by Brenda Hiatt
His brilliant blue eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to deliver another attempt at a set-down —one that Quinn was more than eager to turn back upon him— when a feminine voice accosted them.
"Lord Marcus! Such rumors are flying about Town. Can they be true?" Turning, Quinn saw a plump, pretty blonde driving a smart blue phaeton, holding the reins herself.
"Good afternoon, Lady Regina," Lord Marcus responded. "You are looking particularly lovely today."
With a pang, Quinn realized he had made no similar comment on her own appearance. But then, she could scarcely compete with this vision of femininity in lavender ruffles.
The lady gave a sweet trill of laughter at the compliment, but her eyes, resting now on Quinn, were speculative. "You are too kind, my lord. But the rumors? Do you really mean to tie parson's knot and devastate half the women in London?"
"I have no doubt they will recover," he responded lightly, though Quinn could hear an underlying edge to his voice. "But yes, it's true. Let me introduce Miss Peverill, my bride-to-be."
The blonde's smile was as false as any Lady Claridge might produce. "How very delightful!" she exclaimed. "I understand you are American, Miss Peverill?"
Quinn assented. "From Baltimore. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady—"
But the woman cut her off. "How quaint. Well, I promised to tell my sister as soon as I knew the truth, so I'll be on my way. I trust marriage won't change you too much, my lord."
With a saucy wink that bothered Quinn more than she cared to admit, the woman whipped up her horses and trotted off.
"Pray don't mind Regina," said Lord Marcus as soon as she was gone. "She's high spirited, but she means no harm."
Quinn refused to meet his eye. "Mind? Why should anything she said— anything anyone says— matter to me, my lord? It is not as though this is to be a love match, after all."
For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to actually be married to Lord Marcus, to interact with him daily, to share a house with him, perhaps even a bed— the idea was thoroughly disturbing.
"I find I have rather lost my enthusiasm for a drive, my lord," she said abruptly. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to take me back."
"We'll have to finish this circuit, as I can't safely turn here, but then I'll take you home if you wish," Marcus replied, stifling a sigh. He was fairly certain he couldn't have handled things more clumsily if he had tried.
He'd been in a foul mood when he'd arrived in Mount Street, after his interviews with the Duke and his man of business. Still, there was no reason to take it all out on the girl, even if she had been the original instigator of his current woes. It wasn't as though she'd done it intentionally, and it was clear that she was nowhere near as keen for the match as her father had implied, which was to her credit.
So why did that knowledge dampen his spirits further?
"I know I haven't been particularly pleasant today, and I apologize," he said as they neared the end of the loop. "My ill-humor is nothing to do with you—or very little, anyway," honesty forced him to add.
"How reassuring to know that you are generally bad-tempered, and that I need not take it personally."
What a tongue the girl had on her! But even as he thought it, Marcus detected a quaver in her voice. This had to be at least as difficult for her as it was for him, he realized. Why had he not considered that before?
"I am not generally bad-tempered," he replied with a gentleness that came surprisingly easily. "This has been rather a trying day, however."
She finally looked at him, only to turn away again —but not before he saw the glitter of unshed tears in her wide green eyes. A totally unexpected wave of protectiveness assailed him. Protectiveness, and something else he preferred not to name. He transferred the reins to one hand, reaching for her averted face with the other.
"I'm sorry to have been yet one more trial then, my lord. If you wish me to cry off, I will be only too happy to do so."
"No, of course not," he said automatically, then paused, startled. "That is—" With one gloved finger, he stroked her cheek, trying to comfort her. At least, he thought that was what he was trying to do.
She frowned up at him, clearly startled, the threat of tears gone. "Do you mean that you actually want to marry me? Why?"
For the first time, he really saw her— not as an irksome child, not as a scheming social-climber, but as a young woman, unsure of her place in a world that was strange to her. A young woman whose combination of spirit and vulnerability struck him as decidedly attractive, in fact.
