The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  * * *

  Marcus looked up from his book and smiled when Quinn appeared at the library, the very sight of her quickening his pulse. "Come in, come in. No need to hover there— you're quite welcome to join me."

  With an uncertain smile that tugged at his heart, she came into the room and sat down. "I'm not disturbing you?"

  "Not at all. I was merely passing the time with reading, but conversation will do that far more enjoyably. Perhaps we can discuss what you'd like your first London amusement to be."

  "Oh! You still mean to show me about, then?"

  Her surprise surprised him. "Of course. Did you think I would go back on my word? Not my style, I assure you." In fact, the idea that she might think it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

  "No, I . . . I suppose not. It was just— Never mind. What would you suggest I see first?"

  Though he was curious about what she had left unsaid, he merely answered her question. "I saw in the papers that there is to be a balloon ascension on Wednesday, so I thought we should take that in. For tomorrow, our choices include a tour of the Tower and menagerie, a visit to the 'Change to see the tigers, viewing the Elgin Marbles, or perhaps a trip to the Egyptian Hall in Picadilly."

  He was pleased to see her become more animated. "Oh, my! Every one of those sound fascinating. What would you like to do?"

  "This is for you, Quinn, not for me," he reminded her. "I told you that I plan to make your pleasure, the broadening of your experiences, my first object."

  She blushed but did not answer, and he hid a smile. Clearly, she had no more been able to put their passionate goodnight out of her mind than he had.

  "I have not visited the Egyptian Hall since Mr. Bullock acquired Napoleon's carriage and other trinkets," he continued. "Those may be worth seeing, along with the other exhibits there."

  "Let's do that, then," she said, raising her chin, clearly determined to hide whatever confusion she felt at his earlier words. "Then perhaps the Tower on Tuesday."

  Marcus relaxed, feeling the camaraderie they had briefly established last night creeping back. For a few hours he had wondered whether it had been an anomaly, but now—

  "We have a few hours before dinner. Perhaps we might talk for a bit," he suggested.

  "Yes, I'd like that," she replied. "Tell me more about the Saint of Seven Dials."

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcus started, all comfort fled. She couldn't possibly suspect, could she? "Why?" he asked cautiously.

  "It seems an interesting tale to while away the time," she replied with a small shrug. "However, if you'd rather not—"

  "No, no, I don't mind." How much to tell her? Just what the general public knew, of course. "You read the essentials in the newspaper, I believe."

  Her frown reminded him that she didn't know he'd read the article himself. "But surely there is more? Details they didn't have room to provide, the sorts of things that are known to most people I might meet."

  She simply wanted to be better informed before meeting more of the ton, he realized, relieved. "Yes, yes, of course. Let me see. His notoriety began to grow some five years ago, as I recall. Yes, it was shortly after I left Oxford, now that I think on it." That alone wouldn't implicate Luke —or himself.

  "What set him apart from other thieves? His calling cards?"

  "Those, and his methods. He became generally known for his audacity, striking in the midst of crowded parties, or in the dead of night when whole families were at home."

  "How frightening for them!" she exclaimed, leaning forward with more interest than alarm.

  "He never hurt anyone," Marcus quickly assured her. "Was never even seen, in fact."

  He recalled one of his favorite tales, from well before he knew who the Saint really was. "I remember once he stole a diamond parure, necklace and earrings, while Lady Jersey was wearing them—at her very own ball! A fair amount of plate, more than I'd have thought one man could carry, vanished that same night. It was as though he were invisible, coming and going without a trace— except for his calling card, of course."

  "And what are those like?"

  He shifted uncomfortably. He had let his enthusiasm get the better of his judgement. If she were to somehow find the ones he kept in his desk upstairs . . . He must hide them better.

  "I've never seen one, of course," he said evasively. "Something saying 'Saint of Seven Dials,' I presume. I fear I haven't read the stories all that closely."

