by Brenda Hiatt
"William?" she gasped.
Releasing her hand as though it burned him, he took a step back. "What—? Nobody— Who are you?" he demanded.
"You don't recognize me, William?" Sarah asked, stepping into a thin shaft of moonlight so that he could see her better.
He stared, frowning. "No one has called me William in— Sarah?" Blank astonishment replaced the frown.
Sarah thought her heart might overflow with love and relief. "I said I'd come back for you, didn't I?"
"Aye. Aye, you did, but—" He shook his head in wonder. "How did you find me?"
"I won't say it was easy. Oh, William!" She flung herself at her brother, hugging him tightly. "You can't imagine—" Then she released him, unexpected anger abruptly replacing euphoria. "Why didn't you stay at school? I only discovered you'd run away this week, when I arrived in London."
"Did you, then? That's good, I suppose. Saved you years of worry. Felt bad about that, I did, but I didn't dare write —not that I was quite lettered back then." Suddenly, he grinned. "It's grand to see you, Sarah! Come, let's get indoors."
Though bursting with questions, she waited until she'd followed him up the rickety staircase and into a second story room already lit with several candles —a room that was surprisingly well furnished.
"Is this where you live?" she asked as he closed the door behind them.
"Aye. Lord— That is, I'm staying here for now, anyways."
Sarah removed her shawl as he spoke and his eyes widened. "Blimey! I always said you were a pretty girl, but you've growed up into— well—a real beauty. And you're book-learned, too?"
She nodded. "And you, William, you've grown so tall. Perhaps— perhaps I shouldn't have worried so. But what have you been doing all of this time?"
"Eh, where to start?" He sat down on an overstuffed sofa and motioned for her to join him. "School was even worse than I expected. Knew I wasn't cut out for that, but you were so keen— Anyway, I nipped back to London first chance I had."
Seizing his hand, Sarah sat next to him, trying to imagine him as a boy of eight or nine, making his way back to the metropolis alone. "Oh, William, I'm so sorry—" she began, but he shook his head and grinned.
"Nay, it was just as well. I joined up with Twitchell's lads and did right well for meself until the Saint come along."
"The Saint?"
"I guess if you've just come back to Town you won't have heard of him, but he's a legend hereabouts. Helps folks what need it by taking from them what don't."
"Like Robin Hood? But he's real, this Saint—?"
"The Saint o' Seven Dials. Aye, he's real. I spent more than two years as his right-hand man," he said proudly.
She released his hand. "You mean . . . he had you stealing for him?" Sarah wasn't sure this Saint sounded like much of a hero after all.
But her brother shook his head. "Nay, he never let me so much as pick a pocket once I started helping him. I was his go-between, tellin' him which folks needed help, fencing his loot for him, that sort o' thing."
"I see." Sarah wasn't sure she did, entirely, however. "But you're not doing that anymore?"
He shrugged. "He got hisself married and retired. Couple other chaps had a go at it, but did the same, after only a month or two each. Ain't no Saint now, but I'm aiming to fix that."
"Fix it? What do you mean?"
"Folks hereabouts need the Saint," he said seriously. "These gentry morts mean well, but they've got other concerns. I figure I c'n do the job myself, with no more need of a go-between."
"Become the Saint yourself, you mean?" asked Sarah, alarmed. "William, you can't! I forbid it. Breaking into houses, stealing —it's far too dangerous. I've only just found you and I mean to take care of you now."
He looked more amused than chastened. "A bit late for that, ain't it? I been takin' care o' myself just fine all this time."
"With help from this Saint," she pointed out, but he only shrugged.
"I'm growed up now— even he admits it. It was his idea for me to take over here when Twitchell got transported. But most o' the lads have real jobs now, so it just makes sense for me to help out in other ways."
Though she couldn't deny being proud of him, Sarah was determined to keep him from such a risk. "Surely there's someone else, someone older . . . Who is this Saint, anyway?" Perhaps if she spoke to the man, told him what her brother was planning—
But William was shaking his head. "Can't tell you that, Sarah, I'm sorry. Took my oath and I'm not about to break it. Besides, he's left Town," he added, with a look that said he knew what she'd intended.
