The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

CHAPTER 19

  Rowena turned, one hand upraised, ready in her panic to fight off her attacker, only to find herself face to face with the last person she expected to see. Her heart was already pounding from being so badly startled, but now it began a happier staccato —until Noel's shocked frown penetrated her sudden euphoria.

  "Rowena! How—? What are you doing here?" he demanded. He sounded angry rather than pleased to see her.

  It took her a moment to summon enough breath for a reply after her fright. "Me? What are you doing here?" Her voice sounded high and breathless to her own ears. Forcing herself to look him directly in the eye, deliberately strengthening her voice, she asked, "Have you been following me?"

  His eyes widened, then narrowed, taking on his strategizing expression. "Rowena, listen to me. This is important. Who sent you here to retrieve those letters?"

  He knew! That's why he was here. Still, she tried to delay the inevitable. Shrugging, evading his eye, she said, "Letters? What letters?"

  "The letters you have inside your cloak." Roughly, he jerked open her gray cloak and grabbed the packet she had tucked into an inside pocket. The back of his hand brushed her breast in the process, but he seemed not to notice the contact.

  "Give me those!" she exclaimed, genuinely alarmed now. "They're mine." Vainly, she tried to snatch the letters back, but he held the oilskin package out of her reach.

  "Yours?" he asked mockingly. "Do you even know what these letters are, or anything about the person they are addressed to? What were you promised as a reward for fetching them?"

  Keeping an iron grip on her upper arm, he opened the packet with his teeth and free hand while she struggled against him, still trying to reach the letters. It was no use. His reach, his strength, far exceeded hers. She gave it up.

  "Of course I know what they are," she said, her voice flat with defeat. "They are letters sent to the Political Register for the essayist MRR. And I think I can safely say that I know everything there is to know about that essayist. Now give them to me."

  "You still didn't tell me what Richards promised you," he said harshly, but a flash of pain in his eyes startled her more than the harshness.

  "Richards? Lester Richards?" she asked, now thoroughly confused. "What has he to do with anything?"

  Noel's grip on her arm loosened somewhat, and he suddenly looked as startled as she felt. "You were fetching these letters for him, were you not?"

  She shook her head. "I told you, they're mine." Was it possible he really hadn't divined the truth yet?

  "If not Richards, then who?" he asked, confirming her guess. "Your brother, perhaps?"

  "Nelson has no more to do with this than does Mr. Richards." No matter how it might risk her reputation, risk any hope of a future with Noel, she would not implicate anyone else to shield herself.

  Noel stared at her, and she could almost see his mind working, trying to make sense of all the evidence. She couldn't suppress a slight smile.

  "I thought you more intelligent than this, given your skill at the chessboard," she said patiently, anticipation of his surprise the only thing keeping worry at bay. "The answer should be obvious by now, though I still don't know why it is so important to you."

  "And the answer is?" he ground out, clearly stung by her amusement.

  Prolonging this was only making things worse. "MRR stands for Miss Rowena Riverstone," she explained, watching as understanding broke across his face. "I am the anonymous essayist you've been so curious about."

  * * *

  Noel had felt his heart die within him when faced with what seemed conclusive proof that Rowena was in league with Richards. It presented him with a terrible choice, for if Rowena was helping a traitor, she would share his fate, were she arrested. But now she said Richards was not involved at all. Surely she could not be the traitor he sought?

  "You?" he asked, still stunned and confused. She must still be trying to protect Richards, as she'd done when she invited Noel to her room —to her bed— two nights since. Now she was claiming authorship of those essays rather than let him be brought to justice.

  "How can it be you?" he asked again, more harshly, when she did not respond. "The handwriting, the turns of phrase —it can't be you, Rowena."

  "I disguised my handwriting, of course," she told him matter-of-factly. "I knew the essays would never be printed if they were written in a feminine hand."