  Undaunted, she asked, "And his giving to the poor —is that true? How would the authorities know of that?"

  "Those rumors started later, first among the lower classes, and then getting into the papers. I've heard beggars speak of him with reverence, so it may well be true." He winced, hoping he hadn't said too much.

  She seemed not to notice, however. "To think he is living right here in London— perhaps even one of the nobility himself! Aren't you curious to discover who he really is?"

  "Nobility? I seriously doubt it." He hoped his alarm wasn't visible.

  "But to gain admission to Society parties—" She stopped, regarding him curiously. "You don't approve of him?"

  Belatedly, he remembered the role he'd decided to play with her. "Of course I don't approve of him. We pay taxes enough to help the poor. Far better that the upper classes contribute in that way, or through charitable donations if they are so inclined, than having it taken from them by force." He tried to mimic Robert's sententious tone.

  She sat back, clearly disappointed in him, but he dared not recant. She was getting too close to the truth. "I see. Any deviation from propriety, from the established way of doing things, is to be condemned."

  "I didn't say that, precisely." In fact, he disagreed violently, but she mustn't guess that. Especially not while they were on this particular topic.

  "No, not precisely. But it is all of a piece with what I have observed of you thus far. I'm sorry I brought up the subject. I leave it to you to introduce the next one."

  He wanted to erase the censure from her eyes, to make them sparkle again, as they had a few moments ago—as they had last night. "How experienced a rider are you? I thought perhaps you'd like a mount of your own, now that you are fixed in England."

  Those last words had been a mistake, for she withdrew visibly. "Fixed. Yes, I suppose I am. But I would prefer to choose my own mount, if you don't mind."

  "Not at all! In fact, I was going to suggest just that. It won't do for you to accompany me to Tattersall's, of course, but I can have a few suitable beasts brought round for your inspection."

  Now she did brighten a bit. "That . . . would be nice. Would there be time tomorrow, after the Egyptian Hall, do you think?"

  "I believe so. Have you a habit? You'll want to try their paces, I imagine."

  Her face fell. He loved how her emotions flitted across her face. It meant he rarely had to guess how she felt. "Oh. No, I'm afraid I don't, not yet."

  "No matter," he said briskly, eager to see the sunshine peek out of her eyes again. "For a trial run, any old gown will do. It's settled, then. I'll go to Tattersall's first thing in the morning and arrange to have a few bits of blood sent round at three o'clock."

  To his delight, she smiled. "And I'll look over the gowns Lady Claridge declared too outré for Town wear and see if any might be converted to a passable habit. In fact, I'll set my abigail to the task at once, as she's had little to do thus far."

  So saying, she rose and hurried from the room. Though he was sorry to see her go, Marcus was just as glad of the chance to gather his thoughts —and get his unruly body back under control. It was a tricky line he was walking, trying to win her trust and liking, while being careful not to disabuse her of the strange idea that he was stodgy.

  He could not deny that the Saint's secret would be far safer if she thought him a thorough stick-in-the-mud. Quinn was clever, as well as unpredictable. If she were to discover his secret, she might well use it to force him to her will— even to take her to Baltimore. More fate
s than his could be at risk.

  No, much as he might want to, he didn't dare let her know his true nature yet, while he also wore the mantle of the Saint. But how much longer that would be, he wasn't sure.

  * * *

  Quinn managed to putter about her room until dinner time, making notes about a redecorating that she didn't necessarily plan to be here to complete. With pins and a few judicious stitches, Monette had already converted one of her gowns from home into a riding habit of sorts, fuming in mingled French and English about Lady Claridge's comments on a perfectly fashionable wardrobe.

  Dressing for dinner with particular care, Quinn wondered why she bothered. Marcus was clearly the stuffy wet blanket she'd first thought him, despite his occasional moments of more interesting conversation. Still . . .

  "Yes, bring that curl forward, so. Thank you, Monette." Confident that she looked her best, for all she would never be a Society beauty, she left the room— only to bump into Marcus himself in the hallway.

