by Brenda Hiatt
“Certainly not!” Violet exclaimed. “I’ve quite learned my lesson there. Not to worry. If all goes well I will only be gone an hour or two, and with none the wiser. Believe it or not, I am going help the Saint of Seven Dials in one of his capers!”
The maid’s eyes grew round. “Never say so, Miss! You’ve actually met him, then?”
“I have indeed. So have you, though it’s probably safer if I don’t tell you who he is. But there, go and fetch me something to sustain me for my adventure, won’t you?”
Though still clearly alarmed, Brigid went to do her bidding and returned a short time later with meat and bread rolls wrapped in a napkin, along with a cup of strong tea. As Violet ate, the girl did her best to dissuade her from going out.
“If you’re caught, you’ll land in prison or worse. You might even be hanged! Please, Miss, please, can’t you bide safe here instead?”
“And miss this chance to achieve my dearest wish? I should never forgive myself! If you’ll just help me into my old drab day dress, you can run back off to the kitchen or wherever you like and pretend I never told you anything about it. I can easily manage the rest myself.”
When Brigid still looked worried, Violet patted her shoulder. “Pray don’t worry. I’m only to act as a lookout, nothing more. J— The Saint will see I come to no harm and I will be back before you know it.”
With that Brigid had to be content. After buttoning Violet into the required garment she left her, though not without a last, dubious glance over her shoulder.
Realizing that Mary might peep in on her before leaving for the concert, Violet tucked her sturdy walking shoes back into the clothespress, turned down the lamp and climbed into bed, pulling the counterpane up to conceal the dress she wore. Her precaution was only just in time. Less than five minutes passed before she heard light steps in the hallway, then the sound of her door creaking open.
Violet held perfectly still with eyes closed, keeping her breathing slow and steady—with some difficulty. Though this was by no means the first time she had feigned sleep before a late night escape, never before had she looked forward to an upcoming lark as much as this one. When the door snicked shut a few moments later, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, she forced herself to remain quietly in bed until she was certain both Simpson ladies were safely back downstairs. Nearly half an hour crawled by before she heard Mary’s door open. Her footsteps again paused briefly outside Violet’s door before finally continuing toward the staircase.
Jumping up, Violet ran to the window to see the Simpsons’ carriage pulling up to the door. A moment later, the two ladies were handed inside by a footman and the coach drove away.
Congratulating herself on successfully passing her first hurdle, Violet completed her preparations for her coming adventure, then attempted to read until midnight—though with frequent glances at the little clock on the mantelpiece.
Shortly after ten o’clock Saturday night, Rush opened his front door to Lord Peter’s knock to discover him accompanied by his brother Lord Marcus.
“Change of plans?” he asked in surprise.
“Not at all,” Peter replied. “I thought an extra person might lessen the chance of the false Saint escaping, so asked Marcus if he would assist us. He jumped at the chance.”
Rush eyed the other man warily. “Then he knows? About there having been more than one—?”
“I knew long before Peter did,” Lord Marcus informed him with a chuckle. “He didn’t feel it was his place to tell you without talking to me first, but I happen to be one of the former Saints he told you about.”
Rush blinked, then laughed. “It would appear that Saintliness quite runs in your family. I don’t suppose that Anthony has also—?”
Both brothers shook their heads, grinning. “Anthony never spent enough time in London to be an effective Saint, even if he were so inclined. In fact, he knows nothing of the business at all, so it would be best if you not mention it to him.”
“Of course not,” Rush promised. More than ever, he longed to know who the other two Saints were. “I agree it will be easier to nab the imposter with three of us here. I’ve already barred some of the exits to make his escape more difficult, but he will be able to leave the same way he gets in, unless we prevent him.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as they planned their ambush of the bogus Saint. According to their rumor, the stack of notes were in a strong box in the ground floor library, which also served as Rush’s office. After some discussion, it was agreed that Peter would hide in there and Lord Marcus would position himself near the front door. Rush would stake out the rear of the house, as that was the most obvious way for the thief to enter and leave unobserved.
