The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Her sister nodded, but added, "I still find Mr. Galloway more charming, Lucy. He and Mr. Orrin both have a very pretty way with words, don't you think?"

  The sisters went off into whispers and giggles until their mother resumed her diatribe on fortune hunters.

  Sarah paid none of them any attention, her mind already on her upcoming walk with Lord Peter. She must somehow guide their conversation back to the Saint of Seven Dials. He seemed remarkably well informed, and could very likely tell her all she needed to know to dissuade William from his dangerous plan.

  Most importantly, she would not allow herself to weave any silly hopes about Lord Peter's invitation, for to do so would only be to court disappointment, as Lady Mountheath said. He was kind —and curious about her—but nothing more.

  She was almost certain of it.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Yes, Holmes, I'm sure that's it. Thank you." Peter added the name of Miss Pritchard's Seminary for Young Ladies to his page of notes. "Nothing in Debrett's Peerage links the name Killian to that of Mountheath, however. How go your inquiries?"

  His valet, whose service had long extended beyond mere matters of dress, shook his head. "Nothing yet, my lord. It's such a common Irish name, ferreting out this particular branch is proving difficult. Give me time, however."

  "You have my complete confidence, as always. The bottle green, I think," Peter added as his man held up two coats for his inspection. He turned so that Holmes could help him into the tight-fitting coat, then smoothed it over his gold-on-gold waistcoat. "Have you tried Doctor's Commons or Somerset House?"

  "I have an appointment at the former and intend to make one at the latter in the morning," Holmes replied with a bow.

  "Good man. I'll be off, then." Picking up his hat and stick, Peter headed out for his walk with the mysterious Miss Killian —whom he hoped would not be a mystery much longer.

  Though Miss Killian was ready when Peter arrived, Lady Mountheath insisted that they wait until her daughters came down.

  "Mr. Galloway and Mr. Orrin will be here momentarily, and it will arouse less— talk— if all of you walk out together." She sent a sharp glance Miss Killian's way, making Peter wonder what sort of lecture the poor girl had already been subjected to.

  The "poor girl" merely smiled, however, and set her parasol aside. Remembering that she had lacked one during their drive, Peter glanced at the parasol and noticed that its lacy folds had been mended in spots. Another hand-me-down. Had Miss Killian come to London with nothing of her own?

  The bell sounded then, and the other two gentlemen were announced. After pleasantries and a few minutes of idle conversation, the Mountheath sisters finally made their appearance.

  "Ah, Fanny, how well that gown becomes you!" Lady Mountheath exclaimed. "And Lucy, that blue piping brightens your eyes beautifully. Do you not agree, gentlemen?"

  All made murmurs of agreement, then Peter held out his arm to Miss Killian. "Shall we go, then?"

  A moment later, the six of them were walking down the pavement in the direction of Hyde Park. As usual, Lucy Mountheath took control of the conversation, this time with a detailed critique of what every woman had worn to last night's ball. She and Mr. Galloway were in the lead, followed by Fanny and Mr. Orrin, with Peter and Miss Killian bringing up the rear. After listening to Lucy's monologue for half a block, Peter slowed his steps slightly and leaned his head toward his partner.

  "It is a fine afternoon for a walk, is it not?" he asked softly, so as not to draw the attention of the others.

  "Indeed," she agreed, glancing ahead at her cousins. "And for my promised lesson on fashion."

  Her look told him she knew perfectly well that was not his true reason for inviting her out, and he grinned down at her, tacitly admitting she was right. "I believe there is nothing wrong with your fashion sense that better funding would not remedy," he said. "Judging by the alterations you have made to gowns that were undoubtedly hopeless when new, I should say you have a good eye."

  She pinkened slightly and fixed her gaze on the street ahead. "Necessity is an excellent teacher, my lord."

  Peter cursed his clumsiness. "I meant that entirely as a compliment, Miss Killian. As your circumstances are clearly beyond your control, I cannot imagine reproaching you with them."

  Though she smiled, she still did not meet his eye. "I fear not many in Society share your forbearance. However, as Society was never my aim, I should not let that bother me unduly."

