Chapter Five

T wo sleepless nights later, Saffron admitted defeat. No matter how much she tried to think about anything else, her mind returned to Lord Briarwood and their moment at the fountain. In her dreams, he didn't run away. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, stealing her lips.

He was just being a gentleman , Saffron thought as she lifted a water-stained box from the set of wooden shelves against the wall. It meant nothing.

A cloud of coal dust drifted up and made her cough. The only light in the windowless basement came from a small candle she'd carried down with her. The floor beneath her was beaten earth, and there was coal piled up against the stone walls. Black soot covered her dress, and the ashy smell of coal clogged her nose.

She was sure she wouldn't smell anything else for days.

She tilted the lid of the box on its side so that the remaining dust slid into a pile. After hours of searching the windowless basement, she was no closer to her goal. She set the lid aside and sorted through the contents.

Before her brother had vanished from their lives, there had been paintings of him all around the house. After he'd left, Rosemary had ordered the staff to put every painting that included his face into storage. Which made it difficult to prove to anyone that her brother was the man in the painting she'd seen at Lady Jarvis's house.

She vividly recalled his mop of unruly curls, and the way his green eyes had glinted when he'd laughed, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled at her. Despite his many flaws, Basil was still her brother, and she would not give up on him while there remained the smallest chance that he lived. Whatever he'd done, whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into, she would find him and put things to rights.

Saffron shifted her stance, sore from slouching. Gravel crunched beneath her soft slippers, cutting into her feet. She replaced the lid on the box and placed it back on the shelf. Something moved in the corner of her eye, but she refused to look, fearing it was rats or worse. She could hear them moving around her, squeaking and scuttling through the earth.

In the next box, she found a painting of her parents.

As she touched her fingers to their faces, she remembered how her father had allowed her to watch him auditing the estate accounts when she'd been young. She'd marveled at the way he'd balanced the columns of numbers, which had seemed like magic to her. But as she'd grown up, her father had pushed her into embroidery and music, activities he'd considered more suitable for a young woman.

That rejection had hurt more than anything that had followed.

She pulled a clean square of linen from her pocket, covered the painting to keep away the dust, then replaced the lid on the box and moved on to the next.

Finally, after what seemed long enough that she would become part of the clutter herself, Saffron found a portrait the size of her hand. It was something a parent commissioned for a child, a wooden frame with scalloped edges and an oval of canvas in the center.

Saffron's brother looked to be in his early twenties, and the painter had been talented enough to capture the boyish charm in Basil's eyes.

"Perfect," Saffron said, rubbing some coal dust from the frame. It would serve as a comparison when she confronted Ravenmore. She reached through a slit in her gown and stored the painting in a pocket she'd sewn into her chemise.

One never knew when a pocket would be useful.

The floorboards above her creaked, sending a spray of dust onto her head. She placed the boxes back where they had been, shook as much of the dust from her skirts as she could, then padded up the stairs to the main floor.

The ever-present clatter of wheels filtered in through the window, a consequence of their townhouse being located on the fringes of the fashionable Mayfair district. The proximity to the Thames also meant it was impossible to avoid the stench, a rotten egg smell that seeped in through the heavily scented curtains.

Saffron held her breath and scurried up the steps to her bedroom.

Angelica was lying on her stomach on the narrow bed with her legs in the air. Saffron clenched her fingers on the doorknob, scanning her room for changes.

Three logs were missing from the grate near the fireplace. The wool blanket that she kept folded in the trunk in the corner lay in a pile at the side of the bed. The chair tucked beneath her dressing table was pulled out, and the lid on the metal box that contained Saffron's few pieces of jewelry was askew.

"What took you so long?" Angelica asked, rising on her elbows. "I was falling asleep."

Saffron pulled her eyes away from her dressing table. "She hid them in the storage hutch below the dining room."

Angelica patted her palms on the bed. "Of course."

