The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Finally, she nodded. "I love you, too, Noel. And . . . I believe you." Then, on sudden impulse, she threw her arms around him. "Oh, Noel, promise me you will be careful! Carry a pistol and keep an eye on the road behind you."

  "I always do," he assured her, then gathered her in for a kiss.

  Reassured, even while she was startled to discover that the pistol he had carried today was no anomaly, Rowena returned his kiss, trying to put all she felt for him into her embrace. Then, with a single, longing glance, she went to the door, listened for any sounds without, and stepped into the hallway.

  When she opened her chamber door a moment later, Matthilda greeted her with wide eyes. "Oh, miss, you're back! I was beside myself, not knowing where you might be. Lady Hardwyck asked for you, and I told her you were having a lie-down."

  "I'm fine," she said, keeping her packet of letters behind her. "I'll speak with Lady Hardwyck shortly."

  Her maid's expression was still concerned. "Then it was not . . . not your voice I heard in another room a few minutes since?"

  The wonder of her new understanding with Noel, temporarily overshadowed by the seriousness of his investigation, returned full force. "Matthilda, if I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret until I can inform my brother and Lady Hardwyck?"

  The maid nodded, round-eyed.

  "Mr. Paxton and I are to be married." Saying it aloud made it even more amazing.

  "Oh, miss!" Matthilda ran forward to embrace her mistress. "I've been hoping for just that. A body with half an eye can see how he feels about you— and you, him."

  That startled Rowena, but could not dim her happiness. "Then you approve?"

  Matthilda nodded, fervently, her eyes shining. "I do love a happy ending," she exclaimed.

  "So do I."

  But Rowena knew that her happy ending had not yet come —and could not, until Noel succeeded in his quest. She prayed that he might do so quickly and, even more importantly, safely.

  * * *

  For a long moment, Noel stood watching the door through which Rowena had disappeared. This morning, he would never have imagined that his life could have been so completely changed over the course of a few hours. Rowena had given him a gift beyond anything he could possibly deserve —the gift of her love and trust.

  Even the incredible experience of making love to her paled in comparison to the future she promised him. A smile still on his lips, he turned back to the writing desk to pen a note to Kemp, then rang for a footman to deliver it. It was more imperative than ever that he put this business of the Black Bishop to rest once and for all. He would have to move carefully, however, despite his impatience.

  Yesterday, he had believed that no sacrifice he could make would be too great if it brought the Bishop to justice. Today, he had much more to live for— and much more to lose.

  Donning a cloak against the still-falling rain, he again tucked his pistol inside his coat. Picking up his hat, he headed out to meet Kemp at the coaching inn. There would have to be another slight change in plans.

  "I want you to stay here in Town." When Kemp would have protested, Noel raised a hand to silence him. "I have a task for you to do here —a vitally important task."

  The two men sat at a small, corner table in the smoke-filled taproom of the Brindled Bull, a small coaching inn near Bow Street. The coach was horsed and ready for the journey to Hertfordshire, and Kemp already dressed in coachman's livery to drive it there.

  "I can hire a coachman from the inn," Noel said. "If it weren't raining, I'd ride, but as it's a simple two-hour drive each way, anyone minimally skilled with the ribbons can handle it. I need your special talents here in London."

  Kemp nodded reluctantly. "I was talking earlier with one of the drivers, a fellow name of Johnny. He'd do right enough. But what if something goes wrong? What if there's an ambush?"

  Noel shook his head. "Unlikely in the extreme. No one knows where I'm going, save Lord Hardwyck and Lord Marcus." And Rowena, but he knew she would tell no one. "There's no reason my brief trip should arouse any suspicions."

  "Then what is it you want me to do while you're away?"

  "This has been a day of discoveries," Noel said with a wry smile at his confederate. "I now know who the mysterious Mr. R is."

  Kemp's eyes widened. "I knew you'd catch him! But why do you even need to make this trip, then?"

