by Brenda Hiatt
“Your wife!” Rush stared. “I would never guess a woman could have—” He broke off as it occurred to him how Violet Turpin would react if she heard him utter such a statement.
Lord Peter was grinning now. “Yes, well, my wife is rather a remarkable woman. Still, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that she pretended to be the Saint for a fortnight or so. Her sole motive was to prevent her younger brother becoming the Saint himself by convincing him the, ah, job was already taken. She never intended to continue beyond that.”
“And your friend?”
“He’d lost an arm in the war and was well on his way to drinking himself into an early grave. Taking up the Saint’s cause gave him new purpose.”
Rush eyed the other man speculatively. “May I surmise that his doing so was your idea?”
“It was.” Lord Peter smiled crookedly. “He took a bit of convincing, but it all turned out right in the end. Since he gave it up, there’s been no Saint. Perhaps there never will be, though I suppose time will tell on that score. Meanwhile, I should very much like to put this current fellow, whoever he is, out of business.”
“Agreed. Dare I ask if you’ve conceived a plan to ensure that? His methods certainly leave much to be desired.”
Peter grimaced. “Indeed. He clearly lacks the true, ah, Saintly principles, as he’s not above harming others during his robberies. Nor have my sources found evidence that any of his takings have made their way to the poor. I rather hope that the clumsiness of his methods will make him easier to snare. My friend Harry had a suggestion as to the how—an obvious one, but it should serve with this fellow.”
“Bait a trap and lay an ambush?” Rush guessed.
“Exactly. That ruse very nearly caught two previous Saints, though not by the authorities. Bow Street also tried it early on, but of course the original Saint was far too crafty to be caught by such means.” Peter chuckled. “I don’t know that any of his successors ever quite measured up to the standard he set.”
Rush was now exceedingly curious to know who that first Saint was, but knew better than to ask. “I suppose our first step, then, is to decide upon the bait. Then we must contrive a way to let this false Saint hear of it, that we may catch him as he takes it.”
“That is precisely what I thought we might discuss over our luncheon.”
Just then a manservant approached with a tray bearing two steaming plates of beef and roast potatoes, to which the two men did ample justice while sharing ideas on how best to nab the imposter.
After completing Violet’s shopping list to the accompaniment of numerous soliloquies, Lady Puttercroft ordered a light luncheon to be served in the parlor. As they ate, she continued talking about anything and everything.
“—and that piping sample Madame Fanchot sent round quite put me in mind of the trims that were in fashion some twenty years ago, when dear Sir Horace was still alive. It must have been ’97, or perhaps ’96…no, no, I have it, I would have been 1795, because I recall that Letitia was still expecting her second child when we had a conversation on that very thing.”
Violet stifled more than one sigh as she nattered on. Thank goodness she would soon be spending most of her time elsewhere. However strict Lady Simpson might be, going about with her would be preferable to suffering her aunt’s perpetual monologues.
Relief arrived sooner than expected when Wiggins came to the parlor door, a mere half hour after the dishes were cleared away. “Excuse me, my lady, but a Mr. Bigsby is below.”
Violet instantly dropped her pitiful attempt at embroidery. “Julian is here? Oh, show him up, Wiggins, do.”
“A close acquaintance of yours, I presume?” Aunt Philomena’s eyebrows rose, then lowered. “Pray keep in mind that this is not the country, Miss. Here in Town, I cannot condone the use of Christian names between ladies and gentlemen who are neither related nor betrothed. Over-familiarity is well known to lead to a lack of proper respect, and a young lady must never—”
She broke off at Julian’s entrance. Looking even more handsome than he had in the Shires, in a coat of deep green superfine and buff breeches, he bowed deeply to them both.
“I give you good afternoon, ladies. Miss Turpin, London clearly agrees with you, for you are even lovelier than I recall.” Then, turning his dazzling smile on Lady Puttercroft, “And who is your pretty friend? Never say this is your aunt, for she scarcely looks old enough to be a proper chaperone.”