Saffron removed her gown with slow movements, to keep the dust from rubbing onto her chemise. "She must have thought it was the last place I would look."

"Was it?"

Saffron laughed. "Yes. She knows me too well."

A ruffle on Saffron's skirt snagged on a hook of her corset. Rather than tug on it and tear the fabric that she could not easily repair or replace, she began the arduous process of untangling herself.

Angelica bounced off the bed and came over to help. Soon they had the soiled garment off and discarded in a corner. She would take it to a washerwoman for cleaning in the morning.

She selected one of the many plain gowns from a leather trunk in the corner and slipped it on.

"Let me see it, then," Angelica said. "I hardly remember him."

"You could not possibly have forgotten already," Saffron said, pulling the painting from her pocket and handing it over.

"Look at that face." Angelica laughed. "It's no wonder he was a troublemaker." She set the portrait on the bed. "Do you really think he's still alive?"

Saffron unraveled her hair, shaking out black flakes of coal onto the carpet. "If he'd posed for an artist while he lived with us, I am certain he would have told us. So perhaps he posed since last we saw him. The body we buried must have been someone else. Perhaps our brother was robbed, his clothing stolen."

"If he didn't die, why would he stay away?" Angelica asked.

"I think our brother is neck deep in trouble. Maybe he owes someone a lot of money and is afraid that if he comes forward, he'll end up in debtors' gaol."

Angelica groaned. "That sounds like him. But no letter? No sign at all?" Her voice wavered. "Why would he let us think he was dead?"

Saffron set the brush on the dressing table and wrapped her arms around Angelica, feeling her sister's shoulders shake. In the mirror, she could see the tears gathering in her sister's eyes.

"Wherever he is, I am sure he has a good reason for staying away. I am sure he feels he's protecting us. We have to believe that."

Angelica sniffed. "How are we going to find him?"

Saffron pulled back and squeezed her sister's shoulders. "Leave that to me."

A booming sound made them both jump.

"The door," Angelica said. "Should I—"

"I'll get it," Saffron said firmly.

They had not received afternoon callers for weeks. If someone wanted to pay court to Angelica, then Saffron would gladly let them in, but the increasingly loud knocking suggested their visitor was not a caller.

As she descended the steps to the foyer, her corset seemed to tighten around her chest. The banging continued, shaking the old oak door on its hinges. She was tempted to retreat and wait for whoever it was to leave, but her feet continued moving until she was in front of the door, her hand on the knob.

She cracked the door open to see a short, rosy-cheeked man in a tweed suit clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand. He lowered his fist and straightened his shoulders. "Miss Summersby?"

"Yes?" She did not open the door any further, fearing he would shove his foot inside. This was no gentleman to offer his card. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place where she had seen him before.

He shoved his bundle at her. "You are in default."

She stared at the stack of papers. "Excuse me?"

The man snapped his fingers and two burly men in workman's clothes climbed the steps and stood behind him with their arms crossed. Neither of them would meet her gaze.

Please, no. Not now.

"Sorry, miss," one of the burly men said, in a grating baritone. He splayed a hand on the door and pushed it open, sending her staggering back. The door slammed against the wall and the three men sauntered inside.

That was where she knew the short man from. He was the bank manager. Basil had held a few meetings at the house when they'd encountered financial difficulty in the past. Her charming brother had always been able to wheedle a few extra weeks out of the man through flattery and bribery. Saffron had watched her brother subtly press bank notes into the man's hands when greeting him. She hadn't understood the necessity.

Until now.

"Paintings and any small items of value first," the short man said to his henchmen. "Pay particular attention to shiny baubles. Those items will fetch the best prices."

This cannot be happening.

Saffron gaped as strangers trod all over her carefully washed floors with their dirty boots. What could she do to stop them? She barely had enough notes for a carriage. The shop that had bought her mother's jewelry was not open until the morning.

She rushed to the bank manager's side. "P-Please…" She searched her memory for a name. "Mr. Grummet. I am sure we can come to some kind of understanding."

