by Brenda Hiatt
“Not much to go on. He could simply have had a run of good luck at the gaming tables.”
“True enough,” Rush conceded. “We must start somewhere, however, and from what I knew of him when we were at Eton, he’s not the sort to be overly constrained by ethical considerations.”
Even as he spoke, Rush wondered whether his suspicions of Bigsby were primarily motivated by the very jealousy he had denied to Miss Turpin.
Peter looked thoughtful. “What else do you know of this Bigsby? I take it he’s here in London?”
“Yes, he was at the Jeller do last night, which implies he is trying to insinuate himself into higher tiers of Society than he formerly occupied. I’ve no idea where he lodges, however, nor who his current friends might be.”
“Hm. Perhaps Flute may help us there. He is still in contact with a wide network of boys who are able to move at will throughout the dark underbelly of London. Among them, they can likely ferret out everything there is to know about this Mr. Bigsby.”
Rush regarded the lad curiously. “Are you willing to do this? Will your friends be?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord,” Flute replied enthusiastically. “All us boys want this false Saint caught. Giving the real Saint a bad name, he is.”
“And is Lady Peter willing to have you try?” Rush looked to Peter’s wife.
Though her lovely brow was furrowed, she nodded. “During my brief stint as the Saint, I gained a renewed appreciation for the straits of London’s poor—and for how desperately they need a hero to look up to. For their sakes, I have agreed to allow my brother to do what he can, so long as he is careful.”
“If Bigsby’s our man, it’s possible Flute’s network of street urchins will uncover additional evidence implicating him,” Peter said then. “At the least, they may discover whether anyone passed information to this false Saint that guided his earlier thefts. That could provide the perfect avenue for distributing our rumor.”
Rush thought for a moment. “About that rumor. We’ll want to create a narrow window of opportunity, if we’re not to stake out our target for nights or weeks on end,” Rush pointed out.
Peter nodded his agreement. “True, though I suspect that if we make the bait attractive enough, this fellow will take his earliest opportunity to steal it. Thus far, he’s demonstrated no particular ability to control his impulses. That failing should work to our advantage.”
“Hm. Think you a sum of five hundred pounds in notes would do the trick?”
“I should think so, as it’s a good bit more than he’s made off with in total thus far. As for location, I suggest we wait until William brings us a bit more information.”
“Agreed,” Rush said. He then turned to Lady Peter. “I confess, madam, that since learning you were one of the Saints of Seven Dials, I have been quite curious to hear more. I doubt not you have a few interesting stories to tell.”
She and Lord Peter both laughed. “Indeed she does,” Peter said. “As you know so much already, I suppose there is no harm in telling you all. Would you like to begin, my love, or shall I?”
The look that passed between them caused a twinge at Rush’s heart, for it clearly spoke of their affection for each other. Alas, it was Miss Turpin’s sweetly animated face that came unbidden to his mind rather than Miss Simpson’s.
Fortunately, he had no time to dwell on that inconvenient observation before Lord and Lady Peter began recounting their remarkable tale.
On returning from her ride, Violet learned that both Lord Rushford and Sir Lawrence and Lord Killerby had all called at the Simpsons’ in her absence. Though she expressed regret at missing them, she scarcely minded, given the success of her outing with Julian.
Before taking his leave, he was again attentively charming to both Simpson ladies but the moment he was gone, Lady Simpson turned to Violet.
“You say that you and Mr. Bigsby have been acquainted for some time. What do you know of his family?”
“His parents are dead, I believe, but an uncle of his has property in Lincolnshire,” Violet replied. “We first met when he was visiting that uncle during school holidays, then renewed our acquaintance in the Shires last month, before I came to London. My aunt spoke with him at great length when he came to call after my arrival in Town and she found him quite unexceptionable.”
Lady Simpson seemed satisfied. “He certainly is a polite young man, and quite good looking as well. Now I know a bit more about him, I’ve no objection to him calling here.”
