The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Mr. St. Clair regarded her with thoughtful concern. "I cannot leave you here in this alley. I'd offer to take you back to the Mountheath's, but I assume you had good reason for wishing to leave?"

  "No! I can't go back there, not just now. But . . . I suppose I must, later. After the ridotto is over. To find Hettie."

  "Later, then." Still enunciating his words carefully, he continued, "In the meanwhile, we should get off the streets. This is not one of the safer parts of London."

  Pearl blinked. "Oh. Oh, I see. I hadn't thought—" She realized belatedly that it should have been obvious. Certainly, they were well outside her accustomed environs. "Where do you suggest we go?"

  "My lodgings are just a short walk from here. You are welcome to stay there until I can find your friend for you."

  She stared, momentarily aghast. Go with this man, this servant, to his lodgings? How dared he insult her so? She opened her mouth to give him a blistering set-down before the reality of her situation intruded. He was attempting to help her, after all, and had no idea who she really was.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. Careful to use short, uncomplicated sentences, she said, "Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. I must accept your kind offer. But only until we can find Hettie."

  He offered her his arm with a gallantry that would have done credit to a titled gentleman and she gingerly took it, trying to appear unaccustomed to such courtesy. Leading her out of the alleyway, he turned to the left. Though this street was wider, it was no less squalid. From somewhere in the fog above them came the sound of a man and woman arguing, then a splintering crash. Pearl winced.

  "Where are we, exactly?" she asked her escort.

  She thought he hesitated for a moment before answering, "This part of London is known as Seven Dials."

  Pearl started. "Seven Dials! What . . . what a curious name," she concluded lamely, remembering in time that she had just claimed to be unfamiliar with London. "Why is it called that?"

  "Because of the way seven streets converge, like the spokes of a wheel," he explained, but Pearl was not listening.

  Seven Dials! This was one of the most notorious rookeries of London, home to thieves, prostitutes, murderers, and other sorts that she was not even supposed to know existed. But though her physical existence had been sheltered, Pearl had read widely enough that little about London—or the rest of the world—was truly unknown to her. Intellectually, at least.

  Though initially horrified to discover where she was, now her natural curiosity reasserted itself. Had she not begged her father to allow her to witness such places, when first she had learned of them? The nobility owed it to themselves and to England to learn all they could about the condition of the common man, she had insisted. How else could they hope to alleviate the sufferings of those hit hardest by the economic downturn caused by the end of the wars with France and America?

  Her musings were interrupted by Mr. St. Clair's announcement that they had reached his building. "It's three flights up, I'm afraid, but not quite so sordid as its surroundings might suggest."

  She regarded the steep, narrow stairs dubiously, her earlier doubts resurfacing. But really, what choice did she have? Trying to regard her predicament in the light of an adventure rather than a disaster, she followed him up the rickety stairway.

  When they reached the third story, a small brown and white terrier scurried forward to greet Mr. St. Clair, its tail wagging with delight. Then it turned to sniff at Pearl suspiciously.

  "This is Argos," he said, scratching the dog between the ears. "A plausible scoundrel, but my closest friend. Argos, this is Purdy. Make her feel welcome."

  At his words, the dog's attitude instantly transformed, and he greeted Pearl almost as enthusiastically as he had his master.

  "What a sweet little dog!" she exclaimed, kneeling to fondle him. "Hello, Argos. I hope we will be friends, as well." As a child she had been allowed dogs as pets, but since her father's remarriage, animals had been forbidden from every house. She'd missed them.

  She glanced up at Mr. St. Clair, to find him regarding her with an odd half-smile that made her feel she'd just climbed far more than three flights of steps. Catching her eye, he quickly turned away and cleared his throat. "It's getting chilly. We'd best get inside," he said gruffly.

  Fitting a key into the door, he entered quickly to light a few candles, then reemerged to invite her in. "It's not much," he said apologetically, "but I call it home."