  "Oh, excuse me!" she exclaimed. "I didn't mean—"

  Though he steadied her physically, his accompanying smile was anything but steadying emotionally. "No harm done, my dear. And now I have the privilege of escorting you down to dinner. I wish I could claim that I hovered here in hopes of just that, but alas it was merely chance that brought us both to this particular square of carpet at the same moment."

  Though his touch on her arm set her whole body to tingling, she met his eyes, which crinkled at the corners with amusment —and perhaps something more. "Surely you should have claimed it anyway? Perhaps you need lessons in flattery, my lord."

  "Perhaps I do," he said with a grin, acknowledging her teasing. "Would you care to instruct me over dinner?"

  "I?" She felt color creeping into her face. How could such a staid man have such an . . . improper effect on her? "I am no expert, I assure you. Social games have not risen to the same level of art in America as they have attained here."

  "Then perhaps we can study the art together," he suggested, extending his arm to her.

  She took it, determinedly ignoring the definite thrill that went through her at the contact. "What, shall we flatter one another while we eat? Surely that would soon become absurd."

  He shrugged. "A bit of absurdity never hurt anyone."

  Such a philosophy seemed at odds with what she knew of him, but she saw no sense in pointing that out. Perhaps he was trying to lighten his outlook, for her sake. "I happen to agree," she responded as they descended to the dining room. "A sense of the ridiculous can be an asset at times, I have found."

  "Have you indeed? Perhaps you can help me to acquire one, then."

  Was he mocking her? Though his eyes still twinkled, she couldn't be sure. "I'm certain you would benefit thereby, so I will do my best." She smiled up at him as he seated her, so he would not take her words as criticism —though in fact they were.

  Taking his own seat, Marcus motioned for the hovering footman to begin serving. "How do you propose to start? Shall I first learn to laugh at others, or at myself?"

  "One must take whatever opportunities present themselves." She almost added "my lord" again, but stopped herself, fearing it might irritate him. "It is simply a matter of being on the alert for the absurdity that lurks in so many situations."

  His eyes caught and held hers. "Such as our own?"

  She nodded, though suddenly her heart had quickened its beat. "Prime fodder for a farce, don't you think? A man and woman bound for life who had not yet met a week before?"

  "The possibilities are endless," he agreed, though from his expression she was not sure he alluded to farce. "You're right —we should explore them."

  Somehow, he had done it again. A moment before she had felt in control of the conversation, but now she was out of her element. No, he needed no instruction in flirting, she decided. It was she who was ridiculously inexperienced at the game.

  "This fish soup is excellent," she commented, abruptly dropping the banter. "I must send my compliments to Mrs. MacKay."

  One corner of his mouth quirked up, acknowledging her withdrawal from the sparring and claiming the victory. She found herself momentarily fascinated by that mouth, so mobile, yet so masculine. Then he spoke again.

  "Curious, is it not, how people are prone to ignore the obvious while focusing on the inconsequential. Does that qualify as an absurdity, do you think?"

  Gathering her courage again, she replied, "Oh, undoubtedly! As when a lady appears in a huge, ugly bonnet and all anyone mentions is how well the color of her gown becomes her."

  "And the larger the 'bonnet' the greater the absurdity, I presume."

  She knew he was referring to their own circumstances, and that her very refusal to acknowledge it was amusing him, but she only said, "Exactly. As though there were a cart horse in the drawing room that everyone is at pains to ignore."

  "Yet what a relief when they finally acknowledge its existence, putting an end to ridiculous pretense! Or is that merely evidence of my lack of humor?"

  "At . . . at some point, all hilarity has been squeezed from a situation," she confessed. "At that point, honest dealing is no doubt best."

  He smiled into her eyes. "I'm pleased to hear you say so."

