by Brenda Hiatt
There was an instant of stunned silence, then Lord Killerby exclaimed, “Have you really done it, then? I thought things might be tending that way, but—” He broke off, shaking his head, then stepped forward to clap Rush on the shoulder. “Well done, old chap!”
“Truly, Violet?” Mary asked in astonishment. “When we went upstairs, William—” She paused with a blush, either for using her new husband’s Christian name or the mention of going upstairs— “William said he would suggest to Lord Rushford that you two should follow our example, but I thought he was jesting. I had no idea that you…that Lord Rushford…”
“Truly,” Violet assured her, unable to suppress a grin. “As you were engaged to him, I did not like to confess it before, but I conceived a tendre for him years ago, well before I met you at Miss Gebhart’s. Then, when we met again this winter…well, it is a long story and the telling can wait for another time. For tonight, let us simply rejoice that everything has fallen out so well.”
Mary turned to gaze at Lord Killerby as though he were the romantic hero of her dreams, as well. “Everything has, has it not? When I think how bitterly I despaired the morning my father’s letter arrived…”
“No need to dwell on that now,” said Lord Killerby, taking his new bride’s hand and drawing her close with a tender look. “All’s well that ends well. Rush, if you will pour that excellent wine, I should like to propose a toast—to what are bound to be the two happiest marriages ever to grace England.”
All four drank to that and a moment later the meal was brought in. Over the next two hours they did ample justice to the simple inn fare, for none had eaten much during their mad flights for the border. Though tired, they were all in high spirits and much laughter accompanied the tales they exchanged over the meal.
At its conclusion, Lord Killerby raised a glass for a last toast. “May the four of us enjoy many a merry gathering like this in future, as we are all such good friends. Though first, I suppose we must return to London and face the consequences of what we have done. Did you by chance leave a second note for your mother?” he asked Mary.
She shook her head. “I dared not. My hope was that Violet would delay pursuit for as long as possible, or at least persuade my mother that I would be both safe and happy with you—but clearly neither happened.”
“Perhaps, had your note been a bit more explicit, it would have,” Violet chided her.
“Yes, that was an oversight, to be sure,” her friend admitted. “But a lucky one, as things fell out, wouldn’t you say?” she added with a mischievous smile.
Violet could not disagree. Had Mary named her intended husband in her letter, Violet would have done as she asked rather than go after her…and would not now be married to Rush. And that she could not regret at all.
“Killer brings up a good point, however,” Rush said. “You must dispatch a letter to London at once to let Lady Simpson know how things are, for by now she must be worried to death.”
“I’ll write to my own mother as well,” Lord Killerby said. “Eager as she has been for me to marry, she’ll be ecstatic—though she will no doubt ring a peal over me for not inviting her to our wedding.”
Rush turned to Violet. “Your family must be also notified. I do hope your brother won’t feel obliged to call me out over it.”
Violet laughed. “Grant will be far too relieved at being freed from all responsibility for my behavior to bear you any ill-will. My mother will be pleased as well, though I am sure she, like Lady Killerby, would have preferred a more conventional wedding. As for my father, he will likely receive the news with his usual philosophical calm.”
When a servant came to clear the dishes away, Rush requested paper, pens and ink that the requisite letters could be written and dispatched before they all retired for the night.
Ascending the stairs with her new husband shortly thereafter, Violet eagerly anticipated her next lesson in “domestic adventures.”
Nor did Rush disappoint her.
After a late, leisurely breakfast the next morning, the two couples said their au revoirs, promising to meet again in London.
The Killerbys then departed in Lady Simpson’s coach, while Rush delayed long enough to buy Violet and himself an extra change of clothes before beginning their own, more leisurely trip south. As they were in no particular hurry to reach London, they agreed to add a stop at Ashcombe, in Staffordshire, along the way.
Thor and Dina were surprised and delighted to see them, as their letter had made no mention of a visit. To Rush’s relief, Violet had correctly predicted her brother’s reaction to their news. Far from being angry about the elopement, he nearly fell on Rush’s neck with gratitude.
