Well, just look around and tell me if I’m wrong.”
Sara and Miss Beattie obediently looked around the Pump Room. There was no doubt about it. Max Worthe had caught the surreptitious glances of many ladies, irrespective of age.
Mrs. Hastings suddenly exclaimed. “Maxwell Worthe! I remember him! He’s Ash Meynell’s best friend. Lord Maxwell, that’s who he is, He’s a charmer, all right. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. And you, too, Miss Childe.”
The warning was unnecessary. Sara had already made up her mind that Max Worthe was nothing but trouble.
O VER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MAX MADE SURE he just happened to be at all the functions Sara attended. It wasn’t difficult to do. Miss Beattie had taken a liking to him, and, when Sara wasn’t within earshot, she would casually mention where they were going to be that afternoon, or evening, and Max would be there too.
On this occasion, he’d just returned from the Pump Room to his lodgings in the Christopher Hotel. There were no personal servants waiting for him when he entered his chamber, no valet to brush out his clothes or help him choose what to wear. He’d given up all the trappings of his rank and wealth when he’d become a newspaperman. An aristocrat who traveled with a retinue of servants was not taken seriously in his business, and Max was determined to be taken seriously.
He’d sent to Castle Lyndhurst, the family seat, for the garments he kept there, and one of the hotel’s footmen was just finishing unpacking them and putting them away. When the footman left, Max opened the large mahogany wardrobe and made an inventory of what was there.
At last he had something decent to wear.
He wondered if Sara would notice the difference. Probably not. She was convinced that he was an idle dandy with nothing more serious on his mind than the cut of his garments and chasing women. She hadn’t asked him any questions about his family or connections. She’d made up her mind that he was trouble, and the only way she could cope was to keep him at arm’s length.
She’d practically handed him a script to keep her in his orbit.
With a muffled oath, he flung himself down on the bed.
Sara. The only thing he was sure of was that the feelingsshe had aroused at the Black Swan were still there. In fact, they had only grown stronger, and that appalled him. He should know better. There was a file on her an inch thick in the Courier’s offices in London, and it wasn’t pleasant reading.
Sara Carstairs was a woman of loose morals. She’d started an affair with William Neville right under her sister’s nose, which wasn’t hard to do, considering that the Nevilles lived in the dower house in the grounds of Longfield, the show home Samuel Carstairs had restored to its original Elizabethan splendor.
She’d never denied that she’d had an affair with her brother-in-law, and if she had denied it, the letters she had written to him would have proved her a liar. Moreover, William’s friends had testified that he was inflamed when he heard that Sara was going to be married. He’d left them drinking at the King’s Head tavern in Stoneleigh, swearing that he would make her pay, and he’d never been seen again.
It was William’s father who had raised the alarm. The following morning, he’d found William’s horse wandering the downs. And then had begun the massive search for William’s body.
The constable had come to Sara first.
Her alibi was unconvincing. She wasn’t at Longfield, but at the dower house, where she’d spent the whole night nursing her sister, so she said. Of course, it just happened that Anne Neville’s only servant was conveniently visiting relatives in Winchester at the time.
And Sara swore under oath, in the statement that was read to the court, that William hadn’t come home that night. Her sister had corroborated her story, but since Anne Neville had been dosed with laudanum, no one believed her.
Max threw himself off the bed and
Sara and Miss Beattie obediently looked around the Pump Room. There was no doubt about it. Max Worthe had caught the surreptitious glances of many ladies, irrespective of age.
Mrs. Hastings suddenly exclaimed. “Maxwell Worthe! I remember him! He’s Ash Meynell’s best friend. Lord Maxwell, that’s who he is, He’s a charmer, all right. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. And you, too, Miss Childe.”
The warning was unnecessary. Sara had already made up her mind that Max Worthe was nothing but trouble.
O VER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MAX MADE SURE he just happened to be at all the functions Sara attended. It wasn’t difficult to do. Miss Beattie had taken a liking to him, and, when Sara wasn’t within earshot, she would casually mention where they were going to be that afternoon, or evening, and Max would be there too.
On this occasion, he’d just returned from the Pump Room to his lodgings in the Christopher Hotel. There were no personal servants waiting for him when he entered his chamber, no valet to brush out his clothes or help him choose what to wear. He’d given up all the trappings of his rank and wealth when he’d become a newspaperman. An aristocrat who traveled with a retinue of servants was not taken seriously in his business, and Max was determined to be taken seriously.
He’d sent to Castle Lyndhurst, the family seat, for the garments he kept there, and one of the hotel’s footmen was just finishing unpacking them and putting them away. When the footman left, Max opened the large mahogany wardrobe and made an inventory of what was there.
At last he had something decent to wear.
He wondered if Sara would notice the difference. Probably not. She was convinced that he was an idle dandy with nothing more serious on his mind than the cut of his garments and chasing women. She hadn’t asked him any questions about his family or connections. She’d made up her mind that he was trouble, and the only way she could cope was to keep him at arm’s length.
She’d practically handed him a script to keep her in his orbit.
With a muffled oath, he flung himself down on the bed.
Sara. The only thing he was sure of was that the feelingsshe had aroused at the Black Swan were still there. In fact, they had only grown stronger, and that appalled him. He should know better. There was a file on her an inch thick in the Courier’s offices in London, and it wasn’t pleasant reading.
Sara Carstairs was a woman of loose morals. She’d started an affair with William Neville right under her sister’s nose, which wasn’t hard to do, considering that the Nevilles lived in the dower house in the grounds of Longfield, the show home Samuel Carstairs had restored to its original Elizabethan splendor.
She’d never denied that she’d had an affair with her brother-in-law, and if she had denied it, the letters she had written to him would have proved her a liar. Moreover, William’s friends had testified that he was inflamed when he heard that Sara was going to be married. He’d left them drinking at the King’s Head tavern in Stoneleigh, swearing that he would make her pay, and he’d never been seen again.
It was William’s father who had raised the alarm. The following morning, he’d found William’s horse wandering the downs. And then had begun the massive search for William’s body.
The constable had come to Sara first.
Her alibi was unconvincing. She wasn’t at Longfield, but at the dower house, where she’d spent the whole night nursing her sister, so she said. Of course, it just happened that Anne Neville’s only servant was conveniently visiting relatives in Winchester at the time.
And Sara swore under oath, in the statement that was read to the court, that William hadn’t come home that night. Her sister had corroborated her story, but since Anne Neville had been dosed with laudanum, no one believed her.
Max threw himself off the bed and
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