by Brenda Hiatt
Hurt and disappointed, and angry at herself for being so, Violet shook her head, not trusting her voice. She must not let him guess what he had come to mean to her…not unless he admitted he felt the same about her. Which it seemed he did not.
Torn between doing what she knew to be right and reluctance to expose her folly—and her heart—she remained silent for the remainder of the dance. How Lord Rushford’s thoughts were occupied she did not know, but he did not appear particularly happy.
Just before parting with her, he said, “If you are unwilling to confide in me, will you tell Lady Peter what you know? The important thing is to prevent further damage by the imposter. An admirer of the true Saint should wish that as well.”
“I… Yes. Perhaps I will,” she replied. He bowed, his expression unreadable, and she responded with a formal curtsey, wondering why it should be so difficult to do what she knew to be right.
Rush realized even before relinquishing Violet at the end of their waltz that he had bungled things badly. He had been so heartened by her refusal to dance with Bigsby that he had overplayed his hand, allowing his smugness to show. Not surprisingly, that had kept her from admitting she was wrong, though she surely must know it now, after speaking with Lady Peter.
Then he had compounded the matter when his feelings for her led him to say more than was wise—and then drawing back the moment she again mentioned Miss Simpson. What was it about this woman that caused him to lose his vaunted capacity for planning ahead?
Necessary as it was to undo the damage, he had no opportunity to do so. His second dance with Violet allowed for no private conversation—particularly as she seemed disinclined to even make eye contact with him. Nor did Lady Simpson permit him so much as a moment apart with her as they took their leave at the close of the ball.
“What say you we invite Miss Turpin and Miss Simpson riding again tomorrow morning?” he said to Killer as they left the Dunstable house together. “Shame to waste this fine weather.” It would also provide Rush the privacy he needed to apologize to Violet, and perhaps to hint at his intention to somehow break off his engagement to Miss Simpson.
Killer readily agreed, though he seemed surprised when Rush suggested calling well before noon.
The ladies were still drinking coffee in the breakfast parlor when they arrived the next day. Far from being put out, however, Lady Simpson appeared even more delighted than usual to see them.
“Ah, gentlemen, how lucky you are here so early, for it is fitting that Lord Rushford hear the happy news at once.”
“News?” Rush echoed with a odd sense of foreboding.
“Aye, wonderful news, and far sooner than we expected. Not an hour since, this morning’s post brought Sir Clarence’s letter from India with his consent for you and my daughter to wed. Is that not famous?”
Rush’s stomach plummeted. “Famous. Indeed. You…did not look to see his reply for another month or more, as I recall.”
“Quite true, though apparently there can be a great deal of variation in the time it takes letters to travel from India. No doubt he was so pleased to hear of your offer that he sent his answer as expeditiously as possible. The winds were likely favorable as well.”
Forcing the corners of his mouth upward a fraction, Rush darted a look at Miss Turpin, then Miss Simpson. The former was watching him fixedly, with somewhat heightened color, while the latter seemed rather paler than usual, her eyes fixed upon her lap. Neither young lady appeared any happier with this news than he was.
“I, ah, suppose congratulations are in order, then.” Killer dropped abruptly into the nearest chair.
Miss Simpson’s gaze flew to his face with an expression almost of panic before she again ducked her head, murmuring something unintelligible.
Rush thanked his friend mechanically. “We, ah, had hoped to invite the young ladies out riding again.” He kept his tone casual with an effort, for he was now more desperate than ever to speak privately with Violet.
“Oh, but there is so much to be done!” Lady Simpson protested. “I need to send word to my husband’s man of business, that he can call upon you to discuss the particulars. There is the announcement for the papers to write up, after which Mary and I must give thought to her trousseau, if we are to have everything necessary made up in time for a June wedding. Sir Clarence expects to be home by mid-May, so that will be quite perfect.”
Miss Simpson suddenly spoke up, for the first time since the gentlemen’s arrival. “Surely, Mama, my part in this may wait until tomorrow? Truly, I…I should rather like to go riding. To, ah, clear my thoughts before beginning all of these preparations.”
Lady Simpson blinked, apparently as startled as Rush was by her daughter’s sudden outspokenness.
“Very well,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I suppose an hour’s delay will not signify, particularly as your father’s letter is here so much earlier than I had hoped. You see, Lord Rushford? She really does wish to improve her skill on horseback.”
While the young ladies changed to their habits, Rush and Killer were subjected to Lady Simpson’s detailed plans for the coming weeks. To conceal his dismay, Rush turned his thoughts to what he planned to say to Violet if their ride allowed for another tête-à-tête.
All four younger people seemed noticeably more subdued than previously during their ride to the park. When Rush again suggested that he and Miss Turpin should again make a quick circuit or two while Killer and Miss Simpson followed more slowly, the others instantly agreed.
“I fear I am by no means so improved yet as to attempt a canter,” Miss Simpson said apologetically.
“Of course not,” Killer gallantly told her. “It would be remarkable indeed if you were. I do not mind in the least staying back with you while Rush and Miss Turpin burn off their mounts’ high spirits.”
