by Brenda Hiatt
Carefully, he made his way to a window that provided an easier exit than the coal cellar and opened it—then froze at the sound of a low growl. Turning, he saw moonlight glinting from the bared teeth of a large Irish setter.
Frantically, he racked his brain for the dog's name, certain that he'd heard Sir Gregory mention it during one of his interminable stories. It was something to do with Irish legend, he recalled . . . Sidhe? Tara? Ah!
"Banshee. Hello, Banshee," he said in as natural a tone as he could manage. "That's a good dog, then."
The beast stopped growling, its tail moving uncertainly from side to side as it approached to sniff the intruder. Marcus wished he'd brought something —anything —that a dog might eat, but he had nothing.
"Yes, you're a fine lass, you are. A credit to your breed, I don't doubt." He managed to inject some enthusiasm into his voice, and the setter responded at once, rearing up to place her big red paws on his shoulders and lick his face. Marcus chuckled.
"Sorry excuse for a watchdog, that's what you are, Banshee. But I won't tell your master if you won't." He stroked her silky ears for a moment, then gave her a final pat on the head before vaulting through the window.
He was turning back to close it when the bitch suddenly lived up to her name, splitting the night with an ear-piercing howl. For a horrified instant Marcus tried to hush the dog, then realized she'd likely already awakened the household —and any nearby neighbors in residence, as well. Tucking the sack of purloined silver under his arm, he turned and fled.
Ah, well. He had wanted this exploit noticed and credited to the Saint of Seven Dials, he reflected as he turned a corner and sprinted along a narrow lane between larger streets. Thanks to Banshee, that goal was now assured.
* * *
Quinn took a breakfast tray in her room, unwilling to face Marcus until she had decided whether or not to question him about his absence last night. As she ate, she realized that her original plan of the night before might serve her best. She would observe Marcus's reaction once Lord Fernworth received her note and adjust her own actions to his.
That settled, she considered how she might avoid her husband until tonight's ball. Gazing around the room for inspiration, her eye fell upon that dreadful hunting scene. Of course! She would immerse herself in redecorating her chamber. He could have no reason to find that suspicious in the least.
Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she set out for the drapers, leaving word for Marcus with a footman, so he would know of her plans. The morning was spent selecting fabric in shades of lilac and cream, and the afternoon, back in her chamber, in consultations with decorators and upholsterers.
By evening all had been settled, with work scheduled to begin on Monday. The hunting scene had already been removed, to be shipped to Lord Anthony's hunting lodge.
Only once during the afternoon had Marcus peeped into her room, but upon her asking him which of two striped patterns he preferred for the walls, he had retreated at once. Quinn told herself it was just what she had intended, but now, finishing a solitary dinner in her room, she felt a pang of loneliness.
Strange how dependent she had become on Marcus's company after a bare week of marriage. She had always despised women who clung to their husbands, unable to carve out lives of their own. It was something she had admired in her own mother, that she had interests and activities unrelated to Papa's, as well as an active hand in the family business.
Shaking off her foolish melancholy, she rose and rang for Monette. She did have interests of her own, and a worthwhile project to pursue, she reminded herself. At tonight's ball, she would be conducting business far more important than decorating a room, even if no one knew of it but herself.
Despite her determination to remain aloof from Marcus until she knew more about his vices, past and present, Quinn could not suppress a thrill of satisfaction at the obvious admiration in his eyes as she descended the stairs. As this was to be her first real ball in England, she had taken pains to look her best. If his greeting was any indication, she had succeeded.
"You are breathtaking, my lady. I was ready to complain of your long seclusion, but now I see it was time well spent." He took her hand as she reached the bottom step and lifted it to his lips for a lingering kiss.
"You look exceedingly fine yourself, my lord," she responded with a smile. It was true. Dressed in deep blue superfine with silver in his waistcoat and a blindingly white cravat, he looked as handsome as she had ever seen him.
He returned her smile, and her heart turned over. "And you told me you were no expert at flattery," he teased.
