by Brenda Hiatt
He shrugged slightly. "I have a reputation of acting the conscience to my more, ah, dissipated friends. Most would tell you I am a thorough stick-in-the-mud. No fun at all."
She couldn't quite contain a delicate snort of amusement. "Then I fear your friends don't know you particularly well, my lord, for that is not at all how I perceive you."
"You have known me but a few days. Perhaps my more boring qualities will manifest on further acquaintance." His brown eyes were twinkling.
"Perhaps," she said, not bothering to conceal her skepticism. "I will let you know if they do."
"An honest woman is above rubies." He bowed deeply. "And now, I'd best return you to Lady Mountheath or we'll both have a peal rung over us."
Realizing that time was short, she again turned the subject. "You were telling me of the Saint before. Is it certain he has ceased his operations?"
"I am wounded to find you as fascinated by the rogue as most of the other ladies in Town. Mere mortals like myself stand little chance against his formidable reputation, I fear." The look he slanted down at her made her heart flutter.
"But yes, I feel quite certain that he has . . . retired," he continued. "Previously, we could count on a report of some outrageous robbery every week or so, and now there's been none for some two months."
"Perhaps the sight of Lady Mountheath in her nightrail terrified him into a life of virtue," Sarah suggested.
He chuckled. "Would that it were so, but I fear that had little to do with it."
"What do you mean?" she asked, startled by what had almost appeared to be a flash of anger in his eyes.
"I'm sorry. It is not public knowledge, so I should not say."
She placed both hands on his arm, resolutely ignoring the thrill that went through her at the contact. "Please tell me."
He looked down at her, no trace of humor now on his face. "I have learned that the Saint's cessation of activity corresponded precisely with the capture of a notorious traitor. I believe that they were one and the same, and that the Saint was no hero at all. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"But . . . but what of his choice of victims? How—?"
"All a part of his false identity," he replied, staring past her with a coldness totally at odds with his normally genial face. "I'm sorry, Miss Killian, but I cannot bear to see you idolize such a man. Would that I could disabuse the rest of Society."
Sarah swallowed, chilled by the change in his manner. "Why can't you?" she couldn't help asking.
His smile was a mere mockery of the one he'd worn earlier. "They would never believe me, for one thing. For another, I do not know whether the investigation into the traitor's activities is complete. I would not wish to be the cause of even one of his accomplices escaping the gallows."
"I see," she said numbly, giving silent thanks that she had not yielded to her momentary temptation to tell him the truth about her brother. Surely, William could not have known—
"I did not mean to distress you," he said quickly. "I fear I have taken this rather— personally —because of certain events during the war. Come, let us speak of other things."
"Of course." It was more imperative than ever that she prevent William from becoming the Saint, she realized. And it appeared that the field was indeed open for her to implement her plan. Surely, a wicked plan. But if it was the only way to dissuade William from risk and folly . . .
Already they were nearing Mountheath House. "You have yet to give me any fashion advice," she pointed out before her silence could be marked.
"So I have. Whatever your cousins wear, choose something different. How is that?"
"As my wardrobe must be adapted from theirs, that may be difficult," she said, forcing a smile, "but I will endeavor to make as many changes as possible."
Just then, the front door of Mountheath House opened to reveal a bristling Lady Mountheath. "Miss Killian," she said in ominous tones, "I wish to speak with you. At once."
Sarah nodded, then turned back to Lord Peter. "Thank you for the walk, my lord. It was most . . . instructive."
"The pleasure was mine." He bowed deeply, first to her, then to Lady Mountheath. "Miss Killian, my lady, until tonight." With a touch of his finger to his hat brim, he turned and strolled jauntily away.
Sarah smiled after him for a long moment, before turning with an inward sigh toward the door, aware of the gathering rage on her benefactress's face. Wondering what she'd done this time— since surely, Lady Mountheath could not know about her indiscretion in the mews —she headed up the stairs.
"Yes, my lady?"
