’t watch out, she’d find her name on the lips of all the gossip mongers in Bath.

She tried to nurse her temper to keep it hot, but her annoyance was soon overtaken by a grudging amusement. Max Worthe really did know how to manage women. The trick, she decided as she studied him, was to give them his full attention. His eyes didn’t shift restlessly around the room as though his mind were elsewhere. He seemed to be enjoying himself as much as the two ladies who were the object of his attentions.

Her amusement dimmed when she realized that Miss Beattie, straitlaced, and a confirmed spinster, was flirting outrageously. She’d never seen Bea like this before-pink cheeks, fluttering eyelashes, and a vacuous smile. Bea was also talking too much, telling him about all the places they hoped to visit, practically inviting him along.

They were all becoming too friendly for Sara’s peace of mind.

She tried to catch her companion’s eye, to warn her off, but Miss Beattie was proving to be obstinate, and Sara knew why. Max Worthe was just the kind of man Bea had hoped would miraculously appear on the horizon and ride to their rescue. He was handsome, personable, and could have given Prince Charming a run for his money.

And that’s precisely why he was the wrong man.

“And what brings you to Bath, Mr. Worthe?” asked Miss Beattie at one point.

“A friend,” said Max. “He lives nearby, on the other side of Claverton. Marston Manor. Do you know it?”

Mrs. Hastings nodded. “Lady Meynell lives there. Then Ash Meynell must be your friend?”

“He is,” said Max.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hastings.
“I
believe Mr. Meynell has gone to Brighton. He goes there every year at this time.”

Max scratched his chin and glanced at Sara.

She said sweetly, “It seems that you’ve come a long way for nothing, Mr. Worthe.”

“Oh,
I
don’t know,” he replied easily. “I’m at a loose end. I might as well stay on and take in all that Bath has to offer.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” Miss Beattie’s sharp eyes flew from Max’s face to Sara’s. “In my opinion, Bath is vastly underrated. If you do decide to stay, Mr. Worthe, I’m sure you’ll find the experience worthwhile.”

He smiled. “I hope so.”

Max did not stay long after that, and as he made his way out of the Pump Room, the older ladies began to compare notes.

“He seems like a nice young man,” observed Miss Beattie.

Mrs. Hastings chuckled. “I’ve no doubt that he is, but if he is anything like his friend-Ash Meynell, I mean-the mothers in Bath had better start locking up their daughters, yes, and themselves as well. The stories I could tell you!” Her eyes twinkled and she shook her head. “You’ll think I’m speaking
ill
of young Mr. Meynell, but really, I’m not. We all like him, in spite of his reputation. But when he’s in town, he is inclined to shake us up a bit.”

Miss Beattie looked wistfully at Max’s retreating back and Mrs. Hastings gave another chuckle. “I’d wager that every lady’s heart beats just a little faster when Mr. Worthe walks into a room. Well, just look around and tell me if I’m wrong.”

Sara and Miss Beattie obediently looked around the Pump Room. There was no doubt about it. Max Worthe had caught the surreptitious glances of many ladies, irrespective of age.

Mrs. Hastings suddenly exclaimed. “Maxwell Worthe! I remember him! He’s Ash Meynell’s best friend. Lord Maxwell, that’s who he is, He’s a charmer, all right. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. And you, too, Miss Childe.”

The warning was unnecessary. Sara had already made up her mind that Max Worthe was nothing but trouble.

O
VER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MAX MADE SURE
he just happened to be at all the functions Sara attended. It wasn’t difficult to do. Miss Beattie had taken a liking to him, and, when Sara wasn’t within earshot, she would casually mention where they were going to be that afternoon, or evening, and Max would be there too.

On this occasion, he’d just returned from the Pump Room to his lodgings in the Christopher Hotel. There were no personal servants waiting for him when he entered his chamber, no valet to brush out his clothes or help him choose what to wear. He’d given up all the trappings of his rank and wealth when he’d become a newspaperman. An aristocrat who traveled with a retinue of servants was not taken seriously in his business, and Max was determined to be taken seriously.

He’d sent to Castle Lyndhurst, the family seat, for the garments he kept there, and one of the hotel’s footmen was just finishing unpacking them and putting them away. When the footman left, Max opened the large mahogany wardrobe and made an inventory of what was there.

At last he had something decent to wear.

He wondered if Sara would notice the difference. Probably not. She was convinced that he was an idle dandy with nothing more serious on his mind than the cut of his garments and chasing women. She hadn’t asked him any questions about his family or connections. She’d made up her mind that he was trouble, and the only way she could cope was to keep him at arm’s length.

She’d practically handed him a script to keep her in his orbit.

With a muffled oath, he flung himself down on the bed.

Sara. The only thing he was sure of was that the feelings
she had aroused at the Black Swan were still there. In fact, they had only grown stronger, and that appalled him. He should know better. There was a file on her an inch thick in the
Courier’s
offices in London, and it wasn’t pleasant reading.

