A Lady in Hiding by Amy Corwin Page A

that Mr. and Mrs. John Archer survived the conflagration. The couple had been visiting nearby neighbors at the time of the tragedy. Their survival had not been noted in the initial articles. The couple had been too overcome with grief at the loss of their family to contact the editors. Sadly, their daughter, Mary, spending the night with her cousins at Elderwood, had indeed perished. There was no additional information, although William visited every newspaper establishment, including the Hue and Cry Police Gazette on Strand.
    Stopping at a busy coffee shop nearby, he sipped a rich cup of coffee and picked at an apple tart while he considered what he had read. The survival of Mr. and Mrs. John Archer made him uncomfortable. They had apparently been away at the time of the fire.
    How very convenient.
    Had Major Pickering found this suspicious, as well? Had he found evidence to suggest Mr. Archer had had something to do with the fire that killed his brother-in-law, the marquess?
    It would certainly account for Pickering’s sudden intimacy with a sharp knife. And it might explain Mr. Sanderson’s fears, as well. If John Archer knew that Mr. Sanderson was working in London as a bricklayer, Sanderson might well be the next target.
    The more William considered the situation, the more likely it seemed that Mr. Sanderson was indeed the son of the Marquess of Longmoor. However, despite that notion, William could not make Sanderson’s gray eyes fit that role. Those curiously smooth cheeks beneath the layer of brick dust were not particularly masculine and neither was the ring of clear skin exposed around Sanderson’s soft mouth after eating.
    Many men had light beards, though. William rubbed his own clean-shaven chin. He was fair, but by early evening, stubble would be bristling over his cheeks, darkening them with rough shadows.
    His speculations made him uncomfortably aware of an unfamiliar need to protect his client, as well. He liked the young man even though he barely knew him. He looked forward to their next meeting. That sense of anticipation disturbed him.
    He felt like he was missing something, some vital clue to Sanderson’s identity.
    One of the serving girls poured him another cup of coffee. He sipped it, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. Somehow, he thought—or perhaps just hoped—that Mr. Samuel Sanderson might actually be Miss Sarah Sanderson. She would certainly be reluctant to step forward and claim whatever inheritance she might gain, particularly after living so many years as a man. And it made the situation a great deal more interesting. Not to mention awkward—for her.
    On the other hand, it wasn’t like a woman to say as little as Sanderson had said last night, given the opportunity. So he was inclined—albeit reluctantly—to return to his original assumption. Mr. Samuel Sanderson was indeed a male and had perhaps suffered the loss of his manhood during his escape from the fire. Hence Sanderson’s smooth cheeks, soft mouth, and feminine eyes.
    Finishing the coffee, he flipped a few extra coins onto the table and strolled out into the sunshine of a temperamental April afternoon. A blustery wind whistled through the alleys, stirring up bits of paper and rags. He hailed a passing hackney coach and gave it the address of Second Sons. With luck, Sotheby might have managed to find an enterprising urchin who could discover where Mr. Sanderson was employed. William wanted another word with his client.
    “Wait here!” He ordered when the coach came to a standstill outside the townhouse.
    He leapt down.
    As he was climbing the stairs, Sotheby opened the door. “Mr. Trenchard,” he greeted him.
    “Did you do as I ordered?”
    “Yes, sir. I found a…child, sir, and sent it after your client. It appears the gentleman is working for a Mr. John Archer—“
    “Archer!”
    “Yes, sir. Mr. John Archer. In a residence near Leicester Square.” He gave the address in clipped, precise tones.
    “John Archer?