by Brenda Hiatt
Lady Simpson’s greeting gave no hint that anything out of the ordinary had happened, while the two young ladies sat quietly—Violet reading and Miss Simpson doing needlework. Rush sent a quick, questioning glance at Violet while trying to quell his body’s involuntarily reaction to the sight of her.
She responded with a tiny shake of her head before returning her gaze to the book she held. At this assurance that her absence had indeed gone undetected, Rush could not determine whether he felt more relief or disappointment.
“Ah, Miss Turpin,” Killer exclaimed as they moved to take seats in the parlor. “I take it you are feeling quite recovered today?”
Rush blinked. How could Killer possibly know—?
Her reply clarified matters. “Yes, my headache is quite gone, my lord, thank you. I imagine it was brought on by so many late nights, after being used to country hours. A good night’s sleep was enough to put me right.”
She flicked another glance at Rush as she spoke and he observed that, contrary to her words, she appeared to have slept no better than he.
Lady Simpson then accosted him. “I hope, Lord Rushford, that the, ah, urgent business that prevented you attending last night’s concert was successfully dispatched?” The edge in her voice signified her displeasure that he had not made his excuses personally.
“Er, yes. I would have sent word sooner, but my man of business did not contact me until I was fairly on my way out the door. As Lord Killerby arrived but a moment later, I begged him to convey how very disappointed I was to bow out on such short notice. I trust he did so?”
In fact, he had intentionally waited until the last moment to bow out of their engagement, rather than risk Miss Turpin giving Bigsby early word of his change in plans.
Lady Simpson sniffed, only partially mollified. “Yes, he was quite eloquent in your defense. I must say, both you and Miss Turpin missed an excellent performance. It was really quite stimulating.”
Though Miss Turpin kept her eyes on her book, her color deepened slightly. Rush quickly looked away before his complexion could be similarly affected.
“I’m sure I would have enjoyed it exceedingly, my lady, though my taste is not equal to your daughter’s or Lord Killerby’s. I am striving to improve it, however.”
Killer sent him an amused glance before turning back to the ladies. “I see Miss Simpson and Miss Turpin are already dressed for riding. We are fortunate to have another exceptionally fine day for it.”
Though Miss Simpson looked vaguely alarmed, her mother smiled.
“Just as you are attempting to learn more of music, Lord Rushford, my daughter is striving to improve her equestrian skills. Shared interests are a good harbinger of a happy marriage, don’t you think?”
Rush inclined his head in assent, though the image his wayward imagination conjured was a fetching vision of Violet flying over the countryside on horseback.
The horses were sent for and they all trooped outside. The skewbald gelding was as restive as before, but this time a groom was able to boost Miss Turpin into the saddle while she controlled the reins—a distinct improvement over the previous week.
“You and that horse appear to be getting better acquainted,” Rush commented as they started off.
“I have made a point of visiting him in the stables every day, though I have ridden him but once since last Sunday.” She referred, he knew, to her outing with Bigsby. “I suspect no one has attempted to befriend him since Lady Anthony left London.”
Eyeing the unattractive animal, Rush could not much blame them. Still, he loved horses in general enough to appreciate Violet’s compassion for this one. He liked to think he would do the same under similar circumstances.
Away from Lady Simpson’s watchful eye, Rush felt somewhat less compelled to make Miss Simpson his first object of attention. She did not seem to notice, riding a little behind with Killer to discuss last night’s concert.
On reaching the park, Rush again suggested that he and Miss Turpin make a more rapid circuit or two for the sake of her mount’s high spirits. The other two readily agreed.
“I take it you had no difficulties upon your return last night?” Rush said as soon as they were out of earshot.
She colored slightly. “Nothing to signify. There was one dicey moment when I heard a servant upon the stairs as I returned to my room, but I was quick enough that he did not see me. Should you wish the return of the dress I borrowed, my abigail will have it discreetly cleaned. Otherwise, she can dispose of the, ah, evidence.”
“No need to return it. I must devise some method of getting your gown back to you without arousing suspicion.”
“It is an old one that I never wear, now I’ve bought new ones. No one will notice it missing.”
Rush hesitated a moment, then said, “Even though your absence was not discovered, I feel honor bound to tell you that my offer of last night stands.”
The look she sent him held surprise but also, he thought, a trace of sadness. “That is very kind of you, my lord, but quite unnecessary. You must know as well as I how poorly we would suit, given our widely differing temperaments and views.”
He was tempted to argue, but realized this was a perfect opportunity to speak to her about Bigsby—even though she would likely see that as yet more proof that they could never see eye to eye.
“It occurs to me that we never finished our, ah, discussion of how you came to be lurking in my mews last night.”
She stiffened, as he’d known she would. That is, her head and shoulders did, though she did not allow her seat on the horse to be affected. Admirable, that.
“I can’t think of anything more we need to discuss,” she coolly replied. “As I told you, I was merely out for a walk and ventured beyond my reckoning.”
“You persist, then, in claiming your presence behind my house had nothing to do with Bigsby? With the man you believe to be the Saint of Seven Dials?”
