by Brenda Hiatt
“More like he ran back to Seven Dials, as that’s where he’s said to be based.” Harry shrugged, now appearing utterly uninterested—though Xena had an odd sense he was exaggerating that. But why?
“You were out rather late last night,” she commented, pretending to pick at a pastry while gauging his expression from the corner of her eye. “You didn’t happen to witness any of the commotion, did you?”
Again, she detected a quick frown of concern before Harry shook his head. “Not a thing. I hope I didn’t wake you, coming in at such an hour?”
“No, you were quite stealthy.” She chose the word deliberately and was rewarded by another flash of apprehension in his expression. “It took me an unusually long time to fall asleep, so when I heard your voice in the passage I was still awake.”
He again affected complete indifference—and this time she was sure it was an act. “I didn’t mean to stay at the tables quite so long but as I was having a particularly good run of luck I couldn’t bring myself to leave sooner. Should I be out so late again, I’ll endeavor to be quieter upon my return. If you continue having difficulty sleeping, ask Mrs. McKay for a draught. Pete says she brews a capital one.”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” she murmured, letting the subject drop, though she continued to think back over what she’d heard and witnessed last night.
Harry, in what could well have been a disguise, and out of breath, as though he’d been running…as the Saint of Seven Dials must surely have done to escape pursuit. Was it conceivable that Harry…? Surely not!
Still, when Harry went out a short time later, Xena couldn’t resist going into the library to peruse the months’ worth of newspapers and magazines she found carefully stacked there, eager to learn a bit more about the mysterious Saint of Seven Dials. Though there were no papers from the past week or so, previous ones detailed his more daring exploits, or those involving particularly highly-placed members of Society.
Several stories mentioned the widely-held belief that the famed thief gave the majority of his ill-gotten bounty to the poor—thus the “Saint” moniker and frequent comparisons to the legendary Robin Hood. Though popular opinion hailed him as a hero, various authorities doubted more than a tithe of what he stole actually left his own pockets.
In an hour she’d exhausted everything the library held on the subject without finding anything to support the possibility that Harry might be the Saint. Certainly, if those authorities were correct, the man would have no need to gamble for funds, which Harry, by his own admission, did regularly. Nor was there a single mention of the Saint having but one arm, which surely would have been noted by at least one of the numerous witnesses claiming to have seen him.
No, she’d clearly leapt to such an absurd guess in hopes of a more palatable explanation than the obvious one for Harry’s late return and disheveled appearance last night. Chiding herself for her disappointment, Xena carefully replaced the papers as she had found them and returned to the breakfast room to devote her attention to her far more pressing problem—and the now-towering stack of invitations awaiting a response.
* * *
Harry was just as happy to head to Seven Dials with last night’s booty shortly after breakfast. Now word was out about his longtime marriage, it would not be long before his friends and acquaintances began tweaking him about it. This task would put that inevitability off a bit longer and get him away from Xena’s disturbing presence, besides.
“If what I read is true, you’re like to equal Lord Hardwyck before long,” Flute greeted him with a grin when he reached the flat a short time later. “That was a bang-up disappearing act you pulled, from what them blokes told the papers. M’sister showed me the story this morning.”
Harry chuckled, successfully diverted from his earlier concerns. “Luckily for me, their wits were no quicker than their feet. A simple distraction put them off my trail long enough to make my escape—though I can’t deny it was a near thing. If many more had joined the chase, I doubt I could have shaken them all even in the fog.”
With that, Harry opened his satchel to display its contents. Sorting through the jumble of coins, notes, candlesticks and jewelry, Flute gave a low whistle.
“I’ll be able to fence this lot for enough to feed and clothe near everyone what needs it…those what deserve it, anyway…for weeks to come. Well done, guv!”
Though the boy’s frank admiration helped to soothe his pride, Harry shrugged. “That’s as well, as it’s likely to be the last chance I’ll have to play the Saint for a while.”
Flute nodded knowingly. “Aye, I heard you got yourself a wife now. Must’ve been a right facer when she popped up alive after all this time! Guess you’ll have better ways to spend your nights now, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows, reminding Harry that the lad was older than he looked.
“It’s not— That is, it will be much harder for me to slip out without anyone the wiser. Especially her.” How much did she suspect? He’d done a pretty poor job hiding his emotions when she’d mentioned the Saint earlier, and Xena was no fool.
“At any rate,” he continued after a moment, “I’ll resume my activities as soon as I safely can. In the meantime, I’ll trust you to put last night’s takings to good use.”
A few hours later, watching Xena descend the stairs prior to leaving for Peter’s, Harry couldn’t help remembering Flute’s innuendoes and fervently wishing they were correct. As she joined him in the front hall, clad in the same midnight-blue evening gown she had worn at Wellington’s do, he was struck anew by how very beautiful his wife was. So alluring were the creamy shoulders and throat displayed by the low-cut dress, he had to swallow convulsively in order to moisten his suddenly-dry throat to speak.
“You, ah, look quite nice in that gown. The color suits you,” he finally managed, then mentally cursed himself for the clumsiness of the compliment. One would never guess he had a reputation for being smooth-tongued with the ladies.
