by Brenda Hiatt
Rush frowned. “Alone? Did she seem distressed at all? Disheveled?”
Killer furrowed his brow in thought. “Don’t think so. Why? Surely the fellow would not have attempted, er, anything he shouldn’t in the middle of Hyde Park?”
“There’s not much I’d put past Bigsby,” Rush replied with a snort. “She clearly came to no harm, however, so I suppose there is no need to confront him about it. Are we still on for dinner at White’s later?”
After he and Killer parted, Rush turned toward Curzon Street. If Violet had warned Bigsby about his suspicions, it was now more urgent than ever to convince her that he was not the true Saint of Seven Dials.
Lord Peter was alone when Rush was shown into his library. “Just the man I hoped to see,” he greeted his guest. “Does this mean you were able to obtain something useful from Miss Turpin?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Rush admitted, moving to a chair. “I tried, but she refused to admit she knew anything about Bigsby’s activities last night. She insists she was merely out for a walk when I encountered her in my mews, ridiculous as that sounds. Doubtless because she still believes Bigsby is the Saint.”
Peter frowned. “Did you not tell her that you have certain knowledge that whoever is committing these thefts is not the true Saint?”
“I did, but she demanded proof—which I could not give her without your authorization, as it would expose both your wife and your brother.”
“Ah. I should have thought of that. Hm. Suppose I ask Sarah to call upon Miss Turpin? I get the sense that her word might carry more weight than yours just now. Or am I wrong in thinking there was a degree of…friction between yourself and the lady in question last night?”
Though startled, Rush could scarcely deny it. “I see your reputation for perceptiveness is well deserved. There are several areas in which she and I do not see eye to eye. This matter of the Saint is merely the most recent.”
“And yet you hold each other in affection? Or at least…attraction?”
Again, Rush blinked. “I, ah, cannot speak for the lady’s feelings, though I fear she considers me more in the light of a nuisance than a potential suitor. I, however, have unwisely become rather…attached to her and would not like to see her hurt.”
“Why ‘unwisely’?” Peter asked.
“For one, I am betrothed to Miss Simpson, though no announcement will be made until either her father or his consent arrives from India. For another, Miss Turpin is as headstrong and undisciplined as any woman I have ever known. Even if I were free to woo her, I would surely do a disservice to my family name and my mother’s memory to install her as Countess of Rushford.”
Peter regarded him in silence for a long moment. “I see. Would it be impertinent of me to ask how you came to be engaged to Miss Simpson? Would she be heartbroken if it were broken off?”
“Does it matter? I admit I was rash to offer for a girl I scarcely knew. I realize now that I was still thinking less than rationally in the wake of my mother’s passing. But whatever Miss Simpson’s current feelings may be on the matter, her mother has made it more than plain that I am expected to go through with it.”
“I see,” Peter repeated. “And you feel Miss Simpson would make you a better countess than Miss Turpin?”
Rush raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s the devil of it. Now that I know her a bit better, I’d have to say no. Miss Simpson has lived her life completely under her mother’s thumb and appears to have few opinions and little volition of her own.”
“And Miss Turpin?” Peter prompted.
“For all of her faults, she is both intelligent and decisive,” Rush admitted. “She also has a zeal for assisting the poor, much as my mother did. Thus her determination to protect the Saint of Seven Dials.” He wondered why he had never before drawn that comparison.
“In that case,” Peter said lightly, “I suppose we must hope everything will work out for the best for all concerned. In my experience it often does, even when present circumstances suggest otherwise.”
Though he could not share the other man’s optimism, Rush found his words strangely cheering. Rising, he thanked Lord Peter for his time as well as his insights.
“Say nothing of it. I will speak with Sarah upon her return, for she is as eager as we are to put this bogus Saint out of business permanently. With any luck, your Miss Turpin will give us the testimony we need after hearing the truth.”
Rush was startled by a spurt of delight at hearing her called his Miss Turpin. Carefully concealing it from the too-perceptive Lord Peter, he bowed and took his leave before riding home deep in thought.