  The footman entered again just then, to remove the soup and serve the roast pheasant, giving her a welcome opportunity to collect her scattered wits. Attempting to move to safer ground, she asked what time he meant to go to Tattersall's on the morrow.

  "Directly after breakfast, I think," he replied, apparently willing to suspend the word play. "Will you be ready to leave for the Egyptian Hall by noon, think you?"

  For the remainder of the meal, they conversed safely on such topics as the amusements to be found in Town, and other parts of England he hoped to show her in the future. Though Quinn knew they were still studiously —absurdly —ignoring that cart horse in the drawing room, she decided that for the present she preferred it that way.

  At least until she had decided what she truly wished to do about Marcus, about their marriage, and about her future.

  When he again suggested she join him in the library at the conclusion of the meal, Quinn cravenly demurred, pleading a tiredness she by no means felt. Every moment spent in Marcus's presence seemed to play more strongly on her senses, dismantling the barriers she was trying to keep in place. She needed time alone —again —to repair them.

  Though his smile was all too knowing, he accepted her excuse and bade her good night. "You'll wish to be well rested for our activities tomorrow, of course. I expect it will be a full day—and evening."

  "Evening?" she almost squeaked. Yes, she needed to get away from him as quickly as possible.

  "Did I not tell you? We have been invited to a card party at Lord and Lady Tinsdale's. Of course, we need not attend if you prefer not to."

  "Oh!" She relaxed marginally. "I have no particular objection, though I have not been in the habit of playing cards much. Are the stakes likely to be high?" Might that be a way to raise funds for the girls' school she had in mind?

  "It generally varies by table, so that one can find one's own level. And not everybody plays, of course. It will merely be a party with cards available. But you are tired, you said. We can discuss this tomorrow. Shall I see you up to your room?"

  Last night's near-disaster resonated through her, and she knew her color rose at the memory. "No! That is, there is no need. I . . . I will leave you to your brandy."

  She could tell he was trying not to smile. "Very well, then. 'Til tomorrow, my dear." Slowly, he raised her hand to his lips, then turned it over at the last moment to press a lingering kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away, so intense were the sensations that swept through her at the touch of his lips to an area she had never realized was so sensitive. Then, as tendrils of fire swept outward to lick at other areas of her body, she had to fight the urge to move closer to him. When he finally released her hand, she was
breathless.

  "'T-til tomorrow." Though she kept her head high and was careful not to walk away too quickly, she knew it was as obvious to him as it was to her that she was fleeing.

  But whether from him or from her own desires, she was by no means certain.

  * * *

  Quinn was up early the next morning, for despite a restless night, she had gone to bed at a ridiculously early hour. Yet when she reached the dining room, she was told that Lord Marcus had already eaten and gone, and would return for her by noon.

  No doubt he was one of those "early to bed, early to rise" sorts that the moralists found so admirable, she thought, sitting down to her solitary breakfast. Which was all to the good, she told herself, fighting a vague sense of disappointment. Had she not chafed at the late hours kept by most of the London ton?

  She ate quickly, then went to find Polly, to see how she was settling into the household. The girl was scrubbing pots in the kitchen, looking more cheerful —and cleaner —than Quinn had yet seen her.

  "Aye, it's a lot of work, milady," she confessed, in answer to Quinn's question, "but honest work, and fair wages. No one's like to beat me here— though I can't say as how I like the idea of takin' a bath so often as Mrs. Walsh says I must."

  Quinn hid a grin. "You'll get used to that soon enough," she promised. "You may even grow to like being clean. If you do as Mrs. Walsh says, I've no doubt she'll find more agreeable chores for you. Perhaps you'll be promoted to chambermaid before long."

  "D'ye really think so, milady?" Polly was clearly pleased by the idea. "It's a rare opportunity you've given me, and that's a fact. I wish Annie and the others could have such a chance."

  "Is Annie another of Mr. Twitchell's . . . girls?" Quinn realized it was best to be vague about those girls' activities, with so many servants within earshot.