The man ignored her. He was too busy barking commands at a cart driver outside.

Saffron's head pounded. She wasn't a man and therefore was not worth his attention. She clenched her back teeth together. If he would not listen, she would make him. She had to get all of them out before Angelica or Rosemary came downstairs and discovered they were pillaging the house.

" Mr. Grummet ," she said loudly.

The man spun around, scowling. "Cease your screeching, woman. The terms of the mortgage your brother signed are clear. Upon default, the bank has the right to auction the house and everything inside it. If you have a grievance, you can apply to—"

She stepped forward, donning her best smile. "There will be no need for that, my dear Mr. Grummet. Have you seen our…" She searched the house in her mind for something that would convince the man to leave, something of value she could give to him to stop this madness. She could not remember what she'd eaten the previous day, but she could recall every word of a conversation that had happened more than three years ago. Mr. Grummet had expressed a desire to purchase several of Basil's books, but Basil had insisted they had not been for sale.

"Our library," she said. Her face felt as stiff as starched linen. "My father was a collector, you understand. There are several very rare volumes." She leaned forward. "They could be yours, Mr. Grummet. Not the bank's. Are you a collector?"

The man narrowed his eyes. "What manner of volumes?"

She knew what she had to say, but she choked on the words. It went against everything that was important to her.

"What are those men doing?"

Saffron jerked her head around so fast that fire erupted in her neck. "Angelica, return to your room. I will deal with this."

The fear on her sister's face broke Saffron's heart anew. Her task was difficult enough without Angelica there to witness it.

Angelica flew down the stairs and linked her arm with Saffron's, then faced the bank manager.

Mr. Grummet shuffled his feet. "The books?"

"We have never read any of them, of course," Angelica said before Saffron could speak. "What use do we have for books?" She sniffed. "Take the entire library. It will give us more room for dancing."

Saffron's eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. She would mourn the loss later, with Angelica tucked in her arms. The most important thing was to evict the strangers from their home so they could regroup.

The bank manager stuck out a hand. "Might I see those papers, Miss Summersby?"

Saffron realized they were stuck beneath her arm. She hadn't looked at them. She was too afraid to see what they would say. She shoved them at the man.

Mr. Grummet leafed through a few pages, then nodded. "I must apologize, Miss Summersby. It appears I read the date wrong. You have another month—"

"Three months," Saffron said. "Many of the books are first editions."

Mr. Grummet clenched his jaw. "Very well. You have three months to pay what is due before we can legally claim the property." He snapped his fingers again. The workmen set down the pieces they were carrying and made their way toward the steps.

"An understandable mistake," Saffron said tightly. The floor dipped and bucked beneath her as if she was on the deck of a ship. She clung to Angelica to keep upright. She could not waver until the awful man was gone.

Only then would she allow herself to feel.

*

The memory of men carrying armfuls of books down the steps would haunt Saffron for the rest of her life. They had treated those precious items like any other trinket, letting the covers flop open without a care for the spines. It was enough to make her bite her tongue to keep from screaming. Saffron peered out the small window of the hired carriage. Water droplets flicked the glass and trailed away in long lines, clinging to the window before whipping away into the night. The woods on either side of the road blurred past, a stream of brown and green like two paints that had spilled together. The rain hammered against the roof and drowned out the rattling of the wheels.

That morning she had penned letters in response to three families seeking a governess, but she had little hope they would respond. There were many young ladies applying, and not enough positions available.

A situation more suited to her skills was that of a lady's companion, but the few women she knew who might have need of one had no interest in employing her.

They prefer to look down their noses at me. Regardless, she doubted she could ever earn enough to support her family.

The gold-toned parchment in her valise bearing the Briarwood seal was their only hope. She had to find Ravenmore and demand where he had met her brother. When she had proof that Basil still lived, she would convince Aunt Rosemary to refuse the duke's suit of Angelica and give her time to find their brother and restore their fortune. Then things would go back to the way they had been.

