by Brenda Hiatt
Grinning now, Peter stood. “I’ll do better than that. As soon as I go down, I’ll send Brewster up with your clothes. Join me in the library in half an hour and you’ll be able to meet a couple of prior Saints face to face.”
CHAPTER 4
XENA HAD a difficult time getting Theo to bed that evening, he was still so wound up with excitement over the sights of London. Not till he was asleep did she finally give way to the memories that had been pressing at her since her unexpected meeting with the Duke.
Those two years in Portugal and Spain under Wellington’s command had been the most exciting and fulfilling of her life, even compared to her previous wandering existence. On the Peninsula she’d enjoyed nearly as much liberty as the men until she foolishly allowed passion to overcome judgment—something she’d previously considered a uniquely masculine failing.
For that error she’d paid with the very freedom she so cherished.
“I find you have been less than truthful with me, Xena,” her father unexpectedly confronted her one evening. “You’ve repeatedly insisted to my face that you and Lieutenant Thatcher are merely friends, while all along you have been engaging in activities that should be reserved for husband and wife—which you will become at once.”
Xena was appalled. As lenient as her father had always been in allowing her to dress and behave as she wished, she’d persuaded herself he would be reasonable about this as well, should he discover it.
“How—? Did Harry…I mean, Lieutenant Thatcher tell you—?”
“Aye, but not to worry. He is more than willing to do the honorable thing.”
She had begun to suspect Harry’s feelings had progressed beyond friendship and simple lust—nor could she claim her own emotions were completely uninvolved. But that Harry might go so far as to trap her into a marriage he knew full well she did not want had never entered her mind!
In vain did she point out to her father that she’d done no worse than most of the soldiers around her. Angrier than she’d ever seen him, he vowed to have Harry court-martialed unless she agreed to marry him that very night—which she grudgingly did. When Harry neither hesitated nor asked her forgiveness before saying the vows that were to irrevocably bind them, she felt even further betrayed.
Furious at the two men she’d most trusted, Xena had refused to submit tamely when Colonel Maxwell ordered her back to Yorkshire on the next available ship. On landing at Plymouth she used the money her father had intended for a post chaise to Yorkshire to instead outfit herself afresh in male attire and enlist as a cornet in the 66th out of Cornwall, bound for Poland.
That, however, was as far as her desperate bid for freedom progressed.
Xena had been somewhat unwell on her delayed voyage from Corunna, which she attributed to the roughness of the crossing. When her courses failed to occur for a second month, however, Yamini gently pointed out an alternate explanation. Though Xena had been diligent in her use of lemon-soaked sponges and wild carrot seeds, her pregnancy was soon undeniable.
That unwelcome discovery put paid to her dreams of a brilliant military career. With little in the way of funds or options, she was forced to return to Yorkshire after all, traveling by mail coach rather than the more comfortable journey her father had originally provided for.
By the time she reached her father’s estate in late 1809 there was no hiding her pregnancy. Though Xena herself cared not a fig about her reputation, Yamini was more foresighted, putting about a story that Xena’s husband had been killed in battle. Because Xena adamantly refused to be called Mrs. Thatcher, Yamini also implied that her mistress was still too distraught by his death to hear his name spoken aloud.
Contrary to what she’d told Wellington that afternoon, it was not until after Theo’s birth that Xena finally unbent enough to write to her father. When he failed to reply, she assumed even news of a grandson was not enough to overcome his anger at her indiscretion. Refusing to grovel, she made no further attempt at communication, leaving it to her father to notify Harry Thatcher—or not.
Upon her father’s eventual return to Yorkshire she had cause to regret that stubbornness, for his joy at finding her alive and at meeting his two-year-old grandson was clearly genuine. It did not, however, prevent Colonel Maxwell from resuming his travels after a mere three months at home, this time to Africa—and without Xena.