Sara Carstairs was a woman of loose morals. She’d started an affair with William Neville right under her sister’s nose, which wasn’t hard to do, considering that the Nevilles lived in the dower house in the grounds of Longfield, the show home Samuel Carstairs had restored to its original Elizabethan splendor.

She’d never denied that she’d had an affair with her brother-in-law, and if she had denied it, the letters she had written to him would have proved her a liar. Moreover, William’s friends had testified that he was inflamed when he heard that Sara was going to be married. He’d left them drinking at the King’s Head tavern in Stoneleigh, swearing that he would make her pay, and he’d never been seen again.

It was William’s father who had raised the alarm. The following morning, he’d found William’s horse wandering the downs. And then had begun the massive search for William’s body.

The constable had come to Sara first.

Her alibi was unconvincing. She wasn’t at Longfield, but at the dower house, where she’d spent the whole night nursing her sister, so she said. Of course, it just happened that Anne Neville’s only servant was conveniently visiting relatives in Winchester at the time.

And Sara swore under oath, in the statement that was read to the court, that William hadn’t come home that night. Her sister had corroborated her story, but since Anne Neville had been dosed with laudanum, no one believed her.

Max threw himself off the bed and went to stand by the open window. His room overlooked the side of the abbey and beyond that, the gardens that sloped down to the river
Avon. What in Hades was a woman like Sara Carstairs doing in a place like Bath?

When he’d started out from Reading and realized she was traveling west, he’d guessed that she’d make the turn at Thatcham to take the road to Stoneleigh. He’d been so sure in his own mind that he’d sent an express to Peter Fallon telling him to drop everything and meet him in Stoneleigh. And that’s where Peter was right now. But when they reached Thatcham, her coach did not make the turn to Stoneleigh but continued to drive west.

She was going to be married, she said.

He might have believed her if she had ordered him out of her room before things went too far.

William,
she’d whispered when he’d climbed through her open window, and she’d sounded deathly afraid. But later she’d told him that William was ancient history because he was dead.

I thought I was in love with him once. There was a local girl. She was with child. William’s child. He deserted her.

Was William alive or dead? That was the question that had obsessed Max on the long drive from Reading. If William was alive, then they’d all misjudged Sara, himself most of all. And if William was dead, it was entirely possible that at her trial, Sara Carstairs had had them all believing exactly what she wanted them to believe.

Her eyes were dark, but they weren’t brown, as they’d seemed to him in the dimly lit interior of the Black Swan. They were gray, and as dark and fathomless as the waters of the cold North Sea.

What secrets was she keeping from him?

He“would be going contrary to everything he stood for as a newspaperman if he didn’t go after the story.

His mouth curved in a smile that revealed recklessness as well as humor. He couldn’t lie to himself. There was more to his pursuit of Sara than getting his story. He had a vested interest in discovering the truth. He had to know whether
she was the woman he’d met in the Black Swan or the Sara Carstairs who had been painted as a heartless murderess at her trial.

He turned from the window and began to pull off his clothes. He had things to do, plans to make. Sara and Bath could wait for a little while longer. He was going back to where it all started.

Seven

T
HE MANOR HOUSE, SIR IVOR’S ANCIENT FAMILY
seat, was nestled in a lush valley about five miles out of Stoneleigh, on the road to Winchester. With its honey-colored stone walls and mullioned bay windows, it was a picturesque English gem. But that was only a facade. The manor, as Max remembered, had been built on a medieval fortress and was a warren of rooms and long passages that went nowhere.

Max was waiting in an anteroom while Sir Ivor’s butler carried his card to his master. He’d hoped to have a few words with Lady Neville also, but the butler had told him that her ladyship was not receiving visitors. Max remembered the woman as a pathetic case of arrested development, a giddy schoolgirl entrapped in an aging shell. His mother, who was much more charitable than he, said it was a wonder poor Lady Neville had not ended up in an insane asylum, considering who her husband was.

His mother did not like Sir Ivor Neville. Though they could hardly be called neighbors, they were among the leading families in Hampshire, and inevitably their paths crossed. He wondered about Sara’s family. In their own way, they would have been considered among the leading families
in and around Stoneleigh. They were Sir Ivor’s nearest neighbors, their house, Longfield, only a mile or two along the road. But Max doubted that Sir Ivor had made friends with Samuel Carstairs. He was too full of his own importance to make a friend of a man who made his money in trade. It must have stuck in his craw when his son and heir married Anne Carstairs.

The butler returned at that moment and indicated that Sir Ivor would see him now. When Max entered the library, Sir Ivor rose from his desk and offered Max his hand, then waved him to an oversized wing armchair that flanked a massive stone fireplace that could have heated a castle. Sir Ivor was dressed formally in blue cutaway coat and breeches. His silver hair was immaculate. Everything about Sir Ivor was immaculate. It was the first time Max had ever thought of William Neville with a twinge of sympathy.