"Why not?" He traced the curve of her jaw with his finger, and she did not flinch away. "It's possible we will deal quite comfortably together." The idea seemed less absurd than when he had expressed it to his father. "Certainly, I could do worse things with my life, and I'll likely marry someday anyway."
As soon as the words were out, he realized they were the wrong ones— even before she withdrew from him again.
"Then you would do better to wait until you can make your own choice in the matter and not have one thrust upon you," she said stiffly. Not that he could blame her. What a nodcock he was!
They had reached the Park gates, and for a moment he debated taking another circuit. No, with more time with her, he would no doubt only make things worse. "But I might never make a choice," he pointed out, leaving the Park. "Then where would I be?"
She looked up at him suspiciously. "Single and carefree?" she suggested.
"Or bored and lonely." It occurred to him that one thing Quinn Peverill was unlikely ever to do was to bore him. A definite point in her favor. That, and those remarkable sparkling eyes.
"I'm sure that is possible even within a marriage," she said, "though it seems more a risk for women than for men, who frequently manage to alleviate those conditions elsewhere."
Marcus stifled a grin. "I am shocked, Miss Peverill, that a proper young miss like yourself should have knowledge of such things." No, definitely not boring!
"You are easily shocked, I have noticed. That is yet another reason we should not suit."
Now where on earth had she gotten that idea? Easily shocked? Him? How Peter would laugh at that notion! Perhaps it was time he showed her otherwise. "I was jesting, Miss Peverill," he began, reaching for her again, but she cut him off.
"No, pray do not feel you must adjust your sensibilities to my unorthodox ways. It is clear I shall never fit into English Society properly. I intend to take ship for America as soon as may be, relieving you of a burdensome responsibility —and relieving Lord and Lady Claridge, as well. It becomes increasingly clear that will be best for all concerned."
They reached the Claridge house on Mount Street then, so Marcus handed her down from the phaeton, enjoying despite himself the feel of her hand in his. "You must do what you think best, of course, Miss Peverill," he said, and wondered if he imagined the quick flash of disappointment in her eyes. Probably.
Still, as he drove away after seeing her to the door, he realized that he was not at all sure he wanted to be relieved of this particular burdensome responsibility. How very strange.
* * *
Though she tried, Quinn could not ignore the persistent flutter in her midsection that had begun when Lord Marcus had touched her face—so sweetly!—and had only intensified when he handed her down from his phaeton. Her feelings toward him careened wildly from one extreme to the other. All the more reason to extricate herself from this betrothal without delay, before she could embarrass herself and everyone connected with her.
She needed time to think, to compose herself, but as she passed the drawing room on her way to her chamber, her father called out for her to join him. At least he was alone.
"I'll just go up and put off my bonnet, then return," she said as an excuse for at least a slight delay, determined that her father not sense any sign of her inner turmoil.
"Nonsense," the Captain responded. "That's what servants are for, after all. You there!" he
called to a housemaid who was polishing a pair of brass candlesticks on the landing. "Take my daughter's bonnet up to her chamber, there's a good lass."
With a sigh, Quinn handed bonnet and parasol to the maid and took a seat in the parlor, commanding herself to calmness. She may as well let her father know at once of her intention to return to Baltimore with him, unwed. He wouldn't like it, of course, but—
"How was your drive?" he asked as she seated herself. "Was Lord Marcus . . . pleasant?" He looked wary, Quinn thought, and no wonder. If he had exaggerated Lord Marcus' enthusiasm to her, he had very likely done the same in reverse.
"I'm not certain 'pleasant' is the term I would use. Let us say it was enlightening." She enjoyed watching her father's expression change from wary to alarmed.
"Enlightening? What— that is, I presume you mean that you and Lord Marcus feel better acquainted now? That is just what I had hoped, of course."
She smiled, but her father knew her too well to be put at ease by it. "Certainly we are better acquainted with each other's feelings about this match. We have agreed that we will not suit."