She was still stinging from a renewed sense of betrayal a week later when her convenient local fiction of widowhood unexpectedly became fact. While scanning the newspaper lists of war casualties, as she did daily, she spotted Major Harry Thatcher’s name among those killed at the otherwise-victorious Battle of Salamanca.
Xena was completely unprepared for the shock and sorrow she felt at the news. So intense was her grief that she was forced to admit that what she’d declared impossible had occurred—she had fallen in love with him. How Harry would crow if he knew! Though she could scarcely don mourning without admitting her earlier deception to the district, she wore a black armband in the privacy of her home until she was able to push Harry Thatcher’s idea back into the corner of her brain and heart where it belonged.
Now, with so many old memories newly-awakened for the first time in years, Xena wondered if she’d been wrong to suppress them for so long—along with what was perhaps the best part of her character.
Thus far, Theo had been raised with no knowledge of his father’s identity, though he had recently begun asking questions. As Yamini frequently reminded her, he would soon need to be told, if not the exact truth, then some plausibly respectable version of it. It suddenly occurred to her that, by neglecting to mention his existence to the Duke of Wellington, she might possibly have done her son a disservice.
After all, it would not be many years before she would need to apply to schools on her son’s behalf, and a highly-placed recommendation could make all the difference, not to mention other assistance he might receive later on. Could she perhaps make use of the connections she’d formed during her time on the Peninsula to Theo’s advantage? The Duke of Wellington’s upcoming reception might be an opportunity to do just that.
Not, however, attired as she was right now. Ruefully, she glanced down at her ensemble, nearly ten years out of date and shabby besides. No wonder the shopkeepers she had visited refused to take her seriously.
She could scarce afford new clothes, given what these rooms were costing her, but a few modest purchases could surely refurbish her appearance somewhat. She hoped so, as it seemed more necessary than ever that she convert a portion of her father’s vast collection of artifacts into a source of funds for both immediate and future needs.
* * *
“That’ll do, Brewster. Never mind about my cravat, just tie it any old way.”
Harry’s valet nodded and two seconds later stepped back. “There you are, sir. I must say, I am relieved to see you on your feet again.”
“So am I.” Harry smiled at his onetime batman and now literal left hand. “Lord Peter tells me I have you to thank for that. With any luck, I’ll soon be able to not only catch you up on your wages but throw in a more tangible token of gratitude, as well.”
If there was skepticism behind Brewster’s smile he hid it well as he bowed Harry out of the room.
Eager as Harry was to finally leave his luxurious prison, he was even more curious. Two Saints of Seven Dials in this very house? How the devil had Peter arranged that on such short notice? He suspected it meant his friend had again read his mind and knew he would accept the challenge even before Harry did.
On entering the library a moment later, Harry was disappointed to see only four people awaiting him: Peter, his new wife, her young brother who now lived with them, and Peter’s brother, Lord Marcus Northrup. No new faces at all.
“I take it I’m early?” Harry moved casually to a chair, hoping to disguise his lingering weakness before Peter noticed. He had no desire to play the invalid any longer.
“Not a bit of it,” Peter replied with a broad smile an
d a glance at the others in the room. “Allow me to introduce the second and fourth Saints of Seven Dials. No doubt you’ll meet the first and third once they return to London.”
Harry blinked. “Second and—? You, Pete? And never say this young fellow managed some of the exploits I’ve read about?” He pointed at Lady Peter’s brother.
“Nay, guv, though I wanted to give it a go—and might yet, someday.” He shot a frown at his sister, who frowned back.
Peter laughed. “Wrong on both counts, old chap.”
Now Harry was even more confused. “But surely—”
“That’s why I acted the Saint,” Peter’s wife astonished him by saying. “To keep William from doing so. But for barely more than a week, so perhaps I should not be counted among the actual Saints.”
“Certainly you count,” Marcus declared, grinning as broadly as his brother at Harry’s stunned expression. “Was it not your activities that reunited the three previous Saints a few days after your wedding? I’d say you proved yourself more than capable, both before we caught you and afterward, during our joint rescue of young Flute, here.”