  "Because Mr. R is not the Bishop after all. It is Miss Riverstone."

  "Never! That Quakerish girl at Hardwyck Hall?" Kemp was frankly disbelieving.

  Noel couldn't help grinning. "You haven't seen her lately. There's nothing Quakerish about her now, I assure you. But yes, she was the one in Oakshire penning those essays."

  "Then you're back where you started?"

  "Not quite," Noel reassured him. "She has letters from Richards that I'm confident will provide the proof I need, even if this journey should prove fruitless. Still, the more evidence I can amass, the better. I refuse to allow him any leeway to wriggle off the hook, once I have him."

  Kemp nodded. "Aye, it's time and more he was stopped. Myself, I won't be happy till I see him swinging at the end of a rope."

  "That's my goal, as well. I want you to keep an eye on Richards while I'm gone. If he suspects anything, he may attempt to use Miss Riverstone to block my next move."

  "I'll watch 'em both. You want I should stop him from going near her?" He patted the pocket where he kept his pistol.

  "No, for he's likely to call on her even if he suspects nothing. We don't dare tip our hand too soon, or he may go into hiding. Just keep watch, and inform me of his movements when I return." With Kemp watching Richards while Luke and Marcus watched out for Rowena, he felt confident that she would be safe.

  "Now, where is this Johnny you spoke of? I'll need to have a word with him."

  Kemp went to fetch the driver, and Noel spoke briefly with him, explaining what he needed. He seemed an alert enough young man, but not particularly curious —which was just as well.

  "I'll just nip around back to let the 'ostler know I'll be gone, and then we can be off," he said.

  Noel nodded. He considered asking Johnny not to tell the 'ostler their destination, then decided that would raise more suspicion than a simple trip to Hertfordshire would do.

  "Very well, but don't be long. I'd like to be there by nightfall, if possible."

  He would try to arrange an audience with the elder Mr. Richards this very night. Then he could be back in Town early enough tomorrow to prevent from Richards so much as calling on Rowena before he could be arrested.

  * * *

  Lester Richards dropped two gold coins into Johnny's outstretched hand. "Well done, my good chap. This man Paxton is dangerous, but by knowing where he is, I'll be able to prevent him causing any more harm."

  "Dangerous?" The young man's eyes grew round. "Mayhap another driver—" He glanced around the stable yard at the bustling crowd of grooms, coaches and horseflesh.

  "No, no, you should be at no risk," Richards assured him quickly. "He's a danger to the crown, not to you personally. With him out of Town, I can counteract his plans, and perhaps even prevent his return."

  Though it was clear the fellow had no idea what Richards was talking about, he nodded. "My helping would make me a sort of hero, then, wouldn't it?"

  "It would indeed. Now hurry on. You don't want him to become suspicious."

  Richards watched as the man hurried away, a frown twisting his face. So, Paxton was going to visit his father, was he? There was no telling what the old fool might say to him. Nothing to Richards' benefit, that was certain.

  His own investigations had pointed to a link between Paxton and the Foreign Office, though just what that link was, he wasn't yet sure. What was clear was that Paxton was digging for information about Richards— information that could conceivably identify him as the Black Bishop.

  His first instinct was to leave Town before Paxton could return. But no—he had not come this far by letting
emotion rule his head. His influence among the Spenceans in London had grown to the point that he was almost ready to fire them into action. They had the numbers and the drive to achieve what he could never do alone, now that France had lost the war. He couldn't abandon that plan now, when it was so close to succeeding.

  No, what he needed was some sort of insurance against anything Paxton might attempt, or, better, a way to dispose of the man entirely.

  Richards began to smile. The noose might seem to be closing about his neck, but he still had a valuable card or two to play and a few favors to call in. If Eddie was willing, Paxton would be dead by this time tomorrow.

  Rowena Riverstone could serve as both insurance and bait, to lure Paxton to his doom should his henchman fail. That way, Richards could rid himself of two problems at one blow, for it was clear Miss Riverstone was far too perceptive for safety.