  Swallowing hard and bracing herself for she knew not what, Pearl followed him into the apartment—then halted, amazed. Elegance, even luxury, surrounded her. On the floor, a thick carpet that could only be Aubusson covered most of the bare, splintered boards. The peeling plaster of the walls was substantially concealed by rich tapestries and paintings by masters she recognized. The furnishings—sofa, chairs, tables, ornaments—were both tasteful and sumptuous.

  "My goodness!" If she didn't look too closely at what lay behind the trappings, she could easily imagine herself in a wealthy gentleman's sitting room.

  He smiled at her surprise. "I've done my best to counteract my surroundings. My last employer was exceedingly generous in his will, which made it easier for me to do so."

  She nodded, accepting his glib explanation. As she was playing the part of a numbwit, she could not very well ask why he remained in such a neighborhood when he clearly had the resources to leave it. Obviously there was more to Mr. St. Clair than met the eye, as she had suspected from the moment he first spoke to her.

  "It's—very nice," she said inadequately. "May I sit down?"

  Immediately he was full of concern. "Of course! I'd forgotten how exhausted you must be. Here, this is the most comfortable chair. I'll stir up the coals in the grate, and you'll be warm in no time."

  Pearl sat, noticing with some irritation that she was indeed tired and a bit sore from their recent exertion. She must make more of an effort to get regular exercise while in Town, or she would end up running to fat. In the country she at least rode regularly.

  "Purdy? Miss?"

  Abruptly, she realized she had not heard his question. "I . . . I beg your pardon?"

  Again speaking slowly, he repeated, "I was asking whether you would like a glass of wine to fortify you. That and ale are all I have at hand, I'm afraid, though I can go out to bring something else back, if you'd prefer it."

  "Wine, thank you," she said hastily, unwilling to be left alone here. Though why she should feel safer with him than without him, she wasn't quite sure.

  The little dog, Argos—whose very name implied its master had a classical education—came to lie next to her, its head on her foot, while he went to the sideboard to fill two glasses. She took the one he handed her and sipped. Again she had to restrain herself from exclaiming, though her brows rose. How had this apparently lowly servant developed such expensive tastes?

  "Will . . . won't you be missed at the Mountheath's?" she asked, in an indirect attempt to obtain an answer—and to hear his voice again.

  "I doubt it," he replied. "I was only hired on for the evening, as you were. I'm . . . between positions at the moment myself, as it happens."

  Whether he intended it or not, his words reminded her that she had secrets of her own to keep, and therefore would be advised not to probe into his. "How long should we wait, do you think, before going back to look for Hettie?"

  He thought for a moment. "How would this serve? You wait here, and I'll go back there now and take a look about. If you can describe her to me, I'll endeavor to have a quiet word with her and let her know where you are. I'll even bring her here myself, if she can get away."

  Haltingly, mindful of her ruse, Pearl described her maid. "This is very kind of you," she concluded. Though she still felt nervous about staying alone in Seven Dials, even in this sumptuous apartment, he had offered her the perfect solution. As far as she knew, no one had seen them leaving together.

  Again he gave her that odd half-smile, and again she was startled by her visceral r
esponse to it. "Kindness isn't so difficult, when the object is worthy. There is bread and cheese in the sideboard, should you feel hungry. I should be back in an hour or so—with Hettie in tow, with any luck." Tossing off the remainder of his wine, he rose.

  "Argos, you stay here and take care of the lady," he instructed the dog, who lifted his head and thumped his tail in apparent understanding. With a respectful salute, he left the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

  At the sound of the key turning in the lock, Pearl started to her feet in alarm. He was making her a prisoner here! She took two strides toward the door, then noticed Argos regarding her curiously. She relaxed, feeling suddenly foolish. Of course he had locked the door, in a neighborhood such as this one. Doubtless he'd done it to ensure her safety, not for any nefarious purpose.

  Laughing at her misplaced fears, she sat down again. "Some adventurer I'm turning out to be," she said to the dog. "All of my daring plans to institute social reform, and here I am, completely unnerved by merely witnessing a poorer section of London. I'm as big a ninny as Mr. St. Clair thinks I am."

