by Brenda Hiatt
To her relief, Aunt Philomena obligingly launched into a lengthy soliloquy about the various people likely to be there and how her niece was to comport herself with each one. Dull as the litany was, Violet was grateful for the change of subject.
“With Lady Simpson on the job, think you we can consider our promise to Thor fulfilled?” Killer asked as he and Rush took luncheon together at White’s.
“For the next hour or two, at least,” Rush replied. “I rather doubt a single outing with Lady Simpson will cure Miss Turpin of her thirst for adventure, however.”
They had called at the Simpsons’ to find the ladies from home, then stopped in at Mortimer Street. There, Lady Puttercroft informed them of the ladies’ shopping expedition—at great length.
Killer laughed. “No, I suppose not. Still, it’s a reprieve. Where to next?”
“I’d thought to look in on Parliament,” Rush replied. Though he had realized last year that he would never share his late father’s zeal for the legislative process, he felt he owed it to his memory to at least make the occasional effort. “You’ll come, won’t you? It’s as much your duty as mine, you know.”
“What, waste a perfectly good day listening to old men prose on for hours when there are so many more enjoyable things to do in Town?” Killer exclaimed in horror. “M’mother insisted I attend last year and I found it deadly dull.”
Rush regarded him with amusement. “You don’t wish to have a say in the workings of our government?”
“A say? I’m no orator, nor have I studied up on the issues. I’ll leave that to responsible chaps like yourself.”
“Not really my sort of thing either,” Rush confessed, “but given how prominent my father was in government, it seems rather disrespectful to ignore my obligations completely. Come, Killer, we’ll put in a couple of hours, see what is being discussed, then slip away at the first break to congratulate ourselves on our virtue over a well-earned pint or two.”
After a bit more urging, Killer consented, though with poor grace. “And you’ll be buying those pints, for I consider myself doing you a favor by going.”
“Fair enough,” Rush conceded with a laugh, “though I could point out that you owe me a favor already. Had you held your tongue after I confided my intentions toward Miss Simpson to you last summer, I likely wouldn’t have felt obliged to follow through so quickly with an actual offer.”
“Aye, mentioning it to m’mother was a mistake, as she’s an intimate of Lady Simpson’s.” Killer grimaced. “At the time, I merely wished to distract her from harping upon my need to marry—as if there is any hurry about the succession. Frightfully sorry and all that. Does this mean you are having second thoughts about Miss Simpson?”
Rush shrugged. “I came to Town last summer with the intention of finding some wife or other. My mother’s charities currently have no one to administer them, and only my future countess can use the balance of her dowry to benefit the estate. Even the interest accrues solely to Mother’s charities until I wed.”
“Quite the clever manager, your mother,” Killer said. “Not so dissimilar to my own in that regard, though yours never extended her management to your personal life, as mine does.”
“Not while she was alive, but she’s doing so rather effectively from the grave,” Rush said. “The devil of it is, I primarily settled upon Miss Simpson because she did not fling herself into my path or chatter away like all the other debutantes. Based only on that, I concluded that she was the most thoughtful and responsible of the bunch. Now I’ve begun to wonder whether someone so used to deferring to her mother will be able to step into the breach left by mine.”
Killer nodded sagely. “A valid concern, to be sure. There’s no denying it’s a weighty responsibility to thrust upon a girl so young and inexperienced as Miss Simpson. Were your mother still alive, she could train up your wife to the job, but as it is…”
“Yes, well, it is rather too late to think of that now. For the sake of Rushford Abbey and its dependent concerns, as well as my mother’s memory, I can only hope Miss Simpson proves up to the task when the time comes.”
Though looking thoughtful, Killer made no reply until they reached Westminster Palace. “You’ve admitted the awkwardness of keeping Miss Turpin out of trouble without making Miss Simpson or her mother suspect your motives,” he abruptly said then. “Just want you to know I’m available to call upon either one when you are occupied with the other. If that might be helpful?”
