by Brenda Hiatt
Rush blinked, wondering how she guessed that. Had Thor—? No, her question was clearly rhetorical. Even so, he felt obliged to give her an honest answer.
“I admit I have done a thing or two in the past that I am not particularly proud of. In Bigsby’s case, however, I am not speaking of isolated incidents, but a pattern of behavior. He had a reputation at Eton for bullying boys who were younger or smaller than himself. And in the town, he—”
He broke off, realizing how indelicate it would be to relate Bigsby’s activities involving serving wenches and tradesmen’s daughters.
“How long ago was that, my lord?” She was clearly not yet convinced. “Six years? Seven? How much contact have you had with Julian in recent years?”
Though his mouth tightened at her repeated use of the man’s Christian name, he did not remark upon it. “By my own choice, very little, other than in passing during a few fox hunts.”
“So you admit that your current poor opinion is based purely on things he did as a mere boy. As I have seen rather more of him lately than you have, you will excuse me if I rely on my own observations rather than on your recollections. I have reason to believe he has developed a far nobler side to his character than the one you recall from your school days.”
Rush’s brows rose in surprise. “Do you, indeed? On what evidence do you base that belief?”
To his surprise, she colored slightly and averted her eyes. “I…cannot tell you that, but I assure you that I speak on very good authority.”
He felt his vitals contract. He’d worried she might be developing a tendre for the fellow and it now seemed he was correct. The discovery caused him near-physical pain, forcing him to acknowledge that his inappropriate feelings for Violet Turpin went far deeper than he had realized.
Not that it could matter, as he’d foolishly consigned his future to Miss Simpson.
“In that case, I must hope I am mistaken about Bigsby,” he said after a pause. “If I am not, however, I very much hope you will soon come to see the truth for yourself.”
If she fancied herself in love with Bigsby, it was more important than ever to open her eyes to the man’s true character, even as it decreased the likelihood he could do so. Did not all the poets claim that love was blind?
She shot him an uncertain look. “I am not given to self-deception, my lord. I have solid reasons for my conviction that Julian’s character is much more admirable than you paint it. In the unlikely event that I am somehow mistaken, I will no doubt discover it in time.”
“I only hope that it is in time,” he replied fervently.
Though his earnestness clearly startled her, she made no rejoinder. Thinking it best not to press her further on the subject just now, Rush also remained silent until he returned her to Lady Simpson at the conclusion of the dance.
“I thank you for your indulgence, Miss Turpin,” he said then. “I hope I have not ruined any chance of prevailing upon you to dance with me again this Season.”
With a look he could not decipher, she inclined her head. “Though we seem unable to agree, my lord, I have never been one to hold a grudge. I daresay we will have many opportunities in future to argue this and other matters, whether in the dance or elsewhere.”
The idea of a future spent matching wits with Violet Turpin suddenly struck Rush as remarkably appealing. Which was, of course, absurd.
Still, he owed it to Thor to somehow disabuse Miss Turpin of her misguided faith in Bigsby. No doubt the fellow had told her some story or other to convince her he was a veritable hero.
Hero? The word echoed in his head. There was but one person he knew for certain Miss Turpin regarded as such—the Saint of Seven Dials. Nor had she made any secret of that. Could Bigsby have…?
Hm.
Filing the idea away for future perusal, he reluctantly went in search of his next partner.
Chapter Twelve
After her waltz with Lord Rushford, Violet thought to check the dance program, something rarely posted at country assemblies. To her dismay, no second waltz was planned, which meant she could not fulfill her promise to Julian—or extract more information from him. In fact, the rest of her dances were already bespoken.
During the carriage ride back to Cavendish Square after the conclusion of the ball, she discovered another reason to regret her blunder of waltzing with the wrong man.
