The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "You most definitely succeeded. And you may trust—" With the corner of his eye, Noel saw her looking over at him. "Thank you," she finished, clearly not wishing to say more in his hearing.

  The long gallery, hung with dozens of portraits of Hardwyck ancestors, had been converted for the evening into a performance hall, with a small dais erected at one end and chairs placed for the convenience of listeners. Rowena selected a seat near the dais, and Richards and Noel sat on either side of her.

  Noel was quite aware that Rowena wished to have a private word with Richards after the brief exchange just past, but he was determined to prevent it. Clearly, she had been referring to the return of her mother's jewels —the jewels he himself had procured for her, at great risk.

  After their conversation this morning, it had occurred to him that she might interpret his warning against Richards as evidence that Noel suspected him as the Saint of Seven Dials —a result he had not considered at the time. It seemed he was right.

  The music began, a haunting air by one of Europe's most accomplished flutists, but Noel scarcely heard it. He was overcome instead by the irony of his situation. Not only could he not claim credit for the favor he had done her, he must sit idly by while she showered his enemy with gratitude —a gratitude Richards was all too likely to exploit.

  Now it was doubly imperative that he not allow Rowena and Richards a moment alone, he realized. If he did, she would doubtless use that opportunity to warn Richards against him.

  At best, Richards might inform her that he was not, in fact, the Saint. While Noel did not like giving Rowena one more reason to admire the man, her assumption did offer Noel himself extra protection from her perceptiveness. At worst, Richards might guess Noel's true intent, which could have disastrous consequences.

  He would simply have to stick as close to Rowena Riverstone as her own corset.

  And that intriguing image served to divert his mind for the remainder of the performance.

  * * *

  "What are you about, tonight?" Rowena hissed as Noel accompanied her to the buffet tables between performances. "I am quite capable of filling a plate on my own, you know."

  She realized she was being rude to him— again— but she was becoming concerned that she would never get a chance to arrange that most necessary chess match with Mr. Richards with Noel hovering this way.

  "Of course," he replied, appearing not the least put off by her rudeness. "I simply enjoy your company, and the opportunity to be of use to you. The meat pies and the fruit tarts look remarkably similar, and I would not wish you to choose the wrong one by mistake."

  He was referring, she knew, to her shortsightedness, but at least he did so subtly. Nor was the potential blunder he mentioned particularly unlikely.

  "Very well, sir, if you insist," she said with a reluctant grin. "You may select a light repast for me— more fruit than meat, I think."

  Mr. Richards had moved further down the table, making it impossible for her to broach the subject of the chess match just then. She wondered if he had reconsidered. Why, after all, should he risk losing what Nelson owed him for a chance at doubling an amount Nelson already could not pay? He might consider her assurances of payment worthless.

  She moved in his direction, Noel close behind her as he filled two plates with select dainties. With sudden inspiration, she turned. "I believe I should like one of those . . . things . . . at the far end of the table," she said, pointing at an item she could not identify at that distance.

  He looked. "A jug of cream?"

  "No, next to that." She ignored his obvious amusement.

  "Ah. The bowl of sugar lumps."

  She glared at him. "Yes. The sugar lumps. I should like one."

  Though his lips twitched, he went to do her bidding. Quickly, she moved forward to take advantage of the brief respite. "Mr. Richards," she said softly, reaching that gentleman's elbow. "Are you still willing to allow me the rematch we discussed yesterday?"

  He turned in evident surprise. "Of course, Miss Riverstone." Then, glancing behind her, "If you think you can shed your shadow for an hour."

  Rowena was about to warn him about Noel's suspicions —for that, no doubt, explained his refusal to leave her alone with Mr. Richards —but it was already too late.

  "Your plate, Miss Riverstone, complete with the sugar lump you requested," Noel said, rejoining them just then.

  Earlier, when he had looked into her eyes while assuring her that he wished to keep her from harm, she had felt as strongly drawn to him as she had this afternoon in Pearl's drawing room. Now frustration warred with that attraction. How very perverse that this particular man should unsettle her so.