Pinkening, Aunt Philomena tittered, her stern demeanor abruptly dissolving. “You will turn my head with such talk, young man. I am indeed Lady Puttercroft, Miss Turpin’s aunt. I take it your acquaintance with my niece is one of long standing?”
“Indeed it is,” he replied, bending over the gloved hand the older woman simperingly extended to him. “I first met Violet—or, I beg your pardon, Miss Turpin—when she was but a girl. I was a school chum of her brother’s, you see. I’d rather hoped to presume upon such old acquaintance to invite her out for a walk.”
When Aunt Philomena hesitated, he added, “You are more than welcome to accompany us, my lady, if you are concerned about propriety. And may I tell you what a very fetching shade of puce your gown is?”
Lady Puttercroft’s tiny frown disappeared. “Why, thank you. It was new only a fortnight since.” She smoothed her skirts complacently. “As for walking, I fear I am not equal to it just now.” She nodded toward her still-bandaged foot. “I suppose there is no harm in you young people taking a brief stroll, however, so long as my niece’s abigail accompanies you.”
“Of course.” He directed another melting smile at the older lady. “I should never dream of taking her out of your sight otherwise.”
Violet jumped to her feet, eager to make her escape. “Splendid. I will run upstairs to fetch Brigid and my cloak.”
On returning to the parlor, Violet found Aunt Philomena again holding forth on the subject of spring fashions—sleeves, in particular. Not surprisingly, Julian appeared as ready to leave as Violet was, rising with alacrity the instant she appeared.
“Your observations are remarkably insightful, my lady, but I know you will not wish me to keep your niece waiting. Perhaps we can renew our conversation upon my return?” With a parting bow, he escorted Violet down the front stairs and out of doors, Brigid following a few paces behind.
“I cannot thank you enough, Julian, for securing my release from the house for a bit,” Violet told him as they walked. “I was like to expire from boredom.”
He chuckled. “Your aunt does seem to enjoy the sound of her own voice.”
“You had but the tiniest sampling just now, I assure you. She is capable of going on so for hours without ceasing. By the bye, I must compliment you on striking just the right tone with her, for she is vain enough to adore flattery.”
“I have found that to be true of most women—though you always seem able to see through empty compliments. It is one of the many things I appreciate about you, Violet. May I still call you Violet?”
She dimpled up at him. “Of course, so long as my aunt cannot hear you. She is quite the stickler for propriety.”
“Not to worry. I shall be careful to reserve any remotely improper talk for your ears alone.”
The smile that accompanied his words caused a delicious quiver in her midsection. Julian, she decided, was just the tonic she needed after this morning’s unsettling news about Mary and Lord Rushford.
“Did your brother and sister-in-law not accompany you to London?” he asked a moment later.
“Oh! I suppose you will not have heard. They recently learned they are expecting a child, so my brother thought Dina would do better at home in Staffordshire. Her home, I mean, for she recently took possession of her family estate. As Grant has none of his own yet, they have chosen to live there.”
He smiled. “They are to be congratulated, both on the child and that they have such a place to live until your brother inherits.”
“I rather hope they will remain at Ashcombe for quit
e a long time,” she confessed. “I am exceedingly fond of my father and would much prefer his demise be delayed for many, many years.”
“Of course. Though I hope whenever that melancholy time does come, you also will be well provided for. Not that I need worry, I suppose, for you are bound to have made a brilliant match long before then.”
Thrusting an unwelcome vision of Lord Rushford from her mind, she laughed. “Oh, yes, no doubt! I am thankful, however, that I need not depend upon it for my future. Buried as he always is in scholarly works of the past, my father is remarkably forward-thinking about some things. He has taken steps to ensure that my livelihood will never be dependent upon some man’s whims.”
“Has he?” His smile broadened. “Glad I am to hear it, for I have sadly known more than one lady to settle for a less than ideal situation in order to avoid relying on her family’s charity.”