“With those avenues of escape covered we should have him, unless he leaps from an upper window to run along the rooftops,” Peter said. “From what I’ve learned of his prior burglaries, I seriously doubt this fellow possesses that level of dexterity.”
“As do I,” Rush agreed, having observed Bigsby’s dancing. “What say you to a toast before we take up our positions?” He poured small measures of brandy into three tumblers and handed them round.
Raising his glass, Lord Peter said, “To an unceremonious end to the career of this false Saint of Seven Dials. Long may the true Saint’s legend endure.”
To that they all drank, then separated to conceal themselves as agreed…and to wait.
At twenty-five past twelve, Violet slipped through the scullery door to the back garden and quietly pulled it to, then cautiously made her way to the mews behind. Passing silently through the back gate, she paused to adjust the hood of her dark cloak against the falling mist and to peer down the dark alleyway. What if Julian had been prevented from—
“Violet, is that you?” came a whisper from behind her.
She started violently, then turned. “Julian? Yes, ’tis I.”
A shadow detached itself from the darker shade between the stable blocks and moved through the gathering fog to join her.
“Are you certain no one saw you leaving?” he asked.
“Yes. I was perfectly quiet and encountered no one, upstairs or down, on my way out. So long as I am back before the servants wake in the morning, no one should ever know I left the house.”
Julian’s teeth flashed in the dimness as he smiled his approval. “Good girl. It appears you are a natural at this sort of thing.”
She grinned back. “I was rather known for my nighttime forays at Miss Gebhart’s Seminary.”
“Clearly, I could not have asked for a better confederate. Shall we go?”
“Lead on, do. Are we going far?” she asked.
“Not far.” He turned down the alley toward Oxford Street. “Tonight’s target is in Brook Street, just past Hanover Square.”
Violet swallowed, the reality of what they planned sinking in. “Whose house are we burgling? You never did say.”
“Better if you don’t know.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Nor will you be doing any burgling. You are to stay safely back as my lookout, remember?”
She nodded, not daring to argue. They walked at a leisurely pace through the light drizzle, as though out for a casual stroll, first toward Marylebone Lane, then down to Oxford Street, still busy with carriage traffic.
While waiting to cross, Violet felt her first shiver of anxiety. “Are you certain this house will be empty tonight? You will be in no real danger?”
“If my information is correct, this should be the safest caper the Saint has ever attempted. The most rewarding, as well. Particularly if…” He trailed off.
“If what?” she prompted.
He slanted an enigmatic look down at her, a smile playing about his lips. “It occurs to me that as no one saw you leave the Simpsons’ house, we could quite easily make for Scotland once I have relieved tonight’s most-deserving target of a small portion of his riches. What say you, Violet? Will you?”
She caught her breath. Was Jul
ian—the Saint of Seven Dials—proposing marriage? For an instant she was tempted. What existence could be more worthy than one as the wife, the closest possible confidante, of the hero she had so long idolized?
Before she could agree, however, reason—and her heart—intervened. She had spoken truth to Brigid that she had learned her lesson about elopements. Her last one had been a vastly uncomfortable affair, precipitated by her foolishly mistaking flattery and the promise of excitement for true love. Never again.
“I’m sorry, Julian,” she replied after a moment’s reflection. “Much as I admire the Saint and like you as a friend, I am by no means prepared to elope with you tonight.”
He sighed regretfully. “The fault is mine, for springing such a suggestion on you without warning. I shall give you time to consider the idea, after which I will try again to persuade you.”
She gave no answer and they crossed Oxford Street in silence. Traversing one long alleyway lined with stables, they then turned down another before finally stopping.
“That’s the house, just there.” He pointed to the rear facade of one of the elegant town houses fronting Brook Street. “Bide you here while I find a way inside. Should anyone else approach the house, hoot like an owl and I will know to hide. Mind you are not seen, however.”
