by Brenda Hiatt
"Of course, your grace," said Lady Mountheath stiffly, inclining her head. The duchess raised one supercilious brow but did not dare to contradict her husband.
Sir Lawrence beamed. "Well, that's just famous. Thank you, your grace. Miss Killian, shall we?"
Sarah accompanied him to a set just forming, glad of an excuse to avoid Lady Mountheath's eye. She would pay for this later, she knew, but for now she might as well enjoy herself.
That proved more difficult than she expected, however. Though Sir Lawrence and the other gentlemen in the set chatted pleasantly, she found her mind straying to her plans for the evening. Would a "Saintly" theft still be possible, or must she abandon her scheme entirely?
At the conclusion of the dance, numerous gentlemen came forward to claim her for others. She consented to dance with those she had regretfully rebuffed earlier, but kept the waltzes and one or two other dances free. To preserve a chance of carrying out her plan, she told herself, unconsciously scanning the assembly for Lord Peter Northrup.
"Miss Killian?" Lord Ribbleton broke into her thoughts.
"Oh! Yes, my lord, of course," she said, taking his arm for the next dance. "I fear I am still easily distracted at such large gatherings."
He smiled down at her, a suggestive smile she did not entirely like. "Such an innocent," he said. "I admire that in a woman."
Sarah smiled back, tempted to tell him she was no such thing, but the start of the cotillion prevented such an indiscretion. Out of the corner of her eye, she identified Lord Peter in the next set, partnering Fanny Mountheath. Lucy and Mr. Galloway were the next couple along.
Fortunately, Lord Ribbleton required little from her in the way of conversation, freeing her to consider how she might slip away from the ballroom to make her way upstairs, where the Duchess was apt to keep her jewelry. Unless it were in a safe somewhere, in which case it would be beyond her skills to obtain.
"Is something wrong, Miss Killian?" Lord Ribbleton asked as the dance brought them back together.
Belatedly realizing she'd been frowning, Sarah quickly smoothed her brow. "No, I was simply focusing on my steps. I've had little practice dancing in public," she added truthfully.
Mr. Pottinger partnered her for the next dance, a reel. This time Lord Peter was in the same set, opposite a very pretty lady she hadn't yet met. A pang of something that might just possibly be jealousy assailed her. Lord Peter glanced her way, and she quickly looked up at Mr. Pottinger and laughed, though he was in the middle of an involved and rather boring account of a cricket match. A surreptitious glance showed Lord Peter frowning. Good.
The music began, and the couples moved down the dance, changing partners as they went. When she found herself opposite Lord Peter, she tried for an indifferent air.
"I thought you were not allowed to dance tonight," he murmured as he bowed and took her arm for the turn.
"Lady Mountheath relented, at Sir Lawrence's urging," she replied, wishing she had the courage to ask who his partner was—and why he had asked her to dance.
"Quite the hero, Sir Lawrence, to beard the dragon," he said, bowing again as the dance forced them to move on down the line. Had she imagined an edge to his voice?
His pretty partner was beside her now, and she tried to catch some of her conversation with Mr. Orrin in hopes of learning her name. She was rewarded by hearing him call her Lady Beatrice as he made his second bow, before the dance moved her out of earshot.
They came back to their original partners to conclude the dance, promenading in turn up and down the line. It was all Sarah could do to maintain her carefree smile as she watched Lord Peter and Lady Beatrice sashay along. How could she have been so foolish to think he might care for her— her, with no title, no lineage, no fortune —when women like that were available?
The next dance was one she'd kept free, so she took the opportunity to go to the ladies' withdrawing room with the vague plan of looking for a back exit that might allow her access to the upper floors unobserved. Several other ladies were there, so she made a business of repinning the sash of her gown, waiting for the room to empty.
"Wherever did you find such a scrumptious shade of blue, Lady Beatrice?"
At the name, Sarah turned her head sharply to see the lady who had just partnered Lord Peter in conversation with two others.
