by Brenda Hiatt
Oddly, Thor looked more apologetic than angry. “You’ll be in London this spring?”
“In another fortnight or so, yes.”
“Good. I’d like to request a…favor, once you get there.”
Cautiously relieved, Rush summoned a smile. “Anything, old chap.”
“I was rather hoping you’d say that,” Thor responded with a grin. “I know Killer offered to keep an eye on my sister during the Season, but I’d feel much easier if you were on the job as well.”
Rush’s relief was abruptly replaced by a sinking sensation in his midsection. “I’ll help in any way I can, of course,” he promised and was rewarded by the relief now written on Thor’s face.
“Thank you,” he said, his gratitude evident.
Fully aware that if Thor learned of that kiss in the stables he would be within his rights to demand a far greater favor, Rush forced a smile. “No need for thanks, old chap. We are friends. You need not worry I’ll shirk the responsibility. What would you like me to do, exactly?”
“If you’re willing, call upon her every few days, perhaps squire her about on occasion—along with your Miss Simpson, of course. Observant as you are, I trust you beyond anyone I can think of to notice should Vi get one of her mad starts, and to step in if necessary.”
Rush agreed without hesitation, thankful he had not blurted out anything about that kiss at the outset. Such a charge would entail considerable awkwardness, after what had occurred in the stables this morning—not to mention what Miss Simpson and her mother might think of it—but compared to the alternative, he was getting off remarkably easily.
“You may count on me, Thor, though I must remind you not to mention my engagement to anyone else just yet. Think how embarrassing it would be if it became common knowledge only to have Sir Clarence refuse his consent.”
Though Thor laughed at such a preposterous idea, Rush could not suppress a secret wish that it might actually come to pass, thereby freeing him to pursue other…possibilities.
The next morning, Violet was in a fret to be off before any gentlemen appeared for breakfast. Once away from Ivy Lodge, there would no longer be any danger of meeting Lord Rushford’s eye. At least it seemed clear from her brother’s demeanor that Lord Rushford had not mentioned her indiscretion, for which she was grateful…but she still could not face seeing him again.
The night before, Violet had taken care to complete her packing down to the last detail, that there might be no delay the next morning. She had even helped with Dina’s packing once her own was complete. Now, when the carriage finally left Ivy Lodge for Ashcombe, she breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
For the next week and more, Violet was so busy that she had little time or energy to dwell on her humiliation with Lord Rushford or her dread of another Season with Aunt Philomena. Her days were filled with discussions of baby furniture and nursery decor, shopping in Litchfield for baby clothes and toys, and settling Dina’s new puppy at Ashcombe.
In fact, she was having so much fun amid the joyful bustle that she felt a pang of regret when Grant finally suggested leaving for London the following day. She and Dina had grown so much closer over the past fortnight that she expected to miss her sister-in-law immensely.
When Grant and Dina said their goodbyes the next morning, all of Violet’s romantic longings were reawakened. The two were so clearly in love, so loath to be separated for even a few days, that she felt a tugging at her own heartstrings.
What must it be like to feel such a strong attachment to someone? Though Lord Rushford was apparently lost to her, she still hoped to find true love while in London, Aunt Philomena notwithstanding.
“Pray do not worry, Grant,” Violet said when he looked backwards out the carriage window for the third time as they drove away. “Save that one dizzy spell at Ivy Lodge and a few bouts of morning queasiness, Dina is as remarkably healthy as she has always been. I’ve no doubt you will find her so upon your return.”
Turning from the window, he heaved a sigh. “Aye, you’re likely right. Still, it goes sorely against the grain to leave her for even a week.”
“A week! Surely there is no need for you to be away so long as that? It should take us but two days to reach London.”
“Two very long days,” he amended. “Even assuming the roads remain dry and we encounter no mishaps along the way.”
Violet puckered her brow. “And then Aunt Philomena will insist you stay for at least a few days once there. Hm.”
