by Brenda Hiatt
Xena glared at him but said nothing else for the remainder of the drive, instead planning her next assault—for she was determined to force a confession from him. Once their cloaks were removed and they’d mounted to the first landing, she turned to him with a smile.
“Would you care for a glass of something in the library before bed?”
Clearly startled, then suspicious, he shook his head. “Though I thank you for the invitation, I’m feeling a bit pulled. Perhaps another night.”
Eyes narrowed, Xena followed him up the stairs. Once in her own chamber, she allowed Gretchen to help her change for bed but as soon as her maid had gone, she put on her wrapper and marched through first one dressing room door and then the other.
Harry, already clad in nightshirt and dressing gown, stared at her in surprise, as did his valet, who was in the act of brushing Harry’s dinner jacket. “Xena, what—?” Harry began.
“I wish to examine your wound so as to be certain no inflammation is setting in. Brewster, you may go.”
Though Harry’s brows drew down as though he might countermand that dismissal, his man departed without a word.
“As I told you, I feel fine. There’s no need—”
“I have reason to believe my medical knowledge is superior to yours, so I will be the judge of that. Come, sit here on the edge of the bed and let me have a look.”
Warily, he did as she asked, pulling the folds of his Banyan across his lap in a way that made Xena smile. Had he already forgotten she’d seen him in the altogether only last night?
“If it will help to preserve your modesty, you may arrange your attire in such a way as to expose your injury and little else. I’ll even look away while you do so.”
Harry’s sheepish expression acknowledged her hit, but he still waited until she averted her eyes to adjust his nightwear to accommodate an examination.
Not even attempting to hide her amusement, Xena let her gaze rove about Harry’s chamber, alert for any other bit of evidence she might find to assist in forcing an admission from him that he was indeed the Saint of Seven Dials. Not that he was likely to have left anything in plain sight, but—
Her gaze lingered a moment on an object she recognized from their army days, a small wooden clock carved in the shape of an elephant—a gift, he’d once told her, from his grandfather the Earl when he was a boy. The clock was rather more battered now, but still keeping time. On recalling something else about that clock, she took two quick steps toward the fireplace and plucked the clock from the mantel.
“Here!” Harry protested, surging to his feet. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, Xena turned the clock over and pressed the cunningly hidden catch on the bottom to expose the hollow cavity within—a cavity formerly used to conceal small articles of a valuable or incriminating nature.
Such as the handful of cards residing there now—cards etched with a numeral seven topped by a gold-ink halo.
CHAPTER 18
HARRY STEPPED forward in alarm but before he could intervene, Xena turned with a triumphant smile, holding one of Harry’s Saint cards aloft between her fingers.
“Oho!” she cried. “Do you still protest your innocence?”
Scowling, Harry snatched his momentarily-forgotten dressing gown off the floor and pulled it back on. “I should have known better than to believe you came here out of concern for my health. It appears your intent was quite the opposite.”
“Hardly that. I do wish to check on your wound but I’ll admit I hoped to persuade you to tell me the truth in the process. Then I saw the clock and recalled how we used to hide…things…inside it.” Primarily secret missives from Xena herself, once their relationship had progressed to the point of assignations
“Now,” she continued, “suppose you tell me the whole story while I have a peep beneath those bandages?”
Finally admitting defeat, he nodded. “Very well, I’ll tell you. But there’s little point now in worrying about this bullet hole festering. Once the world knows the truth I’ll be swinging at the end of a rope anyway.”
Xena blinked. “The world—? Why should anyone else guess you are the Saint?”
“There is a sizable reward for my arrest, you know,” he pointed out. “Far more money than you’re like to receive from the sale of your father’s trinkets, or even from whatever gallant is buying you dresses from Madame Fanchot’s. My execution would also secure you permanent freedom from the inconvenience of a husband.”
“I am not a monster, Harry,” she snapped. “No matter how foolishly you have behaved, do you really imagine I would turn in my own husband for money?” Her vehemence implied he’d not only startled but offended her—a hopeful sign.
“Even were I so inclined,” she continued after a moment, “which I most certainly am not, it would do me little good. Do you not realize that if you are exposed as the Saint, my property will be forfeit along with yours?”
Confused, Harry stared at her. “What the devil do you mean? I’ve no property to forfeit. And what has yours to do with it?”
“In the eyes of the law, my property became yours upon our marriage,” she explained, clearly surprised he would not know that. “Indeed, I have wondered why you never attempted to put in a claim after you returned from Spain if you truly believed me dead.”
“Never even occurred to me,” he admitted truthfully. “Was never much of a legal scholar, you know, unlike you, always crusading about such things. Shame, really. If I’d known, we might both have discovered our error years ago.”
* * *
Xena blinked at his words, then swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we would have.”
She couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness from her voice, realizing the fault was at least as much hers. Had she not been too stubborn to write to him directly after returning to England, he would have learned at once that she had not died. She likely would have been informed he’d survived Salamanca early on, as well. Harry could have met Theo while he was still a toddler. They might have become a real family…
“Now, do let me examine your wound, as I suggested,” Xena said with forced briskness. There was no point dwelling on such regrets now.