Rush shot his friend a grateful glance. Though he had not told Killer about the events of Saturday night, he had clearly divined where Rush’s true affections lay.
Determined not to waste this opportunity, he again launched into speech the moment they were alone. “Miss Turpin—Violet—have you given any more thought to the request I have twice made of you?”
She glanced across at him. “That I share anything I know about the Saint of Seven Dials?”
“Actually, I, ah, meant the other request.” He was startled to realize he’d momentarily forgotten all about Bigsby. “That our best course, given what occurred, is to marry.”
Now her color deepened perceptibly. “I…cannot claim I have not, but the arguments I put forth before still stand. If anything, the arrival of Sir Clarence’s letter only strengthens them. You spoke of honor, but jilting Mary would surely be far more dishonorable than pretending our, ah, encounter never happened. Particularly as it is known to no one but we two.”
“And Lords Peter and Marcus,” he reminded her. “As well as their wives, I suspect, for neither is prone to keeping secrets from them.”
She appeared both startled and distressed by his additions, but after a moment’s silence she shook her head. “Even so, it would be worse to use Mary in that way.” He thought he heard regret in her voice, however, and took heart from it.
“Then you believe your friend truly wishes for this marriage? That she is…in love with me?” Speaking that word to Violet, even in this context, sent a warmth through his vitals.
“I… Well, no. In fact, she has confessed rather the opposite to me. But a man breaking off an engagement is always seen as a more serious breach of honor than a woman doing so. While she showed unusual spirit earlier by speaking up in favor of this outing, I cannot imagine her defying her mother about something of this magnitude.”
Rush pondered that for a moment. “If it is true that she has no more wish to marry me than I her, the match should certainly be broken off. I agree Miss Simpson seems unlikely to take the initiative, but perhaps between us we can convince her to do so. If we succeed, will you then consider my offer more seriously?”
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Her quick intake of breath was audible even over the pounding of the horses’ hooves. “I…would rather wait for that unlikely event to take place before answering such a question, my lord.”
“But surely, given how many people know of our, ah, indiscretion—”
He broke off. She was right. It was unfair of him to expect a binding answer to such a conditional proposal of marriage. Anxious as he was to be secure of her, he must first settle his business with Miss Simpson.
The park was less crowded than on Sunday, allowing them to finish their circuit in far less time. He therefore suggested a second on reaching the others and was pleased when the other three were amenable.
As the discussion most important to him currently seemed at an impasse, he reverted to the other topic when they started off again.
“Are you still reluctant to help us stop the person masquerading as the Saint of Seven Dials? You must realize by now that Bigsby does not deserve your continued loyalty.”
Violet pressed her lips together, her internal conflict apparent. “I…no. I feel no obligation to continue protecting Julian after my conversation yesterday with Lady Peter and Lady Marcus,” she finally replied, much to his relief. “But I fear I have no real evidence beyond the stories he told me. It is entirely possible he made it all up to impress me.”
“Unlikely, I should think, given that he attempted to burgle my house. It was he who brought you there, was it not?”
“Yes. I am sorry for committing a falsehood earlier. I believed it justified at the time, for I thought—”
“That Bigsby was really the Saint. I know.”
She nodded sheepishly. “I cannot know for certain that he committed any previous burglaries, however. He told me a few tales, but— Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I have just recalled something that may indeed serve as evidence. He carries with him—or did—calling cards like those attributed to the Saint of Seven Dials. Of course, he may have destroyed them now he knows you suspect him.”
Ah. “I take it you warned him about me?”
She shook her head. “I considered doing so when I spoke with him on Sunday, but…did not.”
Because of Rush’s warnings? Before he could ask, she continued.
“He did, however, refer to the ambush you and the others set for him and asked whether I had told you of his plans. He also talked of leaving Town, but clearly has not, as he was at last night’s ball.”
“Where you all but gave him the cut direct,” Rush observed with remembered satisfaction. “I am pleased he will no longer be able to impose upon you, whether we can bring him to justice or not.”
Coming around a curve, he again spotted Killer and Miss Simpson just ahead. Seemingly deep in conversation, they had progressed but little during this second circuit.
“Thank you for what you have told me,” Rush said before they were within earshot. “The cards give us something to go on, assuming they are still in his possession.”
Killer and Miss Simpson turned at their approach, Miss Simpson blushing deeply—further evidence that she was still uncomfortable in Rush’s company. He grew even more determined to contrive some way out of their blasted engagement. It would surely be a relief to his fiancée, even as it freed him to court Violet Turpin properly—something he was increasingly eager to do.
Chapter Sixteen
Violet went to bed early that evening, though not entirely by choice. She and the Simpson ladies had been engaged to attend a ridotto sponsored by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, but over dinner Mary complained of the headache. Her mother was immediately all concern.
“In that case, you’d best go straight to bed,” Lady Simpson insisted. “I have a very full day planned for us tomorrow and you will need your rest. I shall send word explaining the situation to Mrs. Cowper, that she will not think we have slighted her. We dare not risk her withdrawing your promised vouchers.”