Violet was relieved, for she would hate to have her interactions with Julian limited, now she was so close to fulfilling her goal. He had spent the latter part of their ride regaling her with stories of his previous exploits, making her more eager than ever for their first adventure together.
During the card party she attended with the Simpson ladies, she was so distracted by thinking about it that she played very poorly. Only afterward did she recall her other goal, to find Mary a love match.
“You still seem very reserved around Lord Rushford,” Violet observed to her friend when they were alone in Mary’s room before changing for bed. “Is there perhaps some other gentleman you prefer over him?”
Mary glanced at her in surprise, then lowered her eyes with a little shrug. “It would not matter if I did, for Mama will never allow me to cry off.”
“Even though your engagement is not yet official?” Violet asked.
Mary shook her head. “She is now quite determined that I will be a countess. Nothing short of a duke or marquess paying addresses to me is like to change her mind—not that I know any unmarried ones anyway.”
“Oh, pooh,” Violet scoffed. “Rank and wealth should not dictate who you choose to spend your life with. So long as a man can support you in comfort and is of good character, what matters most is that he is thoroughly in love with you—and that you love him as well.”
“Does your Mr. Bigsby meet those qualifications?” Mary asked with a sly smile. “I notice that you seem to prefer his company to that of Lord Killerby or Sir Lawrence, though all three clearly admire you.”
Violet grinned to show Mary she knew what she was about. “While I find Lord Killerby and Sir Lawrence perfectly agreeable, Mr. Bigsby is rather more…stimulating to converse with.”
Mary looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, with surprising earnestness, “Do you believe stimulating conversation to be a good predictor of marital happiness?”
“I should think it a more likely predictor than the size of a man’s estate or bank account,” Violet replied. “Do not infer, however, that I have any thought of marrying Mr. Bigsby or anyone else at present. I am quite determined not to marry at all unless I am head over ears in love, and convinced that the object of my affection feels the same about me.”
Mary regarded her wistfully. “I wish I could say the same. Alas, Mama has other ideas.”
“Your mother will not be the one spending the rest of her life with whomever you marry,” Violet pointed out. “The choice should be yours, not hers. Is not your future happiness worth fighting for?”
“You always were the bold one, Violet,” said Mary admiringly. “Just now, listening to you, I almost feel as if I could. Come tomorrow, though, my resolve will waver and I will lose my courage, as I always do. Would that you were always by to embolden me.”
“I promise to do what I can over the next fortnight, at least.” She hoped it would be enough. Until Mary fixed her sights on someone else, she could never admit, even to herself, that Lord Rushford stimulated her far more than Julian did. Both conversationally and…in other ways.
“I am convinced that with practice you can learn to speak up for yourself,” she told Mary then, “even if it occasionally means contradicting your mother. You know your own heart better than anyone. Do not fear taking a small risk now and again to safeguard it.”
“I…I shall try.”
Violet smiled approvingly at her friend. “That is all any of us can do.”
Only two
days after Lord Peter’s young brother-in-law agreed to discover all he could about Julian Bigsby, Rush was invited back to Curzon Street. He again joined Lord and Lady Peter in the library, where the boy eagerly reported on all he had learned thus far.
“According to Tig, his favorite haunt is a gaming hell in Vere Street,” Flute told them. “Tig also gave me a list of the blokes he seems friendly with.” He glanced at Peter, who handed a slip of paper to Rush.
Glancing over it, Rush was unsurprised to note that none of Bigsby’s known associates moved in the better circles of Society. “You say he’s there often?”
“Aye, more nights than not,” Flute replied. “Even when he goes to some Society do first, he goes there after to drink, dice and wench. Er—” He glanced at his sister. “To drink and dice, anyways.”
“Good work, lad,” Rush commended him. “I take it none of your compatriots heard anything directly tying Bigsby to the fellow lately pretending to be the Saint?”
