Gallant Scoundrel

by Brenda Hiatt

  “Oi!” he exclaimed, releasing her. “What—?”

  Before he could finish, she gripped the handle of the parasol as though it were the hilt of a sword and thrust it at his chest. With a yelp, he scrambled backward into the street and was nearly run down by a passing dray. Xena took a step toward him, still wielding the parasol menacingly, but he’d had enough. With a strangled cry, he turned and ran away.

  “Well done, miss!” exclaimed a portly businessman, hurrying up just then. “Was coming to offer my help, but you can obviously handle yourself.”

  “My thanks anyway,” she told the well-meaning merchant with a smile. “Good day to you.”

  “And to you!” Tipping his hat, he bowed.

  Heartened by the encounter—and the first bit of real excitement she’d had in years—Xena continued on her way. Reaching into her pocket, she patted her purse with renewed satisfaction, anticipating her son’s excitement when she told him they might indeed remain in London for the winter.

  CHAPTER 5

  A BARE week after learning the identities of the former Saints of Seven Dials, Harry felt ready to take on the role himself. He was completely recovered from his attack, save a half-healed scar over his right eyebrow and a slight limp that was improving daily.

  At Flute’s suggestion, he’d removed from his lodgings in Swallow Street to Lord Hardwyck’s old quarters in the heart of Seven Dials. Despite the crumbling building’s unprepossessing exterior, the flat itself proved perfectly livable.

  “Lived here m’self, till Sarah insisted I stay with her,” the boy had explained on their arrival there two days since. “More convenient for you to operate from here and easier to convince the other lads to accept you as the new Saint, too. Might even cozzen ‘em into thinking you’re the original, come back again.”

  Under Flute’s tutelage, Harry had now successfully managed a few smaller thefts—pockets picked, an unattended package purloined from an empty carriage, that sort of thing—but tonight would see his first attempt at house-breaking.

  In time he hoped to equal such fabled Saintly exploits as the filching of Lady Jersey’s diamonds from her very neck while she hostessed a ball. First, however, he’d need to work his way back into the heart of Society, as he’d drifted rather to the fringes since returning from Vienna last summer.

  To that end, Peter promised to include him in any likely invitations on condition Harry cut back on his drinking. Not counting the one spree to celebrate his first night out from under Peter’s roof, he’d done so. Most of the time he felt the better for it, too, though it occasionally made sleeping difficult when those imaginary pains from his missing arm recurred.

  “Ye’ll do, guv’nor,” Flute said as he put the finishing touches to Harry’s costume. Brewster, his valet, had been sent off to visit his widowed mother in Surrey for a few days rather than risk his implication in any crimes while Harry was still learning the ropes. “Don’t forget to slouch, mind.”

  “Right.” Here in Seven Dials, Harry went about disguised as one of the many beggars infesting the area. His missing arm lent authenticity to the ruse, as a disturbing number of those beggars were indeed wounded soldiers who’d come home from the wars only to find little in the way of tangible assistance from the country they’d served.

  Luckily, Harry had practiced similar deceptions during his time in Vienna, in order to infiltrate coteries that would never have welcomed someone known to be associated with Wellington.

  “You have the direction of tonight’s target?”

  “Aye, it’s not far. Just off Golden Square on Carnaby Street.” Flute gave Harry’s homespun shirt a tweak. “A cheat of a shopkeeper what turned Skeet off without reference or wages two weeks back,” Flute continued. “A customer dropped a pot and broke it but the owner made like Skeet done it rather than blame the lady, then beat him for good measure. Skeet’s better off away from him, but there’s no denying the bloke’s deservin’ of the Saint’s attention.”

  “Let’s be off, then.” Harry’s thrill of anticipation was not unlike what he’d felt before battle during his time in the Peninsula. By thunder, he’d missed the feeling more than he’d realized.

  Flute clambered down the rickety stairs that clung to the side of the building then glanced back at Harry, clearly concerned about his ability to maneuver with only one arm. But while Harry still cursed his infirmity every time he needed assistance shaving or tying a lace, he had no difficulty navigating these stairs—as he’d already proven more than once. Tonight he meant to prove he was capable of far more.