Rather than listen to her hostess’s continued chatter about wedding plans, Violet went upstairs when Mary did, thinking to speak with her privately about breaking off her engagement to Lord Rushford. Alas, Mary shut herself into her room before she could ask whether anxiety about her impending marriage might have caused her headache.
Violet allowed Brigid to help her into her nightrail but felt far too agitated for sleep after the day’s events—to include Lord Rushford pressing her yet again to marry him. To distract her from dwelling on that, she again pulled out her well-worn copy of The Saint of Seven Dials: The Man and the Legend. On this perusal, she found it quite amusing to compare the assertions of the author to what she now knew of the Saint—or Saints.
Eventually, however, her eyes grew heavy. Setting the book aside, Violet yawned and reached to turn down the lamp, only to notice a white rectangle on the carpet by the door. Puzzled, for she was certain it had not been there earlier, she rose to discover what it was.
It proved to be a sheet of letter paper, folded in half. Picking it up, Violet perused the brief message within.
My dear Violet,
I pray you will not think too ill of me when you learn that I have followed my heart rather than the expectations of my mother and Society by escaping both. Convinced as I am that Lord Rushford holds me in no more affection than I do him, I think it no great evil to free him from his obligation by marrying another. We mean to take my mother’s traveling coach to delay pursuit, but I beg you to keep my departure secret until we are well on our way to Gretna Green, that our happiness may be guaranteed by lawful matrimony.
Yours, etc,
Mary Simpson
With disbelieving eyes, Violet read the note through thrice before she was able to credit its contents.
Mary, timid little Mary, had eloped? It seemed unthinkable, but the words she had penned admitted of little doubt. Eloped with whom, however? Mary’s letter gave no clue, nor could Violet recall her speaking with overt affection of any gentleman in particular. Or…had she?
On more than one occasion Mary had commented upon how very handsome Julian Bigsby was, Violet recalled. She had also waltzed with him at every ball they had attended thus far, despite her mother’s displeasure each time. Had Julian’s perfidy extended even further than she’d guessed?
Violet imagined that his main goal in pretending to be the Saint of Seven Dials had been to attach both her and her fortune. Had he not quizzed her about the latter, seeming pleased when she assured him that her inheritance would come to her unencumbered?
She herself had foolishly given him the idea to begin with, rhapsodizing about her admiration for the legendary thief while they were yet in the Shires. It still mortified her to think how nearly his plan had succeeded. Had she not already been half in love with Lord Rushford, she might very well have agreed to elope with Julian.
Now that her eyes had been opened, Violet’s fortune was safe from him—but what of Mary’s? Or, worse, Mary herself? Violet had been the one to introduce them, secretly hoping that Julian might supplant Lord Rushford in Mary’s affections. Then Violet had compounded matters by repeatedly urging her friend to be guided by her heart instead of convention or her mother’s wishes—exactly what her note claimed she had done.
Foolish, foolish, foolish!
Only recently had Violet understood the hazards of elevating romance and adventure above all else, a course she had long promoted to anyone who would listen. Alas that Mary had listened to her! Those hazards were now visited upon her friend instead of herself.
Was there still time to atone for her folly by rescuing Mary from a fortune hunter she never would have met but for Violet? No matter, she clearly had a moral responsibility to try.
Spurred to action, she scrambled into the first dress she found that fastened down the front, pulled on her sturdiest boots and threw on the same cloak she had worn for Saturday night’s ill-advised outing. Thrusting Julian’s address and Mary’s note into an inside pocket, along with every bit of cash she had on hand in case it b
ecame necessary to pursue them to the border, she quietly left her chamber.
Her first task must be to discover whether Mary and Julian had actually left London. She hoped not, as that would make her task both easier and cheaper. If they had, she would attempt to catch them up before Mary’s fate was irrevocably sealed. Dina had rescued Violet from making a similar mistake in December, after all. God willing, she herself could to do the same for poor Mary.
Exactly as she had Saturday night, Violet crept down the back staircase to the kitchens. It was not so late this time, so she was forced to wait for two maids to finish arguing over whose turn it was to scrub the largest pot before she could slip unseen out of the scullery door to the gardens. As no one was waiting to escort her this time, she hurried around to the street and hailed the first hackney she saw.
“Where to, miss?” asked the driver.
She gave him Julian’s direction. “Do hurry, please. My business is exceedingly urgent.”
Choked as the streets were with carriage traffic, the drive took nearly half an hour. The hackney passed through progressively less genteel streets before finally stopping at what appeared to be a pawn shop, now closed and dark. Unwilling to be completely abandoned in such an unsavory-seeming neighborhood, Violet bade the driver to wait while she ascertained whether Julian—and Mary—were here.
According to the paper Julian had given her, his lodging was two floors above the shop. The front door was locked but a few minutes of anxious exploration revealed a back entrance opening onto a narrow stairway. Heart pounding, she climbed two flights of rickety steps, traversed a dim hallway, then knocked at number six.
There was no answer.
She knocked again, then again, her anxiety for Mary mounting with each passing minute. Suppose they had headed straight for Scotland from Cavendish Square? If so, she was wasting valuable time.
