by Brenda Hiatt
"I'd meant to ask you that, but I didn't mean to startle you." His eyes held no trace of suspicion —only concern.
Desperately, she sought a plausible excuse, then fell back on the one she'd used before. "I . . . I was just . . . It was the crowd again. I wanted to be alone for a moment." Maybe he would leave long enough to allow her to wrap a muffling cloth about the half dozen silver spoons she'd just taken.
Instead, he stepped to her side, putting a comforting hand on her arm. "I saw Lord Mountheath speaking to you earlier. Is he threatening you in some way?"
Sarah averted her gaze, afraid of what he might read there. "Not . . . precisely, though I hope they did not see you follow me in here. Lady Mountheath has made it clear that she would love an excuse to evict me from her house."
"Please believe that I will not allow you to suffer in any way, particularly on my account. In fact—"
But before he could continue, a pair of footmen carrying trays of biscuits and glasses came through the door from the kitchens. They halted, clearly startled. Sarah thanked heaven they hadn't arrived two minutes earlier, as she'd been plundering the drawer. She'd taken a greater risk than she'd realized.
"Carry on, men," Lord Peter said briskly. "The lady merely nipped in here to retie a ribbon. If you're finished, Miss Killian, let us rejoin the party."
Sarah took his cue. "Yes, it is fixed now." Taking his extended arm, she accompanied him from the pantry, walking carefully to prevent the purloined spoons from clinking in her pocket. Once they were back in the main room, the volume of conversation was enough to cover any betraying sounds.
"Now, perhaps you can tell me," Peter began, when the young lady he had been speaking with earlier accosted them.
"Lord Peter, wherever have you been? Oh, is this the Mountheaths' ward, of whom everyone is speaking?" She examined Sarah with an openly critical eye.
Though grateful for her interruption, Sarah's smile was stiff. She'd noticed how this lady had been hanging on Lord Peter's arm before. Clearly she had designs on him. Futile designs, if Lord Ribbleton was to be believed. Sarah's stomach twisted again at the memory of that gentleman's words, the death-knell of hopes she'd barely known she'd nursed.
"Miss Cheevers, have you not met Miss Killian?" Lord Peter asked now. When she shook her head, he quickly completed the introduction. A few others joined their circle then, making private conversation even less a possibility. Good.
Smiling at a comment Lord Edgemont had just made, Sarah kept despair and humiliation at bay by considering what she'd done so far this evening. Ten pounds and a few silver spoons were hardly worthy of the Saint, though the cards she'd left would surely be noticed. She needed more.
Pretending to listen attentively to the ongoing discussion about the orange ostrich plumes on Lady Plumfield's new bonnet, she considered her options. Sir Cyril joined them then, clearly the worse for drink, jostling Lord Edgemont who in turn bumped Miss Cheevers into Sarah, causing Miss Cheevers' reticule to slide down her wrist to touch Sarah's hand.
Almost without thought, Sarah found the opening of the reticule, reached in and extracted several heavy coins which she just as smoothly deposited into her pocket. Sir Cyril was apologizing profusely while the others laughed and chided him for overindulging. Laughing along with the group, Sarah pulled another card from her pocket and slipped it into Miss Cheevers' reticule just before the other woman moved away.
Though she carefully kept her attention on those speaking, Sarah silently marveled at what she'd just done. Lord Edgemont made another deprecating comment about Sir Cyril and she grinned, though more in relief and satisfaction at her own prowess than at Lord Edgemont's indifferent attempt at humor.
Who would have guessed that her skills as a pickpocket, unused for eight years, would still be so sharp? William —and the authorities —should be thoroughly convinced after this.
Still smiling, she glanced Lord Peter's way, only to find him staring at her in shock and disbelief.
CHAPTER 11
Peter watched the color drain from Sarah's face. For a moment he'd tried to convince himself he must have imagined what he'd seen, it had happened so quickly, but her expression now proved otherwise. In fact, she looked as though she might faint.
Even as he took a step toward her, however, she rallied with an obvious effort. Holding his gaze, she sent him a silent plea. For a long moment, he hesitated. Was it possible that Sarah was actually a common thief who had insinuated her way into the Mountheath household with a false name and story of kinship?