“Shall I draw them off after warning you?” she asked hopefully. Making bird noises from the mews scarcely counted as an adventure.
“’Tis extremely unlikely you will need to do anything at all, for I doubt I’ll be disturbed. If you should need to warn me, you must do so from hiding. No treasure is worth risking your safety, my dear. But now the Saint of Seven Dials had best get to work.” With a wink, he turned away and crept toward the back of the house.
Pulling her hood close against the increasing damp, Violet watched him anxiously, occasionally glancing up and down the alleyway for any sign of trouble. She expected Julian to pick the lock of the door leading down to the kitchens, but instead he went to a nearby window. After fiddling with it a moment, he was able to push it open. His slender build made it easy for him to squeeze between sill and sash.
With a small sigh, Violet settled in to wait in the now-steady rain, wondering again whose house this was. Suppose it belonged to someone she knew? Someone she liked?
No. The Saint was known to prey only upon the richest and most unpleasant members of Society—which explained why the Mountheaths had been robbed more than once. This house must belong to someone similarly overbearing. Had not Julian said as much last night?
Peering up and down the mews again to confirm the area was still deserted, Violet stiffened. Had that tall shadow been there the last time she looked? Though it did not move, its outlines were eerily man-like. Increasingly uneasy, she held very still and continued to watch it.
A shout from the direction of the house snatched her attention away from the ominous shadow. Julian! Had he been spotted?
Sudden movement caught the corner of her eye. She wheeled back around in time to see the shadow she’d been watching assume the unmistakeable shape of a tall man, cloaked and hooded.
Violet froze as he strode toward the house, then realized that her first responsibility must be to prevent Julian from being captured. On that thought, she darted from her hiding place, deliberately knocking over a metal garbage bin in passing. It clattered noisily on the cobbles behind her as she ran lightly down the alley. With any luck, the sound would both alert Julian and distract the cloaked man from investigating the commotion at the house.
As she’d hoped, she heard heavy steps behind her—closing quickly. Triumph abruptly turned to terror. She ran faster, desperately seeking a way of escape. Ducking around a corner, she slipped into an open stable, then scrambled under a stall door, startling the horse dozing there.
“Shh! Shh!” She stroked the horse’s neck, trying to calm the beast before it alerted her pursuer.
Only seconds ago she’d thought it better to risk her own capture than Julian’s, but now she was far less sure of that. What if this was no officer of the law? It could be a bounty hunter, or another thief who had heard about the unguarded house. What might a hardened criminal do to a woman alone, in such a place after midnight? She continued frantically petting the horse, fearing to make a sound even to soothe it.
In the alley outside the stable, she heard the heavy footfalls slow, then stop. Surely, between the fog and the rain, he could not have seen clearly which way she’d gone?
Go on, go on, go on, she prayed silently. Don’t look in here.
For a moment, her wish seemed granted. The footsteps resumed and slowly began to recede—before the silence was shattered by a shrill whinny from the horse beside her. Instantly, a shadow loomed in the stable entrance.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice demanded.
With a gasp, Violet attempted to hide behind the horse, but she was not quick enough. The stall door slammed open. Her pursuer stepped past the animal and grasped her arm with a large hand to pull her inexorably from her hiding place.
“A woman, by the size and sound of it,” he muttered. The voice now struck her as oddly familiar. “Come out into the light, madam, that I may see who else the scoundrel has duped.”
Though Violet pulled against him, his grip was like iron. He hauled her out into the alley, faintly illumined by the light of a distant street lamp. There, her captor roughly pulled the hood back from her face. As he did so, his own fell away as well.
Violet’s heart soared for an instant, then plummeted just as quickly on facing a furious Lord Rushford.