Clearly unwilling for any passersby to have food for gossip, she waited until the door was closed to round on Sarah. "How dare you walk home alone with Lord Peter? He has made his intentions toward Lucy quite clear, so do not think to go behind her back and steal his affections. Shameless. Shameless!"
"It was scarcely my idea for your daughters to ride ahead in a hackney, my lady," Sarah pointed out reasonably. "As I was not invited to join them, I had little choice in my manner of returning."
"Silence! I should have known that my kindness in allowing you into Society would be repaid by insolence. Considering your antecedants, I should have expected nothing else."
"I beg your—" Sarah began indignantly, but Lady Mountheath held up a hand to silence her.
"Clearly I have been too indulgent, leading you to a mistaken belief that you are somehow on a level with my own girls. Alas, it is too late to make your regrets for tonight's ball. Camilla, the Duchess of Wickburn, is one of my dearest friends and I would not offend her for the world. But you will oblige me by refusing any —any— invitations to dance. You may sit with the dowagers and companions, as is more fitting."
"But—"
"No arguments! Now, go to your room and make whatever alterations are necessary to the gowns you will find there. I have arranged an interview for you tomorrow morning with Lady Winslow, who is in need of a governess. If she is satisfied, you will start at once."
So, Sarah thought as she headed upstairs, Lady Mountheath had taken steps to get rid of the threat she posed immediately. She should be pleased, she knew, but working as a governess would afford her little opportunity to move among the upper classes. How would she choose the Saint's targets? And how would she contact her brother, once the job was done?
She reached her room and examined the faded lilac ballgown and the outdated gray uniform Lady Mountheath had laid out for her interview tomorrow. She suspected it had belonged to whoever had taught the Mountheath girls, once upon a time.
Her first foray as Saint of Seven Dials would have to occur at tonight's ball, she realized in sudden panic. It might be her only chance for some time, and she must prevent William from taking on the role himself, particularly in light of what Lord Peter had said. Perhaps Lady Mountheath's ban on dancing would work to her advantage.
Pulling out her measuring tape, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand in order to keep worry at bay. But she wasn't certain whether it was the possibility of getting caught that had her insides in such a turmoil, or the knowledge that once she started work as a governess, she would almost certainly never see Lord Peter again.
CHAPTER 7
Peter entered the ballroom with a sense of anticipation. He'd always liked the jovial Duke of Wickburn, an old friend of his father's. Of course the Duke of Marland would be in attendance as well, but Peter had become inured to his father's criticism over the years. More importantly, Sarah would be here.
Since that unwise but thoroughly enjoyable kiss this afternoon, he'd been able to think of little else. From her reaction, he was fairly sure it had been Sarah's first and he felt a totally inappropriate pleasure at knowing he'd been the one to give her that initial taste of romance.
For romantic that kiss had certainly been! Remembering its sweetness, its promise, he couldn't help feeling—
"I'm off to the card room," Harry said, breaking into his reverie.
Peter nodded absently. Wit
h an effort, he reminded himself that he still knew little about Sarah. He would try to remedy that, while doing his best to shield her from the Mountheaths' worst abuses. But first, he had to find her. The music had already begun, so he scanned the dance floor.
"Why, Lord Peter! I had begun to fear you would not attend." Lucy Mountheath, in a pink gown that emphasized the sallowness of her complexion, appeared without warning at his side.
"My apologies, Miss Mountheath," he replied, surreptitiously glancing past her in hopes of spotting Sarah. "At the last moment, I changed my mind about which cravat style I wished to wear." Sarah was nowhere in sight.
"Oh, I can certainly sympathize!" Lucy tittered. "This is the fourth gown I tried on tonight."
Peter stopped himself only just in time from telling her she should have gone for five. What was the matter with him?
"I still have several dances free," she informed him when he hesitated.
He managed a smile. "Then I trust you will do me the honor of partnering me for the next country dance." She was agreeing and simpering when he startled himself by adding, "I have not yet seen Miss Killian. Did she not attend?"
Lucy positively smirked. "No, she is here. I believe she is seated against the far wall, with the dowagers and companions."