"I seem to recall that you told me the same thing," she countered, still smiling in spite of herself. How could he so thoroughly undermine her defenses with only a few words? "Is the carriage ready?" she asked, to distract herself from her body's reaction to his nearness.
"It should be at the door in a moment. Were you able to decide between those two patterns? Lilac suits you, by the bye." His eyes twinkled appreciatively as he surveyed her from head to toe, lingering on her bosom and then her face, which she felt heating in response.
"Thank you. It's always been a favorite color of mine. And yes, I chose the narrower stripe for the walls, and two shades of solid lilac for the bed hangings."
He nodded, though she had the feeling he was not taking in the meaning of her words, despite the intensity of his eyes on hers. "Bed hangings," he echoed. "It sounds lovely."
"We shall see." She strove for a brisk tone, but feared she failed to achieve it. "By Thursday, all should be completed."
"I look forward to seeing the results of your efforts. Of course, you will not wish to sleep in that room while it is in the disarray of transformation. Luckily, I do not mind sharing."
"Too kind," she murmured, her heart accelerating. No, she must not let him charm her—not yet. "It won't become an issue until Monday, however."
He shrugged. "The invitation is open at any time, regardless. Ah, here is the carriage." Extending his arm, he escorted her out to the conveyance. She resolutely tried to ignore how even such casual contact affected her senses.
The Wittington house, on Curzon Street, was larger than their own, though not so grand as the Tinsdales', and boasted a fair-sized ballroom, which took up much of the first floor. Examining the layout of the room as they advanced into it after greeting their hosts, Quinn realized that movable walls must divide the ballroom into two or three smaller rooms for daily use. Very clever, she thought, wondering whether extensive remodeling might allow anything similar at their house on Grosvenor Street.
"Marcus, old fellow! Delighted to see you again so soon." Lord Fernworth's voice pulled her abruptly back from such musings, reminding her forcefully of her plans for the evening.
"You're out early, Ferny," Marcus replied easily to his friend. "Got in enough gaming last night that you didn't need more this afternoon?"
Did that mean Marcus had met him at Boodle's, Quinn wondered, or that he hadn't?
Lord Fernworth grinned and shrugged. "Wittington keeps a good cellar, so I thought it prudent to be prompt tonight, that I might take fullest advantage." He turned then to Quinn, who determinedly kept a smile on her lips, mindful of her plan. "Dare I hope that Lady Marcus yet has a dance or two free?"
"As we have but just arrived, none have yet been spoken for, my lord," she responded. The idea of dancing with Lord Fernworth repelled her, knowing what she did about him, but it would give her the perfect opportunity to slip one of her notes into his pocket.
"I do insist that you save me the supper dance, my dear, as well as any waltzes," Marcus said before Lord Fernworth could reply. "Perhaps the first dance, as well?"
She wondered why he was regarding her so curiously. "Of course, my lord." Surely he couldn't suspect—
"The second set then, my lady?" Lord Fernworth asked, with a gallant bow. His attempt at charm seemed clumsy after Marcus, but Quinn inclined her head.
"Very well, my lord." She wondered
whether any other men on her list were present tonight.
As soon as Fernworth left them, Marcus turned to her, his expression concerned. "It didn't occur to me until just now to ask whether you dance. My abject apologies for not inquiring sooner."
So that was what he'd been curious about! Relieved, she laughed aloud. "Yes, my lord, even in the wilds of Baltimore, people dance. In fact, one of the benefits of involvement in a shipping concern is the opportunity to gain early intelligence of new trends in Europe. I'd wager I waltz as well as you do."
"Indeed?" His eyes were twinkling again, looking almost impossibly blue. "Perhaps I'll accept that wager, if we can agree upon the terms. Let's see . . . If I lose, you may share my bed. If you lose, I share yours."
She smacked his arm with her folded fan. "You are incorrigible, my lord! I was not speaking of an actual wager, and well you know it."