  And she was expecting him to take her driving tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rowena had never known time to pass so slowly. Dinner, and particularly the time afterward in the parlor, was a trial. She was dying to tell Pearl her happy news. She was certain her friend suspected something, for she kept sending her quizzical looks, but she was discreet enough not to pry, instead suggesting a game of chess.

  Lord Hardwyck joined them only a few minutes into the game, and Rowena, anxious to be alone with her thoughts, quickly checkmated Pearl.

  "I do believe that was a record," her friend said with a sigh. "However do you do it? Matching wits with Mr. Paxton appears to have improved your game —not that it needed improving."

  "Can I interest you ladies in some three-handed whist?" Lord Hardwyck suggested, placing a sympathetic hand on his wife's shoulder.

  Rowena stood. "Actually, I find myself unusually fatigued. I believe I will go up to bed."

  Once upstairs, she waited with barely-concealed impatience for Matthilda to finish her ministrations. The moment the maid left her, she pulled out her packet of letters and opened it. Perhaps they would serve to distract her from obsessing about Noel's dangerous mission.

  One by one she opened and read them, both startled and amused by the variety of opinions they contained. Nearly all, even those which vehemently disagreed with her essays, praised her writing, which produced a glow of pride despite her gnawing worry.

  Tomorrow she would answer every one, she decided, setting aside two, from well-known members of Parliament, for special attention. That project should occupy her until Noel's return.

  As she climbed into bed, she sent up a small prayer for his safety, as well as a wish that he might return before five o'clock.

  Earlier, when her courage had been high, she had felt more than willing to match wits with Mr. Richards, learning whatever she could for Noel's sake. The sooner he was brought to justice, the sooner Noel would be out of danger, which justified any small risk to herself.

  With nightfall —and Noel's absence —her confidence wavered. Though she would never risk Noel's life or even his mission by refusing, she rather hoped circumstances might fall out so that she would not have to fulfill her promise to drive out with Mr. Richards after all.

  * * *

  "Mr. Richards will see you now."

  Noel barely restrained himself from saying finally aloud.

  Last night, he had been informed by the haughty butler that Mr. Richards retired early and was already abed. Today, after returning at ten o'clock, as instructed, he had been kept cooling his heels in an anteroom of the crumbling manor house for nearly two hours. His mood was definitely the worse for wear as he followed the butler through dim corridors to a cluttered study.

  For a moment the room appeared to be empty, and he wondered if he would be expected to wait here for another interminable period. But then a movement caught his eye and he turned to see a slight, stooped man rising from an enormous wing-backed chair.

  "So, my son sends his friends now rather than coming himself to demand money of me?" the old man asked querulously. "You can tell Lester to go to hell."

  Noel stepped over a pile of books to extend his hand. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Richards. I fear you are under a misapprehension, however. Your son did not send me."

  The old man snorted and sat back down, ignoring Noel's hand. "So you say. He's used every pretext you can imagine over the years, sirrah. None will work —not anymore. He won't have another groat from me before I die."

  Though more encouraged than discouraged by the man's venom, Noel realized he would have to proceed carefully. "Perhaps, then, it will not surprise you to learn that your son may have run afoul of the law?"

  The wheezing that emanated from the chair alarmed Noel until he realized it was laughter. "Surprise me? I'd be more surprised if he hadn't. Lester is a snake, never cared for anyone but himself— though to hear him talk, you'd think he was trying to save the world. Pah!" The old man spat.

  "May I?" Noel gestured to a small, rickety chair next to the big wing-back. When the man made no objection, he seated himself and leaned forward, so that he had a good view of the man's face. "What do you know of your son's plans, sir?"

  The old man fixed him with a keen glance from his watery blue eyes. "More than I'd like, though nothing recent. He hasn't been here in six months. So, are you here to help him, or to sink him?"