“I did worry Vi might try setting her cap at you, after the way she behaved over Christmas, and at Ivy Lodge,” Thor confided, once the exclamations and congratulations were over. “Much as I thought such a match would benefit her, however, I thought you too well acquainted with her madcap ways to be tempted. But instead of you persuading her to a more proper path, it appears she cajoled you onto her own improper one.”
Rush returned his friend’s grin. “Yes, well, I discovered that propriety has its shortcomings—though Violet and I are agreed there are to be no more elopements in our future.”
“In that case, you’d best hope any daughters you have will not inherit her parents’ taste for scandal,” Dina said with a laugh.
Violet and Rush exchanged a startled glance, for neither had thought so far ahead as children yet, but then they joined in the laughter.
They stayed two days at Ashcombe before continuing on to London, by which time nearly a fortnight had elapsed since their departure.
“Are you certain you would not prefer to send round to Cavendish Square for your things rather than visit yourself?” he asked when the carriage drew up before his house on Brook Street. “Lady Simpson will likely forgive her daughter sooner than yourself for what has occurred, even though you were not—this time—the instigator.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt she considers me a veritable snake in the grass, underhandedly stealing you away from Mary. It seems craven not to face her in person, though I rather hope by now the worst of her anger will have abated.”
“Discovering that Killer’s fortune is greater than mine may have helped,” Rush suggested.
She chuckled. “Likely so. Still, perhaps it would be wiser to call upon Mary and Lord Killerby to inquire about her mood before attempting to beard the dragon in her den.”
Rush grinned at her apt phrasing. “An excellent idea,” he agreed, opening the carriage door.
Stepping out, he handed her down and together they entered the house. As Rush had written ahead, his staff quickly assembled in the front hall, eager to be introduced to their new mistress.
“Is Lady Rushford’s chamber ready?” he asked the housekeeper once congratulations had been expressed and most of the servants dispersed to their tasks.
“Aye, my lord. The next along from yours, as you requested.”
“Excellent.” Then, to Violet, “Before we go up, I should like to send word to Lord Peter Northrup that we are returned. I’m curious to hear whether he was able to discover anything about Bigsby’s whereabouts, as he intended to do when I left him.”
He dashed off a quick note to Peter, then led Violet upstairs. Unable to restrain himself, he pulled her against him for a kiss the moment they were alone in the hallway—a kiss she eagerly returned. After a few moments of delightful distraction, he finally opened the door to the room that would be hers for the remainder of their stay in London.
“It’s lovely,” she exclaimed, gazing around at the tasteful peach and white decor. “Was it your mother’s?”
“Yes, though she never slept in it after my father passed away several years since. You may redecorate it as you please, of course, but I’m happy that you approve of it for the present.”
Stepping inside, she looked pointedly at the bed before opening the door to the dressing room
. That it connected to his bedchamber was evidenced by the masculine clothing on hooks and shelves.
“Indeed, I very much approve,” she said, slanting a glance up at him through her lashes. “This room will be most…convenient.”
Chuckling, he lowered his lips to hers for another sweet kiss. “My thoughts precisely.” Then, looking over at her bed, “What say you we—?”
He was interrupted by a knock upon the front door below.
“Who that can be?” Violet exclaimed. “No one should even know we are returned yet.”
“Only Lord Peter, but I can’t imagine he would be calling already. Much as I chafe at the delay, I suppose we had better go down to see.” After a last, quick kiss promising more delights to come, he escorted her back downstairs.
Their visitor did indeed prove to be Lord Peter, and he came bearing news of more than just Bigsby.
“Glad to see you finally chose to grace London with your presence,” he jokingly greeted them upon being shown into the parlor. “Congratulations, by the way. Lord Killerby and his new bride returned three days ago and the story of your double elopement has kept the gossips happily occupied ever since.”