"And the other two you mentioned?"
He shrugged, but made no reply.
Sarah recognized that stubborn set to his jaw. Even as a small boy, it had meant he wouldn't be swayed. But she could be just as determined.
"At least promise you won't do anything rash," she pleaded.
He scowled at her, but then his expression softened. "It's good having you back, Sarah. I wasn't going to do anything this week, anyways. But the Heinrichs, they're in a bad way. They'll need summat by the end o' the month."
It wasn't much of a reprieve, but she'd take it. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again, William —er, Flute." He grinned at her correction. "I hope to find a governess position soon. If both of us have employment, surely we can help those who need it with no need for thievery?"
"Maybe," he said with a shrug, then asked, "Where are you staying? How can I reach you?"
"I'm with the Mountheaths, in one of the big mansions on Berkley Square, if you can believe it. They are relations of our mother's —but it would be best if you not visit there. Lady Mountheath would be only too happy of an excuse to turn me out. I'll come again, or send word, once I've found a position."
"Send word," he said firmly. "You must remember, after your run-in with Bert, how dangerous it is here, 'specially for a girl like you."
She refrained from pointing out that it was dangerous for him, too. "Very well. But don't mention I'm your sister to anyone I send. I'll say you're the brother of a friend from school."
Though she was afraid he'd be offended, he nodded sagely. "Aye, if you want to fit in with the nobs, you can't be associatin' with the likes o' me. With your looks and learning, you might well land yourself one of them fine gents as a husband. That would set us up right pretty."
Though Mrs. Hounslow had said much the same thing, Sarah shook her head. "Even if I can keep my past a secret, that's unlikely. Position and wealth are everything in that world, I'm learning. Gentlemen look for more than beauty in a wife."
Even Lord Peter? a small voice asked, but she quelled it at once. It would be especially true of a fourth son, with no prospects to inherit a fortune or estate.
"Don't sell yourself short. You're more than a pretty face, y'know. How many girls would have the gumption to come to Seven Dials alone, at night, just to see what become of her runaway brother?"
Sarah threw herself into his arms again. "Oh, William, I've missed you so," she said, her voice breaking on a sob.
He hugged her back, then set her away from him. "Enough o' that," he said, a slight catch in his voice. "Come on. I'll walk you back to Mayfair."
* * *
Though he knew it was unwise, Peter could not resist calling at the Mountheath house the next day. Far from being solved, the puzzle that was Miss Sarah Killian tantalized him more than ever.
"Welcome, my lord. How good of you to call," Lady Mountheath greeted him. She had a distinct edge to her voice, and as he progressed into the parlor, he understood why.
No fewer than half a dozen gentlemen were present, and every one of them appeared focused on Miss Killian, seated off to one side, while the Mountheath girls sat outside the circle, pouting. Numerous bouquets crowded a nearby table, and he had no difficulty guessing to which lady they'd been sent.
At the sight of Miss Killian's sweet face bracketed by a leering Lord Ribbleton on one side and the fatuous Mr. Pottin
ger on the other, Peter was conscious of a degree of vexation that rivaled Lady Mountheath's, though he was careful not to let it show. The object of his visit glanced up just then and pinkened slightly as he caught her eye and smiled.
"Ah, Lord Peter! I knew you would come," Lucy Mountheath exclaimed, her pout transforming into a smirk. "Did I not say so, Fanny? Come, my lord, sit by me, do."
Knowing that to refuse would wound her feelings, Peter complied as pleasantly as his impatience would allow. "Good day, Miss Mountheath, Miss Fanny. I trust I find you well."
"Much better, now that you're here," replied Lucy with a simpering smile. "It's been rather a trying morning. Poor Mama has had to bring extra chairs in from the breakfast room."
"Aye, gentlemen are so shallow," Fanny declared, "losing their wits over a pretty face. They care not whether there is anything of substance beneath."
She did not bother to lower her voice, and Peter glanced at Miss Killian with concern. But though one or two of her gallants frowned in Fanny's direction, the object of the ill-natured attack appeared unmoved, though she must have heard.