“It might indeed,” Rush replied gratefully. “I may well take you up on that offer. Hope you won’t end up regretting it.”
Grinning, Killer shrugged and accompanied Rush into the hallowed halls of Parliament, there to do their duty by crown and country however tedious it might prove.
The next day saw renewed preparations for Aunt Philomena’s trip to Brighton. After breakfast, Violet clumsily attempted to mend a few items for her aunt while hearing about every sight and person Lady Puttercroft expected to encounter in the seaside town.
The longer her aunt droned on, the more Violet looked forward to her imminent departure, though perhaps not so much as she had before Lord Rushford spoiled her daring plan. Still, the next fortnight was sure to be far more enjoyable under Lady Simpson’s roof than this one.
Except for Lord Rushford’s inevitable visits there.
Those would inevitably remind her of how poor an opinion he held of herself, while at the same time forcing her to witness his courtship of Mary. No matter how prudent a match it might be, on both sides, Violet still felt a definite heaviness at heart whenever she thought of it—which was far too often.
She was chiding herself yet again for her reluctance to celebrate her friend’s good fortune when Julian Bigsby was announced. Her spirits instantly buoyed, Violet set her mending aside to greet him.
“I am delighted to find you both in such excellent looks this morning,” he said once the niceties had been exchanged. “May I infer that the demands of the Season have not yet proved too taxing for either of you?”
Aunt Philomena tittered. “Silly boy. I am in no condition to be tiring myself at evening entertainments as yet, and my niece does not make her first appearance on the social scene until tonight. It is well that last night’s rain has ceased, both for her sake and my own, as I am to travel to Brighton on the morrow.”
“To Brighton! Does Miss Turpin accompany you?” He glanced at Violet in evident surprise.
“No, I am to stay with Lady Simpson and her daughter while my aunt is away,” she quickly replied, to forestall the far lengthier response Aunt Philomena would have given.
Julian beamed at her. “Glad I am to hear it, for I should hate to be deprived of your company when we’ve only just become reacquainted. By the bye, now the rain is past, it is quite a beautiful day. I came to beg Lady Puttercroft’s indulgence to walk out with you again. Perhaps to Hyde Park?”
“Oh, I should like that above all things,” Violet exclaimed. “By now I imagine the gardens are beginning to bloom. May I go, Aunt Philomena?”
“Hyde Park? Why, that must be more than a mile from here,” her aunt protested in horror. “Surely you do not mean to walk so far as that?”
Careful to keep her tone reasonable, Violet insisted that mile was not so very far. “Indeed, I frequently walk many times that in a day when I am in Lincolnshire.”
“If Miss Turpin should become tired, or chilled, I will of course hire a hackney for our return,” Julian promised. “You may trust me to see that she comes to no harm, my lady. By the way, is that bonnet new? ’Tis remarkably fetching.”
Preening, Lady Puttercroft confessed that it was, her reservations apparently forgotten. Ten minutes, later Julian and Violet strolled toward the park with Brigid again in tow.
“You were right,” Violet remarked when they had walked for some minutes. “It is much warmer today. It seems spring is arriving at last.”
Julian placed a gloved hand over hers, where it rested lightly on his coa
t sleeve. “For me, spring arrived the moment I rediscovered you in the Shires. I daresay no flowers we see in the park will compare to the violet of your eyes.”
She laughed gaily. “You are being quite absurd, Julian. I thought you knew by now that I far prefer sincerity to flattery.”
“But I am sincere. Surely you do not mean to deny me the pleasure of remarking on beauty when I see it?” He playfully assumed a wounded air.
Smiling, Violet shook her head. “What will please me far more than pretty compliments is hearing more about the Saint of Seven Dials. You’ve discovered his identity, have you not?”
“You are the persistent one.” He chuckled. “I should have known that was the real reason you wished to walk out with me again.”
“Now you are the one seeking compliments. You must know it was not my only reason—though it may have contributed somewhat to my eagerness for the exercise…and your company.” She slanted a flirtatious glance up at him.