“Thank you. You’re very kind, considering you saw me wearing it only four nights since. I fear it is the only evening gown I currently own, though I hope to have another delivered in a day or two.” She smoothed the silken folds self-consciously.
Delivered? By whom? Harry stopped himself from asking the question aloud. Despite his suspicions, he had no proof she was carrying on an intrigue with anyone. For the moment, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. An argument would surely ensue were he to start flinging accusations and he wished her first visit to the theatre to be a pleasant one.
“Shall we go?” He extended his right arm.
CHAPTER 13
DESPITE HER misgivings about appearing publicly as Harry’s wife, Xena could not help being charmed by the warm manner in which Lord Peter’s beautiful wife greeted her on their arrival in Curzon Street.
“How lovely to see you again,” Lady Peter exclaimed the moment they were shown into the elegant drawing room, jumping up to hurry forward, hands outstretched. “I am delighted that you agreed to join us tonight and that we shall have a chance to know each other better after all.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Xena returned her hostess’s infectious smile. “You are most kind.”
“Please, you must call me Sarah. Peter and Harry are the very best of friends, and I would very much like us to become so, as well.”
She pulled Xena over to sit on the claw-footed couch beside her while the men conversed near the fire. “Now, I know what the story Peter sent to the papers said, but pray tell me how it really is with you? You seemed amazingly composed at Apsley House, given what an enormous shock you’d just received, but I don’t blame you at all for wishing to gather your wits before announcing your marriage to the world.”
Reassured by Sarah’s sympathetic, confiding air, some of Xena’s initial nervousness dissipated. “If I appeared composed it was entirely by luck,” she admitted. “Inside I was a mass of confusion, with not the slightest idea how I should proceed. It seemed…prudent to keep my counsel on the matter
until Harry and I had opportunity to speak privately. Needless to say, it was rather an eye-opening evening for us both.”
“And now you are living as husband and wife—or, at least, sharing a roof.” Sarah’s look and tone held a question.
Xena wondered how much Harry had told Lord Peter about the actual circumstances of their long-ago marriage—and how much he, in turn, had told Sarah. Did she know her own husband had been the one to orchestrate their current, uncomfortable situation? She could at least hope that his given word prevented him mentioning Theo to his wife.
Then another thought occurred to her. Surely, as wife to Harry’s most intimate friend, Sarah must see him in unguarded moments. Perhaps she could reveal more about what sort of man Harry had become? Now was not the time to ask, however.
“We are giving it a trial, at least,” she said instead. “’Tis far too early yet to say whether it will be a successful one, despite the rosy predictions in the papers. We have both grown rather set in our ways over the past seven years.”
“I can well imagine. My younger brother and I were separated for eight years and scarcely recognized each other when next we met. Of course, we were still children when we parted.”
Over dinner, Sarah told Xena the fascinating tale of how she had progressed from an orphaned street urchin to the wife of a duke’s son, who in turn was able to rescue her brother William from a dangerous life on the streets.
“And all because Peter believed so strongly in me that he refused to give up. He was certain there was more about me than even I knew, and he proved himself correct. My husband can be very persistent when he believes himself in the right.” She laughed.
As she’d already seen evidence of that persistence herself, Xena could not disagree—but did not find it particularly humorous. Especially as she was not at all certain Lord Peter was right in the matter of her marriage—or her son.
“Is he so stubborn when he proves to be mistaken?” she could not help asking.
Sarah blinked. “I do not know. He so rarely seems to be mistaken, you see. Of course, we’ve known each other only two months, so perhaps I am not the best judge. However, his friends all say the same, do they not?” She directed that question to Harry, who had been listening.
He snorted and frowned at his friend. “He’s right more often than is good for him, that’s certain, but he’s hardly infallible. As will likely be proven again before long.”
This, Xena knew, was a veiled reference to Peter’s current “experiment.” Though she should be relieved to know Harry held out no more hope for a successful outcome than she did, hearing him say so aloud stung far more than it should.
Suddenly desirous of changing the subject, she turned to their host. “Lord Peter, you are the one responsible for our receiving so many invitations. Perhaps you would be willing to advise me on which I might safely decline, as I fear it will be quite impossible to accept them all.”
“Nor should you,” he agreed. “As highly in demand as you two are at the moment, you can well afford to be selective. Between us, Sarah and I can give you some idea of which entertainments—and hostesses—you might be happier to avoid.”
“Such as Lady Mountheath?” Sarah’s blue eyes twinkled, but Xena detected a trace of bitterness behind them as well. “I know firsthand how unpleasant she can be. Indeed, she quite delights in the shredding of reputations, as do her two daughters.”
Xena had heard that name before, and recently, but where? Ah, yes. Lord and Lady Mountheath had been mentioned in more than one of the old newspaper articles she’d read this morning, as they had been victimized by the Saint of Seven Dials on two separate occasions.
“I will certainly keep that in mind,” she said. “What other invitations ought I to decline?”