Rush groaned. “I expected them to stop to see his mother along the way and so arrive no earlier than ourselves. On leaving Scotland, we all agreed to work out a plausible tale for public consumption once we were back in Town.”
Peter grinned. “The Dowager Lady Killerby was already in London herself, got here the day after her son made off with Miss Simpson. Finding all four of you missing caused a bit of a flurry, as you may imagine, as no letters arrived for nearly a week. Now, by all accounts, Lady Killerby is delighted with the news and doing what she can to tame the gossip—though to little effect thus far, as it’s far too novel a story to be easily supplanted by another.”
“What of Lady Simpson?” Violet asked warily. “I dare not hope she is equally pleased by what we have done.”
“Fortunately, Lord Killerby had the foresight to take his new bride to his house rather than hers on their arrival. Thus, their first meeting with the former Miss Simpson’s mother was in the presence of his own. As I understand it, the elder Lady Killerby quite forcefully impressed upon Lady Simpson what a brilliant marriage her daughter had made, if to a different lord than originally expected.”
He then turned ruefully to Violet. “Even so, she was apparently quite angry that you snatched Lord Rushford away from her daughter. She had your things sent back to Lady Puttercroft’s. Your aunt is also returned to Town, by the bye, and taking full credit for marrying you off to an earl. None of this is what I primarily came to tell you about, however.”
“Oh? Then you were able to learn something of Bigsby’s movements?” Rush guessed from his satisfied countenance.
“Better than that. Young Flute and I discovered where he was hiding, waiting for a packet out of the West India docks. I went to the Runners and presented my proof that Bigsby was the Saint of Seven Dials and they wasted no time in arresting him. He now awaits trial. Handsome fellow that he is, all the ladies are demanding leniency, so I doubt he’ll hang. To be honest, I suspect he is rather enjoying his new celebrity. Won’t be surprised if he’s able to parlay it into a rich wife after all…once he gets out of prison.”
Rush and Violet both laughed.
“This neatly lets all of the real Saints off the hook, does it not?” she asked.
Peter nodded. “Part of my reason for turning him in. That and the substantial reward, which I and the previous Saints have agreed to use for the benefit of the deserving poor in Seven Dials. I am already taking steps to invest it profitably, that it may become a continuing trust of sorts.”
“Well done,” Rush said, pumping Peter’s hand. “Well done, indeed. Do you not agree, my love?”
Violet, however, was frowning. “No doubt the poor will benefit from the money, but they will no longer have a Saint of Seven Dials to look to as their symbol of hope. That seems a sad loss to me. Unless…” She looked at Rush, her deep blue eyes now twinkling.
“Unless…?” he repeated, confused, but then comprehension dawned. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t deny that you have managed to infect me with a degree of your, ah, lust for adventure, but not to the point that I am willing to become the next Saint myself. Especially as I have something quite different in mind.”
She regarded him with mingled disappointment and curiosity. “Oh? What is that?”
“Unless you are set upon finishing out your London Season, I should very much like to take you to Rushford Abbey in a week or two. I believe you will enjoy familiarizing yourself with the estate and with the work my mother was doing to improve the lives of our tenants. In addition, I had thought to buy two or three pairs of foxhounds, that you might have the beginnings of that pack you wanted to start one day.”
Violet stared at him for a long moment before flinging herself into his arms. “Oh, Rush! I cannot think of a better wedding gift you could give me.”
Lord Peter cleared his throat. “I’ll, ah, just show myself out, shall I? It would appear the two of you have a few…private things to discuss just now. Sarah and I will have you over in a day or two and we can talk more about the Saint business then, if you wish.”
Rush scarcely noticed his departure, so distracting was the feel of Violet’s body pressed against his own.
“Let us go back upstairs, shall we?” he suggested the moment the front door closed behind their visitor. “I find myself quite eager for another sweet taste…of scandal.”
Keep reading for a sneak peak at the prequel to the Saint of Seven Dials series, Scandalous Virtue!