  Reaching the filthy pavement, he hunched his shoulders and exaggerated his limp. “Lead on.”

  Staying a dozen paces back, as Flute was well known to the denizens of Seven Dials as the Saint’s sometime accomplice, Harry dragged a leg and occasionally pretended to stumble. The boy’s distinctive shock of straw-colored hair and jaunty stride made him easy to keep in sight.

  When the maze-like alleyways of Seven Dials gave way to streets progressively better lit, better maintained, and more crowded, Harry dispensed with his limp and straightened his coat, the better to fit in. But not until they arrived in Carnaby Street did he catch up to Flute, waiting in the shadows of a narrow alleyway leading to a set of mews.

  “That one?” Harry glanced up at the narrow house Flute was watching, the third one along the row. It looked much the same as the others in this area. On the fringes of Mayfair proper, most were inhabited by a mix of lower gentry and wealthy merchants.

  “Aye,” Flute whispered. “Tig should be by any minute.”

  Not two minutes later, a small boy, younger than Flute, appeared behind them in the alleyway. “Is this him?” He looked up at Harry with round eyes.

  “Shh!” Flute admonished. “He’s helpin’ out, that’s all. So? Is old Garamond gone out?”

  “Aye, left nigh half an hour ago. C’n I help? I’m a dab hand at—”

  “Not now, Tig.” From Flute’s long-suffering tone, it appeared this sort of conversation happened often.

  Harry hid a smile. “Maybe in the future.” Flute rolled his eyes. “Tonight’s my first attempt, so I’d as soon go it alone. For pride’s sake, you know.”

  “Oh, aye, guv, I ken.” The boy was still grinning. “I’ll just wait here with Flute then.”

  Harry fleetingly wondered if he was setting a poor example, allowing the boys to act as lookouts, then shrugged. “Right, then. I’ll be back soon.”

  He headed down the alleyway between tiny back gardens and a row of stables to survey his target from the rear. All the windows were shut—no surprise, given the chill November night air.

  No matter. It would be easier to pick the back door lock than clamber one-armed through a window, though he’d run a greater risk of encountering servants. Creeping silently through the garden to the door, he put an ear to the keyhole and thought he could discern a faint murmur of voices from within, though not near the door. Gingerly trying the handle, he was startled but pleased to find it unlocked.

  Quickly, he slipped inside, then softly closed the door behind him before peering down the dim stairs leading to the kitchens to listen again. No voices now, but the unlocked door proved some servants must still be about, if only a scullery maid or two washing up below.

  He hesitated only a moment, then tiptoed past the kitchen stairs and along the narrow hallway to the first door—which was locked. That seemed promising, as it meant not even servants were welcome within. With a smile of anticipation, Harry pulled a thin, flexible blade from his pocket, fitted it into the keyhole and gave it a practiced twist or two.

  Softly stepping through the door, he found himself in a study or office, as he’d hoped. A large desk was littered with papers and two big ledgers, one open, one closed. Curious, Harry glanced through both and discovered they were the shopkeeper’s account books—identical, except for the expenses listed, which were far higher in one than the other. Apparently Flute had been right about the man’s cheating tendencie
s.

  Feeling doubly justified now, Harry turned his attention to a strongbox in the corner. That lock proved more challenging, but after several minutes an audible click rewarded his efforts. Inside he found rolls of coins and neat stacks of bank notes. He drew the canvas bag he’d brought along from inside his shabby coat and began filling it.

  Ten minutes later he triumphantly rejoined the two waiting boys in the alley.

  “Success!” he whispered. “Now we’d best get well away before any of us are spotted.”

  Though Tig had a tendency to chatter and clearly wanted to accompany them all the way back to Seven Dials, Flute managed with some difficulty to dissuade him. After taking separate, circuitous routes back, eventually both Harry and Flute were again ensconced in the little third-story flat.