  He could see, however, that it did indeed bother her more than she would admit. "And what is your aim, Miss Killian?" he asked even more softly.

  "Employment," she replied after the barest hesitation. "I came to London in hopes of a governess post. Pray let me know if you hear of any openings, my lord."

  Peter looked down at her upturned face, regarding him almost defiantly. Only the fact that they were in full public view prevented him from kissing her thoroughly on the spot.

  "I'll keep my ears open." The thought of her immured in some schoolroom until her beauty faded and her disposition soured bothered him more than he cared to admit. If he learned more of her, perhaps he could help her. Before he could broach the topic of her background, however, she asked a question of her own.

  "Earlier, I had the impression that you were well acquainted with the rumors surrounding the Saint of Seven Dials. Can you tell me more? I find myself quite curious about him."

  Peter stiffened, then forced himself to relax before she could notice. Almost every lady he knew was fascinated by the Saint, after all. In fact, he himself had rather admired the man's daring until recently learning he was a traitor.

  As Miss Killian had clearly changed the subject merely to deflect further inquiry about herself, he obliged her with an answer. "Indeed, I have followed his career with interest from the start. I do love a mystery, you know."

  Was he unwise to put her on notice that he meant to solve hers? He was fairly sure she'd guessed that already —and his words were perfectly true.

  "How long has he been operating?" she asked then. "And how did he come by his nickname?"

  They turned from Mount Street onto Park Lane as she spoke and, while waiting to cross it, were forced to stand too near the others to continue their conversation unmarked. Not until they continued on toward the Park did Peter reply, his words masked by an argument that had broken out between the Mountheath sisters as to whether Miss Partridge's or Lady Durkle's gown had been an uglier shade of green.

  "The beginning of the Saint's career is a bit murky," Peter said as they approached the Park gates. "His increasing audacity finally brought him to the attention of the authorities —and the newspapers. An enterprising journalist, struck by the Robin Hood parallel, dubbed him the Saint of Seven Dials, and the name stuck."

  "And how long ago was that?"

  Peter knew the exact date of that column, but he only said, "More than two years since, though I did not pay close attention until the following summer."

  In fact, he had left for the Congress of Vienna only a few weeks after that article had appeared. Not until his return, desperately needing new distraction from his memories of the war, had he turned his attention to the mystery of the Saint. It had diverted his mind —for a while —but he would have worked more diligently to solve the puzzle had he guessed the truth.

  "I take it he had already become a celebrity of sorts by then?" she prompted when his silence lengthened.

  "What? Oh, yes, quite. The cartoonists had a heyday depicting ladies —even the royal duchesses —swooning over a masked bandit as he picked the pockets of their husbands. His calling card became such a byword for daring that reproductions were sold in shops for a while, until Bow Street put a stop to it. The Saint was enough of an embarrassment to them already."

  "Calling card? He uses a calling card? My, that is bold of him," Miss Killian said. "What does it look like —or does he no longer use it?"

  "He was still using it two months ago, when he terrorized Lady Mo
untheath. She found one in her ribbon box."

  "As I'm sure she told anyone who would listen."

  "Indeed." Peter smiled in spite of himself. "It was a simple card, really —a black numeral seven topped by a golden oval —a halo. So easy to reproduce that I'd be surprised if every theft attributed to the Saint was really committed by him."

  Could it be, he suddenly wondered, that the Black Bishop was not the original Saint? Perhaps he had murdered or bribed the legendary thief, then taken over his role in order to continue his treasonous activities right here in London.

  As Lord Peter paused, Sarah stared into space, a completely outrageous idea seizing her brain. No, no, surely it would not be possible—

  "Miss Killian?"

  With a start, she realized she had stopped walking; the others were now some way ahead. "Oh! Pardon me. It's just . . . I have never seen swans so large before," she said, gesturing vaguely toward a nearby pond. "They are beautiful, are they not?"

  "I've always thought so," Lord Peter agreed, regarding her curiously. Not surprising, as her excuse had sounded feeble even to her own ears.

