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,