  Argos agreeably wagged his tail and placed one white paw on her knee.

  "Feel free to contradict me," she told him. "It's the polite thing to do, when a lady speaks ill of herself."

  The dog declined to respond, so Pearl rose again, to explore her temporary quarters. Her first estimation had been correct. The furnishings and artworks were of the very highest quality. Her curiosity about Mr. St. Clair increased.

  Going to the mahogany sideboard, she found the bread and cheese he had mentioned and cut herself a generous slab of each. She had not eaten since luncheon, she suddenly realized. Didn't the Mountheaths feed their hired help? Indignation further bolstered her courage.

  Returning to her chair with her simple supper, she amused herself by sharing the occasional morsel with the dog, who obligingly sat up, extended a paw, or rolled over on command. Pearl was charmed. Thus occupied, the hour of waiting passed relatively painlessly.

  * * *

  Luke had misgivings about leaving Purdy alone in his rooms, but aside from his perfectly plausible plan to find her friend, he needed to get away from her, to firmly remind himself that she was off-limits. The truth was, he was finding himself far more attracted to the lovely simpleton than was decent.

  He chuckled sourly as he descended the stairs to the foggy alley below. When had considerations of decency ever constrained him? Still, he'd never stooped so low as to take advantage of a child, and for all her beauty, Purdy was little more, due to her limited understanding.

  The shock of disappointment he'd felt on realizing that, after the instant connection they had seemed to share, had actually been physical in its intensity.

  He refused to dwell on it now, though. This was his opportunity to retrieve the evening's haul from its hiding place outside the Mountheath house. By searching for Purdy's friend at the same time, he could kill two birds with one stone. Three, counting this most necessary separation from his delectable guest.

  Alone, it took him half the time to reach Mayfair that it had taken him to lead Purdy to Seven Dials. In less than fifteen minutes, he emerged from the mews behind Berkley Square. The Mountheath house was brightly lit, the entertainment clearly still in full swing, with no sign of any disturbance yet. Good.

  Casually, so that it would look as though he were merely taking the air if he was seen, Luke angled into the small garden behind the house. Alert for anyone venturing out of the servants' entrance, he knelt to move aside a pair of bricks near a large rosebush, still in bud. There, in the depression he'd located before beginning his night's work, was the cloth-wrapped parcel, right where he'd left it.

  He tucked the bundle inside his shirt and slid it around to the back of his waist, where the bulge would be less noticeable. It would be risky venturing back into the house with the goods on him, but he had no choice if he was to find Purdy's friend.

  The kitchens were still bustling, though by this late hour the activity was less frantic than it had been when he'd left. Assuming a slack-jawed expression, he approached the cook's assistant.

  "You!" she exclaimed. "And where 'ave you been this hour and more? Tipplin' his lordship's wine, by the look of you."

  "Nay, nay, t'was me own gin, missus," drawled Luke with an injured air. "I'll last for a bit, now."

  She glared at him. "Off with you! We want no sots working here."

  He blinked fuzzily. "What about my shillin'? And I won't leave without my sister Hettie."

  Grumbling, the woman sent a maid in search of Hettie, wherever she might be, and counted out sixpence into Luke's outstretched palm. "I'm giving you but half, and may it be a lesson to you."

  "Half?" He argued with her, since it would have looked suspicious otherwise, but only until the maid returned to report she'd found no such person as Hettie.

  "Are you sure?" he asked, not having to feign his alarm. If the woman couldn't be found, he'd have no choice but to keep Purdy with him overnight. He wasn't at all sure his self-control was equal to that. "She's about this tall—" he held up his hand—"with dark, curly hair. A few years younger'n me."

  One of the scullery maids allowed that she'd seen someone of that description earlier, but no one had noticed her for the past hour or more, and no one recalled anyone by that name.