Angelica deserves better , she thought, remembering how Lord Briarwood had rescued her from Canterbury's scorn in Lady Jarvis's ballroom. The two men could not have been more different. The duke's reputation was sterling, his manner acidic. Meanwhile, ladies clutched their daughters close whenever Viscount Briarwood passed, and yet she had never met anyone who had treated her with such gentleness.

"I feel as if I am being dragged along the road," Angelica said, rubbing her back. "What will the other guests think if we arrive in such a poor state?"

The carriage was sparse, without warm bricks to heat them or even padding on the bare wooden seats. Saffron had given over one of her few gowns to Rosemary, who had tucked it around her legs. Every time the carriage hit a rut in the road, all three women knocked into each other.

"It is the best we could afford," Saffron said, breathing on her chilled fingers. It didn't seem possible, with the oppressive heat in London, that it could be so cold only a day's drive into the country. She flicked the shade on the window shut. "We should be glad we found any transport."

They had left town late, held up by the difficulty of finding a conveyance. It seemed every family on their street had left on the same day to escape the heat and stench of London.

She had managed a few fitful hours of sleep, woken by every creak and howl of the wind, certain that brigands or highwaymen surrounded them.

Not that they had anything of real value. They had sold most of their jewelry to pay their debts.

The carriage rattled to a stop.

"Are we there?" Angelica asked.

Saffron pulled back the shade from the window. "I don't think so." They were at the edge of a river. The dark, surging waters lashed against the shore and sent up a cloud of spray that spattered the side of the carriage.

"We've arrived at the gates of hell," Angelica said, looking over her shoulder.

"I did not hear that," Rosemary said. "My niece does not speak like a common sailor."

"I'll ask our driver," Saffron said. She steadied her nerves, then opened the door and stepped out. The rain soaked her gown in seconds. Wind buffeted her hair, and before she could reach up, her bonnet whipped from her head and flew off into the trees.

She sheltered against the side of the carriage and looked up at the hulking man atop it.

"Why did we stop?" she yelled.

The coachman slid down off his perch and peered at her from beneath his hood, grinning a gap-toothed smile. He pointed toward the water. "We wait to cross."

She held a hand to her head to keep her wet hair from lashing against her face. There was a small craft approaching them, little more than a bundle of logs lashed together. "That is hardly a ferry."

The coachman shrugged. "The boat doesn't run in the squall."

I guess we have no choice.

They had not passed an inn for hours, and she did not wish to spend the night in the cramped quarters of the carriage.

She backed up and opened the door. Rosemary and Angelica stared at her with wide eyes, like two owls in a burrow. As Saffron stepped inside, the rain splattered into the interior, but when she turned to close them in, the storm tugged the door out of her grip.

Angelica's hands joined hers on the handle, and together, they pulled until the door slammed shut, sending them falling to the floor.

Saffron flicked the water from her hands. "We're at the river crossing. Not much longer now."

Rosemary huffed. "If our host has any sense, he will have hot towels waiting for us when we arrive. I can't understand why anyone would live in the frigid country."

Saffron peeked out the small window as the ferry docked against the shore. The coachman navigated the carriage onto the contraption. It was not a ferry, more like a barge that floated from one side of the river to the other. There was a small, enclosed area in the center where passengers could shelter from the rain, but Rosemary and Angelica were determined to stay inside the carriage. The coachman muttered his annoyance at their choice, as he had to stay with them in the sheeting rain, lest the horses spook.

The surging waters lapped against the sides of the ferry, causing it to pitch and sway. She huddled into a ball on the floor. There were so many things that could go wrong. The barge could sink. They could be tossed overboard. Lightning could strike them and set the carriage aflame.

It will be fine , she thought, forcing herself to believe it.

Angelica gasped, and the ferry bucked, throwing them in the air. It happened half a dozen more times before they finished the crossing.