"Papa ordered it specially from Paris," the beauty replied with a shake of curls a darker gold than Sarah's. "It is the very latest French glacé silk. Madame Fanchot was quite in alt about making it up into a gown for me."
The others tittered and sighed as Lady Beatrice went on to catalogue what her lace had cost in addition to the silk. Sarah thoughtfully regarded the sapphires and diamonds dripping from the young lady's throat, wondering if she need venture upstairs after all. But how—?
"I've snagged my necklace on the lace, however, and cannot seem to free it. I should hate to injure the lace, after the trouble Papa had getting it from Bruges."
Almost without thought, Sarah stepped forward. "May I be of assistance?"
"Why, thank you, Miss—?"
"Killian. Miss Sarah Killian. Lady Mountheath's ward."
"Lady Beatrice Bagford." The beauty inclined her head. "Lucy Mountheath mentioned you, I believe. You are looking for a position as a lady's maid, or some such?"
It was an undeniable insult, but Sarah clung to her smile, mindful of her goal. "Something like that. I'm certain I can untangle the chain from your lace."
Lady Beatrice turned her back to Sarah to permit her to try, while the other ladies, after a quizzical glance and some whispering among themselves, headed back to the ballroom. It took Sarah only a second or two to free the necklace, but as she could scarcely steal it now unnoticed, she continued to fumble with the lace edging.
"I almost have it," she said, opening the clasp of the necklace and snagging both ends of the chain on the lace. That should hold long enough for Lady Beatrice to return to the ballroom, but not much longer than that. "There."
To her relief, Lady Beatrice did not reach behind her to check. "Thank you, Miss Killian. I expect you will find a position soon enough." She swept out of the room with Sarah close behind.
The dance was still in progress, which allowed Sarah to follow Lady Beatrice to the refreshment table, keeping a discreet distance. When the beauty paused to curtsey to the Duke and Duchess of Wickburn, the sabotaged necklace slipped free. Lady Beatrice rose, the necklace on the floor at her feet, apparently unnoticed for the moment. Sarah moved forward more quickly.
"Your graces, I wished to thank you again for welcoming me to your home, and for your intervention on my behalf with Lady Mountheath," Sarah said, curtseying deeply as she spoke —on the exact spot where Lady Beatrice had curtsied.
"The pleasure is ours, Miss Killian," the duke replied, taking her hand to help her rise. With her other hand, Sarah scooped up the necklace, hiding it in the folds of her skirt.
"Of course," agreed the duchess sourly.
"Too kind," Sarah murmured, keeping her head lowered as the duke and duchess moved on, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She found the slit in her skirt and dropped the necklace into one of the large pockets she'd tied about her waist against just such an opportunity as this. Then, feeling far more wicked than she'd expected to, she made her own way to the refreshment table.
As the evening progressed, Sarah was guiltily aware of the illicit weight against her left hip. More than once she nearly gave in to guilt, only preventing herself from returning the necklace by reminding herself of the danger William would face as the Saint of Seven Dials.
Her severest test came near midnight, when Lady Beatrice suddenly realized her necklace was gone. The news filtered around the room as people began to search for it, reaching Sarah as she finished a dance with Lord Peter— their first of the evening.
"Sapphires, she said," Lady Jeller told them as they left the floor. "You haven't seen it by chance, have you?"
Lord Peter shook his head, but
Sarah felt as though a hand had gripped her throat, cutting off her air. Did she look as guilty as she felt? Lady Jeller seemed not to notice anything odd, however.
"Do keep an eye open, won't you? Apparently the center sapphire alone cost Lord Sherbourne nearly one hundred pounds. He had the necklace specially made for her last birthday."
Sarah knew her grip on Lord Peter's arm had tightened, and he now looked at her curiously. She had to say something— anything.
"One hundred pounds for a single stone," she gasped, staggered by the enormity of what she'd done. "I . . . I had no idea—"
Oddly, Lord Peter's expression became sympathetic. "For someone who has lived as you have, I'm sure the excesses of the wealthy are rather shocking. And Lady Beatrice possesses many such baubles, as her father is so indulgent."