  He continued to stare at her, trying to read her emotions, to detect any trace of a lie, but he saw none. What he did notice was that her cloak was wet through, making her shiver.

  "Perhaps we can continue this inquisition indoors?" she suggested through chattering teeth.

  He blinked, trying to disentangle his thoughts from the convoluted paths they'd been following. "Of course. My apologies." He spoke automatically, still unable to process this new information. "Shall I return you to Hardwyck Hall?"

  Rowena glanced at the mansion across the street. "I suppose so, but we'll need to go in through the back. That's how I left, and no one knows I'm gone, or so I hope. This has taken a bit longer than I'd planned, thanks to you."

  Unwilling to let her guess the depth of his conflict, he nodded curtly and extended an arm for her. The letters, at least, were still safe inside his coat.

  "Will you not tell me why you were so determined to discover MRR's identity?" she asked as they exited Green Park. "I assumed before that you believed MRR and the Saint to be one, but I don't know why you came to that conclusion."

  So she knew nothing of Richards' treason, after all. Was it really possible she had written those essays? Certainly, that would explain her agitation when he had brought up the subject shortly after meeting her. He had assumed at the time that Mr. R.—or, rather, MRR—must be her brother, for her to react so strongly—so personally.

  With growing relief, he recalled that she had met Richards for the first time only the night before that discussion, and in his presence. She and Richards hadn't had so much as a private conversation at that point. Though she clearly admired the man's writings, she would have had no personal stake in those essays, had he written them.

  She must be telling the truth, then. Which meant he was no closer to catching the Black Bishop than he had been weeks ago. Or was he? She was better acquainted with Richards now. Perhaps she could still help him.

  He glanced at her, to find her staring up at him quizzically. He had never answered her question.

  "Why are you so disappointed to discover that I wrote those essays?" she asked now. "What do they mean to you?"

  He made a sudden decision —one his superiors would be unlikely to condone. "I've been investigating something far more important —and dangerous —than the Saint of Seven Dials," he told her. "MRR was my best lead, but now it appears to have been a false one."

  She frowned into the rain as they started across the street. "So you didn't believe Mr. Richards was the Saint after all? You suspected him of something else? Something . . . worse?"

  He didn't answer until they gained the other side of Picadilly. After helping her over the swirling mud in the gutter, he turned her to face him, gripping her by both shoulders. He held her eyes with his own and when he spoke, his voice was low and fierce, to underscore the importance of what he would ask.

  "Will you promise to say nothing, not even the merest hint, to anyone— especially to Richards?"

  Despite her confusion, despite the way he'd frightened her, Rowena couldn't help trusting this man. The driving rain had turned his auburn curls dark, plastering them against his head, making him look oddly vulnerable, though his hazel eyes bored into her own as though he would read her very thoughts.

  Mutely, she nodded.

  "I have reason to believe Richards is a traitor," he said. "If I am right, he is a very dangerous man, one who has killed more than once over the years to keep his identity secret."

  "Over the years?" she echoed faintly. Mr. Richards, a traitor? A killer? "During . . . during the war, do you mean?"


  He nodded. "He acted as a double agent, betraying British secrets to the French. Though I know of only three men he deliberately had murdered, his actions indirectly caused the deaths of countless more. Until recently, we believed the traitor had died at Waterloo. Now we know that was not the case, that he is operating here in London."

  She couldn't seem to grasp what he was saying. We? What had Noel really done during the war? What had he really been doing here in London? Clearly, not pursuing the Saint of Seven Dials, as she had believed.

  "But what has this to do with my essays? Why did you think MRR might be the traitor? My writings may be controversial, but they are hardly treasonous."

  "Let's get indoors, and I'll try to explain." He took her hand, to lead her around to the back of Hardwyck Hall.

  Though her world had been tilted on its axis, Rowena could not ignore the thrill that went through her at his touch. She threaded her fingers through his, and felt his grip tighten. Together, they skirted the side garden and took the gravel path to the garden door, to the very spot where he had first kissed her.