The boy shrugged. “They wasn’t watching him before yesterday, but they did ask around a bit. Seems he turned up in Town just a day or two before the first of these new robberies, so there’s that.”
“Still nothing I’d call hard evidence,” Peter said, frowning. “Is there anything else?”
“Only that Tig and Stilt both heard a lad from Ickle’s old gang boasting about helping the Saint of Seven Dials a week or so back. ‘Course, they didn’t believe him, since all of us know there’s no proper Saint out there right now. Mayhap he meant this imposter though?”
Peter’s eyebrows rose. “It’s certainly possible. Did he say what sort of help he gave this so-called Saint?”
“No, just that the Saint paid him well for it.”
“Information, perhaps,” Rush guessed. “He would scarcely break into houses at random, so must have some way of choosing his targets. I should say we’ve nothing to lose by having Flute’s friends share our rumor with that boy. If Bigsby takes the bait, we’ll have all the proof we need.”
“Whoever takes it, we’ll be ready to catch the blackguard,” Peter said. “Let’s choose a location for our trap so we can craft an appropriate rumor to lure him there.”
Rush was ready with a suggestion. “How about my house? That will spare us the necessity of bringing anyone else in on our scheme. I can give the servants the night off, so they’ll be in no danger.”
Though he did not say so, he also felt sure that Bigsby would leap at a chance to victimize him, after the way he’d humiliated the man in front of Miss Turpin.
After only a moment’s consideration, Peter nodded. “I would prefer to keep this plot to ourselves until we know whether it will bear fruit. You’re certain you don’t mind having your house used in this manner?”
“Not at all,” Rush assured him. “After all Flute here has done for us, I’m more than willing to make this small contribution to the cause.”
They then fell to discussing what false lead would prove most effective, discarding their first few ideas as either too implausible or too complicated.
“How would this serve?” Rush finally said. “Rumors are already circulating that I mean to offer for Miss Simpson. I can be seen in Threadneedle Street on Friday afternoon withdrawing several hundred pounds, in anticipation of buying a ring when the jewelers’ shops open Monday morning. One of Flute’s friends can claim to have overheard me saying where I mean to keep the money in the interim. With luck, word will reach Bigsby quickly enough that we can set our ambush for Saturday night.”
Peter grinned. “We can add to the story that you are known to give your servants Saturday nights off. That should ensure that he won’t delay his attempt till Sunday.”
After fleshing out a few details, they rehearsed the story with Flute. He agreed to share their rumor with Tig and Stilt, who would then arrange to have it overheard by the bogus Saint’s suspected informant. If they were correct, the boy would almost certainly pass along the news of a rich, unguarded haul to the fellow now styling himself Saint of Seven Dials.
“With luck, we’ll be able to turn the imposter over to Bow Street Saturday night, whether he proves to be Bigsby or not,” Peter said.
Rush nodded. Though it was perhaps unworthy, he hoped it would indeed turn out to be Bigsby. Of course, his task then would be to convince Miss Turpin that the man was merely impersonating the Saint of Seven Dials and not the real item. Otherwise, Rush doubted she would ever forgive him for conspiring to have her idol arrested.
Chapter Thirteen
Over the next few days, Violet was alert for opportunities to remind Julian of his promise and to press him for more information. Largely due to Lord Rushford’s interference, however, she found those opportunities almost nonexistent.
Though Julian called daily at the Simpson house, Lord Rushford—often accompanied by Lord Killerby—was always there before him and never left until after Julian departed. In the evening, his lordship seemed likewise determined to prevent Violet from speaking privately with Julian.
She had high hopes Thursday, when she convinced Lady Simpson to include Julian in their party for the theatre, only to have them dashed on their arrival. Lord Rushford, whose box they’d been invited to, arranged the seating so that she and Julian were too far from each other for conversation.