“Flute?” Harry echoed.
The boy, who looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, nodded. “Aye, it’s what I’ve gone by ‘most all my life. It’s only Sarah here what calls me William.”
“So you were a Saint of Seven Dials as well?” Harry asked Marcus directly, determined to be perfectly clear this time.
“The second, as Peter said. I took over after Luke—Lord Hardwyck, that is—retired his mask, so to speak. Not that he literally handed that over. Only a card, so I could copy it to create my own.”
Harry had met Lord Hardwyck on multiple occasions when he was plain Luke St. Clair, as he and Lord Marcus had been close friends from their school days onward. Remembering a few things that had come out when Luke had claimed his title, Harry found it rather easier to believe that he had acted as the legendary thief.
“And the third Saint?”
“Noel Paxton,” Peter said. “He hounded both Luke and Marcus in the mistaken belief that the Saint and the Black Bishop—you remember that traitor?—were one and the same. When he discovered his error, he asked their help in becoming the next Saint that he might use the role to track down the real culprit. He gave it up once he brought the villain to justice.”
Slowly, Harry nodded, as various perplexing events from the past year or so fell into place. “And you, Flute. You’ve been associated with the Saints as well?”
“Aye, along with a few other boys. But I was the first, helping Lord Hardwyck almost from the start. I’m the only one that knew who the first Saint really was.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “Used to be, I’d sniff ’round Seven Dials, see who was needing some brass sharpish like and pass the names along. Then I’d fence whatever booty the Saint nicked and dole it out in his name. His main accomplice I was, starting when I was no more’n twelve or thirteen. If anyone can show you the ropes on how to become the next Saint it’s me!”
“So it would seem.” Apparently the boy was a bit older than he looked. “How do we start?” Now that Harry had made his decision, he was eager to get on with it.
Peter grinned. “By getting you a bit stronger. Meanwhile Flute here can start filling you in on the history and requirements for the job. Once you’re ready, I’ll turn you loose with your new tutor.”
Flute blinked at the title, then grinned. “Got some ideas already, I have. Lord Peter here says you’re already a dab hand at picking locks and such?”
Harry shot a glance at his friend. “I did a bit of espionage work while in Vienna, yes. Didn’t know it was common knowledge.”
“Common? Hardly that,” Peter assured him. “Doubt anyone but Wellington and I actually knew and few would have guessed, given your usual state between missions.”
“I was bamming most of that, to put off suspicion.”
“Most?” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“All right, some of it.” While it was true Harry had done more than his share of carousing during the Congress of Vienna, he’d never let drink cloud his wits when serving his general. “What other skills will I need?” he asked the boy Flute.
“Why don’t we leave you both to it?” Peter suggested, rising. The others did likewise. “Don’t keep him up too late, however,” he cautioned his young brother-in-law. “I imagine his head’s still a bit sore, among other things. He’ll need his rest if he’s to be ready to pick up the Saint’s mantle by year’s end.”
Harry was determined it would be much sooner than that, however—by week’s end, if he had anything to say in it. Without ready funds for his usual pursuits, he was increasingly keen to try this new one.
* * *
Several days later Xena resumed her mission, this time clad in a gently-used but fashionable gown she’d obtained for ten shillings from a stall in Soho. Confident that she now looked, if not her best, then at least respectably well-off, she opened the door of the next shop on her list.
“D. Gold & Sons, Dealers in Unique and Unusual Treasures” appeared a similar establishment to the first few she’d visited, if rather dustier. The white-haired man behind the counter looked up as Xena entered, then favored her with a kindly smile.
“You’ll have lost your way, surely, miss? The ladies’ shops are mostly in the neighborhood of Bond Street.”
Xena bit back the retort that rose to her lips. Back in Yorkshire, gentry, merchants and farmers alike knew better than to patronize Mistress Maxwell but not so, here in London.
