In the rowdy taproom, men shared stories, laughed, clinked mugs, sang songs and drank themselves silly. One man sat in silence, his back mere inches from hers, so close they would bang chairs if one of them stood. So close, she could feel the power of his aura enveloping her like a steely cloak of protection.
Occasionally, men glanced in Dante D’Angelo’s direction, but no one approached his table. Two men had approached hers, a local tenant farmer and his labourer.
“Why, if it ain’t Miss Sands,” the fair-haired young man had said.
“So it is,” added the farmer, whose weather-beaten face reminded her of an old leather boot. “Your father said you’d taken a job as a governess in a fancy house in London.”
Beatrice had smiled despite being reminded these people believed she was John Sands’ daughter. It was just like her uncle to make everything appear respectable. She had wanted to say she’d washed mugs in a grimy tavern, kept company with crooks, now caught fraudsters for a living and kissed handsome rakes without giving a thought to her reputation.
“Yes, I’m travelling to Dover with the family and took the opportunity to see my father.” She’d tried not to retch upon uttering the last word.
The men had glanced around the taproom, looking for a well-to-do couple and their prim brats.
“The family are staying with friends in Chatham, but their coachman will return for me within the hour.”
The men simply lifted their chins in recognition. Left her to drink her hot punch and watch melted wax trickle down the candle in the table lamp.
Dante fidgeted behind her, then whispered, “He should be here soon.”
She didn’t reply but closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, a prayer for courage, for strength, a prayer to keep the devil from her door.
With the stable yard located at the rear of the hostelry and accessed via a narrow lane, she did not see John Sands sitting tall and proud astride his stallion. She knew nothing of his arrival until he came bursting through the entrance adjoining the yard.
Beatrice glanced up and saw him striding through the taproom as if he were master of all he surveyed. He carried his riding crop, ready to beat back lesser mortals, had to duck his huge head to avoid the low beams. People stopped the impeccably dressed deceiver, passed pleasantries, offered to buy him a mug of ale, lick his boots.
“My uncle is here.”
“He’s popular in these parts,” Dante muttered.
“Satan often disguises himself as an angel of light.”
A stick-thin man standing at the oak counter gestured to her table, and for the first time in months, Beatrice locked gazes with her uncle. John Sands’ beady eyes honed in on his prey. A slow grin formed.
Beatrice raised her hand in acknowledgement, but the knot in her stomach tightened so hard she thought she might heave.
“Breathe,” Dante whispered. “He’ll never hurt you again.”
The words resonated. This was her one opportunity to gather evidence—this was to be the last time she’d sit at a table with this imposter—and she had to do everything in her power to make it count.
Wearing his smug expression like a well-worn coat, John Sands dropped into the chair opposite and plonked his crop on the table as a means of intimidation.
“Beatrice.” He lowered his voice for he did not wish the locals to hear any hint of panic. “Where the devil have you been?” That wicked gaze raced over her face and body, searching, assessing, trying to grope its way through the dowdy, high-necked dress she wore as armour. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry, thought you were dead.”
Wished she were dead, truth be told.
Dead people did not tell tales.
“I moved to London, took employment as a governess to three young children,” she said so calmly Dante would be proud. “The family are staying with friends in Chatham, and I wanted to see you before we sail to France.” If he believed she’d left the country, he would not need to venture to London.
The wrinkles on his brow deepened, and he shook his head. “But this is ridiculous. You have a home here. You’ve no need to work. No need to make perilous journeys.”
Beatrice clutched her hands tightly in front of her chest. “After what happened between us, I think it’s unwise for me to return to Rochester.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Can a grieving man not make a mistake? Can a sinner not repent? I’d drunk too much that night and behaved as no decent man should.”
This was how he roused her pity, by admitting his failures, pleading for an opportunity to make amends. But there was never a truer word spoken than when he was in his cups. And he had made his real intentions clear.
We’re not related by blood. I can take care of you. No one need know of our cosy arrangement.