Resuming his place on the edge of the bed, Harry lifted his Banyan and nightshirt to expose the bandages still wrapped around his body, though Xena noticed he was careful to keep his lap and left shoulder discreetly covered.
“Very well. Take a look, if you must.”
“Thank you.” Carefully, she unwound the bindings and lifted the cloth pad covering his wound. Already the shallow gash was scabbing over and the edges of the deeper cut where she’d removed the bullet were clean. “Hm. It looks well enough so far, though it will be another day or two before the danger of infection is past. And now, if you don’t mind, I should very much like to hear the story of how you evaded General Wellington’s battle-trained servants last night.”
As she replaced the pad with another, cleaner one and retied the strips holding it in place, Harry began his tale from the point where he was spotted behind Apsley House, then described his pursuit through two parks before finally being shot from behind.
“Luckily for me, I learned to swim quite well underwater as a lad. Never expected to need that particular skill again, but it stood me in good stead last night.”
Rapt, Xena listened in silence to every word, still absorbing the remarkable fact that Harry, her Harry, was the fabled Saint of Seven Dials! Yes, she’d suspected it immediately on hearing the details of the legendary thief’s near-demise, but she hadn’t quite believed it. It seemed so completely unlikely, given the sort of man he’d become.
Over the past week she’d begun to doubt anything remained of the brash young lieutenant she’d once known. Full of grandiose plans for fame and fortune, if not as a soldier, then after the war, he’d borne little resemblance to the drunken gamester she’d recently observed. Now, hearing Harry tell of swimming for his life—with but one arm!—in freezing water, whil
e already wounded… Yes, this was indeed the man she remembered.
As he finished his tale, she tied off his bandage, then moved to the chair by the bed. “Why did you become the Saint of Seven Dials to begin with? And how long ago?”
“I’ve only been playing the Saint a few weeks, so most of the stories you’ve heard about his exploits don’t pertain to me, I’m afraid.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug.
“Do you mean there were others before you?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded. “At least four, to my knowledge. Er, not at liberty to say who, of course.”
“No, I suppose not.” She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “And now yet another will have to take up the mantle, for your housebreaking days are surely behind you after an incident such as this.”
“What? No such thing!” he protested, frowning. “Think you this was my first narrow escape? Far from it, though I admit it’s the first where I’ve taken a bullet.”
Xena raised an eyebrow. “I assume you hadn’t attempted any other burglaries while so deep in your cups as you were last night?”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted rather sheepishly. “But—”
“You cannot continue, Harry,” she insisted. “Aside from the risk to you, have I not explained that my property, my home—” and Theo’s “—would be forfeit if you should be caught?”
“I won’t be caught.” He sounded far more certain than he could possibly be. “It’s true I went off half-cocked last night but I paid the price and learned my lesson. Won’t do that again. But becoming the Saint has been the best thing that’s happened to me since I returned from Spain, maimed.”
“The best— What do you mean?”
“Sorry, should have said the best thing until finding you were still alive.”
She grimaced. “Pray don’t. You know I’ve never been one to seek compliments—especially empty ones.”
“Nor sincere ones, either. Yes, I remember.” He leaned forward to put a hand over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. “Xena, please try to understand. This—becoming the Saint, I mean—is one of the few useful things I’ve done since leaving the army. It has allowed me to believe I might still make a mark in the world, do some good, despite…” He glanced toward his left shoulder.
Her heart twisted within her as she suddenly understood that the loss of his arm had damaged his spirit far more than his body, transforming Harry from that lighthearted, devil-may-care soldier into the cynical, embittered wastrel he’d become since the war. If playing the part of a modern-day Robin Hood was the way to restoring that spirit she’d so admired—yes, perhaps even loved—how could she not support him continuing?
Xena gave a decisive nod. “Very well. If it means so very much to you, I suppose you must carry on once you are recovered enough—on one condition. I will accompany you on all future forays, in order to make absolutely certain you are not captured.”
* * *
Harry snatched back his hand to stare at her in outrage. “Accompany me? Are you mad?”
Xena raised her brows. “Not at all. Does it not make perfect sense that I should wish to have a hand in protecting my own property from seizure?”
“You can safely leave that to me,” Harry informed her. “I refuse to chance your arrest or injury. The risk should be mine alone.”
“But it isn’t, don’t you see?” She leaned forward persuasively, reminding him of how they used to fence with words as well as swords. “As long as you act as the Saint, my home, my future, is also at risk. Surely I should be allowed to assist in safeguarding it?”
“What makes you think I’ll even tell you when I’m planning to make my next attempt? You can’t—”
“Have you followed constantly, as you have apparently done with me?” she asked sweetly, making him frown. “Oh, but I can—and will. Even if it means discovering other activities of yours of which you might prefer I remain in ignorance. If necessary, I can even don male garb and follow you right into your gaming hells. You yourself mistook me for a man, once upon a time.”