  Moving forward again, she tried to pick up the thread of their conversation about the Saint. She would need more information, if she came up with no better idea. "So, my lord, were you never robbed by the Saint? You seem more amused than affronted by his exploits."

  He frowned. "I wouldn't say that. But I am not rich enough to offer a tempting target, nor, I hope, do I possess the other attributes that distinguished his victims."

  "What attributes to you mean?"

  "One thing that made the Saint seem so heroic was how he selected his targets," he explained. "To the best of my knowledge, he never robbed anyone I would care to call a friend."

  Sarah was still confused. "Do you mean he only steals from those of lower class? But I thought . . . The Mountheaths—"

  "No, no, you mistake me. In fact, rather the opposite. He only stole from those who could afford the loss, and from those who, well, seemed to deserve it."

  A light broke upon her. "Oh, I see! Then . . . the more unpleasant a person is—a rich person, of course —the more likely he is to be a victim of the Saint? That certainly explains why Lady Mountheath has been robbed twice!" She couldn't help laughing, though she glanced ahead to make certain the sisters were still out of earshot.

  "Precisely." His mouth twisted with something that might have been amusement. "That's one reason so many people believed the Saint must be a member of the ton, though of course servants have a gossip network quite as extensive as their employers do. Still, it's easier for a gentleman to ape a servant than the reverse, and the Saint appears to have taken many guises."

  Many guises. Surely not the one Sarah was considering! Before she could pursue that outlandish thought, she realized they had caught up with the Mountheath sisters and their escorts.

  "I declare, walking is my favorite form of exercise," Lucy was saying, while moving more and more slowly. "So healthy!"

  Fanny nodded. "Indeed. We keep saying we must do more of it." Her voice was as breathless as her sister's.

  Mr. Galloway was all concern. "Have we tired you? I fear I did not consider . . . that is, I walk so often—"

  "Not being in possession of a carriage," Lord Peter whispered to Sarah. "His entire income appears to be spent on his wardrobe —which is always bang up to the nines, to give him credit."

  "Tired?" Lucy responded with a lightness that was marred by the small gasp following the word. "Not in the least. However, it does look like rain— indeed I feel a drop or two now."

  Fanny glanced up at the now-cloudy sky. "Oh, dear! And this is a new bonnet. We'd best head for home at once."

  "No need, no need," Mr. Orrin declared. "We will call for a hackney. I'd not have your esteemed mother deny us your company in future on grounds we are injurious to your health —or bonnets."

  "That would be handsome of you, sir," Lucy said with a simper. "I should hate to have my silk ribbons rain-spotted."

  "Consider it done, then," said Mr. Galloway with a bow. They all headed back to the Park gates, where the gentlemen were able to flag down a passing hackney cab. It was a small one, allowing for only two passengers, but the Mountheath sisters stepped up to it at once.

  "Thank you ever so much, kind sirs," Lucy exclaimed, holding out her hand to be helped into the conveyance.

  "But . . . Miss Killian—" Mr. Galloway began, but Lucy waved her other hand airily.

  "Our dear cousin can make it back on foot, I am certain. She is wearing nothing that will be harmed by a sprinkle of rain."

  Sarah hid a smile at what was clearly intended as an insult. "Quite true. I much prefer to walk, in any event. Pray have no concern on my account."

  "And you can trust me to see her home safely," Lord Peter added, drawing a quick frown from Lucy.

  Her concern for her ribbons apparently overcame any jealousy, however, for she said, "I thank you, my lord. Your willingness to discommode yourself for my comfort is most gallant indeed."

  He bowed, hiding his face from the Misses Mountheath, but Sarah was able to discern the twitching of his lips. "At your service, as always," he murmured, a slight quaver in his voice.

  Mr. Orrin paid the driver, who then whipped up the horse and headed back to Berkley Square. The remaining four stood where they were for a moment, before Mr. Galloway asked whether Sarah would require all of their escorts.

  "No indeed, Mr. Galloway, though I thank you for the thought," she replied quickly. In fact, she was quite eager for more private conversation with Lord Peter. She still had a few details to fill in before she could decide whether her plan was too impossible to attempt.