She did not particularly like to think of Dina alone in the country either, though she knew her stalwart sister-in-law would laugh at such fears. Dina was so very small and Grant so very large, she could not help wondering whether that might present complications. In fact, her brother had once voiced that very concern in response to their mother’s blatant hints about grandchildren.
After a few minutes’ thought, she turned to her brother. “How would this serve? If we manage more than half the distance today, I could travel the rest of the way by post tomorrow, while you hurry back to Ashcombe. That would prevent me staying alone at an inn, which I know you would never allow, and you’d only need suffer a single night away from Dina.”
He regarded her in surprise, his expression suddenly hopeful. “Aye, I could be with her late tomorrow, if we push hard today.” Then his face fell. “No. Mother would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t see you to Aunt P’s doorstep. Tempting as your idea is, Vi, it would be most irresponsible of me.”
“I imagine Mother would think it far more irresponsible for you to leave Dina alone at such a time,” Violet insisted. “Not that she will know anything about it unless we tell her, which I swear on my honor I’ll not do.”
He regarded her dubiously for a long moment, then sighed. “I’ll…think on it.”
“Do. I’m sure you’ll agree my plan is the wisest, safest course.”
That he missed Dina more with each passing hour was evident. He allowed the carriage to travel until well past nightfall, before finally stopping at a coaching inn south of Northampton.
Over breakfast the next morning, he capitulated.
“I have decided you are right, Vi,” he admitted. “Dina’s need just now is greater than yours. However, you must promise not to get into any mischief between here and Aunt Philomena’s.”
“I’ll be a very model of propriety,” Violet assured him. “Pray don’t worry about me, Grant, but make all haste back to Dina’s side. She will be overjoyed to see you back so soon. I will explain the change of plan to Aunt Philomena when I arrive.”
His relief was obvious. “Very well, though it might be best not to say precisely why Dina and I are remaining in the country. You know how Aunt P likes to gossip and I’d as lief not have our news spread all over London just yet.”
“Mother will not be so reticent,” Violet pointed out, “but I can simply say that you and Dina discovered more needs to be done at Ashcombe than you’d realized, which is true. That is, of course, if Aunt P allows me to say anything at all. Knowing her, she may concoct her own story before ever I get a word in.”
Grant chuckled at that. “Aye, she does like to talk. Well, do what you can. I’m sending Spooner along with you for protection, by the bye. He’s quite handy with a pistol, as he proved in the war.”
A short time later, Violet’s trunks were strapped to a bright yellow post chaise. She and her maid climbed inside while her brother’s valet took a perch on the box. After giving detailed instructions to the postboy, Grant put his head in at the window.
“Well, Vi, I’m eager to be off and you’ve a long day ahead, so I’ll say farewell. Give Aunt P my regards—if she gives you the chance.”
She waved him away and he hastened to his own coach for the return journey to Ashcombe.
* * *
The knowledge that she’d acted for the best buoyed Violet’s spirits for the first hour or two, as did Brigid’s simple delight at again being allowed to ride inside the carriage,
as she had on the way to Ivy Lodge.
“I was like to perish from the cold yesterday,” the maid declared with a shiver. “I know it’s not my place to complain, ’specially when most in my position have it far worse’n me, but I don’t know how poor Mr. Spooner bears it. I don’t believe he’s ever once ridden inside.”
Violet smiled. “Spooner had wartime experience, remember. He is also far more conscious of his position than you’ve ever been, Brigid—though that is largely my own fault. I suppose having you complete the journey to London in comfort is some compensation for what I lose by Dina’s absence. I was so looking forward to going about with her instead of stuffy old Aunt Philomena.”
Brigid clucked her tongue in ready sympathy. “Aye, you said how strict she was with you last year. Small wonder if you kicked at the traces a bit, as high spirited a lass as you are. ’Twas a shame she sent you home, for you’d’ve likely landed yourself a lord with another week or two in Lunnon.”
