href="#litres_trial_promo"> Chapter Twenty-One
November 8th, 1793
The severed blonde curl lay in stark relief against the polished wood of the desk.
‘Hardly conclusive evidence of my wife’s demise.’ Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, kept his glance dispassionate as he lifted his gaze from the silken strands.
‘This might be more convincing,’ Beaumont said, removing a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and smoothing it out with meticulous care.
A death certificate.
‘I did not realise the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety had sufficient time to document Madame La Guillotine’s every victim,’ Sebastian drawled.
An ugly colour suffused the other man’s features. He was tall and had quick eyes set within a narrow face; everything about him was angular except for the pouches under his eyes and a lax softening of his chin.
Sebastian had always disliked Beaumont, but that was a pale sentiment compared to his hatred now.
Sebastian wanted to kill him.
He wanted to squeeze the man’s throat with his bare hands until his eyes bulged and his face purpled into lifelessness.
But he would not do so. He could not do so or any hope of recovering his children would be lost.
‘Given my wife’s apparent demise, might I enquire after the welfare of my children?’ he asked instead, keeping his face expressionless and his tone bland.
‘They are in my care.’
‘How reassuring. And what will it take to get them out of your care and into my own?’
Beaumont smiled, the thin lips curving upward to reveal neat white teeth. He leaned over the desk and Sebastian smelled the cloying sweetness of the man’s cologne. ‘Your children will be returned for a price.’
‘And if I am unable to meet that price?’
Beaumont reached for the blonde curl, twisting it through his well-manicured fingers. He moved it slowly—around, between, under and over. ‘Efficient lady—Madame La Guillotine.’
Sebastian stood, the movement violent and impossible to contain. His chair crashed against the wall. It fell sideways and banged to the floor.
Beaumont jumped back, but Sebastian rounded the desk and was on him. He had the man by the throat, pulling him so close he could see the pores of the man’s once-handsome face.
‘I promise you one thing,’ Sebastian ground out between his clenched teeth. ‘If my children are hurt, you will not live.’
April 7th, 1794
Sarah Martin lifted her skirts. Her feet sank into the mud and water dripped rhythmically from the bushes bordering the woodland path.
Neither fact lowered her spirits.
Smiling, Sarah sniffed the earthiness of the English countryside and held her skirts higher than was respectable.
Mrs Crawford would have frowned, but then Mrs Crawford spent considerable time in that occupation.
Sarah’s sun had risen, metaphorically, shortly after luncheon with a last-minute dinner invitation from Lady Eavensham to even the numbers at her dining table.
Such events did not often happen to Sarah, although they occurred with delightful frequency in her writing. Her current heroine, Miss Petunia Hardcastle, had just recently made a stunning entrance in a diaphanous blue dress created from her grandmother’s ball gown.
Unfortunately, Sarah’s dress was neither diaphanous nor blue, but a serviceable grey. Moreover, unlike Miss Hardcastle, Sarah’s longing for fashionable company had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with London. The mere mention of that city gave her a wonderful thrill of hope, a prickly sensation like the goosebumps she used to get at Christmas.
One day she would go there. One day she would keep her promise. One day—
A crackle of twigs and leaves startled her out of her reverie. She stopped. A second scuffle caught her attention and she peered into the ditch. ‘Pauvre lapin,’ she spoke quickly in her mother’s language.
A rabbit lay, sprawled among the weeds and grasses. Its back paw was entangled in a poacher’s trap, its brown sides moving in frantic undulation.
Sarah bit her lip. Kneeling, she placed her valise to one side. She eyed the trap, but did not touch the mechanism for fear of hurting herself or causing the animal harm. She was familiar with the device, but it was vastly different to manipulate its jaws whilst they were empty than to contemplate doing so while this petrified creature lay within its grip.
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