  Noel hesitated, realizing his answer might well determine the outcome of this case. The man's animosity seemed sincere, so he gambled with the truth. "I'm hoping to prevent him from harming anyone else —ever."

  "Found out what he did to me on his last visit, did you? Beat me so badly I couldn't walk for a week, when I refused him money. Surgeon blabbed, did he?"

  "Something like that." It was news to Noel, and while it strengthened his position here, it also alarmed him. If Richards would abuse his own father, what might he do to Rowena if he suspected she was helping Noel?

  "Mr. Richards, can you tell me where your son was during the war with France? Did he serve in the military?"

  Another snort. "Military? Him? More like he was helping the Frenchies. Always did take their part. Too much like his mother, though I tried to beat that out of him."

  "His mother was French?" That alone did not convict Richards, of course. In fact, Noel's own mother was French. But this interview was proving far more valuable already than he had dared hope.

  "Aye, pretty thing, before she turned shrewish. Lester blamed me for her death, but she was sickly for years, despite what the doctors did. Didn't have a sturdy English constitution, of course."

  For the first time, Noel began to understand what might have originally turned Richards to his treasonous path —not that it excused him in any way. He still had no firm evidence, however.

  "The war," he prompted. "Was your son here, or did he go abroad?"

  "He left England after his mother died in '09," Mr. Richards said. "I didn't hear from him for three years, but then he showed up asking for money. I gave it to him. Thought he might stay, you see, and it was lonely here. Thought we could mend our fences. But as soon as he had the money and a good meal, he was off again."

  "That would have been in 1812?" Noel asked. That fit perfectly with what he knew of the Bishop's movements. "Did you hear from him again after that?"

  "Not until last summer. He showed up on my doorstep, again with no warning. He was injured, and all in rags. I took him in, called the surgeon, made sure he received the best care. But you already know how he repaid me, six months later."

  Last summer. "When exactly did he arrive that time —when he was injured?"

  "About mid-July it was, as I recall."

  Just after Waterloo. "And that's when he started pressuring you for money again?"

  The old man nodded. "Got more and more insistent with each passing month. Said he needed it to set England on the right path. Came in person until that last time, when he beat me. I had him thrown out of the house, and he's only written since then."

  "But you gave him nothing?"

  "
Nay, I've no fault to find with England as it is. Corrupted by the Frenchies, Lester is, that's my thinking. He'd have another bloody terror here if he could. Used to read everything he could find about it, even though I thrashed him when I caught him at it. Got his mother to teach him French early on, behind my back —he can speak it like a frog, you know."

  "Yes, I know." Noel had absolutely no doubt now that Richards was the Black Bishop. "Would you happen to have any of his letters? Might I see them?"

  The old man rose with an effort. "I burned most of 'em, but I still have one or two from earlier on— before he turned vicious. But blood will out, they say."

  Noel suspected Richards had learned his viciousness at his father's knee rather than inheriting it from his mother, but of course did not say so. He waited while the elder Mr. Richards rummaged through a large pile of papers on one of the desks. Finally, he found what he was seeking and shuffled back across the room.

  "Here you are."

  Taking the proferred letter, Noel scanned it carefully. Yes, the writing was identical to that of the Black Bishop's missives. Combined with what he now knew of Richards' whereabouts during the war, he had the proof he needed.

  "You say he's written to you recently?"

  "Got a letter from him just yesterday, but I've already burned it. Sounded more desperate for money than usual, but he always had a persuasive way with words. That's why I burn his letters."

  Whereas Rowena had cherished them, Noel thought with a sudden pang. Not that she would anymore, of course.

  "Did he say anything else in his last letter?" he asked. "Anything about what he might be planning to do?"

  But the old man shook his head. "Just a lot of high-flown language about destiny and the future of England depending on him. Always did have an inflated sense of his own importance, no matter what I said or did to convince him otherwise."

  Noel rose. "Thank you, Mr. Richards. You've been very helpful. I don't think your son will trouble you further. May I keep this letter?"