"Indeed." Peter peered through the moving dancers, trying to spot Sarah among those seated on the far side of the ballroom. "If you will excuse me, Miss Mountheath? I promise to seek you out for our dance."
"So kind, my lord. If you should see Miss Killian, do remind her that she is not to dance. Mama was very clear on that point." Smiling sunnily, Lucy moved in the direction of Mr. Galloway —no doubt to inform him of her cousin's demotion to wallflower.
Wasting no more thought on the vindictive Lucy, Peter skirted the dancers, making his way to the row of chairs ranged against the far wall. There he finally spotted Sarah, looking like a rose among weeds, seated between a whey-faced companion and a dowager who must be near eighty.
"I give you good evening, Miss Killian," Peter said, sweeping her a courtly bow. "May I persuade you to dance?"
As he'd expected, she shook her head, her cheeks pinkening most becomingly with her embarrassment. "I fear I cannot, my lord. Lady Mountheath has forbidden it."
He raised his brows in mock surprise. "Afraid you will cast all of the other ladies in the shade, I take it?"
As he'd hoped, that elicited a faint smile. "That was not the reason she gave, no."
"Then, presuming she has not also forbidden you from walking, perhaps you might enlighten me as to her reasons as we take a turn about the room?"
She hesitated for a moment, glancing about the ballroom, but then shrugged almost imperceptibly. "She did not specifically say I could not move about the room, though she suggested I remain here. I would be delighted to walk with you, my lord."
He took her hand and raised her to her feet, his heart accelerating at her nearness. Really, he must get his emotions —or at least his physical response to them— under better control.
His first object, he reminded himself, must be to help her —no, to determine whether she even wanted, or needed, his help. "You were going to tell me what prompted Lady Mountheath to put further restrictions upon you."
"She feels my chances of employment may be greater if I do not become too visible in Society." She did not meet his eye.
"Then it was nothing to do with my keeping you too long on our walk this afternoon? I thought she looked rather vexed when I returned you to her."
"She was a trifle put out," she admitted after a moment's hesitation. "But it takes very little to vex her, as I'm sure you have observed."
Peter frowned. "I cannot like seeing you at the mercy of so capricious a guardian, Miss Killian. Is there no one else who might be willing to lend you countenance? If I can help in any way, you have only to ask."
She smiled up at him warmly, and he was conscious of an intense desire to protect her, to keep her smiling at all costs. Dangerous ground, that. Very dangerous.
"That is very kind of you, my lord. However, I fear—"
"Lord Peter!" Lucy Mountheath's strident voice cut off whatever Sarah had been about to say, to Peter's frustration. "You promised to seek me out, yet here I have had to search for you. I have it on good authority that a country dance is next."
Peter turned, converting a grimace into a courtly smile. "My apologies, Miss Mountheath. As I had not your prior knowledge, I hope you will forgive me."
"Of course." Lucy tittered a moment, then turned on Sarah, her lip curling. "Did not Mama tell you to remain on the sidelines, cousin? What do you here?"
Though Peter noted with approval that Sarah's chin lifted and her eyes flashed, he spoke before she could get into more trouble by defending herself.
"It is my fault, Miss Mountheath. I quite bullied Miss Killian into walking with me. No doubt she felt it would occasion less notice to accede than to continue resisting."
Sarah sent him a speaking glance that said as clearly as words that she was quite capable of fighting her own battles, but Lucy Mountheath had already turned away with a sniff.
"We'll just see what Mama has to say about it. Come, Lord Peter, our dance is beginning."
Casting a look of apology over his shoulder, Peter allowed himself to be dragged to the dance floor, determined to dissuade Lucy from bearing tales to her mother before the conclusion of the dance. Somehow, protecting Miss Killian seemed as natural as breathing. In fact, dangerous or not, he realized it was fast becoming an obsession, no matter who—or what—she proved to be.