“Miss Turpin, whatever do you mean by waltzing with Lord Rushford this evening when Mary did not waltz with him even once?” Lady Simpson demanded the moment they were underway. “Lady Mountheath made a point of commenting upon it.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I, er, did not realize when I agreed to dance with him that it would be the only waltz of the evening or, indeed, that it was to be a waltz at all,” Violet truthfully told her.
Lady Simpson was not mollified. “The dance order was posted near the orchestra all evening. You must have seen it.” She then turned on her daughter. “And some might think you take your engagement no more seriously than Lord Rushford appears to, waltzing instead with Mr. Bigsby. Handsome though he is, you should not encourage him.”
Though Mary also mumbled an apology, her mother continued to scold them both for the rest of the drive.
Adding to Violet’s discomfiture was the realization that she had enjoyed her waltz with Lord Rushford, despite their argument. Or perhaps because of it? Completely apart from the way he affected her, she could not deny she enjoyed matching wits with his lordship.
Not that it mattered, as he was promised to Mary. Even if she found her friend a more suitable match, she doubted Lord Rushford would ever reciprocate Violet’s lingering tendre for him.
No, she would be far wiser to turn her romantic inclinations toward Julian. Was not the Saint of Seven Dials the true hero of her dreams? Not only was he strikingly handsome into the bargain, Julian did not disapprove of her the way Lord Rushford did.
* * *
Having made that resolve, Violet was quite pleased the next morning when Julian called at the Simpson house before Lord Rushford did. Much as he had with Aunt Philomena, Julian did an admirable job of dividing his attention between all three ladies.
“Pray do not feel you must waste your compliments on me, Mr. Bigsby,” said Lady Simpson at one point. “I am well past the age where my head can be turned by a handsome man’s flattery.” Her smile, however, belied her words.
Though Mary was predictably embarrassed by his expressions of admiration toward her, Violet noted that her friend did appear more comfortable with him than with Lord Rushford—at least until Julian invited the young ladies to ride out with him.
Mary immediately demurred. “I…I would rather be excused, sir, if you do not mind.”
Her mother seconded her reservations. “I fear my daughter is not yet experienced with riding in Town,” she told him. “I’ve no objection to Miss Turpin accompanying you, however, provided one of the grooms goes along. Not only for propriety, but in consideration of the uncertain temperament of Miss Turpin’s mount.”
Julian glanced curiously at Violet. “Spirited, is it? Having seen your performance on the hunting field, I’ve no doubt you manage perfectly well.”
Lady Simpson sniffed. “That is what Lord Rushford and Lord Killerby claimed. She came to no harm when they all rode out on Sunday but I must still insist on sending a groom with you.”
That caveat was readily agreed to, and Violet went to change into her habit. Ten minutes later, she joined Julian on the front steps.
“What a beautiful chestnut,” she exclaimed on seeing his horse. “I don’t know when I’ve seen such perfect lines or well-proportioned head. Have you had him long?”
“But a few days, actually,” Julian admitted. “He didn’t come cheaply, of course, but I believe he was worth every penny, for he goes as wonderfully as he looks.”
The skewbald gelding was led round from the mews just then, offering a ludicrous contrast to the elegant chestnut.
“I begin to perceive Lady S
impson’s reservations.” Julian’s brows rose in startled amusement. “Perhaps I should offer to mount you after all?”
“He may not be a pretty beast, but he went perfectly well when I rode him on Sunday,” Violet replied, ignoring the latter part of his comment.
Motioning the groom to hold the skewbald steady, she allowed Julian to toss her into the saddle. They then headed for the park, the groom following on Mary’s mare.
“This is perfect,” Violet commented. “An even better chance to talk without being overheard than a waltz would have been last night. I didn’t realize there would be but one, you see.”
“Yes, you did promise it to me.” He sent her a sidelong look. “I was quite eaten up with jealousy when you danced it with Rushford instead, for I’ve no title or rich holdings to set against his.”
