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failing. She was an intensely private person and kept things to herself. She rarely allowed her emotions to show. Most people thought Sara was cold, and most people couldn’t have been more wrong. It hadn’t been easy to be Samuel Carstairs’s eldest child. Only Sara had had the gumption to stand up to him. And if the younger children had fared better, it was only because they’d always turned to Sara to be their champion.
    But where was Sara’s champion? A husband-in-name-only did not fit the bill at all.
    “Bea, where is it?”
    Miss Beattie dropped another stitch and glared furiously at the work in progress, a lacy bed jacket for a married sister who lived in Folkstone. Without looking up, she said innocently, “Where is what, dear?”
    “Today’s edition of the Courier,” replied Sara gently.
    Miss Beattie was on the point of pleading ignorance, but one look at the determined set of Sara’s chin made her stifle the impulse. “I don’t know why you would want to read that trash,” she said crossly.
    “Yes, you do. Where is it, Bea?”
    Miss Beattie sighed. Of course she knew. This was the third anniversary of Sara’s acquittal for the murder of William Neville, and on each anniversary, the Courier carried a summary of the story. It had become a tradition with the Courier now, as had the increase for the reward offered by Sir Ivor Neville for information leading to the discovery of William Neville’s whereabouts or final resting place.
    With another resigned sigh, she dug in the knitting bag at her feet, withdrew the tightly folded newspaper, and handed it to Sara.
    “What does the reward stand at now?” asked Sara.
    “Five thousand pounds.”
    Sara’s brows shot up. “I see.”
    She took the paper to the candle on the table, smoothed it out, and began to read. Her expression remained neutral, but that didn’t fool Miss Beattie. Sara would have had to be made of stone not to be upset. The whole story had been gone through in lurid detail. Sara’s name appeared on every other line. The innuendo-that Sara had been a selfish, calculating jade who was acquitted only because William Neville’s body had never been found-was sickening. But what was truly frightening was the Courier’s declared intention of pursuing the story until justice was done. In her opinion, it wasn’t justice the paper was pursuing, but a vendetta against Sara.
    Sara said softly, as though to herself, “Whoever wrotethis article must really hate me. He’s never going to let the world forget my name. But who is he? ‘Special correspondent’ … that doesn’t tell me anything.”
    When she paused, Miss Beattie said, “What difference does it make who he is? He’s a nasty piece of work, and I hope he rots in hell.”
    Sara folded the newspaper and said crisply, “He’d stop hounding me if he could find William’s body.”
    “Of if William turned up,” added Miss Beattie.
    Sara looked up with an arrested expression on her face. She visibly shuddered. “I don’t know which frightens me more, the thought of the Courier’s special correspondent hounding me from pillar to post or the prospect of William turning up. Now do you see why I’m determined to break the trust? I want to get back my life and start over somewhere else. We’ve been wavering long enough, Bea. As soon as it can be arranged, we set off for Bath.”
    “Bath,” repeated Miss Beattie.
    This was something else Sara had carefully explained to her. In the summer months, the smart set followed the Prince of Wales to Brighton. There was little chance that Sara would be recognized in Bath. And if there were no likely candidates for the position of husband-in-name-only in Bath, they’d move on to Cheltenham.
    An hour later, as Miss Beattie composed herself for sleep, she tried to comfort herself with the thought that it wasn’t all black. This trip to Bath could well be a step in the right direction. For the first time since the trial, Sara would be open to