"I do not know how you enjoyed that," Saffron groaned. Her head throbbed and there was a bitter taste at the back of her throat, like she had sucked on a penny. It had taken all her concentration not to cast up her accounts all over the floor.

The wheels thumped onto the earth as the coachmen led them off the barge. Then they were off again, the horses plodding along a narrow path that was surrounded by dense forest.

As she chewed the inside of her cheek, there was a deafening thunder crack, the sound of splintering wood, and the shriek of horses. The carriage listed to one side, sending all three women sliding into the wall.

"I say!" Rosemary banged on the roof with her fist. "Watch where—"

A low creaking filled the carriage, and then it toppled over.

Saffron's shoulder hit something hard, and she tumbled onto her back. As she struggled out of the heavy embrace of her skirts, Angelica grabbed for the door high above them. Rosemary lay slumped on her side, her head lolled back.

A jolt of pure fear shot through Saffron. Rosemary looked like her mother, flushed and pale on her sickbed.

"She's okay," Angelica said, grasping for the door. She got her fingers around the handle and pushed but couldn't open it.

"Let me try," Saffron said, holding her hands against the carriage walls. As she reached up and grasped the handle, something smacked against the side of the carriage.

"Hang on, 'ere," a rough voice called.

Saffron lunged for Rosemary as Angelica clutched the seats. The carriage groaned again and shifted upright, then settled with one corner lower than the rest. She threw open the door to see the remains of a broken wheel scattered across the road.

"What do we do now?" Angelica asked, clutching her arms around herself.

The driver was standing by the horses. Saffron struggled through the sucking mud to his side, only to realize he was removing the ropes that held one of the two horses to the carriage.

She reached out to grab his cloak, shouting words that were whipped away by the wind. Her fingers tangled in the fabric, and she took a firm grip, pulling with all her strength.

"Miss, it's every man for himself!" he shouted. Then he waved an arm, and she fell back into the mud, the thick cloak in a heap on her lap. By the time she'd recovered, the coachman was on the horse departing down the road.

They were on their own.

Hold it together , she thought. The others need you.

She struggled out of the mud and pulled the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Although it was as wet as the rest of her clothing, it was wool and provided some warmth. She flipped up the hood and trudged over to the carriage. Their cases had broken open and spilled their clothing all over the interior. Angelica kneeled in front of Rosemary, pilling fabric onto the older woman.

"The coachman fled, didn't he?" Rosemary asked, frowning.

Saffron shrugged the cloak into a more comfortable position around her shoulders. "He took a horse."

Angelica made a low, keening sound and slumped at Rosemary's feet. "What are we going to do? We'll die of cold. I was right, this is hell!"

"Calm yourself," Rosemary said, kicking at Angelica with her leg beneath the many layers of fabric. "Hysterics will not help us."

The remaining horse bucked and carried on with its terrible shrieks.

Saffron looked at her family, huddled together in the cold. Water dripped down onto the seat from a crack in the roof. Even if the storm ebbed in the morning, it might be several hours before anyone came down the road. They would catch a chill from the cold and be bedridden for weeks. Or worse, the next person to come by would find three frozen bodies.

They were stuck, and it was her fault. If it were not for her delay in getting transportation, they would have arrived hours earlier. A dizziness worse than the seasickness she'd felt crossing the water washed over her. Panic was setting in. She had to act fast.

"Sister, you have a plan, don't you?" Angelica asked, her voice pitched higher than usual. "You always have a plan."

"O-Of course," Saffron replied, forcing herself to speak with confidence she did not feel. The weight of the situation bore down on her, and a thousand ideas flooded her mind all at once.

Take shelter and wait it out. No. Build a fire, keep warm. No. Take the horse.

She seized upon the last. "I'll go ahead. Stay here and try to stay warm."

Before Angelica or Rosemary could argue, she closed the shattered carriage door and strode toward the horse, hoping she wasn't making a mistake.