Rush stared at the girl he held, unable to believe his eyes. On realizing his quarry was female, he’d assumed it was some doxy of Bigsby’s brought along to act as lookout, then to dally with afterward. Never had he thought to find Violet Turpin in such a setting.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, outraged that Bigsby would put her at such risk and equally angry that she had allowed him to do so. Sudden jealousy nearly choked him at this blatant evidence that the man was far more to her than the friend she had claimed. “How did Bigsby persuade you to accompany him here? To assist him in an attempted robbery?”
“Whatever do you mean?” She gave a bad imitation of a laugh. “I…I’ve scarcely spoken with Mr. Bigsby for days.”
He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Not even when you waltzed together at Claridge House last night? Do you really mean to deny he brought you here?”
“Of course I deny it! Why should he do such a thing?”
“If Bigsby did not bring you here, Miss Turpin, pray tell me how you come to be in such an unlikely place at such an unlikely time of night.”
Her mouth opened and closed several times. “I, ah, was unable to sleep,” she said at last. “I often walk alone at night in Lincolnshire, so I thought to take a stroll. I…I find the exercise calming. I, um, may have wandered rather farther than I intended, however. When I saw these mews, I thought at first they were the ones by Cavendish Square but I, er, see now that I was mistaken.”
Rush raised an eyebrow.
“Whatever your real purpose here, Miss Turpin, I must return you to Lady Simpson’s house at once. It is by no means safe for a lady to be abroad in London at such an hour unescorted, not even in Mayfair. Even one so contemptuous of convention as yourself should know that.”
Predictably, she bristled. “Despite whatever promise you made to my brother, you are not my keeper, Lord Rushford. I am no child, and I will thank you not to treat me like one.”
“Then perhaps you should endeavor not to act like one,” he snapped. “You cannot have thought your actions through tonight. A frequent failing of yours, I have observed.”
She gasped in outrage. “How dare you? I have most certainly—”
Her words were cut off by a flash of lightning followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder. The sound had not yet faded when the rain became a veritable downpour.
“This way.” He put a hand on her shoulder to guide her
back under the shelter of the nearest stable. “We’d best wait here until the storm passes.”
“I will go where I please, my lord,” she hissed. Shaking water from her tousled hair, she glared up at him.
Rush was suddenly struck by the similarity to their encounter in the stables at Ivy Lodge, which had haunted his dreams ever since. The rain, her wet hair, the warm, homey smell of horses…her lovely, upturned face…
Without stopping to think what he did, he pulled her to him and covered her lips with his own.
She froze in his arms for an instant. Then, before he could release her, she abruptly melted against him, eagerly returning his kiss. Her hands slid up his shoulders to draw him closer.
Rendered momentarily incapable of rational thought, he deepened the kiss, glorying in the divine sensation of her warm, pliable lips beneath his own. Surely life could offer nothing better than this? For a dozen blissful seconds they clung together, oblivious to the pouring rain, before unwelcome reason intruded. Rush reluctantly—so reluctantly!—raised his head to gaze down at Violet’s stunned face.
“Miss Turpin, I—” he began huskily, not knowing precisely what to say.
She stared back, wide-eyed, but then those beautiful eyes narrowed. “Is this how you bend susceptible women to your will, my lord? I daresay it works on most of them, but I am made of sterner stuff. If you are…quite done, I will go my way, as I ought to have done at once.” She attempted to pull herself from his grasp.
Though he did not release her, he now held her at arm’s length instead of pressed against him. That distance, small as it was, enabled him to think more clearly.
“I cannot possibly allow you to make your own way back to Cavendish Square in the middle of the night, and in such weather, Miss Turpin—or may I call you Violet, as Bigsby does?” When she did not reply, he continued, “I really must insist that you accompany me into the house so that we may determine our best way to proceed.”
She regarded him with an expression of mingled stubbornness and uncertainty, along with a trace of what he could have sworn was longing. Or perhaps he attributed his own desire to the alluring woman before him?