The Captain surged to his feet. "Will not suit! Do you mean he now refuses to do his duty by you? I won't have it! I'll call the blackguard out! Do you want his blood —or mine —on your head?"
Though fairly certain her father was exaggerating, Quinn couldn't quash her sudden alarm at the idea of him fighting Lord Marcus. "No, he didn't refuse," she said quickly. "I offered to cry off, and he made no particular objection to my doing so."
That wasn't quite true, she realized, thinking back over their conversation, but his objections had been vague. He would surely admit that she was right, once he thought it through.
Her father pounced on her first words. "He didn't refuse? Then he is still willing to marry you, if you don't cry off?"
Though she'd have preferred not to answer, Quinn was forced to admit it. "I suppose so. However, it is obvious—"
"Well, then, all is not lost —not lost at all, though you gave me rather a start. Now, let's have no more missishness about the business."
"Missishness! Papa, you are forcing me to marry against my will, as though you are some feudal lord consolidating estates. I thought we were living in more enlightened times than that."
For a moment she thought her words had had the desired effect, as he regarded her with a worried frown. But then he said, "Quinn, dear, you must trust me to know what's best. I've made inquiries, and Lord Marcus is fine young man, with no notable vices and a long, illustrious pedigree. You could do no better in a husband if you waited to be wooed by dozens of young men."
"Which is scarcely likely now," she said dryly. "At least not here in England. That is why I'd prefer to return home when you do. Surely you can see that would be best?"
His chin jutted out stubbornly. "I don't see that at all. There is no one in Baltimore you wish to wed, is there?"
Quinn had to shake her head, much as she'd have liked to invent a prior attachment. But in truth, one reason she had wished to come to England was to escape the increasingly insistent attentions of an earnest young clerk employed by the family business.
"There you are, then. You'll have to wed someday, so it may as well be to Lord Marcus. Certainly, you could do far worse. We'll get him for you yet, my dear."
"Buy him for me, you mean." Quinn felt a sick weight settle in her stomach at his words, so similar to the insulting ones Lord Marcus had spoken. Though she had come close to accusing Lord Marcus of marrying her for her money during their drive, she had not really believed it—until now.
The Captain waved a hand, as though to dispell her concerns. "Pish, tush. Any man must see that you are a prize, money or no."
She noticed, however, that he did not deny her charge. Before the prickling behind her eyes could manifest into tears, she excused herself.
Mounting the stairs to her bedchamber, she burned with shame and fury. She would not allow her future to be bartered like so much cotton or tobacco —her fortune for Lord Marcus's name. No, it was imperative that she free herself —and Lord Marcus— without delay, before this mockery of a betrothal could become a cold, mercenary marriage.
Dashing a salty drop from her cheek, she hurried upstairs to plan.
CHAPTER 5
The last rays of the sun had long disappeared. Marcus pulled out his watch to check it by the light spilling from the dining room windows. Nearly ten. Clearly, the boy wasn't coming. With a shrug, he turned to leave the garden, when he heard a rustling amid the beanpoles.
"Psst! Guv'nor, are you there?"
Turning back, he saw the pale oval of a face topped by a shock of red hair peering through the broad leaves of the bean plants. "Yes, I'm here," he whispered. "What do you have?"
Gobby disentangled himself from the poles and vines to come forward cautiously. "A couple of things, guv, and we're hoping you can get word to the Saint. First, Mrs. Plank and her two little 'uns will be out in the street tomorrow if they don't pay their rent. He'd want to know about that, we're thinking."
Marcus vaguely remembered the name. Luke had mentioned something about Lady Pearl curing one of the children after the little girl had taken poison. "What else?"
"Second thing's about the Saint himself. Stilt heard the Runners have brought in someone special to catch him. They're saying's how the fact he ain't done a napping lately proves who he must be. You might should warn him they're on to him, so's he can be careful when he comes back."
