by Brenda Hiatt
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Scandalous Virtue (preview)
A note from Brenda Hiatt
Gallant Scoundrel
The Saint of Seven Dials
book 5
BRENDA HIATT
GALLANT SCOUNDREL
Brenda Hiatt
Electronic edition
Copyright 2016 by Brenda Hiatt Barber
Cover art by Dar Albert
This is a work of fiction. Though some actual historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dolphin Star Press
ISBN: 1940618193
ISBN-13: 978-1-940618-19-7
THE SAINT of Seven Dials returns!
Harry Thatcher, once a celebrated war hero, returned to England a dissipated wastrel and avowed lifelong bachelor. In hopes of preventing Harry from degenerating into the most disreputable rake in Regency London, his best friend persuades him to take up the mantle as the Saint of Seven Dials, a role Harry adopts wholeheartedly. But even his friends don’t know the secret in Harry’s past that first set him on the path to ruin. Most assume it was his battlefield injury that transformed him from a valiant soldier into the embittered, reckless man he is now, but long before that injury, there was a woman…
Xena Maxwell was a most unusual woman, even at nineteen, when Harry first met her, clad in breeches, in a rough-and-tumble Army camp on the Peninsula. Heedless of convention after traveling the world with her scholarly father, Xena could fight and shoot as well as most men and was every bit as gifted at repairing wounds as she was at causing them. Harry’s fascination and Xena’s disregard for propriety landed them in a marriage neither intended, disgrace for Harry and exile for Xena. Her ship foundered before reaching England, however, and Harry was never the same again…
Now, just as he’s coming into his own as the newest Saint of Seven Dials, Harry finds himself face to face with the wife he’s believe dead for the past seven years. Will her miraculous survival prove an answer to prayer or a curse upon them both?
The long-awaited 5th book of Brenda Hiatt’s bestselling Saint of Seven Dials series.
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CHAPTER 1
LONDON—NOVEMBER, 1816
“Well, lads, believe I’ll head out before m’luck turns.” Harry Thatcher swept his winnings into a kerchief in his lap, then stuffed them into his pocket. “Give you all good night.”
Sir Barney Phillips leapt to his feet with a scowl. “Never say you’re going already, Thatcher? Bad form to leave at the top of your game, don’t you know. Only sporting to give us a chance to win a bit back first.”
Harry cocked an eyebrow at the irritating young dandy. “Bad form? When you’ve done the same more evenings than I can count? I’ll be back soon enough. You can have your chance then.”
He stood, long practice preventing him from swaying even the slightest bit despite the prodigious quantities of claret and port he’d consumed over the past six hours. Fortunately his credit was still good at the Guards’ Club, or they’d have cut him off after the first bottle. Tonight’s winnings would assure that credit remained sound for another month, at least. Till his next army cheque, if he were careful.
Not that he often was.
“I tell you, you must remain for at least one more,” Sir Barney insisted pugnaciously. “I’ll not have you waving my voucher about, saying God knows what about my ability to pay.”
As Phillips had done precisely that to Harry barely a month ago, he might well worry. The obnoxious popinjay had gone out of his way to discredit him since their earliest days serving together in the war, when Harry had mercilessly tweaked Phillips over his complete humiliation at the hands of a woman.
Smiling at that memory, Harry shrugged rather than give him the assurance he clearly craved. “Shouldn’t bet more than you have on you, then, eh?” He made no attempt to moderate his voice.
“Wouldn’t have, had I known you were using more than luck to win. S’pose it stands to reason, though. Why should I expect half a man to have a full sense of honor?” Phillips nodded significantly at Harry’s empty left sleeve.
An indignant murmur broke out around them. Well known for his heroism as a major in the recent wars, Harry was held in far more respect by the members of the Guards’ Club than Sir Barney, who’d sold out after his first real battle.
“Still haven’t learned your lesson about insulting those who are more than your match, have you, Phillips?” Harry drawled. “This ‘half man’ may have cuckolded a dozen or so husbands but he’s never before been accused of cheating at cards, if that’s what you’re implying. But perhaps I misunderstood you?”
The younger man sneered. “Surely you’re not threatening me, Thatcher? Lord Peter Northrup isn’t here tonight to fight your battles for you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I only let him knock you down because he needed it, Phillips.” That incident had occurred last month, when Peter was suffering over a woman he’d married less than a week later—poor blighter. “If you fancy I can’t do the same, I invite you to give me reason right now. Unless you’d rather name your seconds?”
As Harry’s aim with a pistol was legendary, Sir Barney fell back on bluster. “A fine fool I’d look dueling a one-armed man.”
“And a fine coward you look refusing,” Harry taunted, using the same epithet Phillips had applied to Peter last month—though it had been a barb aimed at Harry himself that had finally broken through his friend’s vaunted calm.
