She stared at him. “Jardine?” she said. “Why would his father say he was dead if he were not?”
“Hashe said it?” Jocelyn asked. “Or has he merely not contradicted the rumor that has been making the circuit of London drawing rooms and clubs?”
She was looking steadily at him. “Why are you here?” she asked.
All day he had wondered what exactly he would say. He had come to no satisfactory conclusion. “I know where she is,” he said. “I found her other employment when she left Dudley House.”
Lady Webb was on her feet instantly. “In town?” she asked. “Take me to her. I will bring her here and give her sanctuary while I have my solicitor look into the ridiculous charges against her. If your suspicions are correct and Sidney Jardine is still alive…Well. Where is she?”
Jocelyn had risen too. “She is in town, ma’am,” he assured her. “I will bring her to you. I would have brought her now, but I had to be sure that she would find a safe haven here.”
Her gaze became shrewd suddenly.
“Tresham,” she asked, as he had feared she would, “what other employment did you find Sara?”
“You must understand, ma’am,” he said stiffly, “that she gave me a false name. She told me she had been brought up in an orphanage. It was clear that she had had a genteel upbringing, but I thought her destitute and friendless.”
She closed her eyes briefly, but she did not relax her very erect posture. “Bring her to me,” she said. “You will have a maid or some respectable female companion with her when she arrives.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “I do, of course, consider myself affianced to Lady Sara Illingsworth.”
“Of course.” There was a certain coldness in the eyes that regarded him so keenly. “It just seems a rather sad irony that she has escaped from one blackguard merely to land in the clutches of another. Bring her to me.”
Jocelyn made her a bow, resisting the urge to don his usual expression of cynical hauteur. At least the woman had enough integrity not to be rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of netting the Duke of Tresham for her goddaughter.
“Enlist the help of your solicitor by all means, ma’am,” he said. “In the meantime I will be doing my own part to clear the name of my betrothed and to release her from the bonds of an inappropriate guardianship. Good day.”
He left her standing straight and proud and hostile in the middle of her drawing room. Someone to whom he could quite safely bring Jane. A friend at last.
JANE REMAINED IN HERbedchamber for a whole hour after Jocelyn had left, doing nothing but sit on the dressing table stool, her slippered feet side by side on the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes glazed as they gazed unseeing at the carpet.
Then she got up and removed all her clothes, everything that had been bought for her. She took from her wardrobe the plain muslin dress, the serviceable shift, and the stockings she had worn to London and dressed again. She brushed out her hair and braided it tightly so that it would fit beneath her gray bonnet. She pulled on the bonnet and matching cloak, slipped her feet into her old shoes, drew on her black gloves, and was ready to go. She picked up her bag of meager possessions—and the priceless bracelet—and let herself quietly out of her room.
Unfortunately Phillip was in the hallway below. He looked at her in surprise—she had never been out before, of course, and she was very plainly dressed.
“You are going out, ma’am?” he asked redundantly.
“Yes.” She smiled. “Just for a walk and some fresh air, Phillip.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hurried to open the door for her and looked uncertainly at her bag. “Where shall I tell his grace you have gone, ma’am, if he should return?”
“That I have gone for a walk.” She retained her smile as she stepped out onto the doorsill. She immediately felt the panic of one who fears falling off the edge of the world. She stepped resolutely forward. “I am not a prisoner here, you know.”
“No, of course, ma’am,” Phillip was hasty to agree. “Enjoy your walk, ma’am.”
She wanted to turn back to say a proper good-bye to him. He was a pleasant young man who had always been eager to please. But she merely walked on and listened to the sound of the door closing behind her.
Like a prison door.
Shutting her out.
It might have been just oversensitive nerves, of course. She realized that as soon as she sensed less than five minutes later that she was being followed. But she would not turn around to look. Neither would she quicken her pace—nor slacken it. She strode along the pavement at a steady pace, her back straight, her chin up.
“Lady Sara Illingsworth? Good afternoon, my lady.”
The voice, reasonably pleasant, not raised, came from close behind her. She felt as if a reptile were crawling up her spine. Terror attacked her knees, nausea her stomach. She stopped and turned slowly.
“A member of the Bow Street Runners, I presume?” she said just as pleasantly. He certainly did not look the part. Neither tall nor large in girth, he appeared like nothing more than a poor man’s imitation of a dandy.