“Only for a moment,” he snapped. “And that was before you’d become quite so—” He broke off but cast a glance over her body. That she caught his meaning was clear by the frowning awareness in her expression.
Abruptly, she stood. “I propose we both sleep on the idea for a night or two, as you are in no shape just yet to be leaping fences or clambering through windows. And now, Saint Harry, I give you good night.”
With a mocking curtsey, she retreated through the dressing room, leaving him to stare after her, dumbfounded. Saint Harry? Did she think this a joke?
No, not a joke, he realized. An opportunity. A chance for her to recapture the excitement her life had apparently lacked these past few years.
He hadn’t missed the light in her eyes, the smile she couldn’t quite suppress, both while he’d recounted last night’s adventure and while arguing her case. It was an expression he’d recognized from the Xena he’d known of old, with her insatiable thirst for adventure. She’d also been exceedingly stubborn, which suggested she would be difficult to dissuade from this dangerous course—though of course he must do so anyway.
Tired as he was, Harry spent some time rehearsing various arguments he might use on Xena before finally falling asleep. As he drifted off, however, what he found himself remembering was the unmistakeable respect in Xena’s eyes as he’d told her about his escape—a respect he hadn’t won from her since the Peninsula. His spirits lighter than they’d been in a very long time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.
That a night’s sleep had dimmed Xena’s enthusiasm for becoming the Saint’s “assistant” not at all was apparent at breakfast the next day.
“Good morning,” she greeted Harry smilingly when he joined her downstairs. “I trust you slept well?”
He regarded her suspiciously. “Well enough, considering…everything. You seem unusually cheerful this morning.”
“Because I’ve come to realize that the future may be full of exciting possibilities after all. Coffee?” She gestured to a footman to fill his cup.
“So you’re quite looking forward to more balls and such, are you?” he asked casually, spreading butter on a piece of toast.
“Not balls, particularly. In fact, as neither of us is fond of dancing, I don’t believe we’ll attend any more of those. Another visit to the theatre might be nice, or perhaps a musicale. However, I referred to more…private activities.”
Harry choked on his first sip of coffee and the footman disappeared as if by magic. “You…what?”
Still smiling, Xena continued. “It occurs to me that the strategy you yourself suggested two nights since might be the perfect way to divert all suspicion should we wish to, ah, disappear from the social scene occasionally. Perfect, because it will seem to confirm what most of the ton wishes to believe of us anyway.”
“Oh. Then you didn’t actually mean…?” He hadn’t really believed she’d meant what she’d first implied, but still felt a pang of disappointment.
She shrugged. “What matters is what Society thinks we are up to, not whether they are correct or not. They wish to portray us as a pair of calf-eyed newlyweds, so why do we not let them?”
“So that you can pursue that ridiculous plan you mentioned last night?”
Taking a dainty bite of shirred egg, she nodded.
“I already told you I won’t allow it,” he growled.
She swallowed, then dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Yes, you did. As if that might affect my decision. It does not. But come, you’ve barely touched your breakfast.”
“Xena, I’m warning you…”
“And I thank you for your concern. Consider your warning taken under advisement.”
With a last glare, he gave up the argument for the moment and devoted himself to his meal, furiously trying to come up with an argument—any argument—that might sway her.
The moment he finished eating, however, she im
mediately began asking question after question about his activities as the Saint of Seven Dials—most of which he grudgingly answered.
“So you were actually living right in the heart of Seven Dials before coming here to Grosvenor Street? Wasn’t that terribly dangerous?”
“Less for me than it would be for you,” he replied dampeningly, for there was more of eagerness than worry in her eyes. “A former Saint has a flat there and gave me the use of it, along with the guidance of his original assistant.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Then…you already have an accomplice?”
“Flute doesn’t help me steal, any more than he did for L— for the previous Saints. But he is thoroughly familiar with Seven Dials, to include which denizens are most in need of—and deserving of—the Saint’s assistance. He’s also suggested a few likely targets, along with sharing which methods the previous Saints found most successful.”
“So this…Flute? He essentially trained you to become the Saint? At whose behest? You can’t have simply run across him by chance.”
Harry grimaced. It was far too easy to slip in talking to Xena. Already he’d accidentally mentioned Flute by name, then had nearly blurted out Lord Hardwyck’s name as well.
“A, er, friend of the last Saint felt I might be a good successor, so arranged to have Flute sent my way.”
“Might I meet this Flute? Oh, please, Harry,” she pleaded when he immediately shook his head. “I already know about you being the current Saint, so what harm can it do? You can’t deny I have the strongest of incentives to keep your secret, as well as those of anyone else connected in the business.”
“I’ll, ah, have to speak to the last Saint before I’d feel easy doing that. If…that person—” Blast it, he’d nearly said she— “feels it would be appropriate, then perhaps it can be arranged.”
It would never do for Xena to learn the last Saint had been a woman, or there’d be no dissuading her at all from the dangerous course she seemed so determined to pursue.