In response, he pulled her arm more tightly through his with something beyond warmth in his smile. She was beginning to fear she had invited rather more than she had intended when he frowned and looked away.
“As I intimated before, it would be…unwise for me to reveal all that I know. Telling you too much might well put you at risk, for there is a large bounty on his head and there are some who would go to nefarious lengths to claim it.”
“I will be in no danger if I never tell another soul whatever you share with me,” she pointed out. “Please, Julian?”
Instead of answering, he gestured toward some crocuses blooming along the railing of a house they were passing. “Those bode well for the Park gardens, don’t you think?”
Violet allowed the change of subject, but only for the moment. Before their walk concluded, she was determined to wheedle more information from him. Without Julian’s assistance, she had little hope of meeting—or helping—the Saint of Seven Dials.
“Will you perchance be at Lady Plumfield’s musicale tonight?” she asked, biding her time. “Lady Simpson has invited me to accompany them.”
He regretfully shook his head. “I fear I was not invited. From what little I know of Lady Plumfield, I imagine she was quite selective in her guest list, limiting it to those who share her taste in music.”
“Surely not,” Violet protested, “for she can know nothing of mine. I was no doubt invited because my aunt enjoys that sort of thing—much more than I do. Alas, music was never one of my better subjects of study.”
“We have that in common, then, for I never bothered to learn more than was required in school. I trust I will soon see you at other evening gatherings, however.”
“What of Lord and Lady Jeller’s ball next week? ’Twill be my first ball of the Season.”
Indeed, it would be her first real ball in London, for last year she’d been hurried out of Lady Trumbull’s before the dancing began. Though she did not mention that, she doubted Julian would disapprove of her little prank as Lord Rushford had.
“I had not yet responded to their invitation, but now I will certainly attend,” he replied. “Would it be too bold of me to request the first dance?”
“Need you ask? You may have as many dances as you wish.”
He smiled. “I doubt your chaperones would agree to that, but I should be very much obliged if you were to also reserve a waltz for me.”
To that she agreed, admitting he was likely right that Lady Simpson would forbid her dancing more than twice with any one gentleman. A silly convention, but she could hardly change Society’s expectations overnight.
When they entered the Park gates, she resumed her earlier line of questioning, this time taking a less direct approach.
“I must say, Julian, if you refuse to do more than drop hints about the Saint of Seven Dials, I shall begin to think you are only pretending to know his identity to impress me. Or are you simply making an educated guess?”
Though his smile showed he knew what she was about, he replied, “It is no mere guess, I assure you.” Then, after a brief pause, “I see that mere hints will never content you, Violet, for you are quite the stubbornest young lady I’ve ever known. That was true of you even as a girl, I recall.”
“Is he someone you know personally?” she asked excitedly, determined not to be put off again. “Someone in Society? Someone I might know?”
Shooting her a worried look, he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “I would very much like to tell you, Violet, though I fear if I do, you will—” As he spoke, a bit of parchment fluttered to the ground, apparently from the folds of the handkerchief.
“What is that?” Before he could stop her, she pounced on the little square of paper.
Appearing alarmed, Julian reached to take it from her, but not quickly enough. With starting eyes, Violet examined her prize—a rectangle inscribed with the numeral 7, capped by a golden halo. She recognized it instantly, for it was both described and pictured in her book: the celebrated calling card of the Saint of Seven Dials.
“Julian?” Her voice shook slightly as she looked up at him, wide-eyed. Does this mean… Are you truly—?”
“Me? Of…of course not!” His expression belied his words, however, and he seemed to realize it. For a long moment he hesitated, then let out his breath in a huff. “Very well. I suppose I may as well tell you all, for you will surely ferret it out of me sooner or later. The truth is, I—”
“Ah, Miss Turpin!” came a voice from behind them.
An instant later, Lord Rushford pulled a smart high-perch phaeton even with them and doffed his hat in greeting. “Your aunt said I might find you walking in the Park.”
Though his smile caused a flutter in Violet’s midsection, she did not return it.