  “Let’s tally up tonight’s takings, shall we?” Grinning, Harry dumped the contents of the bag on the low table in the center of the room.

  Flute gave a low whistle. “Cor! You must have cleaned the blighter out!”

  “Not quite, but I took over half and left a card in its place. Care to join me in a glass or two to celebrate the new Saint of Seven Dials?” Lord Hardwyck had made him free of the collection of bottles he’d left behind but Harry had been sparing since his first night there.

  “Nay, guv, I don’t touch the stuff.” Flute wrinkled his nose. “I seen what gin and such does to folks hereabouts. ’Twas the death of Tig’s mother, and that’s no lie. Anyways, I’d best get started spreading a bit of this around. There’ll be a right number of happy families hereabouts tonight, I’m thinking!”

  Once Flute had put a quarter of his haul into a smaller sack and left again, Harry shrugged.

  “Better a solitary celebration than none at all,” he said to the empty room. Plucking a glass and a corkscrew from the shelf behind him, he opened his first bottle of the evening and poured.

  * * *

  “This should be acceptable for tonight, don’t you think?” Xena turned this way and that before the inadequate looking glass in her bedchamber to get a better look at the low-cut, midnight-blue gown that had been delivered just that afternoon from the most au courant modiste in all London. Though it had cost several times more than any garment she’d ever possessed, Madame Fanchot had been quite right when she said the color would complement Xena’s dark hair and fair skin.

  “You look so different.” Theo regarded her dubiously from his perch on her bed, his own dark head tilted to one side. “But pretty,” he finally conceded.

  Young Gretchen nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Aye, a fair princess you look, mum, right enough!”

  Yamini had insisted Xena bring a lady’s maid to London for propriety and Gretchen had readily agreed to abandon her post as a maid-of-all-work in Yorkshire to fill what was a far more prestigious role. Once in the city, however, the girl was so frightened by the teeming streets she’d scarcely ventured outside their rooms.

  Xena had not pressed her, as she much preferred going out alone whether it was the accepted thing or not. Tonight, however, was different.

  “The carriage I’ve hired should be here in half an hour,” Xena reminded Gretchen now. “I mustn’t be seen arriving at Apsley House alone, so you must come along. Once we arrive you may join the other servants for some refreshment below stairs or even return to the carriage.”

  “Yes, mum. I’ll…I’ll decide once we gets there.” Gretchen’s dark eyes were wide with anxiety.

  “That will be fine,” Xena assured her. “Now, help me on with these wretched half-boots. It will be a mercy if I don’t trip myself up. Why women wear such things instead of sensible shoes, I can’t fathom.”

  “May I not come, too, Mother?” Theo pleaded, not for the first time. “I should very much like to see all the officers and especially General Wellington!”

  Smiling, Xena shook her head. “As I’ve already told you, it wouldn’t be appropriate tonight. But I will do my best to introduce you to the Duke before we leave London.”

  A short time later she and Gretchen clattered through the streets of London in the handsomest carriage Xena could reasonably afford to hire. She’d spent much of the past week planning her strategy for this evening, which included making the best possible first impression on her arrival.

  To that end, she had spent a shocking sum on her appearance. It helped only slightly to remind herself that most women of her station spent far greater amounts on a yearly, if not a quarterly, basis. Ever preferring economy and comfort over fashion, at home Xena wore whatever old gown lay to hand when her preferred breeches were not an option. Here in Town, while inexpensive secondhand gowns might be enough to impress shopkeepers, tonight demanded something substantially better.

  And though she knew it was foolish, she did almost feel like a princess in her costly new gown and the first modish hairstyle she’d ever worn in her life. Just as well, perhaps, for she would need every ounce of confidence to face down so many ghosts from her past over the next few hours…assuming she did not kill herself trying to walk in her fashionably impractical half-boots.

  When the carriage drew up before the imposing entrance to Apsley House, some of her hard-won confidence evaporated. Where were the other carriages, all the officers and their wives who were supposed to see her emerge from her expensively hired equipage?