“Yes, it is hard to believe that in these modern times, so-called marriages of convenience are still so common an occurrence. Most young ladies would surely prefer a love match, but too many are never given that choice.”
Mary Simpson, for example, whose mother was determined she marry a title regardless of her feelings. Violet shivered—and not only because of the chill breeze.
Julian noticed at once. “What a selfish brute I am, keeping you out in the cold that I may enjoy your company a bit longer. There is a cozy little coffee shop just round the next corner…unless you think it improper to accompany me there?”
The warmth in Julian’s eyes made her hesitate. Surely, however, there could be nothing objectionable about them taking tea together in a respectable public establishment, with her abigail in attendance?
“I should like that very much. Thank you.”
He escorted her to a nondescript cafe tucked between two more fashionable shops. “It is not much to look at,” he said apologetically as he ushered her inside, “but the coffee and tea are first rate, as are the lemon biscuits.”
“Oh, I adore lemon biscuits,” she exclaimed, catching the door before it could close in Brigid’s face. “And I happen to know they are my abigail’s very favorite.”
“Then it will be my honor to procure a plate for you both.” The smile he sent Brigid’s way raised Violet’s opinion of him further.
A few minutes later they were served steaming cups of tea and a plate of biscuits that proved every bit as good as promised. While they ate and sipped, Julian told amusing stories about some of the more eccentric members of the ton and shared a tidbit or two of the latest gossip.
“I don’t suppose you hear anything of the Saint of Seven Dials?” Violet asked when he paused. “I’ve not seen a newspaper since leaving Plumrose, nigh on three weeks ago. Indeed, the last article I read about him was before Christmas.”
The look he gave her was oddly speculative. “Still enamored of that rogue, are you? Then you will no doubt be pleased to hear that he is back to his old tricks after giving the nobs a full two months’ respite.”
“Yes, very pleased,” she agreed, her heart lifting. “I began to fear he had ceased his activities for good and disappeared from London. Now my hopes of encountering him are revived. I have read that he sometimes masquerades as a gentleman to infiltrate the wealthier households?”
“So it is rumored. Of course, there is so much speculation about his identity that many conflicting stories are in circulation. I’ve no doubt that is just as he prefers it.”
A certain slyness in his expression prompted Violet to exclaim, “Julian! Do you know more of him than you are revealing?”
“It…would be unwise of me to admit it, if so,” he replied, looking suddenly conscious.
Violet sucked in a breath. “You’ve guessed who he is, haven’t you? Do tell me, Julian! You must know I would never betray him.”
“There is no one I would rather tell, but— Great heaven, look at the time!” he interrupted himself, gesturing toward the clock on the shop’s mantelpiece. “I must get you back at once if I am not to incur Lady Puttercroft’s wrath and risk her forbidding you to walk out with me again.”
With great reluctance, Violet rose from her chair. “I should not like that either, for this is easily the most enjoyable hour I’ve spent since arriving in Town.”
One corner of his well-shaped mouth quirked up. “In that case, you may count on me relieving your tedium as often as your aunt will allow it.”
As they made their way back, she again pressed him on the matter of the Saint of Seven Dials but he continued, though good-naturedly, to put her off until they reached the house.
Lady Puttercroft did indeed have a few tart words to say about their having been gone so long, but Julian was able to soothe her back into smiling good spirits remarkably quickly. It was with distinct regret that Violet bade him farewell.
“What a pleasant young man that is,” Aunt Philomena commented when he was gone. “I would have preferred your first outing with him to be of shorter duration, but it was most gallant of him to think first of your comfort by suggesting hot tea out of the wind.”
Violet wholeheartedly agreed, already impatient for her next opportunity to wheedle information about the Saint of Seven Dials from him.
“Mind, you should not appear quite so eager as you did today to walk out with Mr. Bigsby or any other gentleman,” Aunt Philomena cautioned her. “You do not want to be perceived as hanging out for a husband, for nothing frightens eligible gentlemen away more quickly than an appearance of desperation. ’Tis far better to be sought than to seek.”