Her moment of temptation passed, Lord Peter's words reinforcing her belief that Lady Beatrice could well afford the loss of one "bauble" that might well save her brother's life. The next challenge would be to blame the Saint for the theft, and then to get the jewels to William in a way he would attribute to the legendary thief.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Lord Peter said as the silence lengthened between them.
She mustn't forget how perceptive he was, nor underestimate him in any way, she reminded herself. "I, ah, was trying to recall whether I had promised the next dance to anyone." The strains of a waltz began just then. "No, clearly not." She answered her own question with a smile.
"If Sir Lawrence was able to persuade Lady Mountheath to let you dance, perhaps I can persuade her to allow you to waltz," Lord Peter suggested.
"You forget, my lord, that I do not know how," she reminded him. "Besides, she was quite reluctant to grant the first dispensation, so I dare not try for another so soon. She only relented because the Duke of Wickburn took Sir Lawrence's part."
Lord Peter guided her toward the edge of the ballroom. "I am relieved to learn that Sir Lawrence does not merit full heroic honors. The prospect of such competition was quite unnerving."
Though his meaning seemed clear, she glanced up at him in surprise. "Competition? For what?" Belatedly, she realized she might sound as though she were soliciting compliments, but it was too late to recall the question.
"For your attention, of course," he replied, his expression warm. "I find myself quite jealous of it— though I should not say so, I suppose."
She thought she understood why. "You need not fear I will form . . . unrealistic expectations, my lord," she said quickly.
"Why unrealistic? It is not as though I can claim any exalted stature."
Confused, she dropped her gaze. "But of course you can, my lord. Is not your father a duke? Your lineage would appear to be impeccable." Unlike mine, she added silently.
He responded as though she had spoken the words aloud. "Just as wealth does not denote a person's worth, neither does the accident of birth. I can scarcely claim credit for who my parents happen to be."
"But Society gives you that credit just the same," she pointed out. "Can you truly claim to see no difference between someone highborn and baseborn?" Though she knew it was a bold question, she held his eye, needing quite desperately to know his honest answer.
His smile was wry and self-aware. "No, I suppose I can't claim that, though I can wish to claim it. The distinctions of class have been impressed upon me from birth, making them impossible to ignore completely."
"And why should you wish to be so different from your peers?" she asked, not wanting him to feel she condemned his perfectly natural attitude. "I also cannot escape that consciousness, nor, I suspect, can anyone born and raised in England. Pray remember that class distinctions have served our country well for centuries, giving our people a secure sense of place within a necessary hierarchy."
"Was that part of a lecture from one of your teachers?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "I must compliment you on your powers of retention, if so."
In fact, it had come from a lesson she herself had taught. "I remembered it because it rang true for me," she said. "Much as I might wish my own place on that ladder were . . . different, I refuse to condemn the system which created the ladder."
The respect in his eyes was gratifying, even if his agreement was rather depressing. "Nor do I condemn it. Without distinctions of class, we would have anarchy and chaos, I doubt not. But that does not mean a person cannot attempt to better himself —or herself— through honest means."
She suddenly, painfully recalled the jewels concealed inside her dress. Surely he didn't suspect—? But no, there was nothing of suspicion in his expression, merely an enjoyment of their debate and an eagerness to convince her of his viewpoint.
"No, of course it does not mean that," she agreed, somewhat distractedly. His voice, his nearness, had almost made her forget what she still had to accomplish tonight, but now she realized her time was running short.
"There! That is the signal for supper," he said as the waltz ended. "May I persuade you to accompany me so that we may continue this most stimulating discussion?"
Supper! Her time was even shorter than she'd realized. At the Plumfield ball, the Mountheaths had left soon after supper. "I would like that," she said, "but first I need to, ah, visit the necessary."
"Of course." His dark blue eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. Or . . . pleasure?
No matter. "I will return in a moment," she said, knowing it would likely be longer, if all went well.