  “The do were tonight, weren’t it, mum?” Gretchen whispered, echoing her own sudden doubt.

  “It says so on the note the Duke sent round.” She pulled the square of hot-pressed paper from her reticule to read again by the blazing lamps on either side of the portico. “November nineteenth at half past six. We are perhaps a minute or two early, but no more than that.”

  The coachman opened the carriage door and lowered the steps, so she hesitantly stepped out to frown up at the house, which blazed with lights from every window. Someone was here, at any rate.

  “Wait you here a moment,” she told the coachman before proceeding up the broad stone stairs to the front door, Gretchen trailing anxiously behind her. Before Xena touched the ornate brass knocker, the door was thrown open from within.

  “Miss Maxwell,” exclaimed the Duke of Wellington himself in obvious delight. “So pleased you didn’t elect to come fashionably late. T’would have spoiled my surprise.”

  “Er…surprise, your grace?”

  “Aye. I asked you here half an hour before anyone else so we can spring you on them after they’re all assembled. Won’t that be famous?”

  Apparently Xena would have her grand entrance after all, though she now regretted the expense of the carriage. “I, ah, yes. I suppose it will. I’m relieved not to have mistaken the night.”

  He laughed and waved her coachman on to the stables. Extending an arm, he led her to a small but luxuriously appointed anteroom just off the entryway.

  “I’ll summon you once enough people have arrived for an effective announcement. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  With a nod and a wink, he left before she could implement the next stage of her plan—explaining to Wellington about her son, then delivering a carefully worded request for his assistance in ensuring Theo’s admission to Eton when the time came.

  After half an hour of reassuring the quaking Gretchen, overcome by the splendor of Apsley House, the door to the anteroom finally opened again.

  “Come,” said the Duke. “I believe enough people are here now for my announcement. Let’s astonish them, shall we?”

  Xena rose so quickly from the gilt chair that she nearly tripped over her unaccustomed skirts. The Duke caught her by the elbow before she could fall flat on her face.

  “Easy, now. Never tell me the indomitable Miss Maxwell is nervous?”

  She managed to return his smile. “Of course not. It’s these ridiculous boots the modiste insisted are all the rage. I’ve no idea how women navigate in them.”

  The Duke gave a shout of laughter. “Ah, yes, I recall you always seemed more at ease in male attire, whenever you could convince Old Max to
allow you to wear it—which was far more often than most fathers would have, I’m certain. And I won’t deny it became you. But come, I’ll not let you fall off your stilts.”

  As the boots boasted a mere inch and a half of heel, Xena could not suppress a chuckle. “I thank you, your grace. I shall do my best not to embarrass you tonight—in light of which, there is something I must tell you before we go in.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Swallowing, she plunged on. “When we met on the street the other day, I was so surprised that I fear I spoke in error. If you recall, you asked then if I was married.”

  “Are you saying that surprise at seeing me made you forget you have a husband?” The Duke looked quizzically down at her.

  She forced a small smile. “Not precisely. I am a widow, you see. My husband was killed at Salamanca.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. He was a soldier, then? What was his name?”

  “Lieutenant Thatcher when we married, though according to the newspapers he was Major Thatcher by the time he was killed.”

  “Major…Would that be Major Harry Thatcher?”

  She nodded. “You knew him then, your grace?”

  For a moment he simply looked at her, his expression difficult to decipher. “Yes. I, er, did. This is an evening of surprises, indeed.” Another pause, then, “Tell me, would you mind terribly if I introduce you as Miss Maxwell anyway? My speech is already prepared, you see, and it is the name everyone attending knew you by. I can’t help thinking my announcement will be more of a stunner without any tedious explanations.”

  “That will be perfectly all right, your grace, as I’ve continued to go by Mistress Maxwell in Yorkshire. There is one other thing I need to tell you about, however.”

  “Whatever it is will have to wait. Heads are already turning this way and I won’t have my surprise ruined.” Tucking her hand securely into the crook of his arm, he led her out into the entryway. “Chin up, now!”