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Blurb:
Betrothed by her father to a man twice her age, Sarah Forsythe runs away with the son of a Methodist minister. Not to Gretna Green, to colonial America—the New World. For Sarah, a new world of broken promises poverty and shame. Around her, the American Revolution is simmering, and the siege of Boston worsens by the day. As British soldiers seek out traitors and treason, a desperate Sarah breaks open a safe looking for cash. Instead, she finds a box holding Bank of England documents. Through willpower, bitter determination, and lying through her teeth, Sarah manages to make her way home to England. What she doesn’t know is that two men follow, and they will do anything to claim those documents.
Bank investigator Neil McAlister faces an almost impossible task—to determine the true owner of the documents by deciding who is lying. Most of all, as danger creeps ever closer, he needs to know who wants the secretive, beautiful Sarah dead.
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Excerpt:
Sarah watched the door open and her heart almost stopped beating when Neil McAlister and a tall muscular man with a trim goatee beard walked into the room.
Frozen with shock she could only stare at Samuel Fenton. But it wasn’t Samuel Fenton.
Her strangled, “You aren’t,” was cut off when Neil began his introductions and Robert stepped in front of her to shake the man’s hand. She heard her brother’s hearty, “Mr Westfield, I am delighted to meet you. May I introduce my wife Hannah?”
The man put his handkerchief to his mouth and coughed. “Forgive my frog like voice. This wretched cold will not leave me.” He bowed to Hannah. “I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Forsythe.”
Robert took Sarah’s hand and drew her forward “And my sister, Sarah Langford.”
A low bow. “Mrs Langford, I understand you endured much hardship before returning to England. To be told you found and brought my personal papers with you left me speechless. It’s nothing short of a miracle and I cannot adequately express my gratitude.”
Sarah murmured a greeting and lowered her eyes.
Robert cleared his throat. “Mr Westfield, before we begin, allow me to thank you for your generous hospitality.”
“My dear, Mr Forsythe,” the man responded before coughing again into his handkerchief. “It was the very least I could do after such trial and distress.”
Robert picked up the decanter again. “I was about to enjoy your hospitality, sir. May I pour us a glass of wine or perhaps whisky?
“Thank you, a small whisky would be most welcome.” the man replied.
“Neil?”
Neil inclined his head. “I cannot say no. Then if you don’t mind, we will finalise the transaction as discussed.”
“Of course.” No one spoke while Robert poured whisky and handed glasses of wine to Hannah and Sarah. He then held up his glass to the room. “I am very relieved this has been settled amicably.”
“I am extremely relieved.” The man lifted his glass to Sarah. “My compliments.”
Sarah felt the blood pounding through her veins but did not move. Her stomach churned when polite conversation began on London’s expanding population, the dangerous highwaymen robbing innocent travelers, and the sudden sad death of a minor royal.
When the glasses were emptied, Robert stood up and handed the leather folder to the man called Westfield. “A very satisfactory conclusion. My sister has signed the necessary agreement.”
“Thank you, and if I may, I’d like to say a few words.” The man turned to Sarah. “It is indeed a small world, Mrs Langford. I did not think we would meet again after such a tumultuous time in Boston.”
Robert’s brow creased. “Pardon?”
“Mrs Langford and I were acquainted at Griffins club,” the man said smoothly.
Look him directly in the face and do not quail. “I am afraid you are mistaken sir. I do not know you,” Sarah said evenly.
The man inclined his head. “We do look very different in the light of day, but I remember you well in those crowded smoky rooms.”
“What are you talking about?” Robert said sharply.
“I was part owner of Griffins gentlemen’s club. Mrs Langford, known there as Adele, worked as a”—he gestured eloquently—“for want of a better word, hostess.”
Hannah had risen and was staring at her. All of them were staring at her. “Mr Westfield, I am afraid you have me confused with someone else.”
The man’s hard hazel eyes glittered into hers. “No, I’m not confused. Your husband David Langford disappeared leaving a mountain of debts and you destitute. I was with Fenton when he paid the turnkey a shilling to release you from the cells. It was work for him or die on the streets. You were one of three women employed to pour drinks and keep our clients gambling and satisfied in the clubrooms and”—he paused—“upstairs.”
A pin dropping would have sounded like gunpowder exploding.
Sarah did not move. “Mr McAlister, I am appalled you willingly brought this man here to insult me.”
As if snapping out of a trance Neil stepped forward. “I am at a loss, Westfield. Not once in our discussions at the bank did you say you knew Mrs Langford.”
Claude’s eyes never left Sarah’s. “You didn’t ask, and the purpose of this meeting was for me to collect my personal papers.” He sighed. “While it pains me to reward a whore for stealing, I will honour the agreement.”
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