She made her way back to the ladies' withdrawing room, and was relieved to find it deserted. She desperately needed this chance to think, to figure out her best course of action.
Earlier that evening, she had carefully created a few "Saint" cards, cutting heavy paper into appropriately-sized rectangles with her sewing scissors and drawing a seven and a halo on each one with black and gold ink she had borrowed from Lord Mountheath's study. But how to use them now? She could scarcely slip one down the back of Lady Beatrice's dress!
No, she would have to attempt her original plan. Quickly, before anyone could enter and see her, she explored the room. Yes, there was a back entrance, doubtless for the use of the maids that emptied the chamber pots. The narrow door opened onto a dimly-lit passage with a staircase. Slipping through it, Sarah crept quietly up the stairs.
The family's chambers would likely be on the floor above the ballroom, so at the top of the first flight she tiptoed down another narrow passage to listen at the door there. Silence. Stealthily, she pushed the door open to find herself at one end of a wide, well-lit hallway with doors on either side.
Which chamber would belong to the Duchess? Probably one of the front rooms, she decided, heading forward. But just as she reached for the handle of the right-hand door, she heard steps behind her. Someone was coming up the servants' staircase!
Quickly, her heart in her throat, she whisked through the door, thanking providence that it was not locked, and closed it softly behind her. The steps in the hallway came nearer, and she glanced wildly about, looking for a hiding place in case the maid came into this room.
It appeared she had guessed correctly, as the furnishings she could see by the light of a small oil lamp were both exquisite and feminine. Her glance fell on the long draperies by the front window and almost without thought she scurried across the room to slip behind them, feeling as though she were ten years old again.
She had scarcely concealed herself before the door opened. There were sounds of footsteps, then a scrape and a crackle. Whoever it was must be lighting the fire in the grate, so that a cheery blaze would greet the duchess when she retired. More sounds indicated water being poured into a ewer, then some soft rustling. Sarah felt an ominous tickling in her nose, but dared not move. She held her breath, sternly willing herself not to sneeze.
Finally, after an agonizing eternity, she heard the door open and close again. An instant later, she sneezed. Horrified, she peeked from the draperies and found to her relief that the maid had indeed left. The bed was turn
ed down, a lacy nightrail laid across the silken counterpane.
The added glow of the newly-lit fire revealed the most opulent room she'd ever seen. Why, the bedstead alone must have cost hundreds of pounds, with all of that rich carving. She had no time for ogling, however.
If the duchess kept any jewelry in her chamber, it would likely be on or in her dressing table, Sarah decided. A quick search of that item revealed a pair of diamond earrings —small, but undoubtedly valuable. The truly expensive jewels would no doubt be in a safe, but after hearing what Lady Beatrice's necklace was worth, she didn't have the courage to take anything so valuable again —at least, not yet.
She checked the other drawers of the table and found a dozen gold guineas. You can do this, she told herself. Quickly, before she could reconsider, she put the earrings and guineas into the pocket with Lady Beatrice's necklace. She then placed one of the cards she'd made in the center of the dressing table.
After listening at the chamber door and hearing nothing, Sarah quietly exited the room and retraced her path, blessing her luck when she met no servants along the way. Her breathing and heart rate began to return to normal as she let herself back into the ladies' withdrawing room and stepped around the screen.
Only to find herself face to face with Lady Mountheath.
"So! You have found yet another way to embarrass me," she said accusingly.
CHAPTER 8
Peter was growing increasingly worried. Sarah had not appeared ill when she'd gone to the necessary, but after nearly half an hour he began to fear something terrible had befallen her. Still, it had probably been unwise to say anything about her absence to Lady Mountheath, though the woman had asked.
Unable to sit idly any longer, he excused himself to the other couples at the table and headed in the direction of the ladies' withdrawing room, though he had no idea what he would do when he reached it. He was spared that decision, however, when he saw Sarah emerging just behind a visibly angry Lady Mountheath.
"Miss Killian," he exclaimed, hurrying forward, in hopes of sparing her further scolding. "I am delighted to see you are well."