Marcus nodded slowly. "I'll make sure no harm comes to the Saint, and I'll let him know about Mrs. Plank, as well."
The boy grinned through the dimness and tugged his forelock. "You're a right 'un, guv. Later, then." As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Marcus to walk slowly toward the house.
So, it appeared that Bow Street had been suspicious about Luke, and saw the cessation of the Saint's activities while he was away as proof of his identity. There was only one way to solve that problem —and with luck, it would take care of Mrs. Plank's insolvency, as well.
It was time for Marcus to assume the mantle of the Saint of Seven Dials.
With a grim smile, his heart beating faster at the prospect of an exciting night ahead, Marcus entered the house, only to be greeted by a footman, who handed him a message that had come while he was outdoors.
To his surprise, Captain Peverill wished him to call tomorrow at the Claridges' to discuss settlements. What had his daughter told him? Clearly not the same thing she had told Marcus himself. But there would be time enough in the morning to puzzle out that mystery. Right now, he had work to do.
Two hours later, Marcus paused just inside the deserted dining room of Hightower House to get his bearings. Getting into the house itself had been absurdly easy. With the family in the country for the summer, the few servants had retired early. He was pleased to discover he hadn't lost his touch for stealth —a talent Luke had often praised during their school days at Oxford.
Now, what to take? He held no particular animosity toward Lord Hightower, except that he shared his father's politics, and Marcus was out of charity with his father at the moment. But the man was wealthy enough that a few pieces of plate would scarcely be missed, much less cause him any hardship.
Yet they could be the difference between life and death to Mrs. Plank and her children.
Still, it was necessary for his purposes that whatever he stole was missed, and that the theft be credited to the Saint of Seven Dials, so he turned away from the sideboard to consider the more prominent valuables in the room. Ah! The silver candelabra on the table would do nicely, though carrying it would be awkward. That, along with the matching silver sconces on the walls, should pay the Planks' rent for two or three years, at least.
His decision made, he first removed the sconces. Using his pen knife, he was able to unfasten them from the walls with a minimum of noise and effort. Setting them aside, he plucked the candles from the candelabra on the table, then bundled all the sil
ver into the sack he had brough for the purpose. The items clanked, and he realized he should have brought extra cloth to wrap them in. Next time he would come better prepared.
Turning to go, he suddenly stopped. He'd nearly forgotten! Pulling a card from his pocket, he laid it carefully in the exact center of the dining room table. Then, smiling to himself, he hefted his bundle and headed for the French doors leading to the gardens at the rear of the house.
Slipping back through the doors and latching them behind him, using the trick he'd perfected in his school days, he couldn't help thinking that the new Saint of Seven Dials was off to an admirable start.
* * *
Quinn woke later than she had intended, for she had hoped to slip away before the rest of the household was astir. Her plan was risky, with no guarantee of success, but she could see no other sure way out of her predicament. Therefore, she was anxious to embark on it at once, before she could lose her nerve. Now, however, she would likely have to manufacture a pretext for leaving the house.
Dressing quickly, she descended to the breakfast chamber, only to find it deserted. A good meal might sharpen her wits, she reasoned, serving herself from the sideboard. Besides, if her plan was successful, it might be her last chance for eggs and fresh milk for some time.
She was halfway through her meal when she heard the Captain in the hall, bidding someone farewell. Before she could decide whether to alert him to her presence, he entered the room himself.
"Ah, you are up already, my dear! Excellent." He appeared exceedingly pleased with himself, which immediately aroused her suspicions.
"Who were you speaking with just now, Papa?" she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.
"Why, your bridegroom, of course. He wished to work out the settlements at once, and most generous he was, too, I must say."
Quinn stared. "Settlements? Marriage settlements?"
"Certainly, my pet. What other sort would I mean?" The Captain signaled to the hovering footman to fill his plate with ham and kippered herring.