Much as she had longed for him to unbend toward her, his timing was execrable. Had he waited but another five minutes, she felt certain Julian would have confessed to her that he, himself, was the Saint of Seven Dials!
“Good morning, my lord.” The chilliness of Miss Turpin’s reply made Rush wonder what he had just interrupted. “My aunt was correct, as you see, though I can’t think why you felt it necessary to come in search of me. Pray do not allow me to keep you from whatever else you might have planned.”
Bigsby also seemed more than a little displeased by his arrival. Hm. Rather than return the man’s glare, Rush broadened his smile to include him.
“My only plan was to pay my respects to you, Miss Turpin, and to see how you get on. Your aunt seemed concerned that the length of your intended walk might be too much for you, so I offered to drive you back to her house if that proved to be the case.”
Bigsby stiffened. “I promised Lady Puttercroft that I would hire a hackney should Violet feel fatigued,” he said, his voice brittle. “Your offer is therefore quite superfluous.”
“A hackney?” Rush lifted his eyebrows incredulously. “I should say Miss Turpin deserves better conveyance than that.” He kept his voice pleasant despite an urge to horsewhip the upstart for using her Christian name.
The other man flushed visibly at the implied rebuke. “You’ve no right—”
“Oh, but I have.” Rush allowed a hint of steel to infuse his tone. “That right was given me by Miss Turpin’s aunt as well as her brother, who expressly asked me to keep her from harm while in Town. Something I fully intend to do.”
His change of manner clearly penetrated, for Bigsby hastily took a half step away from Miss Turpin. Turning a shoulder to Rush, he gave her a strained, apologetic smile.
“I fear, my dear Miss Turpin, that I have just recalled an engagement I have elsewhere, so must leave you to the more, ah, acceptable care of Lord Rushford. I very much hope we may continue our conversation in the near future. Give you good day.” Sketching a bow, he hurried off.
Miss Turpin stared after him for a stunned moment before rounding on Rush. “That was the outside of rude, my lord! I will have you know that my aunt had no objection whatever to my walking out with Julian Bigsby,
as he is an old friend. Nor can I imagine my brother would have minded, particularly as I brought my abigail along for propriety.”
Rush glanced at the hovering maid. “Ah, yes. The same abigail who was willing to masquerade as Mrs. Turpin for your convenience. Pray excuse me if I consider her rather an inadequate chaperone, given your penchant for…irregularity.”
“I will not excuse you for that,” she said hotly. “Nor do I believe my brother instructed you to scare off any gentleman who shows interest, for he wishes to see me well married nearly as much as my mother does. How is that to occur if I am never allowed to converse with any gentleman but yourself?”
“Miss Turpin, you are overwrought.” Perhaps unwisely, he allowed his amusement to show. “Come, let me drive you around the Park until your temper has cooled sufficiently that I can safely return you to your aunt.”
She gave an indignant huff. “I will let you do no such thing. I am perfectly capable of walking back under my own power.”
“You are, no doubt, but what of your maid?” He looked pointedly at the girl who, being a good deal plumper than her mistress, was visibly flagging.
Following his gaze, Miss Turpin bit her lip in chagrin. Refusing to admit defeat, however, she lifted her chin to face him again. “You may take my abigail back to Mortimer Street if you wish. I prefer to walk.”
“Miss Turpin, you cannot think I would leave you here, more than a mile from your aunt’s house, completely without escort? No gentleman would consider such a thing. I must therefore insist that both you and your maid accept my offer of a ride. Lady Puttercroft, I feel sure, would agree it is the only acceptable option, given Mr. Bigsby’s unexpected departure.”
“Unexpected?” she flared. “He only left because you frightened him away. I never before thought you a bully, Lord Rushford, but your actions today quite speak for themselves.”
Bully? His amusement abruptly departed.
“Call it what you will,” he said shortly. “Will you join me, or must we protract this argument until we attract a crowd of gossipmongers?” Several passersby had indeed paused to watch their exchange.