  "No one saw me leave," she reminded him as they approached, pushing away that memory. "I'd just as soon no one saw me return. Pearl would ask dozens of questions, and I'd be hard pressed to answer without betraying your confidence —or my identity as MRR."

  Noel nodded. Holding a finger to his lips, he stepped to the door and pressed an ear against it. "I hear voices. If we enter here, we'll certainly be seen. Perhaps the terrace doors."

  She followed him up the broad stairs to the double French doors that led into the ballroom. He tried the handle, but found it locked. Rowena bit her lip in disappointment, glancing about for another way of entry, but he released her hand and knelt in front of the doors.

  As she watched in growing amazement, he pulled a wire of some sort from inside his coat and fitted it into the lock, turned the handle, and opened the door easily. "Quietly, now," he whispered.

  She stared, but said nothing, following him across the wide ballroom. Someone was bound to notice the wet trail they were leaving, but there seemed nothing they could do about that just now. At the far side of the ballroom, he paused to listen, then led her out into the hallway, toward the main staircase.

  This was the riskiest part, she knew, when they were most likely to be discovered by a passing servant, or even Pearl herself. Their luck held, however, and they gained the upper hallway without encountering anyone.

  "Your room or mine?" he asked softly, his eyes holding the first hint of softness she had seen since that unexpected meeting in the park.

  She swallowed. "I, ah, sent my maid out earlier, but she may be back at any time, if she has not returned already."

  "You need dry clothing, in any event. If your maid is there, she can help you to change and we can talk afterward. If not—"

  "Just a moment," she whispered, suddenly nervous. She went to the door of her chamber, and he retreated further down the hall without finishing his sentence.

  Her room was empty, so she removed her cloak, hanging it to dry, then gathered up a complete change of clothing. Afraid that he might disappear if she tarried, she stepped back into the hallway, telling herself that she didn't want to give him a chance to avoid telling her how MRR fit into his investigation.

  He was still standing outside his own chamber door. "She's still gone," she said softly.

  "But might return momentarily?"

  She nodded.

  "Then I suggest we talk in my room, as Kemp will be out until this evening." He opened the door as he spoke.

  Rowena hesitated, glancing down at the gown and underthings in her arms.

  "You can change behind the screen," he said, apparently divining her thoughts. "I promise not to peek."

  Feeling foolish for her sudden attack of missishness, Rowena preceded him into the room. It was nearly identical to her own, though decorated in beige and brown, while hers was in green and white. The screen shielding the dressing area from the rest of the room was in the same corner. Before retreating behind it, however, she turned again to face him.

  "Tell me, do others believe my essays to be the work of a traitor?" Noel had said "we" earlier, so others must be involved in his investigation.

  He shook his head, smiling reassuringly. "I have spoken of that suspicion only to one other person, my superior at the Foreign Office, and he was skeptical. You need not fear you will be in trouble with the authorities for your writings."

  "But why—?" she began.

  "You should change first," he said, taking her hand in his again. "Your fingers are like ice."

  "So are yours," she pointed out, staring down at their joined hands. "You must have been out in the rain longer than I was, if you were lying in wait for your traitor." She covered his fingers with her other hand, gently chafing them.

  In response, he brought his other hand up to encase hers. "We could warm each other," he murmured, his voice suddenly low and rough.

  Glancing up in surprise, she found him watching her, his eyes smoldering, his expression hungry. It awakened an answering hunger within her, the one she had tried to keep at bay for two long days. "Yes," she whispered, "I suppose we could."

  The knowledge that he hadn't truly been trying to deprive London's poor of the Saint of Seven Dials stripped away the last of her defenses against this man who already affected her so profoundly. She tilted her face up for his kiss, needing that reassurance that he still found her desireable.

  He gave it to her, covering her lips with his own, first gently, then urgently. Releasing her hands, he gathered her to him, but their clothing squelched between them.