"Pity," he said with an exaggerated sigh. The small orchestra signaled the start of the first dance then, and he led her onto the floor for the traditional minuet.
Privately, Quinn was more than a bit relieved to discover that her dancing skills had not deteriorated noticeably from disuse. It had been a over year since she'd attended a ball, she realized, what with her mother's death, her immersion in the business, preparations for her absence, and then her journey to England.
At the close of the minuet, Marcus bowed. "Pray forgive me for doubting you, my lady. I see you are as naturally gifted at the dance as in all other things." A quirk of one eyebrow gave his words a meaning that made her blush.
"You flatter me, my lord."
"I am working on my skills in that area —but stating a simple truth hardly counts, I fear."
Before she could respond, Lord Fernworth appeared at her elbow to claim his dance. Swallowing her distaste for the man, she accompanied him to the floor. The country dance did not allow for much conversation, for which she was grateful—but it also did not allow her easy access to his pockets.
As she moved up the line for the second time, she took advantage of a movement of the dance where her back was to the set to slip a note from her reticule into her left glove. Passing from hand to hand along the line, she met up with Lord Fernworth again at the top, where he was to swing her about before their promenade back to the bottom.
Linking arms as the dance required, she found her right hand close enough to his coat pocket that she was able to touch it. They then reversed, linking opposite arms. Smiling brilliantly at him the while, she managed to slip the note into his other pocket just before they joined both hands for the promenade.
Quinn was so pleased with herself that she did not need to feign her smile for the remainder of the set. When Lord Fernworth discovered that note, he would have no way of linking it to her. Any woman —or even any man—in the set could have planted it, and he likely would dance more sets before he found it.
Thanking Lord Fernworth with every appearance of sincerity, she returned to Marcus, who had partnered Miss Chalmers in a set on the other side of the floor.
"I'm pleased to see you are no longer irked at Ferny," he commented once his friend was out of earshot. "I know he's a complete fribble, but there's no real harm in him."
Quinn opened her mouth to refute his claim, but realized she could not without revealing more than she was ready to. Luckily, Miss Chalmers spoke before her hesitation could be noticed.
"Lady Marcus, have you heard the gossip of the day? The Saint of Seven Dials was nearly caught last night!"
"Indeed?" Quinn tried to disguise her alarm. If he were caught, he could be of no more help to her school.
Marcus nodded. "Miss Chalmers was telling me the tale as we danced. It appears he made the mistake of burgling a house that boasts a watchdog."
Miss Augusta Melks, standing nearby, overheard them and moved to join the conversation. "Sir Gregory says that one of his servants actually caught a glimpse of the Saint as he fled. He described him as tall, young and vigorous." She giggled, covering her mouth with her fan.
"Could there be any doubt of that?" asked Miss Chalmers with a sigh. "Even my mother agrees 'twould be a shame if he were caught." She nodded toward Lady Wittington, who was deep in conversation with a pair of dowagers.
"He'd be wise not to take such chances then, I should think," said Marcus, though Quinn thought he appeared rather bored by the topic. "If you'll excuse us, ladies, there are a few people to whom I have yet to introduce my wife."
Quinn was just as glad to leave the conversation, fearful that she might give something away if she joined in. Still, she could not deny her curiosity to know more of the mysterious Saint. Tall, young and vigorous —and perhaps a gentleman in disguise, as well? She knew there was no point in quizzing Marcus about him, however, as he had shown a disinclination for the subject.
A moment later she was effectively distracted by a series of introductions, some of which were accompanied by solicitations to dance. She graciously agreed to partner several gentlemen, two of whom happened to be on the list of names Annie had given her.
When the next set began, she found herself facing a Mr. Hill, of whom Marcus had seemed to disapprove, she'd noted with some satisfaction. Indeed, he seemed almost out of place at this gathering, his clothing less than expertly tailored and his expression both sly and discontented. She would never have agreed to partner him but for the chance to further her goal.