  "Likely went looking for her wastrel brother," the cook's assistant told him dampingly. "Ought to be ashamed, you ought, worrying her so. Now that's three hirelings who've took off before their shift was done, counting you. You didn't see that blonde wench outside, did you? The one you was flirting with early on?"

  This was dangerous ground. "Blonde? Flirting?" He furrowed his brow as though trying to remember.

  "Ah, you're all alike. Begone with you!"

  Shrugging and grumbling, Luke headed back to the mews. Not until he was out of sight of the house did he straighten his shoulders and quicken his steps. When the silver inside his shirt clinked, he pulled it out and shoved the bundle in his pocket. At least he'd made a good haul, and from one of the most undeserving households he'd ever met. He'd love to see that arrogant butler's face when his calling card was discovered where the silver had been.

  But what the devil was he going to do about the girl?

  When he reentered his lodgings a few minutes later, she looked up with a hopeful smile, Argos at her knee. He'd spent most of the walk back convincing himself that she held no attraction to him, that he'd always preferred intelligent women, but his body made a liar of him the moment he saw her again.

  Her smile faltered as she looked beyond him, then back at him, questioningly.

  He shrugged. "Hettie wasn't at the Mountheath's, though someone matching her description was noticed earlier. It appears she wasn't going by the name of Hettie, however."

  Purdy bit her lip, looking both alarmed and charmingly confused. Luke felt an almost overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and comfort her. He suppressed it ruthlessly, but not before his wayward imagination wondered what she would feel like, pressed against him.

  The helpless expression in her eyes as she gazed at him helped to cool that inappropriate surge of desire. "I . . . I thought surely you would find her there," she stammered. "Without Hettie, I have no idea where to go."

  "Perhaps in the morning we'll have better luck," Luke offered soothingly.

  "In . . . in the morning?" She seemed not to understand.

  Taking a deep breath, he spoke the words he feared he would live to regret. "Unless you can think of somewhere else to go, I see no alternative to your spending the night here."

  CHAPTER 3

  Pearl gasped. "Spend the night?" She had intended a tone of imperious outrage, but what came out was more of a squeak.

  "You'll be quite safe, I assure you." Mr. St. Clair's fine, dark eyes were as intense as before, but with kindness, she thought, rather than desire.

  Still, she shook her head. "No, I really mustn't." In fact, it was unthinkable
. Why had he not found Hettie?

  The abigail to the daughter of the Duke of Oakshire might be well known in servant circles, she supposed. Perhaps Hettie had used an alias, just as Pearl had. They hadn't discussed it, and had been separated the moment they entered the Mountheath house.

  It suddenly occurred to her that Hettie had most likely gone back to Oakshire House to hunt for her after she disappeared. Her father's men might even now be combing London for her!

  The obvious thing, of course, was to give up her entire scheme and return to Oakshire House before a full-blown scandal erupted. Hettie had been right, much as it galled her to admit it. She grimaced at the thought of what her stepmother would have to say to her. The very idea of humbling herself to Obelia was abhorrent.

  Mr. St. Clair was regarding her with sympathy mingled with more than a hint of exasperation as she hesitated. "Please believe me, you'll be in no danger whatsoever. The door is quite stout, and I myself would never take advantage of . . . such a situation."

  Of a simpleton, he means, she thought with a spurt of amusement. She'd best keep up that fiction for as long as possible—an ironic necessity, considering how proud she'd always been of her intellect. With the lightening of her mood, her thoughts cleared.

  Despite her strange attraction to this man, it would surely be safer for her to remain here than to venture back out into the streets of Seven Dials at midnight. Even now, she could hear drunken singing and the occasional shriek from the alleys below. She'd heard tales of young gentlemen venturing here on a bet or a dare, or in fits of drunken bravado. And tales of some never being seen again. She didn't want to think what might happen to a lady in those same streets.

  Safety, at least, demanded she remain here in this apartment. However, should the merest breath of a whisper of this night ever get out, her reputation would be irretrievably ruined. And that would be . . . would be . . .