Munro dragged his feet all the way back to The Swan. After the most enjoyable afternoon he’d experienced in many a day, Sarah’s rejection had drained his energy. He didn’t know what to make of her behavior. Illegitimacy evidently wasn’t the whole story.

When Richards greeted him, he asked for an ale, well aware sleep would be elusive. In Scotland, the local innkeeper was often a source of information, but he offered some news of his own first so as not to appear overly inquisitive. “I’ve helped Mrs. North’s new apprentice get settled,” he said, nodding his thanks for the tankard.

As he’d hoped, the publican’s eyes lit up with interest. “In the apothecary shop on Edgbaston?”

“Aye. A lad from King Edward’s School.”

A frown greeted this news. “Thou must be mistaken. Them boys don’t become apprentices.”

“This one’s parents died in a recent fire.”

“Ah. Giles Raincourt.”

“Aye. That’s the name.”

“Sad case, but I’ll wager the headmaster was anxious to be rid of him.”

Munro took another leisurely sip. “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. No fees…”

The innkeeper leaned closer. “I wouldn’t trust yon Battersby as far as I could throw him; he’s too powerful in this town. They tried to oust him during the Republic. Accused him of not taking the oath of allegiance. Said he’d voiced criticism of the king’s execution. He somehow managed to weasel his way out of that quagmire. Claimed he’d sworn, but…”

Munro wondered if therein lay the reason for the gaudy waistcoat, but decided to repeat something Sarah had said. “I heard he beats the boys.”

His host snorted. “Common knowledge. ’Course, there’s many claim a regular caning forms character.”

A flush of anger stole across Munro’s nape. On the rare occasions his father had physically punished him, it was always for good reason. “The Republic ended more than twenty years ago. He’s been headmaster that long?”

“Aye. Entrenched. Mind you, the school’s a Presbyterian bastion, and we’re all mostly of the same Puritan bent in Birmingham.”

A thought suddenly occurred. “Was Reginald North a Puritan?”

Richards scoffed. “That drunken bugger?”

“What about his widow?”

The innkeeper scratched his shiny, bald head. “Don’t rightly know. Thou must ask the minister at St. Martin’s, Reverend Grove. I think he knows her.”

Munro drained his tankard. “I intend to go there on the morrow anyway.” It wasn’t an outright lie. He had, after all, paid scant attention to the medieval tombs on his last visit.

Early the next day, Sarah dressed quickly and stole down to the workroom, leaving her mother asleep. She’d been in the habit of going there in her night attire, but now that Giles occupied the room…

Her normal routine consisted of filling a large basin with water from the pump and seeing to her ablutions downstairs, away from Reginald’s eye. That wouldn’t be possible now. She intended to demonstrate the workings of the sometimes temperamental pump to her apprentice, get him to bear water upstairs for her and Mary, then send him back down to wash.

She faltered when she discovered the pallet empty. Surely the lad hadn’t run off already. Then she heard a lilting voice coming from the yard—someone was singing.

Tiptoeing to the door, which stood slightly ajar, she saw Giles splashing cold water over his naked body, all the while crooning a ballad she didn’t recognise.

His singing was a good omen, she thought, and thank goodness his back was to her, but a knot of anger tightened in her belly at the evidence of repeated canings across his buttocks. Whoever had administered the punishment had spared no effort in inflicting pain. It was a wonder the boy could sit at all.

There would have to be a discussion with Giles about the reasons for such beatings, but she didn’t want him to know she’d seen him naked.

Thankfully, an insistent rapping at the front door drew her away. She hurried to tell whoever it was that the shop couldn’t reopen until the Guild gave its blessing.

Her breath hitched in her throat when she pulled aside the blind and saw an unsmiling Nathaniel Battersby on her doorstep. Beside him stood the Beadle who’d paid her the Guild’s two pounds death benefit.

More than glad she wasn’t still in her nightgown, she fished the key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She’d expected an inspection, but not so soon, and not with her new apprentice naked as a hatchling in the yard. “Come in, gentlemen,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. Hopefully, she’d spoken loudly enough for Giles to hear.

The two men strode into the shop without a word of greeting.

“I’ll fetch my apprentice,” she offered, anxious to keep them out of the workroom until she was sure Giles was dressed.

“No need,” the Beadle replied. “Just came to deliver this so you can open the shop.”

He casually dropped a rolled document on the counter that she recognized as the indenture. “But don’t you want…”

Battersby cleared his throat and directed a slight shake of the head at her.

“The headmaster has assured me all is in order,” the Beadle declared.

While Battersby’s interference made things easier, she nevertheless resented men like him wielded such influence. She opened her mouth to protest. The Beadle should at least speak to Giles, to ascertain his level of agreement with the indenture, but her apprentice chose that moment to appear.

His hair was still wet, but she swayed with relief that he was fully clothed. However, there could be no mistaking the malice in his gaze as he stared at his former headmaster.

“Ah, Raincourt,” Battersby hissed.

“Sir,” Giles snarled in reply.

The Beadle broke the tension. “I’ll be on my way.”

Sarah hoped Battersby would depart with him, but he lingered. “Leave us, boy,” he commanded with a flick of the wrist.

Her heart raced as he leaned towards her after the glowering Giles slunk away. Now would come a demand for some service in exchange for his securing an apprentice. The notion of bedding Nathaniel Battersby made her nauseous.

“I need your help,” he whispered, eyeing the door through which Giles had left. “A concoction to rid me of the constant problem of breaking wind.”

Munro’s naughty smile in the coach flashed before her eyes. It was all she could do not to laugh out loud at the memory of his assertion during the afternoon’s conversation that the headmaster was timing the farts with his timepiece. “Certainly,” she replied with great relief, “I’ll prepare the ingredients for a special infusion and send it to the school.”

“My thanks, dear lady,” he oozed as he left.

After another restless night, Munro made his way along Edgbaston Street, determined not to cast even a glance at Sarah’s shop. He clenched his jaw when Nathaniel Battersby emerged from the doorway as he drew level. Indeed, they almost bumped into each other. He’d have recognized the carriage waiting outside if he hadn’t had his full attention on the church he intended to visit.

“Mr. Battersby,” he said curtly.

The headmaster eyed him, clearly uncertain who had addressed him by name. “Oh, the Scot,” he replied without breaking his stride on the way to the carriage.

Wondering what the pompous man was doing there so early in the morning, he glanced at the shop.

Sarah and Giles stood in the open doorway. Sarah blushed and averted her gaze, fidgeting to tuck errant wisps under her muslin cap. The boy called to him with a wave. “Mr. Pendray.”

Ignoring the lad wasn’t an option, and, truth be told, he wanted to speak to Sarah. Just the sight of her blush had aroused him. He nodded and walked quickly to get a foot in the door before she shut it in his face. “Good morning,” he said, tousling Giles’ curls. “Yer hair’s wet, laddie. Best get inside before ye catch yer death.”

He reached for Sarah’s hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Good morning, Mrs. North. I’m just off to St. Martin’s.”

He made a quick decision to leave it at that. The stern set of her jaw indicated annoyance at his persistence. When he looked up from kissing her trembling hand, the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

He continued his walk, more resolved than ever to unravel the riddle of Sarah and make her his.