Violet was breakfasting with the Simpson ladies the next morning when a footman brought in a note addressed specifically to her.
“Who is that from, pray?” Lady Simpson inquired.
“I’ve no idea,” Violet said in surprise, for neither the distinctly feminine hand nor the seal on the envelope were at all familiar.
Breaking the seal, she unfolded the small sheet of pressed paper.
My Dear Miss Turpin,
I beg you will do me the honor of accompanying me to tea today at the home of my sister-in-law, Lady Marcus Northrup. If you are amenable, I will call for you at one o’clock. Please send your reply at your earliest convenience.
Yours, etc,
Sarah, Lady Peter Northrup
Violet read the note through twice before passing it to her hostess, who was by now demanding to know its contents.
“Well! This is quite an honor,” Lady Simpson declared after perusing it. “I had no idea you were acquainted with three daughters-in-law to the Duke of Marland.”
“I was first introduced to Lady Peter at the Jeller ball and have never met Lady Marcus,” Violet admitted. “I did become fairly well acquainted with Lady Anthony while in the Shires, however.”
Lady Simpson regarded her with new respect. “All are very important connections. You must write back at once to accept Lady Peter’s kind invitation.” She rang for paper and pen that Violet might do so without delay.
Two hours later, clad in her best new day dress, Violet found herself sharing an elegant carriage with the lovely Lady Peter for the short drive to Grosvenor Street. On their arrival, Lady Marcus greeted them both warmly.
“Thank you for indulging us on such short notice, Miss Turpin,” she said. “My sister-in-law and I very much wished to talk with you today.”
Though surprised by the pretty brunette’s American accent, Violet did not remark upon it. “It is I who owe thanks to you and Lord Marcus for the loan of a horse while I am in London. Without it, I would likely be unable to ride at all this Season.”
“You are having no difficulty managing him, then? It appears Tessa did not exaggerate when she wrote that you were nigh as good a horsewoman as herself. We must ride together one day soon. It is an exercise I also enjoy immensely, but I can rarely convince Sarah to come with me.”
“I fear I am still less than confident on horseback,” Lady Peter admitted. “Quinn is quite accomplished at it, however.”
The two continued chatting comfortably as Lady Marcus led them up to the parlor, where an elegant tea was laid out. Violet was struck by the informal friendliness between the two, relieved to find them far less imposing than she’d feared.
“Now,” said Lady Marcus as she poured out, “I imagine you are wondering why we were so eager to speak with you, so we will get to the point at once. It has to do with the Saint of Seven Dials, and the man currently styling himself as such.”
Violet sucked in a startled breath. “Did…did Lord Rushford ask you to do this?” Did that mean he or Lord Peter had told them about her appearance at Rush’s house two nights ago? What must they think?
“Not precisely,” Lady Peter replied, taking a cup from her sister-in-law. “He asked my husband’s permission to share a, ah, secret with you, in order to persuade you that this new thief is an imposter. Peter thought it might be more effective if I shared t
hat secret myself. Quinn and I then agreed to combine forces, the better to convince you.”
Now as confused as she was alarmed, Violet looked from one to the other. “A secret?”
Handing Violet her cup, Lady Marcus nodded. “What we are about to tell you could be dangerous to several people, including ourselves, should it become generally known.”
Though half-fearing some sort of trick, Violet was also thoroughly intrigued. “I promise never to breathe a word of…of whatever your secret is.”
“We feel sure you will not,” said Lady Peter. “According to Lord Rushford, you are a great admirer of the Saint of Seven Dials.”
“I am. Lately I have read quite a lot about him and enthusiastically support all he has done for the poor. ’Tis why I refused to give Lord Rushford any information that could lead to his capture.”
Lady Marcus smiled. “Then you will no doubt find what we have to tell you both interesting and surprising.”
“I…I will?” asked Violet uncertainly.