  "Thank you, Mr. Paxton," she said, willing her color to remain neutral. "Mr. Richards and I were just discussing the possibility of another chess match later, when the guests disperse to hear some of the lesser performances."

  There. If he would not leave her side, she would simply have to carry out her plans for the evening with him in attendance. He need not know about the stakes.

  "Splendid. Much as I enjoy music, I enjoy watching skilled chess players matching wits more. And I imagine we shall still be able to hear some of the performances from whatever location we find for a table and board."

  "Perhaps you would be so kind as to find Lady Hardwyck and ask her when and where we might play?" That would give her the chance she needed to warn Mr. Richards.

  "No need. Here comes Lady Hardwyck now." If he knew what Rowena intended, he hid it admirably under a serene smile. "My lady, a word with you?"

  At his behest, Pearl joined them. "There is no problem with the food, I hope? After the dust-up about the fish this morning—"

  "No, no, everything is perfection," he assured her. "A credit to your organization and generosity. We were merely hoping you might do us a favor."

  Unwilling to let Noel arrange everything, Rowena spoke up. "Mr. Richards and I were hoping to play a game of chess during the course of the evening, once the lead performers had concluded. Would it be terribly unsocial of us to do so?"

  As she had feared, Pearl frowned. "Mr. Richards, you must know that this is Rowena's first visit to Town. You mustn't encourage her to act the hermit here, as she has done all her life in the country. I wish her to enjoy what Society has to offer."

  "Oh, but—" Rowena began to protest, but Mr. Richards cut her off with a bow.

  "Surely, Lady Hardwyck, it is possible for her to enjoy both Society and her favorite pursuits? I had no mind to closet her away in a private room, I assure you. Merely some out-of-the-way corner, where we can still hear and see what is going forth."

  Though she still shook her head at Rowena, Pearl smiled. "Of course I will not forbid it. I'll speak to one of the footmen and see that a board is set up. Would that alcove be acceptable?" She pointed to a recessed archway along the side of the ballroom.

  "Thank you, Pearl. That would be perfect," Rowena said gratefully. Perhaps too gratefully, for Pearl shot her another keen glance.

  "You are not finding so much activity upsetting after the quiet life you have led, are you, Rowena? My intent was to stimulate, not to overwhelm."

  Suddenly self-conscious in front of these two gentlemen she wanted to impress, Rowena shook her head. "Not at all. I merely wished a chance to revenge myself for Mr. Richards' win the other night, and this seemed a good opportunity."

  Pearl gave her a long look, which Rowena knew was an unspoken reminder that gentlemen preferred to win. This time, however, she could not oblige. Nelson's future was at stake. She met Pearl's gaze steadily and her friend gave it up with a slight shrug.

  "Very well. But mind your competitive nature does not get you into trouble one day, dear."

  Pearl left them to signal to a passing footman, and Rowena turned her attention to her well-filled plate, preferring not to comment upon Pearl's last remark.

  Noel, however, seemed unwilling to let her ignore it. "I have never considered a competitive nature to be
a flaw. Have you, Mr. Richards?"

  "Certainly not in a man," Mr. Richards agreed. "However, it is far more— unusual— in a woman, and perhaps less useful for the role a woman typically fills in our society."

  "Do you think so, sir?" asked Rowena. "In my few days in Society, I have noted many instances of competitiveness among women, though what they frequently compete for is attention and status, rather than victory in games or war."

  "They compete for husbands, you mean— husbands that will provide them status, safety and respectability. Once married, however, they have little to strive for— which is no doubt as it should be."

  "I must disagree," Noel said before Rowena could respond to this attack upon her sex. "Lady Hardwyck still works to better the lot of the poor and oppressed, nor is she the only married lady I can point to who continues to put her abilities to good use. My own sister—"

  "Hardly typical examples," Mr. Richards pointed out. "Lady Hardwyck is wife to one of the richest men in England, while your sister, Lady Vandover, is in training to become Duchess of Wickburn one day. More is expected of women in such positions."