Sir Barney possessed no such claim to levelheadedness. “Not even a cripple calls me coward here,” he exclaimed, lunging forward in an attempt to strike Harry in the face.
Harry easily sidestepped him while simultaneously planting his right fist squarely on Phillips’s nose. With a surprised grunt, the baronet fell with a crash to the general sound of cheering from the avid onlookers. For a long moment Harry stood over the man, half-hoping he’d get up so he could knock him down again. Apparently one blow was enough to jar a modicum of sense into the insufferable pup, however, for he merely sat there, scowling.
“Right, then, I’m off.” Draining his last half-glass of port, Harry headed for the door.
“You ain’t heard the last from me, Thatcher!” Phillips shouted after him.
“I should hope not, as you owe me forty-five pounds,” Harry said over his shoulder as he continued out to St. James’s Street. Though it would be worth forgoing twice that to have Phillips finally barred from the Guards’ altogether.
Not until h
e was halfway back to his lodgings did Harry finally pull out the evening’s winnings to count it properly. Despite being as drunk as he could remember since his stint at the Congress of Vienna, he found that his quick mental tally at the table had been correct to within a farthing. Three hundred twenty-two pounds, all in cash except for Phillips’s voucher. A tidy sum. Even so, he’d need to pace himself a bit better to make it last.
He could almost hear his best friend’s voice echoing that thought. Over the past few years Peter had begun habitually voicing such cautions—which Harry just as habitually ignored. Not that Lord Peter had time lately to act as Harry’s conscience, what with the new demands of married life.
While Harry appreciated the respite from Peter’s continual nagging, he couldn’t deny that without his friend’s steadying influence, his drinking and gambling had begun to get just a bit out of hand. No one’s welfare but his own was at stake, however, so what did it matter?
Up ahead, he caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman just entering a house. A fleeting resemblance again put him in mind of the time Phillips had been bested by a woman back in Portugal, though now he recalled the incident with more poignancy than amusement. For he had been quite a different man then. Before meeting—and later losing—Xena Maxwell.
With a shake of his head to banish such regrets and a half-rueful chuckle, he continued on to Swallow Street, where he turned into the mews that offered easiest access to his third story flat above a haberdasher’s shop.
“Oi! You there, cripple!” came a rough voice from behind.
Harry wheeled around with a curse. He normally ignored passing slurs about his missing arm, but this one sounded confrontational.
“You’ll move on if you know what’s good for you,” he informed the looming figure blocking the exit to the mews.
“Or what?” With a derisive laugh the man advanced, one fist cocked. Before he was quite close enough to land a blow, Harry lashed out with one foot, hooking it behind the other man’s knee and toppling him to the ground.
“Or that, among other things.”
Letting loose a string of profanities, the man tried to scramble to his feet, but again Harry was too quick for him, thrusting a knee into his midsection when he was halfway up, again landing him flat on his back.
Two more thugs now crowded into the mews behind their companion. “We was warned you might be a tricky one,” one of them said. “Let’s see if you can take all three of us with one arm, eh?”
So saying, the man launched himself at Harry, only to encounter a boot heel to the stomach that effectively knocked the wind out of him. Then, as the one on the ground finally struggled upright, the second newcomer charged.
The ensuing melee required all Harry’s remembered battle skills. He made devastating use of his right fist, elbow and both feet as he fended off the trio of assailants. Fortunately none appeared to have brought weapons.
At first it seemed Harry might prevail. The first two times he was knocked down, he immediately sprang back up to plant the man a facer. Gradually, however, the evening’s heavy drinking began to take its toll. His initial surge of energy and alertness at facing danger faded, making him slower and slower to rise and react. In addition, the three ruffians were now proceeding more cautiously after discovering Harry wasn’t nearly as easy a mark as they’d been led to believe.
A kick to the back sent Harry staggering yet again, though he managed—barely—to keep his feet. He turned to aim another punch at his nearest attacker but before he could land it one of the others snatched up a discarded horseshoe and delivered a vicious blow to Harry’s right temple—at which point everything went dark.
* * *
Portugal—March, 1809
Freshly promoted from ensign to lieutenant, Harry returned to his regiment flush with success from leading his first mission in northern Portugal. By dint of a surprise dawn attack, he and his men had freed a nearby village from its French occupiers. The grateful villagers had hailed his platoon as heroes, though in truth they’d bested a unit no larger than their own.
When Harry hurried to the officers’ mess to report on the skirmish, his company commander was warm in his commendation. But then, with raised eyebrow, Captain Malthus suggested Harry might wish to wash off the mud of the fields before joining the other officers at table.