"I understand you are cousin to Sir Gregory, the man who so nearly apprehended the Saint of Seven Dials last night," she said as the dance opened.
Mr. Hill nodded, nearly treading on her foot as he executed the first steps. "My cousin doubtless exaggerates the matter," he said with an unpleasant laugh, "though I confess I'd have been delighted to hear the scoundrel was in custody at last."
"You do not ascribe to the notion of his heroism, then?" she asked, not particularly surprised. This man likely had no notion at all of what true heroism was.
"Heroism! Pah!" he exclaimed rudely, earning a glare from two other ladies in their set. "I've had valuables of my own stolen by this so-called Saint. The Runners can't catch him soon enough for my liking."
"My sympathies, Mr. Hill," said Quinn, neatly sliding a note into his pocket. "I did not realize you were one of his victims." The movements of the dance parted them then, and she was just as glad. He was the most unpleasant man she'd ever met in a ballroom.
Two dances later, she was able to slip another note into the pocket of Sir Hadley Leverton, and then the orchestra struck up a waltz.
"My dance, I believe, my lady?" Marcus materialized in front of her as she left the floor with Sir Hadley.
With a smile of appreciation for his vast superiority over her recent partners, Quinn willingly accompanied him back to the floor. When he placed a hand at her waist, the familiar tingle helped to erase less pleasant memories.
"I confess you have surprised me in your choice of partners this evening," he said as the music began. "Some of them make Ferny appear positively distinguished."
She forced a laugh, though his perceptiveness alarmed her. "Oh, we Americans are not so high in the instep as you English, you know. I assumed that anyone you were willing to introduce to me must be worthy of my notice."
A slight frown marred his handsome brow. "Then why—? No matter. But pray rest assured that you are well within your rights to refuse anyone, whether I introduce him to you or not."
"Thank you, my lord, I shall keep that in mind in future." And indeed, she had no intention of dancing with any other disagreeable men— ever—if she could avoid it. None of the others on her list had asked her, in any event.
They danced in silence for a few moments, and then Marcus said, "A pity you did not take me up on my wager earlier. You would have won it easily."
She flushed with pleasure at the compliment, for he was no mean dancer himself. In fact, his skill was one more bit of evidence that he had never been so stodgy as she had once imagined. "I cannot agree, but I thank you," she said, dimpli
ng up at him.
He held her gaze with his own for a long moment, and she felt the beginnings of desire stir within her. Had Lord Fernworth found his note yet, she wondered? Would he mention it to Marcus? And how would Marcus respond?
And why on earth had she decided on such a silly test when she knew in her heart that Marcus was incapable of the same level of depravity as his friend?
Just as the thought crossed her mind, she caught sight of Lord Ribbleton across the room. She had met him briefly yesterday at the Jellers' picnic, but had not yet known that he was one of the nastier patrons Annie and her fellows had to suffer. He—and Lord Pynchton, who had caused Annie's injury —must both receive notes somehow. If not here, then at their homes.
"Do you agree with what some are saying, that the Saint of Seven Dials is growing careless?" she asked Marcus, an idea occurring to her.
He gave a slight shrug and twirled her expertly before replying. "I suppose it's possible. He seems to grow ever bolder, and if he continues so, he is bound to be caught. Mr. Paxton seems the sort to take advantage of any slip he might make."
"Indeed he does," she agreed, then fell silent again, thinking. How if there were two housebreakers for Paxton and the Runners to pursue? Surely that would dilute their resources and make the Saint more difficult to catch.
Perhaps A Sympathetic Lady should mimic his exploits in the course of delivering her ultimatums. Her imagination fired by the idea, she scarcely noticed the remainder of the dance, smiling absently as Marcus released her to her next partner.
By the time her reel with Mr. Pottinger ended, she had determined to attempt an assault on Lord Pynchton's house that very night, if she could slip away from Grosvenor Street without being discovered. She would enlist Polly's help, if the girl was still awake on their return.