The two exchanged a glance. “We imagine so,” said Lady Peter. “You see, contrary to all accounts currently in circulation, to include a recently-published book on the subject, there have in fact been several different Saints.”
“What?” Violet gasped. Julian had never so much as hinted at such a thing! “Do you mean to say that the Saint of Seven Dials is actually a whole group of men? How can no one have suspected that?”
“Not a group, precisely,” Lady Marcus clarified. “There has only ever been one Saint at a time. The original Saint, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, operated alone for two or three years, save for a helpful street urchin or two. Upon his marriage, however, he passed the job on to another man. My husband.”
Violet stared. “Lord Marcus is the Saint of Seven Dials?”
“Was,” Lady Marcus corrected her. “He filled the role for most of last summer, before handing off his mask, so to speak, to a third man, who primarily used the guise of the Saint to bring a murderous traitor to justice. Once he’d done so, he also…ceased operations.”
Lady Peter now took up the narrative. “After that, there was no Saint at all for many weeks. Soon the poor began to feel the pinch, lamenting the loss of their hero. My younger brother, who had worked as the original Saint’s primary assistant, was preparing to take on the role himself, though he was barely sixteen. To prevent his doing so, I, ah, briefly became the Saint myself.”
“You?” Violet cried, astonished. “But how—?”
“I…spent a portion of my childhood on the streets myself, you see, which equipped me rather well for the task. I only continued as the Saint for a fortnight or so, however, before Peter put a stop to it by marrying me.”
Her blue eyes twinkled as she spoke, clearly enjoying Violet’s reaction to the remarkable news.
“And then?” Violet asked faintly. How very wrong that chronicler had been!
“After I, er, retired, Peter persuaded someone else to take over, partly for that person’s own good. He served as Saint most ably until the end of last year, but since then there has been no acting Saint. Most of the former ones have continued to assist the poor, however, given the pressing need.”
Now Violet was confused again. “No Saint? But these recent thefts, with the Saint’s card left in place of stolen valuables…?”
Both ladies shook their heads.
“He is an imposter.” Lady Peter spoke with conviction. “My brother has confirmed that not a farthing of what has been stolen over the past month has made its way to the deserving poor. Whoever is committing these latest thefts is undoubtedly using the Saint’s identity to avert suspicion while lining his own pockets.”
“He is also besmirching the true Saints’ hard-won reputation,” Lady Marcus added indignantly. “Not only has this new fellow robbed some perfectly pleasant people, he has also injured more than one servant while escaping, something no real Saint ever did. We all fear that if he is not stopped soon, he may kill someone. His methods have been quite crude, lacking the, ah, professionalism for which the Saint was previously known.”
Violet listened, aghast, as her illusions about Julian were shattered beyond repair. His lies were many. Not only had he spoken loftily about the good he was doing for the poor, he had told her tales, stretching back many months, of his supposed exploits as the Saint.
She realized now that he must have gleaned those stories from published accounts. Had she not recognized at least one from her book? At the time, she had taken that as further evidence of his veracity, when in fact it was the opposite. How could she have been so blind?
“If what you say is true, he clearly must be stopped.” Violet’s voice quivered with shock and indignation. “What…what do you wish me to do?”
“Help us to put an end to his activities,” Lady Peter pleaded earnestly. “Lord Rushford believes you may know who the false Saint is?”
Violet swallowed. Mortified as she was that she had allowed Julian to deceive her, she could not quite bring herself to blurt out his name to these two women she scarcely knew.
“I, ah, have a suspicion, yes,” she reluctantly admitted. “I should like to confirm it, however, before he is turned over to the authorities.”
“Pray do not take too long over it,” Lady Peter cautioned. “Once he knows we are on to him, he will very likely cut and run.”
Likely true. Already, Julian had spoken of fleeing London.
“Would not that serve the purpose as well?” Violet asked. “He could then commit no further crimes in the Saint’s name.” And she would be spared betraying someone she had believed a friend.