Only slightly chastened, Harry headed for his tent. Just before reaching it, he spotted a lad whose dull red coat, devoid of insignia, declared him a newly-enlisted private.
“You there, boy,” he called out, for the soldier looked no more than fifteen, with his smooth, beardless chin and close-cropped dark hair. “Help me off with my boots.”
Turning, the stripling coolly regarded him with gray eyes surrounded by rather remarkable black lashes. “If you’re not capable of removing your own boots, sir, you surely have no business leading a platoon into battle,” came the reply, in a voice undeniably feminine. “Did they not warn you that an army camp would lack many of the comforts you were accustomed to back in England—to include a bevy of servants at your beck and call?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am.” Examining the slim figure before him more closely, he realized the voice was not the only feminine thing about it, despite the uniform she wore. “But you must admit my mistake was an honest one. Nor have I seen you about the camp before—for I’d surely remember such a face as yours.”
She tipped up her chin to regard him haughtily down the length of her shapely nose, making him far more aware of his dirty and disheveled state than his captain’s comment had done.
“My father, Colonel Maxwell, arrived a few days since to advise Colonel Flagston on the regiment’s movements as they prepare to engage the French.”
Harry had of course heard of Colonel Maxwell, the brilliant strategist who had helped more than one commander turn the tide of battle—but not that he’d brought a daughter with him.
“And is it at your father’s behest that you wander about camp dressed in male attire?”
Now she colored slightly. “It seemed silly to change when I was only leaving the tent long enough to fetch more water. And I do not ‘wander about camp.’ I assist my father in his record-keeping and in nursing any wounded who are brought in.”
“In other words, the answer is no. You’d best return to your tent before your father sees you, then.” Harry allowed himself a hint of a smirk, at which the girl before him visibly bristled.
“I’ll do as I damned well please,” she snapped.
His brows rose. “So it would seem. Now I must beg your pardon for mistaking you for a lady, for none would use such language.”
For a long moment she glared, then spun on her heel and stalked away. Harry watched her appreciatively from behind, making note of which tent she entered. Whether he would have opportunity to make use of that knowledge in future he didn’t know, but he rather hoped so.
Over the next day or two Harry caught only fleeting glimpses of Miss Maxwell, dressed more conventionally in a drab gray gown that had clearly seen much wear, but she was again in male attire when he spotted her one evening upon leaving the company mess.
Hands on slim hips, Miss Maxwell was glaring at Ensign Phillips, a brash and rather irksome newcomer to Harry’s company. Curious, he moved to join the small crowd already gathered around the pair.
“You’ll apologize for that remark, sirrah, or you’ll name your seconds,” she declared.
Phillips burst out laughing. “Seconds? My dear Miss Maxwell, simply because you fill out those breeches more alluringly than any man does not mean you, a mere woman, can match the skills of one.”
“I propose we put that to the test,” she retorted. “Will it be pistols or swords?”
He shook his head disbelievingly. “Oh, come. You can’t seriously—”
“Pistols or swords?” she repeated. “Or are you so great a coward you dare not face a ‘mere woman’ on the field of honor?”
“Now see here—” He took a menacing step to
ward her, but Captain Malthus stepped between them.
“It’ll be swords, and you’ll stop at first blood,” he informed them both. “As my company is already understrength, I’ll not risk losing another soldier, no matter how much he might deserve it.”
Phillips stared at his commander. “But sir, surely you can’t—”
“Time you learned to mind your tongue, Phillips,” Malthus curtly informed him. “Miss Maxwell, fetch your weapon and I’ll see this fool’s is brought as well.”
A few minutes later the two faced off in the center of camp with the better part of three companies—all who weren’t out on maneuvers—in a large ring about them. Colonel Maxwell, Harry noticed, was watching the proceedings with an expression of mingled exasperation and pride—but no trace of alarm.
Captain Malthus took up position as arbitre and called out, “En garde! Prêt? Allez!”
The amused smirk on Phillips’s face abruptly disappeared when Miss Maxwell opened with a bold thrust that he barely sidestepped in time. She instantly followed up, forcing him to parry. Within seconds it was obvious he was overmatched, his longer reach no compensation for her superior quickness and skill.
Barely a minute into the match, Captain Malthus called a halt. The surrounding crowd broke into applause while Phillips clutched his shoulder, his face contorted with pain…and embarrassment.
“Perhaps in future you’ll be less quick to underestimate a woman,” commented his opponent, who was not even winded. Then, with a courtly bow to Captain Malthus and the assembled soldiers, she headed for her tent.
More intrigued than ever by the remarkable Miss Maxwell, Harry made a point the next day of seeking her out in the surgery tent, where she was laying out instruments in readiness for the next batch of wounded that might be brought in.
