Page 42 of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover
After that, the only difficult part was ignoring the drop. A pipe ran close by the window, giving her something to cling to, as she used the ornamental carvings that festooned the building as footholds in her climb. This must have been an important building, in its time, before this part of London sunk into a slum.
She reached the roof and dropped flat for a rest before trying to find a way across the roofs as far as she could get from her captors’ lair. A stir below had her peeping over the edge in time to see her rescue arrive—Nate in a phaeton driven by Lord Aldridge, and Uncle James and Drew on horseback with a full dozen of the guard. The bawd’s men scattered at their approach, and disappeared in the other direction, or down narrow ways between buildings.
Sarah didn’t want to shout. No point in alerting a villain who might reach her before her family did. She felt in her hair and found she had retained a few hairpins. With a handful of them, she began peppering the men who were below, having a conversation before storming the house. Deciding strategy, beyond a doubt.
Two of her pins must have struck, for one of the guards exclaimed and looked up, and then Lord Aldridge. He grinned and grabbed Nate by the arm, saying something and pointing upward.
They were all gazing up, now, but Sarah had her eyes locked on Nate, and he had his on her, his smile a broad beam, his eyes full of warmth.
18
She is safe.Nate bounded up the stairs of the rooming house next door, having given the landlady such a generous bribe she would probably have sold him half the tenants, and not just access to the roof. The fear and anger that had driven him across London still roiled in his gut, a hollow burning ache.
She is safe, he thought again as he stepped out onto the roof and she walked into his arms, filling the emptiness. “I have never been more frightened in my life,” he murmured in her ear.
“I knew you would come to rescue me,” she replied, snuggling in as if she wanted him to absorb her, lifting her mouth to his.
He met her lips partway, lingering over a kiss that heated him to the core, transmuting what remained of his distress into a different kind of passion. He caught at the shreds of his self-control and reminded her, “You rescued yourself.”
Another kiss. He felt the urgency in her response; understood that it mirrored his own. But a roof in the slums was no place to celebrate her survival, especially when one of the duke’s men had followed him up and was leaning over the edge of the roof, signalling to the group below.
“I have a phaeton below. Let us go home.” He released her reluctantly, but took her hand to lead her down the narrow stairs. “Your sister will be beside herself.”
“The place next door is a brothel, I think,” Sarah told him. “The bawd ordered my kidnap, or Charlotte’s rather.”
“Yes, the Wilton woman told us.” Nate looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “Aldridge has an inventive line in threats and your uncle is plain scary. He and his men are waiting for you to be safely away and for the constables to arrive, and then the bawd and her brawn will be arrested.”
“It was an abduction to order. A gentleman, the bawd said. One who wanted to marry Charlotte. One of her bully boys called him ‘his grace’. Nate, I think it must be Richport. He made an offer for Charlotte earlier this year.”
Nate stopped on one of the landings for another kiss, needing the reassurance of her presence in his arms. “How did they react when they found they had you, instead?”
She shuddered. “Not well. They were waiting to find out if ‘the gentleman’ would accept me in Charlotte’s place. Easy to make me a widow, they said.” Her voice broke on the last sentence, and he kissed her again, until the duke’s man cleared his throat. He was standing above them on the stair, studiously examining the ceiling.
Nate squeezed his arms around Sarah and released her. “They reckoned without my brave wife. You rescued yourself, and now let us tell your uncle what you’ve told me, and then I will take you home.”
* * *
Nate had Sarah’s reticule in the phaeton, and she was able to comb her hair and fix it into a simple roll with her remaining hair pins. Enough to keep it under the bonnet that he had also retrieved from Wilton’s workshop.
She had replaced her stockings and shoes and tidied her clothes while waiting for Nate. She probably still looked ruffled and untidy, but not enough to draw attention as they crossed town.
Nate lifted her up into the phaeton—Aldridge’s, apparently. The marquis and Drew had gone into the brothel to keep the bawd and her men distracted until the arrival of the constables Uncle James had sent for.
She and Nate passed them as they drove away. Two of Uncle James’s fierce retainers accompanied a group of perhaps half a dozen, Bow Street Horse Patrol men by their red waistcoats. The guardsmen grinned at Sarah and exchanged acknowledgements with the two guardsmen who had been sent to escort her and Nate back across London.
As they drove, Nate told her how Aldridge had brought the warning, and she asked him about the footman and Yahzak. But most of the trip was taken in silence, Sarah with her hand tucked around Nate’s arm, leaning against him to feel his strength and his warmth.
As the streets grew wider and the houses larger and more fashionable, she began to see people she knew. Nate kept the phaeton to as fast a pace as possible, while Sarah returned any greetings with nothing more than a wave or a nod, though the nods became harder and harder to manage as her headache built, until it throbbed with every bump in the road, swam with every sway around a corner.
At last, they turned into the mews behind Winshire House. Several grooms rushed for the horses, and Barker, the head groom, appeared on her side of the phaeton himself, ready to help her down. “Thank God you are safe, my lady,” he said. She swallowed her nausea, braced against the pain, and smiled at him.
The sentiment was repeated over and over, as she entered the house clinging to Nate’s arm. They made their way through a throng of servants to the parlour where, or so Grosvenor the butler said, Charlotte was waiting.
Two men stood as they entered—David Wakefield and another, whom she recognised after a moment, even as Nate started forward with a cry of recognition. “Cousin Arthur!”
Sarah braced herself again, smiling at the room, wondering how long she needed to stay before she could seek her bed.
“You look as if you could do with a cup of tea,” Charlotte said, as the two men exchanged delighted greetings, and tried to compress seven years of news into a few exclamations.