  "We will take our leave of you, then," said Mr. Orrin, inclining his head. "No doubt we will see you at the Wickburn ball tonight."

  "No doubt," Sarah agreed, though after what Lady Mountheath had said earlier she considered it by no means a certainty. The two gentlemen headed off at a brisk walk that made her suspect they had something more important —or enjoyable —to do just then.

  Lord Peter again held out his arm to her. "As I don't wish to exceed the allotted hour and incur Lady Mountheath's wrath, I suppose we should turn our steps toward Berkley Square. Unless you'd like me to hail another hackney?"

  "That's not the least bit necessary, my lord," she replied. "It is barely raining at all, and I was being quite truthful when I said I prefer walking. It's the only form of transportation that was available to us in Cumberland."

  He smiled down at her, making her stomach do an odd little flip. "I suspected as much. Tell me more about your life in Cumberland."

  She fought a sudden tingle of alarm. But what harm could it do, really? He already knew she was an orphan, that her school was a charitable concern. Additional details would not reveal her prior life on the London streets.

  "There is little to tell," she said, hoping he had not marked her hesitation. "Frigid winters but pleasant summers, days spent in the classroom, evenings in study and prayer. Never quite enough to eat, though we did not starve."

  "Not unlike my own boarding school, though lacking some of the comforts, from the sound of it," he commented. "Certainly, we never lacked for food— quite the opposite, as I recall."

  "There was food enough in the kitchens. Miss, ah, the headmistress simply had odd notions about the healthfulness of small portions. Luckily for us, the larder was not guarded at night," she said with a grin.

  "Why, Miss Killian, I am shocked!" He laughed aloud. "I had always assumed girls were far better behaved at school than boys. Never tell me you yourself pillaged the pantries!"

  "Of course I will tell you no such thing," she said primly, though she knew her smile betrayed her.

  In fact, she had been the only one to make regular nocturnal forays to the kitchen, though the other girls had been glad enough to share the bounty. Perhaps she was more fitted for her outrageous scheme than she'd realized.

  They had reached the corner of
Berkley Square, but Lord Peter paused at the entrance to the mews, still chuckling. Glancing up, Sarah found him regarding her with amusement.

  "You are quite the original, you know, Miss Killian. I can't recall ever enjoying a stroll so much. I do hope you know that if I can ever be of service to you, in any capacity whatsoever, you need only ask." The laughter had gone now —he was quite serious.

  For a wild moment she was tempted to tell him about her brother, about what he intended, and what she was considering to prevent him. "I— that is—" she stammered, trying to remember why that would be a mistake.

  A light kindled behind his kind brown eyes and he leaned closer. "I do care, you know," he whispered.

  She nodded helplessly, not sure if she feared he would kiss her or feared he would not. The moment seemed frozen in time, his lips hovering only inches from hers. She was afraid to move or speak, unwilling to break the spell that seemed cast over them both. Nervously, she licked her lips, just the barest moistening, and felt a tremor run through his arm, still under her hand.

  "Miss Killian . . . Sarah," he said hoarsely, lowering his lips to hers for her first kiss.

  It was a light kiss, a gentlemanly kiss, but something burned just below the surface that both thrilled and frightened her. After what seemed the barest moment, he straightened, an alarm in his eyes that she was certain was echoed in her own.

  "My profound apologies! I never meant . . . that is, I pray you will forgive me taking such a liberty, Miss Killian." His ears reddening, he glanced back toward the square. She did the same, and was relieved to see no one looking their way.

  "Of course. I, ah . . . I hope you don't think . . . I mean—" What on earth did she mean?

  He was smiling again, his color returning to normal. "I think you nothing but charming, and completely free of blame in the matter," he assured her gallantly. "Let it put you on your guard, however, for if someone like me can be tempted to steal a kiss, you can be sure the idea has occurred to many other gentlemen."

  "Someone like you, my lord?" He was as handsome —and vigorous —as any gentleman of her acquaintance, even if he did favor brightly colored waistcoats.