Lady Marcus conceded that was true, but added, “Should he leave London, or perhaps even England, odds are he will never be caught. On the other hand, if he were turned over to the authorities as the Saint of Seven Dials, every other person who has legitimately filled that role would be safe from the law.”
A fair point, Violet realized. Nor did she owe Julian any particular loyalty if he had been lying to her all along. Still, she needed time to consider everything she had just learned before taking such a momentous step.
“Very well. Once I am certain my guess is correct, I will send word to you, or to Lord Rushford,” she promised.
By the time Violet returned to Cavendish Square, her initial embarrassment at being fooled so easily had given way to anger over Julian’s perfidy. Her inclination now was to confront him herself, but Lady Peter had likely been right. Satisfying as it might be to witness his chagrin on knowing she was on to him, it was not worth risking the real Saints’ futures.
No, much as she dreaded doing so, she would simply have to swallow her pride and admit to Lord Rushford that he had been right from the start.
As though to test her resolve, soon after she and the Simpson ladies arrived at Lady Dunstable’s ball that evening, Julian approached to request a waltz. Fearing that her sense of betrayal might tempt her to say more to him than was wise, she declined.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bigsby,” she coolly replied. “I fear all of my dances for the evening are already engaged.”
To her surprise, rather than argue, he merely turned to Mary and secured her hand for the waltz instead. He then bowed stiffly to them both and moved off to await the promised dance.
Lady Simpson, in conversation with Lady Mountheath a short way off, frowned after him, clearly less pleased than Mary was with his attention. Violet was debating whether to discreetly warn Mary away from Julian when Lord Rushford and Lord Killerby joined them.
“Give you good evening, ladies.” Lord Killerby bowed first in Lady Simpson’s direction, then collectively to Violet and Mary. “Dare we hope that either of you still has a dance or two free?”
Violet, mindful that it would look odd if she did not dance every dance after her fib to Julian, agreed to two dances with each of them, as did Mary. She need not have been so precipitous, however. Within half an hour she was obliged to truthfully tell more than one
gentleman that her dance card was full.
When the music began, Violet took to the floor with Lord Killerby, who was as pleasant and inoffensive as he had been in the park yesterday.
“Must say, I prefer Lady Dunstable’s decor to the overblown profusion of Lady Jeller’s last week,” he commented as he led her to their set. “Flowers are all good and well, but I would rather enjoy them in a garden than a ballroom.”
She absently agreed, thinking ahead to her first dance with Lord Rushford—the same waltz Mary was to dance with Julian. Should she make her confession then, before she could lose her nerve? Probably.
Unfortunately, when their waltz began an hour later, Lord Rushford made it clear he fully expected her to do exactly that.
“I’m glad to have this opportunity to speak with you,” he said as they began moving among the other couples. “I observed you refusing Bigsby a dance earlier, though you clearly still had several free. I presume you now realize I have been right about him all along?”
Though she had steeled herself to set her pride aside, she could not bring herself to do so in the face of such smug assurance. “Mr. Bigsby and I had a bit of a falling out. Not that my private affairs are any of your business, my lord.”
“No?” Tightening his grip on her hand, he leaned forward to look into her face. His expression now held a trace of the heat she’d seen there two nights ago. “I should like them to be, you know.”
Startled and confused by his sudden change of manner, she blinked. “I… No, I cannot say that I knew that. Indeed, you told me yourself that you only concerned yourself in my affairs as a favor to my brother. Is that no longer true?”
For a long moment he did not reply. “I thought it was, when I first arrived in Town,” he finally said. “I suspect now that I was merely deceiving myself.”
Violet’s heart beat faster. Was it possible his proposal of marriage had been prompted by more than his sense of honor?
“What…What of Miss Simpson?”
Straightening somewhat, he glanced away from her with a frown. “Yes, I suppose I still need to— That is— Never mind.” His voice now became as cool as it had been warm a moment earlier. “I requested this waltz hoping you might finally admit that Bigsby has indeed been aping the Saint of Seven Dials.”