  Rowena had been about to mention the accomplishments of women of lesser status, even commoners, who had set up orphanages and hospitals, but Mr. Richards' words sent such arguments out of her head. Noel Paxton's sister was to become a duchess? Why had he never mentioned such a thing to her?

  She stared at him accusingly and he turned, as though feeling her eyes upon him. He gave her a rueful smile and a slight shrug before turning back to Mr. Richards with examples of his own that showed women quite capable of accomplishing worthy goals, regardless of their positions in Society.

  Gathering her wits, Rowena reentered the discussion, but she was torn. Lester Richards in person was proving rather different from what she had expected of the man she had idolized. He clearly held women in generally low regard, and then there was the matter of his gaming for high stakes and pressing Nelson for information from the Home Office, which seemed underhanded if not treasonous.

  Was it possible she was wrong about him being the Saint of Seven Dials? But no, he had all but admitted it when she thanked him for retrieving her jewels.

  And then there was Noel Paxton, who derided views she held dear— including those she herself had expressed as MRR— and whose stated goal was to put an end to the noble Saint's career. Yet here he was championing the contributions of women, just as he had more than once shown admiration for her own abilities. Not to mention the sheer physical attractiveness of the man . . .

  Was she really so shallow as to allow that to color her perceptions of the two? True, Noel Paxton fit the physical image of a hero far better than Mr. Richards did, but one could never judge by appearances.

  Could one?

  "The next performance is beginning," she said to the two men, as much to distract herself from her disturbing ruminations as to quiet their argument, an argument that put her preconceptions about both at risk.

  The singer and her accompanying pianist were both exquisitely skilled, and for a brief time Rowena was able to concentrate on the music rather than her jumbled emotions. At the conclusion of the performance, she excused herself to go to the ladies' withdrawing room, feeling strongly that she needed a respite from both gentlemen.

  Once there, however, she discovered that the conversation of the ladies who had retreated to adjust the pins in their dresses or to avail themselves of the necessary was all about the Saint of Seven Dials and his latest daring exploit.

  "—from her very bedchamber while she slept, can you imagine?" Miss Augusta Melks was saying.

  "Had it been my bedchamber, I might have invited him to stay," responded Miss Stuckton with a giggle. "Oh, to discover who the Saint really is!"

  Rowena left the room more disturbed than before. It occurred to her that she would never be able to wear her mother's jewels again —at least, not in public. To do so would be to advertise her connection to the Saint. Oh, this was becoming far too complicated!

  Returning to her pair of self-appointed escorts, she noticed that the chess board she had requested had been placed in the alcove. Mr. Richards had noticed it as well, for he pointed it out the moment she rejoined them.

  "Yes, let us play," she said at once.

  Much as she had anticipated this game, she was now anxious to get it over. At least then she would have one less thing to worry about, and could perhaps devote her mind to untangling her conflicting feelings.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lester Richards carefully concealed his eagerness as he followed Miss Riverstone to the alcove where the chessboard had been set up for their match. A few inquiries had revealed that she did indeed have the means to make good on twice her brother's debt. One thousand pounds would be almost as useful to him as the information he had hoped to extract from Sir Nelson.

  With that kind of money, he'd be able to buy the allegiance of a Home Office clerk lower in status but more willing to snoop. He'd also be able to ensure the privacy of his next meeting, as well as the critical one planned for the following week —the one that should finally start the wheels turning for the downfall of England's damned aristocratic class.

  For Lester Richards was a republican in the truest sense of the word. He had been fired with enthusiasm for the French Revolution as a lad of fourteen, when first hearing about it from his French mother, exiled by his autocratic father to chilly Cumberland. No excesses could be too great if they brought about the ideals of liberty and equality for all men.

  Later, he had done his part to keep King Louis XVIII from the throne. Though he had failed at that, he was determined to bring about a new order here in his native England. At present, the radical Spenceans seemed his best means to achieving that end.