Though she turned slightly pale, she kept her gaze on the path ahead. “Of course not. How should it? Much as I admire the Saint of Seven Dials, I have no idea of his true identity. I find it rather amusing that you think it could be Julian Bigsby. Are you quite certain you are not jealous of him?”
Rush clenched his jaw. “Certainly not,” he snapped, even while wondering again if that were the case.
Could he possibly be wrong about Bigsby? All he knew for certain was that the man who broke into his house last night was the one impersonating the Saint. Only he would have heard the rumor passed along by Flute’s friends.
Violet’s presence in his mews last night could scarcely have been a coincidence, however. She must have come there with someone, and that someone had to be the person currently styling himself Saint of Seven Dials.
“Miss Turpin—Violet,” he said after another long silence between them. “I informed you last night that whoever is committing these recent thefts is not the real Saint. As one of the true Saint’s admirers, I should think you would want to help us put a stop to this imposter’s depredations.”
“So you claimed.” She cast a frowning glance his way. “But you offered not a shred of evidence. Have you any real proof that someone else is masquerading as the Saint of Seven Dials?”
Rush opened his mouth, then closed it. Lord Peter had not given him permission to share the remarkable fact that several people, not one, had worn the Saint’s mask, nor the identities of any of those people. Why had he not asked last night whether he could do so?
Doubtless because he had been so distracted by what had just occurred—and by the revelation that he loved the maddening, alluring woman beside him.
“I…cannot tell you how I know, but I assure you that I do.”
She raised a skeptical brow. “If you will not tell me what you know, why should I tell you anything at all? As I see it, helping you to catch the Saint of Seven Dials would be like helping the Sheriff of Nottingham capture Robin Hood!”
He tried to think of some way to convince her without bet
raying Peter’s confidence, but nothing occurred to him before they caught up to Miss Simpson and Killer. They appeared to have covered less than half a furlong since their departure.
Frustrated as Rush was by his failure to obtain Violet’s cooperation, he doubted another circuit together would change her mind. As the park was now growing quite crowded, it might also cause talk. He therefore resigned himself to walking his horse alongside Miss Simpson while Miss Turpin began another turn about the park with Lord Killerby.
He would ask Lord Peter’s permission to tell Violet at least part of the truth before broaching the subject of the false Saint to her again. But would even that be enough, if the bogus Saint was indeed Bigsby…and if her heart had already been captured by the scoundrel?
Rush feared she might choose to protect him for reasons having nothing to do with the legendary thief.
Deliciously disturbing as she found Lord Rushford’s company, Violet was rather glad to leave him and his persistent questions behind for her next circuit of the park. Lord Killerby proved a far less unsettling companion.
“You and Miss Simpson have known each other for some years, have you not?” he asked as they started off—a nice, non-threatening topic.
“Yes, she and I both attended Miss Gebhart’s Seminary for Young Ladies and became friends there—a friendship we renewed when I was in London last Season.”
“You seem very fond of each other, though you appear to have little in common.”
Violet laughed. “True, on both counts. She is far more accomplished than I, in the accepted sense, vastly surpassing me at music, drawing and needlework. Still, our personalities seem to complement each other, dissimilar as they are. I frequently urge her to be more adventurous, though to little effect thus far.”
“I daresay there are few ladies of your class who can surpass you there—or on horseback,” said Lord Killerby admiringly.
Struck again by how well he and Mary might suit, she turned his praise back on her friend. “To be fair, Miss Simpson has had little opportunity to practice riding. Not surprising, as it is not considered a necessary accomplishment for a lady. In general, her strengths are far better suited to Society than mine.”
“Perhaps so, but you should not devalue your own admirable qualities, Miss Turpin.”
Before she could again deflect the compliment, Violet’s attention was caught by the sight of Julian riding a short distance ahead. “My lord, will you mind terribly if I leave you briefly?” she asked. “I have spotted someone I simply must speak to.”
Though Lord Killerby seemed startled, he made no objection.
Urging her mount faster, she called Julian’s name, whereupon he wheeled his horse around, a delighted smile breaking across his handsome face.
“Violet! Thank heaven. I prayed I might see you here today.”
“I hoped the same, for I was terribly worried you had been captured.” She’d found it difficult to hide her relief when Lord Rushford’s questions implied he had not.
“And I dared not call at Lady Simpson’s for fear you’d been apprehended, which obviously would have led to awkward questions. I take it you were not?”
She hesitated for a moment. “I…was not apprehended, no,” she finally said, though she had indeed been caught—by Lord Rushford.
“Here, let us find a spot with a bit more privacy,” he suggested, leading her down a narrower but less crowded side path. After another turning or two, they reached a small, deserted clearing, where Julian stopped and dismounted before assisting Violet to the ground.
Looping the horses’ reins over a nearby shrubbery, he turned to face her, his expression now contrite. “I behaved like the greatest cad in nature last night, running off before ascertaining that you were all right.”