Friday night, however, she was finally able to grant Julian his deferred waltz during a ball at Claridge House. Resolutely ignoring the sight of Lord Rushford partnering Mary nearby, she seized the chance for a private talk.
“I begin to worry you have changed your mind about taking me on one of your adventures,” Violet murmured. “Has the Saint had no recent…outings?”
Julian glanced around the crowded ballroom before answering. “No, alas, but you will be pleased to hear that he has another planned quite soon. Unless you’ve had second thoughts about assisting him?”
“Of course not! How can you ask? Have I not dropped hints enough these three days past?”
“You’ve certainly tried.” Julian grinned down at her. “Though Rushford has not made it easy for you.”
Though Violet had never told Julian about Lord Rushford’s warnings, he’d obviously noticed the earl’s efforts to keep them apart. “True, but he cannot prevent us talking now. We may not get another such opportunity, however, so you’d best tell me everything while this waltz lasts.”
“Very well. Only two hours since, I received news of a rich prize that should be remarkably easy to procure. If my source was correct, the house in question will be quite empty tomorrow night, lessening the risk considerably. Perfect, in fact, for your first, ah, outing with the Saint.”
“Tomorrow night?” Violet had scarcely dared hope her adventures would begin so soon. “I presume the owner of this prize is someone who, um, deserves the attention of the Saint? From all I have read, he generally limits his targets to those who need taking down a notch.”
Julian glanced over her shoulder, a smile playing about his full lips. “Oh, this fellow is quite in need of that, I assure you. In fact, this should be a particularly satisfying pigeon to pluck.”
“Then I have no qualms at all about helping you,” she told him. “When and where shall I meet you?”
“If you can manage to slip out of the house at half past midnight, I’ll meet you in the Cavendish Square mews.”
She instantly agreed to do so. “We are to accompany Lord Killerby and Lord Rushford to a concert at Lady Trumbull’s, but I can simply plead the headache to remain behind. As the actual concert does not begin till eleven, I doubt Lady Simpson and her daughter will be home before two, or even three.”
“I will have you back well before that,” he promised, smiling warmly down at her. “With luck, this will be but the first step in what I hope may be a long—and profitable—partnership.”
* * *
As Saturday evening approached, Violet found it difficult to conceal her mounting excitement—which was essential if her claim of a headache was to be believed. Though h
ungry, she forced herself to pick at her dinner, eating little while sighing audibly.
“Is something wrong, Violet?” Mary asked concernedly after the third sigh. “Are you not well?”
Violet shook her head with mock regret. “I fear I have the most dreadful headache. It has been coming on this hour or two past. Would you mind terribly, Lady Simpson, if I stayed quietly at home tonight?”
Though her hostess was clearly surprised, she did not appear particularly displeased.
“Of course you must rest, my dear, if you are not feeling quite the thing. Mary and I will make your apologies to Lord Rushford…and Lord Killerby.”
Her complacent expression told Violet she had noticed Lord Rushford’s efforts to come between herself and Julian, and had credited them to entirely the wrong motive. Violet did not much care, so long as it cleared her path tonight.
Immediately after dinner, Violet went up to her room to prepare for the thrilling evening ahead. She was just pondering which shoes would be most practical should she be required to run when Brigid came in.
“Lady Simpson’s abigail mentioned as how you’re feeling too poorly to go out tonight, Miss. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Actually, yes,” Violet replied with a grin. “I would very much like you to go down to the kitchens and get me some food, for I vow I am quite famished. If you can do so without saying it is for me, so much the better.”
Brigid appeared understandably confused. “Not for you, Miss?”
Though Violet had not meant to tell Brigid of her plans, she’d never been able to keep secrets from the girl. “I am not really ill,” she confessed. “I simply wished everyone to think so, that I might be free to do something else tonight—something no one else is to know about.”
Brigid’s confusion instantly gave way to suspicion. “Oh, Miss! What start are you about now? Not another elopement, I hope?”