“Likely so,” Violet agreed with a grin, amused by her maid’s blind partiality.
As the day wore on, the weather, which had started out cold but sunny, turned gray and gloomy, punctuated by an intermittent drizzle that slowed their progress. Violet’s spirits gradually turned gloomy as well. She feared the dull weather was a harbinger of what a Season with Aunt P would be like, compared to the bright prospect she had envisioned a mere fortnight ago.
Rush settled back in his chair in a corner of the main room of the Guards Club, his preferred retreat when in Town. As it was past the dinner hour, few members were still about and none he knew well. That troubled him not at all, as he’d come more for relaxation than conversation, after two long days shut up in a carriage with Lord Killerby.
By prior agreement, after spending a week at Rushford Abbey, Rush had stopped at Killer’s estate in Nottinghamshire and the two had traveled together to London. Killer was a nice enough fellow and an amusing companion. Still, after twenty-odd hours of talking about fox hunts past and future and their respective plans for the Season, a bit of solitude was welcome. Not having served in the military, Killer was not a member of the Guards.
He’d scarcely poured his first glass of claret when his coveted solitude was interrupted.
“Rushford? Is that you?”
Turning, he saw Lord Peter Northrup coming toward him and immediately gestured for the other man to join him at his table.
“Give you good evening, Colonel,” he greeted the newcomer. “I understand from your brother that you are married since last we met?”
Lord Peter pulled up a chair. “Aye, I beat Anthony to the altar by a mere month. My parents seem quite pleased to have all five of us safely leg-shackled, not that the succession was in any danger.”
The Duke of Marland, Lord Peter’s father, had five sons, two of whom were well known to Rush—Anthony, of course, and Lord Peter, with whom he’d become friends during the war, though Rush was Cavalry and Northrup Infantry.
“Are you but just arrived in Town?” he asked as Rush signaled for a second glass. “I stopped in at Rushford House last night but was told you were not expected for some days yet.”
Rush nodded. “I came a bit earlier than planned, due to a matter or two requiring my presence in London.” One of those matters was an eagerness to see Violet Turpin again, though he’d barely acknowledged it even to himself.
“Ah. Well, I’ve another to put before you, now you’re here. Have you seen this?” Colonel Northrup pulled out a newspaper folded back to display a particular article and laid it on the table between them.
The headline immediately caught Rush’s attention: The Saint of Seven Dials a villain after all? With a startled glance at his companion, he began reading.
After an absence of more than two months, the fabled Saint of Seven Dials has resumed his activities—this time with a decidedly more sinister bent. Previously, the Saint was content to purloin valuables from the wealthiest among the ton, leaving only his famed calling card as evidence of his visits. However, two of his three recent robberies have been accompanied by a violence he previously eschewed, resulting in injuries to unfortunate staff, one serious.
“I’d never have believed it of him,” Miss Agatha Chalmers told the Times. “In the past, I rather idolized the Saint of Seven Dials, as did so many others. But he could easily have killed James, our head footman, striking him so with the fire-iron. Were it not for the card he left, I would be certain it was some other footpad who broke into my father’s strongbox.”
The card Miss Chalmers mentioned was surrendered to the authorities, who are now resuming their efforts to apprehend the thief. We have been assured, however, that it bore the Saint’s distinctive emblem of a numeral seven surmounted by a gold-ink halo. While it is of course possible that other, less charitably-minded scoundrels have begun copying the Saint’s methods, at present these latest aggravated housebreakings are believed to be the work of one man: The Saint of Seven Dials.
“Thought it might interest you, given the name of your hunt club,” Lord Peter said when Rush finished reading.
“It does indeed, though I have difficulty believing this can be the real Saint. As you might imagine, I did a fair bit of research into the Saint of Seven Dials before suggesting we name our club in his honor, nearly two years since. At the time, he’d never been known to cause anyone the least injury. In addition, he limited his depredations almost exclusively to the less, ah, sympathetic members of the nobility. Think you this might be someone else aping his style, as this article suggests? The design of his card is well known, thanks to the papers, and would be easy enough to forge.”