But then he recalled her courage, her humor, the innocence of her lips beneath his. Besides, Holmes's research had verified her story. His eyes still locked with hers, he gave a slight nod, reassuring her, and saw some of the tension leave her body. He then pulled his gaze away before their silent exchange could be noted by the others in the group.
"—only to discover he'd been wearing it all the time," Lord Edgemont concluded to a general laugh. Peter managed to laugh with the rest, though it took some effort.
"Miss Killian, would you care for a glass of punch?" he asked, ignoring Miss Cheevers' indignant frown. It was imperative that he get Sarah alone long enough to demand an explanation for what he'd seen. Surely she would have one.
Perhaps her brother desperately needed money to survive. It was likely the Mountheaths had not given her so much as a shilling. Or, could it be Lord Mountheath who—
"I . . . I'm not thirsty, my lord," she replied, not quite meeting his eye. "Perhaps later."
Frustrated, Peter gave a curt nod. So, she did not wish to explain? His doubts flooded back. She had pilfered Miss Cheevers' reticule like a seasoned cutpurse. That certainly was not something she had learned at Miss Pritchard's Seminary.
Lady Mountheath's voice broke into his thoughts. "There you are, Miss Killian. I have been looking for you this quarter hour past."
Sarah greeted her with something that looked suspiciously like relief, taking two quick steps toward her— and away from Peter. "My lady?"
"I did say I wished you to be ready to leave at a moment's notice, did I not? His Royal Highness has gone, as has the Duke of Kent."
"I am quite ready to leave," she assured Lady Mountheath. She smiled a vague goodbye to the group but they scarcely noticed, already involved in listening to another funny story.
"You are going then?" Peter asked, turning from the others. "I'd hoped—"
Still, Sarah did not meet his eye. "Yes, the Mountheaths prefer not to keep late hours. I'm sure I will see you again some time or other, my lord. Shall we go, my lady?"
* * *
Sarah followed Lady Mountheath toward the front of the house with a sense of profound relief —even though it meant being shut up with the family for the drive to Berkley Square. As last night, she was acutely conscious of the illicit booty weighing down her pocket. She would have to be exceedingly careful in the carriage.
"Why do you hold your side like that?" Fanny asked as Sarah preceded her into the conveyance. "If you have an upset stomach, pray do not sit next to me."
Sarah did not answer, but seated herself on the opposite side of the carriage, only removing her muffling hand from the silver and gold in her pocket once she was settled.
Lady Mountheath launched into a lecture before the coachman could whip up the horses. "I noticed that you spent nearly an hour in Lord Ribbleton's company tonight, Miss Killian. I hope you are not forming designs upon him now. He is far above your touch, I assure you."
"At least for any sort of respectable liaison," Lucy agreed with a malicious smile. Fanny put a hand to her mouth and tittered.
Their mother sent them a quelling glance, then turned an outraged eye on Sarah. "Is that now your intent? I should have known. Make no mistake, I'll not house a lightskirt under my roof. One whiff of scandal and you will be out on the street, missie!"
Sarah was glad the interior of the coach was dark enough to hide the blush she felt staining her cheeks as she recalled Lord Ribbleton's words —and
Lord Peter's. Was all of Society making similar assumptions? "I assure you, my lady—"
Lord Mountheath came to her defense before she could finish. "Now, now, m'dear. No need to be so suspicious. I'm sure our dear Miss Killian only wishes to better herself. Nothing wrong with that." He smiled reassuringly at Sarah, which reassured her not at all. He, at least, clearly shared Lord Ribbleton's view.
Lady Mountheath harrumphed. "I trust, my lord, that you would not wish your daughters associating with a woman who would try to better herself by such wickedly immoral means."
"I'm not—" Sarah began again, and again Lord Mountheath cut her off.
"Pish, tush. Seen no such evidence yet." He sounded almost disappointed.