“Not at all. It was far more important that the Saint of Seven Dials escape to continue his good work.” She patted his arm reassuringly.
He frowned and bit his lip. “I suppose so, though I fear it may be some time before that occurs. That rich prize I was told about turned out to be a trap. I, ah, don’t suppose you accidentally dropped word of our plans to Rushford?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I am shocked you can imagine I might do such a thing.”
“Someone must have tipped him off,” he replied with a shrug. “Though I had been reliably informed that the house would be empty, I arrived to discover an ambush of sorts.”
“It could not have been I, as you refused to tell me whose house you intended to rob,” she reminded him, still indignant.
He had the grace to look somewhat chagrined. “Yes, yes, you are right. I’m sorry. Knowing what close friends Rushford and your brother are, I thought you might take issue with it if you knew. Particularly as you have seemed more, ah, friendly toward him of late. And the way he sometimes looks at you…”
Remembering the passion of his kisses last night, Violet’s insides fluttered. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Julian,” she said primly. “Have I not told you that Lord Rushford is engaged to marry to Miss Simpson?”
“Engagements can be broken. Do you truly not care for him?”
She hesitated only an instant before replying, “Only as my brother’s good friend.” It was not true, but what else could she say under the circumstances?
Stepping closer, Julian caught one of her hands in both of his. “In that case, will you not reconsider your answer last night and come away with me?” he entreated with startling earnestness. “Now is the perfect time. After last night, my safest course may be to leave London for a while and I can think of no one I would rather have with me. Please say you will, Violet.”
Caught off guard by that question last night, she had briefly been tempted. Now, however, she finally knew her heart. Hopeless though her love for Rush might be, she was not yet ready to choose a path of despair.
With pretended regret, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Julian. I am no more prepared to take such a momentous step today than I was last night. But pray do not think of abandoning your work as the Saint of Seven Dials! The poor folk of London need both his help and the hope he gives them.”
“If we marry, I won’t need to.” He spoke eagerly, gripping her hand more tightly. “Together, we can do far more good for the poor than I ever can alone. Think of the money you stand to inherit, and the noble uses to which we could put it.”
His eagerness, and the mention of money, reminded her uncomfortably of Mr. Plunkett, the fortune hunter who had persuaded her to elope last autumn. Gently but firmly, she pulled her hand from his grasp.
“I’m sorry, Julian,” she repeated. “It is quite impossible.”
A look of frustration, even anger, flitted across his features before he schooled them into a sad smile. “You leave me heartbroken. I had begun to hope that you truly cared for me.”
“I do care for you,” she assured him, “but only as a friend.”
She had originally thought to warn him of Lord Rushford’s suspicions, but now felt oddly reluctant to do so.
“Perhaps you are right that the Saint should lie low for a while,” she told him instead. “I should hate for anything to happen to you, Julian.”
He reached up to touch her cheek with a gloved finger. “I am grateful for your concern, for it gives me hope. Pray send me word at once or, better, come to me yourself if you change your mind. Here is my direction.” Pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, he pressed it into her palm.
“I doubt I will, Julian, but if I hear anything I think you should know, I will contrive to tell you. Now, however, I had best get back to my party before they come seeking me. It…might be best if you wait a minute or two before following.”
With a nod, he boosted her into the saddle.
Trotting back to the main path, she was somewhat flummoxed at having received two proposals of marriage within an hour. Alas, she could not feel unduly flattered by either. The first had been made from a sense of duty and the second likely because of distres
sed circumstances.
For the first time since learning that Julian was the Saint of Seven Dials, she wondered whether his motives were truly as pure as he claimed—or if, perhaps, Lord Rushford was right about him.
Chapter Fifteen
Plodding slowly along the path with Miss Simpson, Rush stifled a yawn. As always, every attempt he made to draw his fiancée into conversation fell flat. He’d begun to dread the prospect of going through life with a woman he could not talk with. One who, far from sharing his love of horses, found them positively alarming.
Then there was the inconvenient fact that he was in love with Violet Turpin…
“Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed when the others finally trotted up. “What kept you?”
Killer looked a bit awkward. “Er, Miss Turpin was, er, detained by an acquaintance.”
“Oh? And who might that have been?” Rush’s mind leapt instantly to a guess.
Her blush confirmed his suspicion before her words did. “Mr. Bigsby, if you must know. We only talked for a few minutes, however. Is that not true, Lord Killerby?”
“Quite true,” he agreed, still appearing somewhat uncomfortable.
Rush would discover why as soon as he had opportunity. “No matter, but it is well you are back, for Miss Simpson has expressed a wish of returning home. Shall we?”
The gentlemen escorted the two young ladies back to the Simpson house, where they made their farewells. Rush waited only until he and Killer were back outside to question his friend.
“I don’t suppose you know what Miss Turpin and Bigsby had to say to each other?” he asked as casually as possible.
Killer shook his head. “Didn’t hear a word of it, I’m afraid. She went down a side trail with him and was gone for ten minutes or more, quite out of my sight. I had just determined it was my duty to go after her when she came back. Alone.”