Her laugh was only slightly forced. “Never fear. Lord Rushford has made it perfectly plain that he has no intentions toward me whatever. In fact, he is…expected to offer for Miss Simpson.” Why she did not come out and say they were already engaged, she wasn’t sure. “But enough about him. I wish to hear more about you, Julian, and the secret you essentially admitted to me last night.”
“Ah, I suspected that was why you were so eager to ride out with me today.” He appeared more amused than upset. “I still maintain that it would be safest if you did not know, but as you have guessed the truth, I may as well share the sordid details.”
Violet glanced over her shoulder to confirm that the groom was out of hearing—and that Lord Rushford was not about to interrupt them again.
“Please do! As you know, I have long admired the Saint from afar. I cannot express how thrilled I was to discover I actually know him! I liked you quite well already, of course, but now? Your cleverness—and heroism—are the stuff of legend! When I think of all you’ve done these two or three years past, eluding capture again and again…” Trailing off, she sighed.
“You quite flatter me! Underneath the legend you speak of, I am still the same Julian Bigsby you knew before,” he replied with a self-deprecating laugh. “I must say, though, that your admiration makes me doubly glad I chose to resume my, ah, activities after a brief respite.”
“No doubt the poor denizens of London’s slums are grateful as well,” she said warmly. “Most, I am sure, have few others they can count on when finding themselves in dire straits. What a hero you must be to them!”
He shrugged. “Perhaps so.”
His modesty only impressed her further. She had always been touched by the relief and delight of her father’s poorest tenants when she brought them food and medicine. How grateful must those in the slums be, given their far more desperate needs.
“Let me help you, Julian, do!” she blurted out on that thought. “I know the Saint has always worked alone, but surely there is some assistance I can offer?”
“Certainly not!” he exclaimed in apparent horror. “I would be the greatest cad in nature to allow such a thing. The risks—”
“I don’t care about the risks,” she interrupted. “My single greatest wish on coming to London was to meet and offer aid to the Saint of Seven Dials. Until last week, I thought it a mere pipe dream, but now—! Please, Julian? You must let me help in some way.”
Though his expression was sympathetic, he shook his head. “I fear it would be far too dangerous, Violet. Even after years of experience, I have come near being caught more than once. Without someone to stand lookout—”
“Allow me to do that, then,” she cried eagerly. “I do not ask to help with actual burglaries, for my inexperience there would likely increase your danger. By acting as your lookout, however, I could safeguard us both. I should also love to help in distributing your spoils to the deserving poor.”
Julian smiled. “That is just like your soft heart, Violet, but the London slums are no place for a lady, believe me.”
“Very well,” she conceded—for the moment. “But you will let me keep watch the next time you act as the Saint, won’t you?”
For some moments he rode in silence, clearly deep in thought, while she watched his expression for some sign he might relent. Finally, as they neared the park gates, he sighed.
“I cannot deny that having a lookout would be extremely helpful, reluctant as I am to put you in even the slightest danger.”
Only a fear of spooking her horse prevented Violet from clapping her hands. “Thank you, Julian! I promise you will not regret it. When do you propose our next foray?”
He regarded her in obvious amusement. “As soon as a good opportunity presents. I am constantly on the lookout—for the sake of the poor, you know. No doubt I will hear word of something before long.”
“You must tell me the moment you do,” she insisted. “Meanwhile, I shall work out how best to slip out of the house without being detected. Lady Simpson is rather sharper than my Aunt Philomena, but with a bit of planning, I’m certain it can be done.”
His smile was admiring. “Have I not said that you are clever? If anyone can manage such a thing, it will be you, Violet. Though if you should decide such an outing is too dangerous after all, I will completely understand.”
“No chance of that,” she assured him, grinning now. “Not for anything would I miss what is sure to be the adventure of a lifetime—and for a good cause besides.”
When Rush presented himself at the Simpson house the day after the Jeller ball, he was dismayed to learn that Miss Turpin had ridden out with Bigsby only a few minutes earlier. She seemed increasingly determined to ignore his warnings about the man. He feared he knew why.