* * *
Though she had to admit she was coming to care far more for Lord Peter than was wise, Sarah watched him depart with more relief than regret. She had begun to fear she would have no chance at all this evening to put her plan into action.
On her own for the moment, she surveyed the room and its occupants with a considering eye. Her first task, of course, must be to choose an appropriate target—a target in keeping with the Saint's modus operandi. It was a pity Lady Mountheath had already been robbed twice, as she was the epitome of the perfect victim. Perhaps someone Lady Mountheath considered a good friend?
Recalling her earlier comment about the Duchess of Wickburn, Sarah looked for her hostess. As it happened, she was at that moment deep in conversation with Lady Mountheath herself, and indeed seemed on intimate terms with her. Sarah recalled the woman's supercilious nod when she had been introduced to her upon arriving at the ball, drawing a clear distinction between Sarah and the Mountheath daughters. Yes, she would do nicely.
Her gaze shifted then to the Duke of Wickburn and she hesitated. He seemed a pleasant enough man, and had greeted her quite kindly. She would therefore try to take something that the Duchess would miss more than the Duke would. Jewelry, perhaps.
Slowly, nodding and smiling at any acquaintances she passed, Sarah made her way toward the Duchess, pondering how she might accomplish her aim without getting caught. She was almost near enough to eavesdrop on the Duchess' conversation with Lady Mountheath when she was accosted by Sir Lawrence Winslow.
"Miss Killian," he exclaimed. "I am astonished to see you at liberty. Might I persuade you to relinquish it for my sake?"
Sarah managed a smile. "I fear I cannot, sir. Lady Mountheath has requested I not dance tonight."
"Not dance!" he exclaimed in evident horror. "Why, that is to deprive the entire company of the pleasure of seeing you on the floor —not to mention depriving me of a favorite partner. I will speak with her at once, to intervene on your behalf."
"No, you must not, sir. She will think I asked you to do so, which she will see as disobedience on my part." She had already dissuaded more than one gentleman from attempting that gallantry by similar arguments, but Sir Lawrence, who loved to dance, proved more stubborn.
"Fear not, Miss Killian. I will make it quite clear that the request comes from myself alone. We cannot have the brightest jewel in Town sitting upon the sidelines!" He hea
ded determinedly in Lady Mountheath's direction while Sarah followed more slowly.
"Lady Mountheath," Sir Lawrence exclaimed upon reaching his object, heedless of her ongoing conversation with the Duchess. "I wish to beg a boon from you."
Both ladies turned to regard him with rather affronted surprise. "Yes?"
Sarah expected him to retreat at Lady Mountheath's icy tone, but he was undeterred. "I am simply perishing to partner Miss Killian in the next dance, but she tells me you have forbidden it. Pray grant her a dispensation, for my sake." He cast a longing glance Sarah's way that she doubted would help her case.
Nor did it. "I'm sorry, Sir Lawrence, but allowing my ward to make a spectacle of herself is to hurt her chances for employment. I am doing her a kindness by preventing that, I assure you."
"Indeed," the duchess agreed with a frown in Sarah's direction. "From what Lady Mountheath tells me, the girl needs her spirits dampened, not excited by young bucks such as yourself."
"But—" he began, only to be interrupted by the Duke of Wickburn, who joined the group just then.
"What seems to be the fuss? Ah, Miss Killian! Come join us."
Completely unable to refuse the summons of a duke, Sarah came forward. "Yes, your grace," she said, sinking into her deepest curtsey. What had Sir Lawrence gotten her into?
"Your grace," said Sir Lawrence with a bow, "I was merely trying to convince Lady Mountheath to allow her young cousin to stand up with me."
"And there is some problem with that?" asked the duke.
Lady Mountheath repeated her explanation, the duchess adding her agreements, but the duke waved a hand before they had finished.
"Nonsense. A pretty gel like this would be wasted as a governess. She'd do much better to marry, in my opinion. Let her dance, Lady Mountheath, let her socialize, and you'll have her off your hands in no time, mark my words. I'll look to see her at the embassy reception tomorrow night, as well."