"Not all gentlemen," Lucy reproved her sister. "Lord Peter clearly has not had his head turned by our cousin. He is able to see past such obvious charms —are you not, my lord?"
"I prefer to think so," he responded with perfect truth, for more than mere beauty drew him to Miss Killian.
Lucy preened, taking his words as a compliment to herself. "You are wise, my lord, as surface beauty always fades." She pursed her lips in an attempt at seductiveness that made her look as though she had bitten into a lemon.
Peter was spared from replying when three gentlemen rose to take their leave and two others were announced. Lady Mountheath seized the opportunity to put her own daughters in the way of so many eligible men by beckoning them over to take two of the chairs just vacated near Sarah. Peter followed more slowly, along with the new arrivals, Mr. Galloway and his cousin, Mr. Orrin.
"No, I hadn't heard," Sarah was saying in response to a bit of gossip from Lord Ribbleton, as Lord Peter took a seat at the edge of the circle about her. Though her spirits had risen at his entrance, she knew she would have to be more careful now. "As you can see, I'm not at all up on the latest news," she continued, ready to introduce the topic that most interested her.
At least three gentlemen instantly put themselves at her service, offering to tell her whatever she wished. She smiled, avoiding Lord Peter's eye.
"I scarcely know where to start," she said. "There are so many things of which I have heard only the merest mention. For example, this Saint of Seven Dials." She kept her voice light, as though she had picked the topic at random. "Who, or what, is he?"
"Some say a hero, others say a rogue," Mr. Galloway offered, moving his chair closer to her.
Sir Lawrence nodded. "A most mysterious thief, Miss Killian. The poor people idolize him, but he's been terrorizing the Upper Ten Thousand for two or three years now."
"He's a common criminal, if you ask me," Lord Ribbleton put in with a frown. "Stole a few rather valuable trinkets from me this summer past, in fact."
"Really? Did you catch a glimpse of him, my lord?" Sarah asked with what she hoped appeared only polite interest.
But to her disappointment, he shook his head. "Got clean away, as he always seems to do."
Lady Mountheath, her color high, declared, "He'll be caught eventually, mark my words. I can't think why you would be interested in such a low, vicious person, Miss Killian. I'll have you know he has robbed this house twice. Twice!" She fairly quivered with indignation.
Though startled, Sarah was reluctant to let the subject drop, now she had successfully introduced it. "Why, that's terrible, my lady," she exclaimed. "Can those in authority do nothing?"
Her ladyship sniffed. "It would appear not, despite the inducements we have offered them. At one point last spring, the Runners nearly had him. They traced some plate —our plate, mind you! —to a boy who was helping him. He was caught and imprisoned, but then he escaped. Escaped! From Newgate!"
"I heard that the Saint himself broke the boy out," Sir Lawrence said. "Disguised himself as a guard or some such. They say he can change his appearance to almost anything —like magic."
Lady Mountheath glared at him. "Pish! Bribed the guards, more like. Corruption is rampant among those sworn to uphold our laws and keep the citizenry safe, I have discovered. If the Saint is a nobleman, as some have postulated, I've no doubt he is paying the Runners off himself."
From what little her brother had told her about the Saint, Sarah was fairly certain he was a nobleman. But who? It was imperative she find out, so she could convince him to speak with William and keep him from attempting thievery on his own. Even more imperative than she'd realized, if William was already a suspect! Why had he said nothing about having been imprisoned?
"Surely, with so many clamoring for his capture, there must be rumors, at least, of his identity?" Sarah ventured.
"There have been several." Lord Peter spoke for the first time. "At one point last summer, even my own brother Marcus was under suspicion, absurd as it seems. At least, that was the only reason I could see for Mr. Paxton's inordinate interest in him. Clearly that came to nothing, however."
Sarah caught an edge to his voice, but if he'd thought his brother at risk, that would surely account for it.
"Interesting that the thefts stopped when your brother left London, however," Lord Ribbleton said, frowning. "How can you be so sure—?"