She went on to spout more such platitudes but Violet scarcely heard a word. Instead, she was replaying in her mind every word Julian had let drop about the Saint, more and more convinced that he was her key to discovering the fabled thief’s identity.
Chapter Nine
Promptly at half past ten the next morning, Lady Simpson and Mary called and, in as short a time as Aunt Philomena’s speeches would allow, Violet left with them for Bond Street.
They stopped first at Madame Fanchot’s for the two young ladies’ fittings, then visited a shoemaker, a dry goods store and a milliner to supply the other items necessary to Violet’s London wardrobe.
Lady Simpson bought Mary two new bonnets and a parasol as well, claiming it was none too soon for her daughter to begin thinking of herself as a countess. Nor was that the only time Lady Simpson referred to her daughter’s conquest as they shopped.
Though she tried to ignore it, Violet experienced a small pinch at her heart with each mention. As Mary seemed uncomfortable hearing them as well, Violet felt justified in distracting her with amusing stories and cheeky observations about some of the people and items they encountered.
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to spend much of the Season with you,” Mary confided as they loaded their purchases into the carriage to return to Mortimer Street. “Not only are you great fun, you tend to compensate for my shyness, as you are anything but.”
Violet grinned. “True enough. I shall try to keep you from hiding in corners, as you were always wont to do at school.”
Mary looked both gratified and apprehensive.
As they drew up before Aunt Philomena’s house, Mary suddenly said, “Mama, I have just had a thought. Why do we not invite Violet to stay with us for the next few weeks? Then Lady Puttercroft may go to visit her sister in Brighton, as she clearly wished to do, and we shall not need to fetch Violet every time we go out.”
Though startled, Violet found the idea appealing. Among other things, it would spare her Aunt Philomena’s inevitable reproaches if she returned late from any evening entertainments. To her relief, after a moment’s consideration, Lady Simpson nodded.
“I cannot disagree that having her with us would be rather more convenient. I should also prefer to more closely supervise Miss Turpin if I am to be responsible for her reputation. I’ve not forgotten the whispers that circulated upon your sudden departure last Season,” she informed Violet sternly. “No such starts will b
e tolerated from our house, I promise you.”
“Of course not, my lady,” Violet fervently assured her. “I realize now how wrong I was to play such pranks on my aunt last year. I would never dream of doing the same to you.” Should she be tempted, she would simply have to resist—for a change.
Gathering up Violet’s purchases, they went inside to put the suggestion to Lady Puttercroft. Not surprisingly, she agreed at once.
“Why, this will mean but a few days’ delay of my visit to Brighton. How pleased Letitia will be! And I have been longing for a peep at my new grand-nephew, who came into this world only a few months since.”
Within a few minutes everything was settled. Lady Simpson suggested Violet come to them the following afternoon, after which she could accompany them to Lady Plumfield’s musicale that evening.
The moment they left, Aunt Philomena happily penned yet another letter to her sister, to advise her of this latest change in plans. Giving it to a footman to post, she turned smilingly to Violet.
“I must say, this has turned out quite splendidly! Lady Simpson has a vast circle of acquaintances she can introduce you to. She receives far more visitors than I do. Which reminds me—you had three gentleman callers while you were out.”
“Oh?”
Lady Puttercroft nodded. “That charming Mr. Bigsby, as well as Lord Rushford and his friend Lord Killerby. All seemed quite disappointed to have missed you, though Lord Rushford expressed some satisfaction upon hearing you were with the Simpson ladies. No doubt he will be even more pleased to hear that Lady Simpson will now be able to keep you under her eye constantly.
“Speaking of Lord Rushford, was any more said today about his engagement to Miss Simpson? Really, it is quite a coup for her. After all, her father is but a baronet like my dear Sir Horace, despite his holdings in India. But then, Lady Simpson always did have…aspirations.”
Violet forced a smile. “Indeed, she spoke of little else while we were out. But what can you tell me of this musicale at Lady Plumfield’s tomorrow night?”