Scandalous Virtue (Preview)
London—Late September, 1814
* * *
RAIN BEAT upon expensively paned windows while in the flickering candlelight within, the boisterous clamor hovered in volume between battlefield and bordello. John Jefferson Ashecroft, equally at home in either setting, relished the wild abandon of this latest celebration of his recent, unexpected elevation to the lofty title of Marquis of Foxhaven.
Lord Peter Northrup, fourth son of the Duke of Marland and his oldest friend, clearly did not share his enthusiasm. "Three near-orgies in three nights is a bit much, don't you think, Jack?" he whispered. "Thought you valued your grandfather's memory. This would having him rolling in his grave!"
"Mausoleum, dear boy. Nothing so crude as earth for a Foxhaven resting place! But the old fellow's gone now, so there's no one to care what I do with my good fortune—or no one whose opinion matters." Jack turned from the card table and his advisor.
"Here, Polly, lass! Bring me another pint and another kiss!" he called out to a passing maidservant.
Giggling, the girl complied, and Jack slid a hand up her skirts to sweeten his kiss. "Milor' you are a handful!" Polly informed him, wrinkling her freckled nose and winking.
Jack chuckled. "Nay, you're the handful, and a pretty one at that! What say you and I escape upstairs for half an hour? My guests will never miss me." He swept a glance about the sumptuous drawing room at the dicing, dallying throng there assembled. The marked absence of ladies—of the Quality, at any rate—gave evidence that this particular gathering lacked Society's blessing.
Then he caught Lord Peter's eye. "What? Surely you don't begrudge me a bit of revelry after the past few years of privation?"
Lord Peter snorted. "Privation? I don't recall that a light purse ever kept you from revelry in the past. Now you simply have the means to speed yourself to perdition on greased wheels."
"Ah, you have no idea how I suffered during the war," Jack informed his friend with a melodramatic sigh. "Wine, women and song were hard to come by. The sleep I lost in the search . . . ! Ask Harry over there. He has no fault to find with my present lifestyle."
"No surprise there." Lord Peter turned a judicious eye on Jack's second-oldest friend, who was enthusiastically tossing dice with his one remaining arm. The wars had left his other sleeve empty. "Harry always lived
for the moment, even before his injury turned him bitter. Now he just wants company on his journey to hell."
Jack shrugged. "And perhaps I'll oblige him. He saved my life in Spain, after all."
"And you his—twice," Lord Peter reminded him. "I'd say the score's more than even."
"Polly, go ahead and take Ferny another bottle," suggested Jack, nodding toward the gesturing Lord Fernworth across the noisy room. "Perhaps by the time you return, Peter will be done with his moralizing. You're quite the spoilsport tonight, you know," he informed his friend when the wench had gone. "I can't think you accepted my invitation merely to cluck over my shortcomings like some brightly colored mother hen."
Lord Peter smoothed his gold and scarlet waistcoat. "I suppose I am acting the prig tonight. Sorry, Jack. It's just—"
A forceful throat-clearing at his elbow interrupted him. The thin, nondescript butler Jack had hired earlier that week announced, "A Mr. Havershaw, milord." The throat-clearer, just as thin as the butler but much taller, hovered behind, scowling.
He'd really have to see about a new butler, thought Jack resignedly. This Carp, or Crump, or whatever his name was, didn't seem to have a grasp of the proper procedures at all.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Havershaw," said Jack with forced cordiality while looking daggers at his oblivious butler. "I do apologize for not keeping our appointment last Wednesday. The press of business, you see—"
"Yes, I certainly do see, my lord." Mr. Havershaw scoured the room with a sour glance. "I would not have presumed to come to you, but some of these papers are quite pressing. If I could have half an hour of your time in the library?"
Jack stared at the man in disbelief. "Now?" He knew that Havershaw had enjoyed an unusually privileged position as both his grandfather's steward and lifelong friend, but this was absurd.