“No, this is the shop I want,” she said firmly. “Might you be Mr. Gold?”
One white brow went up. “I am.” His voice held a trace more respect than before, but only a trace. “Have you been commissioned to purchase something in particular, madam?”
“I am not here to purchase today, Mr. Gold, but to sell.” She stepped forward to peer through the glass fronting the long display cabinet beneath the counter. “It appears you deal in just the sort of antiquities I can provide.”
As she’d done at the previous shops, Xena set her wooden box on the counter and opened the lid to reveal its carefully stored contents. “This you may recognize as having come from Persia, dating to the second century.” She lifted out a small ceramic leopard.
Now both eyebrows went up. “Ah! May I?” Gingerly, Mr. Gold took the tiny, priceless statuette from her and turned it this way and that, examining it minutely, all the while making small, happy sounds in the back of his throat. Then, setting it carefully on the counter, he peered into the box. “And what else have you here? Surely this is not a genuine Caligula denarius, and in such fine condition?”
“It is, indeed. I see you are well versed in ancient artifacts, sir. Might these be the sort of items you would be interested in purchasing for resale?”
Mr. Gold now leaned away to take a better look at Xena herself while thoughtfully stroking his scanty beard. “Do you mean to say you have more?”
“I do. My father left an extensive collection—his life’s work. Some of the pieces are duplicates, however, with which I am willing to part. For the right price.”
The shopkeeper nodded, still peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “It’s possible I’d be willing to take some of those items off your hands, Mrs—?”
“Maxwell.”
“Very well, Mrs. Maxwell, why don’t you send your father, or your husband, to discuss the particulars with me? I’d not want it said that I took advantage of a lady in such matters.”
Xena bristled. “I have neither father nor husband, Mr. Gold, but I assure you I am more than capable of handling these or any other affairs myself. If you are not willing to deal with me directly, however…” Letting her words hang, she picked up the Persian figurine and placed it back in the box.
“Now, now, miss, no offense meant,” said the man quickly—though still patronizingly, Xena thought. “But you must admit it’s not usual, nor seemly, for a pretty young lady like yourself to come a
lone on such a mission, and to this part of London.”
“Seemly or not, if you have an interest in the items from my father’s collection, you will deal with me, Mr. Gold, for there is no one else I trust to negotiate on my behalf. Now that my father is gone, no person alive knows his collection as I do.”
There was no mistaking the increased respect in Mr. Gold’s watery blue eyes now. “So it would seem. Very well, Miss Maxwell, let us see if we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement, shall we?”
Pulling a dusty ledger book, pen and ink from beneath the counter, he smiled. “Now. If you would be so kind as to describe some of the items you are looking to sell?”
Forty-five minutes later Xena emerged from the shop, her velvet-lined box empty and her purse rather satisfyingly plumper than it had been an hour earlier. In addition to what he’d paid outright for the items she’d brought with her, Mr. Gold had agreed to take on consignment the rest of the objects now residing in a chest in her rented bedchamber.
Unless she missed her guess, the money he estimated she would eventually receive should cover nearly all necessary repairs at Moorside Grange as well as a few needs in and around the village that looked to it.
She was tucking her purse into the pocket of her cloak when an unshaven man in a threadbare coat blocked her way on the narrow pavement.
“‘Ere now, missy, whyn’t you just hand that over, eh?” He held out a grubby paw.
Startled, Xena took a step back. “Excuse me?”
“I said, give me yer purse—and that box, too, while yer at it.”
Instead, she shoved the box into her pocket after the purse. “I’ll do no such thing. Get out of my way.”
The rough-looking man laughed. “My, ain’t you a feisty one? But I’ll have yer brass all the same.” One hand shot out and grasped Xena’s arm.
Though there were people about, it did not occur to her to call for assistance. Not when she had bested trained soldiers in contests of arms, once upon a time. Raising her newly-purchased secondhand parasol, she whacked her assailant smartly on the ear.