"Among numerous other reasons, because Marcus and his wife were with me when the last robbery was perpetrated," Lord Peter said sharply. "And though I grant you he's become more responsible since his marriage, I can't imagine he ever possessed the, ah, dedication attributed to the Saint."
Lady Mountheath made a rude noise. "Dedication, indeed! That last robbery you mention, my lord, took place in my very bedchamber!" She paused for dramatic effect. "The blackguard stole some very expensive jewelry right off of my dressing table as I slept. It's a wonder I wasn't murdered in my sleep."
Sarah gasped, her horror only partially assumed for Lady Mountheath's benefit. What daring the man must possess! "When was this, my lady?" she asked.
"Nearly two months since, but I declare my nerves have yet to recover." Lady Mountheath put a trembling hand to her throat while her daughters clucked over her.
"Then I should think a change of subject is in order," Lord Peter suggested.
Sarah glanced at him with some irritation, but on seeing his stiff expression she realized belatedly that he was right. It would not do to have her particular interest in the Saint noted —not that he could know that, of course.
"Yes, of course," she said. "What can you tell me of bonnets? I perceive that the brims worn in Town are not so deep as I observed in the country."
The others obediently turned the talk to matters of fashion, with the Mountheath ladies making frequent pronouncements that admitted of no argument. Lord Ribbleton and Sir Lawrence took their leave, while Mr. Galloway, Mr. Orrin and Lord Peter continued the conversation, all doing a much better job of including Lucy and Fanny than the others had done.
Sarah tried to listen, as it was quite true that she had much to learn about current fashions, but her attention was still on the earlier topic.
It appeared her brother was right that the Saint had ceased his operations, whether temporarily or permanently. Had he left London entirely? Not that it mattered, she realized. What was important was that William believe he meant to resume his activities, whether it was true or not. It was the only thing likely to keep him from attempting thievery himself.
But how to convince him of that, when she had no idea who the Saint of Seven Dials was?
She must discover more about the Saint, she decided —enough that she could concoct a believable story about having met the man. Perhaps she could even send a message to William, claiming it was from the Saint himself . . .
"—do you, Miss Killian?" Mr. Gallowa
y was asking.
Sarah blinked. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, feeling stupid. That her cousins shared that opinion was evident from their smirks and giggles.
"I was commenting that you don't appear to consider yourself an arbiter of fashion, as Lord Peter here does," Mr. Galloway explained. "I'm certain he—and your fair cousins —will be able to bring you bang up to the nines in no time, however."
Though Sarah did not like to agree with something that was clearly intended as both a dig at Lord Peter and a compliment to the Mountheath sisters, she could only nod. "No doubt," she said vaguely, earning another snigger from her cousins.
Rather than take offense, Lord Peter smiled. "With that view in mind, Miss Killian, might I persuade you to walk out with me this afternoon? I would be delighted to instruct you on the intricacies of fashion."
"And my cousin and I would be most happy of an opportunity to walk out with you, Miss Mountheath and Miss Fanny," said Mr. Galloway quickly, with a glance at Lady Mountheath's gathering frown. "If that would be acceptable, my lady?"
Though she appeared not at all pleased with these arrangements, she gave a stiff nod. "Very well. You may all call at five. But you'll have them out no more than an hour."
All three gentlemen then took their leave with promises to return in a few hours. The moment they were gone, Lady Mountheath lectured her daughters on the imprudence of encouraging fortune hunters, then turned to Sarah.
"And you, miss, will only look foolish by setting your sights too high. Never forget that your noble grandfather cast your mother off when she eloped, making her as much a nobody as your father was. No gentleman of standing will consider you eligible, and the other sort will be interested in something quite apart from matrimony."
"Of course, my lady," Sarah replied, though her cheeks burned. "I'm certain Lord Peter has only your interests in mind, that I might not embarrass you or my cousins by my dress."
"Yes, Mama, that is surely it," Lucy agreed. "Lord Peter made it quite plain earlier that he has no designs upon Miss Killian. In fact, he was quite attentive to me, was he not, Fanny?"