As Lord Peter named several other people he personally knew to be either unsavory or unpleasant, Xena was startled to realize most of them had also had valuables stolen by the Saint. Could that be coincidence, or did the Saint of Seven Dials intentionally target those who most seemed to deserve his attentions? She wanted to ask, but did not quite dare in front of Harry, on the off-chance her silly suspicion was correct.
Once she and Sarah left the gentlemen to their port, however, it seemed safe to broach the subject.
“I have been reading in the papers about this Saint of Seven Dials and find him quite an enigma. What do you know of him?”
Though Sarah regarded her rather strangely, she answered after only a moment’s hesitation. “If you’ve read what the papers have been printing, you’ll know there are differing opinions as to his motives as well as widely varying speculations on who he might be. Some say he’s merely a very skilled street thief, some a clever servant, others a peer or other highly-placed member of Society.”
“Have you formed your own opinions?” Xena asked, though Sarah had been in London but two months herself.
“I won’t claim to know which of those guesses is true, but certainly I can’t fault his choice of victims. And, according to a few people I am still in contact with from my impoverished girlhood, he does distribute a great deal of money to the poor.”
“Then it’s true that he restricts his thefts to those who, ah, need to be taken down a peg or two?”
Sarah nodded. “At least, I know of no one who claims to have been burgled by the Saint for whom that could not be said.”
The gentlemen rejoined them then, as it was nearly time to leave for the theatre, so Xena pressed no further. But she had learned enough already that she found herself rather admiring this Saint of Seven Dials, no matter who he might be.
* * *
Harry endeavored to conceal his trepidation on arriving at the Theatre-Royal at Drury Lane a short time later. As they followed Peter and his wife toward the stairs leading up to their box, Xena’s gloved fingertips resting lightly on his extended arm, head after head turned to mark their progress. This, he knew, was only the beginning.
Just up ahead a group of his compatriots from the Guards’ Club—and their wives—stood chatting. Remembering the delight with which Harry had tweaked each fellow officer upon his marriage, he now braced himself, watching the group from the corner of his eye as his party approached.
As luck would have it, Findlay spotted him first. “Why look, it’s the celebrity of the hour!” he exclaimed. “What ho, Thatcher! Parson’s mousetrap looks a bit different once you’ve been caught, does it not?”
The others chuckled, but the one unmarried gentleman in the group, after an admiring glance at Xena, sent Harry a look that might have been slightly envious. That emboldened Harry to respond.
“I was caught before I knew better. Even so, I’d defy any man to resist capture by such a crack shot and expert fencer as my wife was when first we met.” To complete the effect, he cast a proud smile Xena’s way, which she returned with a look of extreme surprise.
She recovered quickly, however. “Yes, I fear I gave him little choice, once I’d set my sights on him,” she quipped. Harry hoped he was the only one who detected the brittleness in her voice.
“Such a thrilling and romantic story,” Findlay’s wife said with a syrupy smile at them both. “I do hope to hear more about it soon. You received our invitation for next week?”
Xena nodded. “I’ve not yet had time to respond, but yes. You are very kind.”
They continued on, Peter murmuring, “Carried that off well, both of you. Knew you could.”
“You needn’t be so smug about it,” Harry muttered back. Peter only smiled.
The play was already begun by the time they were settled in their box, but few people were watching it anyway. Most seemed far more interested in staring and pointing at them, then scurrying from box to box to make certain all of their acquaintances had noticed as well. In fact, the only person who appeared to be attending to the performance was Xena.
“Amazing,” she whispered in awed tones half an hour later. “I know every word of this play, but actually seeing it performed
is a completely different experience from reading it, even aloud. I am discovering an even deeper appreciation of Shakespeare’s work.”
Without thinking, Harry put his hand on hers. “I’m glad you are enjoying it.”
That drew her attention from the stage for the first time since sitting down. Her gray eyes, wide with surprise, flew to his face, but though her hand twitched under his, she did not snatch it back. “I am. Thank you. And thank you, Lord Peter, for inviting us.”
Before his friend could turn his head to reply, Harry removed his hand. Xena, he noticed, moved hers to her lap at the same time. Was she disappointed or relieved to be rid of his touch? He wished he knew.
At the first intermission, a steady stream of friends, acquaintances and virtual strangers descended upon them, cramming Peter’s box to bursting as they vied for the chance to appease their curiosity under the guise of paying their respects. Several mentioned invitations already sent, while others invited them on the spot to whatever events they were hosting during the winter.
For all that she claimed to be unaccustomed to Society, Xena was charming to one and all, contriving to appear pleased and grateful for each invitation without positively committing to any of them.
“I fear I’ve not had time to look over my calendar properly,” she said repeatedly, always with a smile. “Everything has happened so quickly, you see.”
Not everyone who visited the box was so agreeably solicitous, however. Lady Grant, with whom Harry had dallied once or twice when Sir Charles was from Town, took the opportunity to run a critical eye over Xena and deliver a sly allusion or two.
“You must be as brave as the tales say, Mrs. Thatcher, to attempt the domestication of this fellow.” She tapped Harry flirtatiously on the shoulder with her fan. “But no doubt one with your experience following the drum will have the fortitude to bring him back into line should he revert to form—and a most amusing form it can be.”