Sarah realized any further defense would do her no good, so stared out the window for the remainder of the drive while the Mountheaths argued about her. Besides, she thought as she climbed down from the carriage in Berkley Square, could she honestly claim she was not attempting to better herself through "wickedly immoral means?" Stealing went against the Ten Commandments just as adultery did.
Not that she was stealing for herself, of course. She was doing it for William —to prevent him taking untenable risks. And now she needed to deliver her latest haul, such as it was.
Little Paddy would not be at his post so late, of course. She could take it directly to Renny herself, but she trembled at the idea of another encounter with Lord Peter before she'd had time to concoct a plausible explanation for what he'd seen.
On reaching her room, she was finally able to examine her takings —with disappointing results. Ten pounds, five silver spoons and a handful of coins, not all of which were even gold. Hardly a haul worthy of the Saint of Seven Dials.
If she was to convince William —and the authorities —that the Saint had returned, she would have to do better than this.
* * *
Peter returned from the embassy reception in the foulest mood he'd experienced for a very long time. He'd botched everything he'd said or done tonight, from his inadvertent insulting of Sarah to his failure to protect her from Lord Mountheath, to his failure to discover her motive for stealing. If he'd managed to make his intentions known sooner— But perhaps it was as well he had not.
A footman was hovering, waiting for his hat and cloak. Peter undid the fastening at his throat, then abruptly refastened it. "I'm going back out, George. Should Mr. Thatcher stop by before I return, tell him I'm at the club."
He felt far too unsettled for sleep, and a brisk walk in the evening air might help him to think through his problem.
Passing Berkley Square ten minutes later, he paused —but of course it was far too late to stop at the Mountheath house. The family —and Sarah —would all be abed by now. And tomorrow was Sunday. Muttering under his breath, his emotions in turmoil, he continued on to St. James's Street and the Guards' Club.
There he found a fair crowd that included Harry, who greeted him with obvious surprise. "Ain't it past your bedtime, Pete? Only us dissipated types are about this time of night, you know."
Peter forced a chuckle. "I'm not quite in my dotage yet, though I may act it at times. What's the play?" He'd half-formed the intent of sharing his dilemma with Harry, but now decided against it. While he wouldn't hesitate to put his own life in Harry's hands —had done so on more than one occasion, in fact— Sarah's was another matter.
But how in hell was he to protect her if she kept secrets from him?
"Caperton just bested Thomas at a bang-up game of piquet. Took him for more than a monkey —half the room was watching by the end. I believe Phillips is trying to get up a group for vingt-un over there." Harry pointed.
Perhaps losing a few hundred pounds would do him good tonight, Peter thought, heading toward the indicated table. Certainly he deserved it, after the way he'd failed Sarah.
Sir Barney Phillips, a young man who fancied himself a sophisticated wit and an arbiter of fashion, looked up as he approached. "Northrup! Never say you're wanting to play? Bit rich for your blood— hundred pound minimum."
"Deal me in," Peter snapped, seating himself.
"If you're sure you're good for it. Can't have much left after whatever you spent on that appalling yellow waistcoat." Sir Barney glanced about the table to invite a chuckle.
Peter leveled a quelling glare at the insufferable stripling. "I said, deal me in."
But Sir Barney had the attention of the crowd and was loathe to give it up. "An appropriate color for you, Northrup, yellow."
A sudden hush fell, but Sir Barney seemed not to notice. "Heard about that retreat you led at Toulouse —or was it a rout? Never could understand why Wellington called you a hero. No wonder you never talk about your time in the war."
There were a few indignant murmurs, and one whispered warning to Sir Barney to watch what he was about, but he only sniggered.
"Northrup won't do anything," he said. "Never does, no matter how he's insulted. Were you this way on the peninsula, Northrup?"
"You're mighty cocky, Phillips, for a man who used that scratch you received in your first battle as an excuse to go home," Harry commented loudly, drawing a laugh from those within earshot.
Sir Barney flicked him a look of dislike then turned back to Peter, who had remained silent, knowing Phillips's venom was rooted in jealousy and insecurity. Normally he let the fellow's jibes roll off his back, but tonight he found himself itching to plant him a facer.