Setting aside his vexation, he summoned a cordial greeting for Miss Simpson and her mother. “I am pleased to see you both in such good looks today. Dancing late into the night has been known to overtax some ladies.”
Lady Simpson gave an affected laugh. “I assure you, my daughter is made of sterner stuff than that, Lord Rushford, despite her delicate appearance. She is as well suited to the demands of a London Season as to the rigors of country life on a large estate.”
She looked to her daughter for confirmation, but Miss Simpson managed only a weak, somewhat alarmed smile in response.
As before, Rush spent most of his visit attempting to draw her out, again with little success. He lingered well beyond the expected quarter hour in hopes of Miss Turpin’s return, only leaving when other callers arrived. Remaining longer might seem to confirm the rumors of his engagement to Miss Simpson, something he was reluctant to do. Why that should be, when Lady Simpson clearly had no such qualms, he preferred not to examine.
On returning home, he discovered a message from Lord Peter Northrup asking him to call in Curzon Street at his convenience. Rush immediately set out, eager to share the suspicion that had occurred to him last night. Not many minutes later, he was shown into a well-appointed library.
“Good of you to come so promptly, Rushford,” Lord Peter greeted him. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Rush turned to regard the other two people in the room—Lady Peter and a boy of fifteen or sixteen.
“My wife, of course, you met last night,” Peter said. “This is her brother, William, though he prefers to be called ‘Flute.’ He has been of particular assistance in this current endeavor. William, Lord Rushford.”
The lad bowed to Rush most properly. “Glad I am to meet you, your lordship.” He spoke the words carefully, then glanced at his sister, who nodded approvingly.
“The pleasure is mine, young Flute,” Rush said, receiving a grin for using the boy’s preferred moniker. Then, to Peter, “What sort of assistance?”
“Information, primarily. I told you that Sarah briefly stepped into the role of the Saint of Seven Dials last year in order to prevent her brother from doing so. What I did not tell you was that Flute here acted as the Saint’s primary confederate almost from the beginning of his career. He has therefore been intimately involved with the Saint’s activities and is well acquainted with most of the poorer denizens o
f London’s slums.”
The boy nodded eagerly. “Aye, it were me who told the Saint when someone was in bad need of money. Then I fenced whatever he brung…brought me, so’s I could pass along the blunt to them as needed it. That way no one ever knowed…knew for certain who the Saint really was.”
“As you can see, my brother is still unlearning the street cant that was all he spoke for much of his life,” Lady Peter said to Rush. “We are striving to improve his speech so that he can attend one of the better public schools without embarrassment.”
“I should say you’re doing very well indeed,” Rush commended the lad. “I take it this current Saint knows nothing of how you assisted his predecessors?”
Flute shook his head. “How could he, when he’s no true Saint? Certain it is, none of what he’s stole so far has made its way to the poor what needs it. Keeping it for himself, I’ll warrant.”
“Just as we surmised,” Lord Peter agreed. “William has also spoken with some of his former, ah, associates on the streets and it appears the imposter has none of the necessary contacts to easily convert his takings to cash.”
“Ah,” Rush said. “That would explain why he has limited most of his thefts to coin, bank notes and items generally easy to sell without arousing suspicion.”
Peter smiled. “Precisely. Given that, I believe our bait should be cash. That will be more likely to tempt him than any other valuables. The difficulty will be to make sure word of it reaches only the right ears. If we cast too wide a net, we risk every thief in London attempting our target.”
“As it happens, I have a suggestion on that front,” Rush told him. “I have reason to suspect that a Mr. Julian Bigsby might be our man. Mind you, I’ve no proof whatsoever as yet, just a hunch based on a few details.”
Peter appeared both surprised and slightly skeptical. “What details?”
“He is tall, thin and blond, for a start,” Rush replied. “He also appears to have very recently come into a bit of money, judging by a noticeable improvement in his attire.”