  Therefore, he had insinuated himself into their midst until he became a leader of sorts, at the same time ferreting out and destroying all evidence —and men— that could link him to his former identity as the Black Bishop, one of Napoleon's staunchest, most useful supporters. For both enterprises, however, he needed information —and money.

  "Shall I take white again?" Miss Riverstone asked when they reached the table.

  "Of course," he said, moving to the side where the black pieces were arrayed.

  Why the silly chit wanted a rematch, and for such enormous stakes, he had no idea. She seemed reasonably intelligent for a woman, so she must know she was incapable of besting him. Perhaps this was a way for her to contribute to his cause —a cause she seemed to approve— without publicly declaring her sympathy?

  Whatever her reasons, he was more than willing to take her money.

  Miss Riverstone took her chair, which that irritating legalist Paxton held out for her. The man had stuck to them both like glue all evening, and Richards did not believe admiration for Miss Riverstone was his sole reason.

  One of his confederates had informed him earlier today that Paxton had been snooping about the gaming hells, asking questions about him. He had apparently been an acquaintance of Geraint's, the fellow Richards had had to dispatch when he grew too inquisitive. Paxton might have to follow his friend—a prospect Richards found not the least bit distasteful.

  "I trust these surroundings are less— distracting —than those of the card party?" he asked as Miss Riverstone opened the game with her king's pawn.

  "Yes, I believe I will be able to concentrate properly this time."

  There was something almost smug in her expression, and he realized in sudden alarm that no one had witnessed their wager yesterday. Suppose, after losing, she planned to deny it had taken place? It was the only thing he could think of to account for her complacency, given his superiority as a player.

  "Perhaps we should restate our terms, for the record," he said before making his first move. Paxton might be an enemy, but he was one of those honorable sorts and well regarded, which made him an adequate witness.

  Miss Riverstone was clearly startled —and displeased. "Our terms?"

  "Doub
le or nothing for your brother's debt," he stated clearly, enjoying her anxious glance at Mr. Paxton. "He owes me nothing if you win, but one thousand pounds if you lose."

  She glared at him, which must mean he had been right about her intention. "Yes, of course," she said stiffly. "It is your move, sir."

  Paxton, he noted, looked interested but not particularly surprised at the stakes. If anything, he appeared amused. No doubt he would enjoy seeing the chit get her comeuppance after the merry chase she had led him all evening.

  Richards moved his own king's pawn ahead two spaces and the game was underway.

  Perhaps Miss Riverstone really had been distracted Saturday night, he thought several moves later. Certainly, she seemed far more competent this evening —or, perhaps, the stakes did give her more focus. Not that it would matter, of course. He took one of her pawns with his white bishop.

  She frowned, then murmured, "One moment." Opening her reticule, she pulled out a pair of spectacles and perched them on her nose. "Now, then."

  Ah, so the lady was nearsighted, was she? No wonder she had played so inconsistently before. Still, he was not worried. The spectacles might give her confidence, but they could scarcely improve her strategy.

  Miss Riverstone moved a knight, simultaneously threatening his queen and his white bishop, and it was his turn to frown.

  Ten minutes later, Richards stared at the board in stunned silence. She had beaten him. The bespectacled bitch had beaten him—and in fewer than twenty moves!

  "Checkmate," she said unnecessarily. "Mr. Paxton, you witnessed the terms of our wager. My brother's debt is now discharged. I thank you, Mr. Richards."

  Disbelievingly, Richards raised his eyes to hers, to find her smiling —a smile he felt a violent urge to wipe from her face. He wanted to deny the terms, but it was too late. He himself had stupidly insisted on a witness, and now he was stuck for it.

  "Yes, of course," he grated, pulling Sir Nelson's vouchers from his pocket. With an effort, he refrained from flinging them in her face, instead depositing them in the center of the chessboard. "You may inform him yourself. If you will excuse me?"