  "We still need to change," she said with a shaky laugh. "I, ah, may need help with the hooks in the back of this gown."

  "Of course." His eyes still burning into hers, he smiled —a smile that held a promise that took her breath away. "Turn around."

  As though in a daze, she did so. Gently but deftly, he undid the row of tiny hooks fastening her dress, starting at the nape of her neck and working his way down. The air caressing her damp skin made her shiver, and he pulled her against him to kiss the back of her neck.

  "I said I would warm you, didn't I?" he asked softly.

  The warmth of his kiss, his touch, chased away the chill most effectively. She turned in his arms so that he could capture her lips again. He did so, tenderly, his hands moving inexorably down her back as he continued to unfasten her dress.

  This time, she could not fool herself that she was in his arms for some noble purpose, to save the Saint or the poor. No, she was here because she wanted him, needed him, to fill that aching void she had never known she possessed before meeting him.

  She stroked his wet curls, then tried to remove his sodden coat, even as he was removing her gown. The soaked wool resisted her efforts, clinging heavily until he released her long enough to divest himself it.

  Her eyes widened at the unmistakeable sight of a pistol tucked into his waistband. Instead of commenting, however, she turned away, taking the opportunity to strip off her now-unfastened dress, letting it fall to the floor in a soggy gray heap. She'd never liked that dress anyway.

  Now clad only in her damp chemise and stockings, she shivered again. At once, his arms surrounded her, enfolding her against the warmth of his body, only separated from hers by the thin cotton of his shirt and her chemise. The pistol, she noted, had disappeared.

  "Would you prefer a blanket?" he murmured, his lips against her temple.

  "No," she whispered, nuzzling his throat. "I trust you to keep me warm."

  He leaned his head back far enough to look at her. "Only to keep you warm?"

  She shook her head. "I trust you completely." As she said it, she realized not only that it was true, but how important it was that he know that. "You are the only one in the world who knows my secret."

  "I will guard it with my life." His eyes, his voice, made it a vow. "As I will guard you with my life."

  Rowena's th
rill of pleasure was marred by a tiny thread of fear. "Am I in danger, then?" If Noel was willing to risk himself to safeguard her . . . "Are you?" she added, before he could answer. She would rather die herself than have him die protecting her.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her bare arms, warming them, before answering. "I have trusted you with my secret as well, Rowena —a dangerous secret. As long as no one knows that you are in my confidence, you should be safe enough, however."

  "You didn't answer my second question." She reached up to caress the clean line of his jaw, enjoying the roughness of his faint shadow of beard.

  "I don't know. I hope not," he replied, but now his expression was guarded.

  "The truth. You said that you trusted me," she reminded him.

  He nodded, meeting her eyes again. "I can't deny that I'm pursuing a very dangerous man, one who won't hesitate to kill me if he thinks that will help him escape justice. I simply have to make certain not to give him that opportunity."

  Though it chilled her heart, she preferred knowing. It firmed her resolve to have all of him she could have now, that she might at least have that memory, that part of him to keep, should the unthinkable happen.

  "Thank you," she said. "Now that I know what is at stake, I will be that much more careful." Her voice caught. "I . . . I would not put you at risk for the world."

  It was almost a declaration of her feelings, and when his hands stilled their rubbing, she wondered if she had been too bold. Perhaps—

  But then he crushed her against him, burying his face in her hair. "Rowena, my sweet. You can't imagine how much that means to me." His voice was muffled, the emotion in it warming her even more than his embrace.

  Noel felt that if the Black Bishop burst upon them right then and struck him dead, he would die the happiest of men. Rowena cared for him, trusted him completely. He knew now that he loved her more deeply than he had known it was possible to love. The very thought of putting her in danger was insupportable.

  That she felt the same both elated and humbled him. He kissed her again, trying to convey all he felt with his lips, his hands, skimming down her back and up again. She was still chilled —he could feel the gooseflesh on her arms.