“True, but until they catch whoever this is, everyone will assume it really is the Saint.”
Rush nodded gloomily. “They will. Hm. Don’t much care to have our hunt club’s good name dragged through the mud by association.”
“I assumed that would be the case. It’s one of two reasons I sought you out on the matter.”
“What’s the other one?” Rush asked curiously.
Lord Peter smiled. “You were quite well known for strategy during the war, as I recall.”
“As were you,” Rush reminded the other man, who inclined his head modestly in acknowledgment.
Colonel Northrup’s razor-sharp intellect had bordered on legendary in the Army, as had his fierceness in battle. Given what Rush knew of him, it struck him as slightly odd that the man now seemed to favor an almost dandyish style, evidenced tonight by a salmon evening jacket and pale green waistcoat. Doubtless he had his reasons.
“Between us, we can surely figure out some way to track down this imposter before he causes more harm,” Lord Peter said.
Rush’s brows rose. “You already have reason to believe he’s an imposter, then?”
“I’m absolutely certain of it…though I’d prefer you not ask me how I know. Not before we’ve had a chance to talk things through a bit more.”
“Of course not, Colonel,” Rush replied, easily falling back into the habit of respect for a superior officer, for all he outranked a duke’s fourth son on the social scale.
“No more of that, if you please, Rushford,” said the other man, rather to his surprise. “I’ve left Army life behind and happy to do so. Here at the Guards it can be difficult to dissuade others from their reminiscences, but I’d as lief be excused from them.”
“I understand,” Rush replied quietly. He had painful memories of his own from the recent wars he’d prefer to forget. “If we’re to work together on this mystery, pray call me Rush, as my friends do.”
His companion’s smile returned. “Gladly. And you must call me Peter. So, let us discuss this new, so-called Saint.”
“I know only what I just read. I take it you know more?”
“A bit, though not nearly as much as I hope to.” Pouring a measure of claret into his glass, Peter began filling Rush in on what he had contrived to learn over the past week.
Darkness had fallen by the time Violet’s c
oach reached London, for rain had worsened the condition of the roads as they traveled. A yellow fog closed in as soon as they entered the sprawling city, muffling the sounds of the increasingly heavy traffic that slowed them even further.
The air thinned only slightly, when they reached Mayfair, forcing Violet to admit her brother had been right that a stay in London would not have been healthy for Dina. Finally, the hired coach pulled up before Aunt Philomena’s town house.
Spooner jumped down from the box to lower the carriage steps. “This is it, Miss. Number seven Mortimer Street.”
Violet stepped out of the chaise and looked up at the narrow house. “I’ll have Aunt Philomena’s manservant assist you with the trunks, Spooner. Wake up, Brigid, we’re here.”
The abigail opened her eyes and yawned. “Are we there, Miss? Goodness, I must’ve slept three solid hours!”
“Nearly four, I should say. Gather up whatever is in the coach while our luggage is unstrapped.”
Spooner preceded her to the front door and plied the knocker. A moment later Wiggins, Aunt Philomena’s elderly butler, opened to them.
“Welcome, Miss Turpin. Lady Puttercroft began to think you would not arrive before tomorrow. She is just having her nightly basin of gruel before retiring. Come up to the drawing room and I will tell her you’re here.”
“Thank you, Wiggins. Will you please have Robert help bring in our luggage?”
As Wiggins turned away, Aunt Philomena’s voice drifted down the stairs from two floors above.
“Is that Violet’s voice I hear? Are they finally come? Don’t leave them standing in the hall, Wiggins, send them all up here to my rooms at once that I may speak with them.”
With a tiny, rueful shrug at the butler, Violet made her way up to the second story, Brigid trailing just behind. She stopped at her aunt’s open door but did not go in, thinking to continue first to her chamber to doff her traveling cloak and set Brigid to unpacking.