"I see you have a champion," Phillips said, leaning forward. "I guess you need one, soft as you've turned since the war. Shame you can't do better than a drunken cripple."
Without warning, Peter lunged, his chair toppling with a crash. Catching Phillips by the throat with one hand, he clouted the side of his head with the other, then released him so that he crashed to the ground. When he tried to rise, cursing, Peter planted a gleaming boot on his chest, pinning him down.
"If you don't care to lose substantially more than a limb, I advise you to remain where you are— and silent," he said coldly.
Sir Barney glared up at him, but must have seen something in Peter's expression that penetrated his feeble brain, for he abruptly paled and stopped struggling.
"Wise decision," Peter said, to a general murmer of approval and a few chuckles. Turning to Harry, he said, "I find I've lost my enthusiasm for a game. Care to have a last drink at home?"
Harry was staring at him in disbelief, but managed a nod. Not until they were on the street did he speak. "Can't say I like you fighting my battles for me, but damn, it was good to see you still have it in you, Pete. A bit like old times, that was."
Peter stopped mentally berating himself for his lack of control and grinned. "It was, wasn't it? Still, I'm sorry, old chap. Should have let you take him down yourself, but, well, I needed that."
"Thought so. You've been on edge for days, and I could tell the moment you came in you were close to the boiling point. Miss Killian again?"
But Peter still wasn't ready to tell Harry about his suspicions —or his feelings. "Among other things. But I believe I know what to do about it."
An offer of marriage would give Sarah a viable alternative to stealing, whatever her motives. He would speak with her tomorrow, one way or another, Sabbath or not. If conventional means would not serve, unconventional means would have to do.
* * *
Shortly after the Mountheath family returned from church the next day, while they were taking a light luncheon in the parlor, Lord Peter was announced. Lady Mountheath sent an irritated glance Sarah's way, no doubt because there was no opportunity to send her from the room before he entered.
"I apologize for the intrusion," he said, bowing, "but I wished to pay my respects, and to invite Miss Killian for a brief walk, as the weather is so fine."
He sought Sarah's gaze and held it, his expression intense with significance. She flushed and looked away, fearing she knew precisely why he wished to speak with her privately.
"Certainly not!" Lady Mountheath exclaimed
, her daughters echoing her shocked expression. "That would be most unseemly, my lord, particularly on the Sabbath." She then leveled a glare at Sarah. "Did you suggest this to him, miss? I suppose I should not be surprised. It is all of a piece with your loose behavior."
"She did no such thing, my lady," Lord Peter protested before Sarah could speak. "I merely wished to continue a conversation we began last night, that is all. Miss Killian's behavior has been exemplary."
Sarah wondered that he could say such a thing, after what he had seen her do last night, but she was grateful for it nonetheless.
Lady Mountheath, however, seemed far from convinced. "I should not call flirting with gentlemen far above her station 'exemplary,'" she said. "Indeed, it would not surprise me to learn she has made assignations with other gentlemen besides yourself, my lord. Pray do not allow her innocent mien to deceive you."
Unprepared for such a direct attack before a visitor— particularly one whose opinion she valued so highly— Sarah could only stare in stunned silence while the Mountheath sisters tittered together at her discomfiture.
Lord Peter seemed similarly taken aback, but he only said stiffly, "I cannot agree with your assessment, my lady. If you will not allow her to walk out with me, however, I had best take my leave."
Lucy Mountheath sobered abruptly. "But my lord, I thought—"
"I'm sorry, Miss Mountheath, but I have a pressing engagement." Sarah thought the lines about his mouth might possibly be caused by anger —on her behalf? "Your servant, ladies." With a stiff, mechanical bow, he was gone.
Though his parting look told Sarah he would not rest until he had confronted her with what she'd done last night, she watched him go with more disappointment than relief. Much as she wished she could bare her heart, though, she knew it would not be fair to force such a choice upon him. No, far better he remain ignorant, even if it meant permanent estrangement from him.
This melancholy line of thought was interrupted by Lady Mountheath ordering her to her room with a strict admonition to stay there for the remainder of the day. As this suited Sarah quite well, she went without complaint.
