The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  The answer to all of her difficulties, she realized abruptly. If she were ruined, her myriad suitors would scatter like rabbits, thwarting Obelia's plans and safeguarding Fairbourne for good. Why had she not considered that solution before? All she had to do was stay away for a night or two, then return with no good explanation for her absence. It was perfect!

  Pearl realized she'd been staring blankly at her handsome host while thinking all of this through, no doubt strengthening further his assessment of her intellect. "I . . . Yes. I suppose I must. Stay here, that is." Amazing how stupid she could sound without really trying.

  "Good girl," he said approvingly. "I've an extra set of sheets—clean ones—that we can spread here on the sofa for you. I'd offer you my bed, but—"

  "Oh, no! The sofa will be perfectly fine," she said hastily, alarmed at the image that suggestion conjured—and even more alarmed by the way that image set her nerves tingling again. Still, as he went to fetch the sheets, she eyed the hard sofa doubtfully, thinking with longing of her feather mattress at Oakshire House. She was mortally tired. Remember Fairbourne!

  He returned a moment later, and with a deftness that convinced her he was used to doing such tasks himself, he spread the sheets over the divan. "You will let me know if you need anything else?"

  She nodded, resolutely ignoring the effect his voice had on her. "Thank you. You're being far kinder than . . ."

  "Than you expected? Are used to? If you've been about the houses of the so-called upper crust, I don't doubt it. But you're most welcome. Not all Londoners are as callous as the Mountheaths and their ilk."

  His evident animosity toward the upper classes startled her. Did all the working class feel this way toward her own? Did Hettie? Surely not. She nearly asked him, but realized how odd such a question would sound from a supposed servant. "I . . . suppose not," she said instead. "Good night, then."

  He took his dismissal cheerfully. The little dog at his heels, he disappeared into his bedchamber and closed the door behind him. Pearl stared at the door for a moment, frowning, then sat down to take off her shoes—the only articles of clothing she dared remove—before stretching out on the sofa.

  It was almost, but not quite, long enough for her. If she were petite and padded, like Hettie, she'd no doubt be comfortable enough, she chided herself. But it was curiosity about her strange host, rather than the lumpiness of the horsehair-filled divan, that kept her awake for another hour and more.

  When she finally fell into a fitful sleep, her dreams were disjointed. Oddly secure in the company of a man with strong hands and a melodious voice, she floated through images of sumptuous ballrooms superimposed on the squalor of Seven Dials. In her dreams, she could not figure out which was more real, though it seemed vitally important that she do so. The morning was well advanced before she finally awoke.

  * * *

  "So, you like her, do you?" Luke asked the dog tucked under his arm, as he climbed down the side of the building half an hour after sunrise. Argos' tail thumped against his back in reply.

  Shortly after taking these lodgings, he'd concealed handholds and footholds among the crumbling bricks, and now used this route to his quarters nearly as often as the stairway. Today he was using it to avoid waking his guest, who had still been deep in exhausted slumber when he'd checked on her ten minutes ago.

  "We can't keep her, you know," he told the terrier, who cocked his head questioningly. "You'd only get attached to her, and then where would we be?" He feared he might already have passed that point himself. "Of with you, then."

  He set Argos down as they reached the pavement, and the dog hurried off to conduct whatever business he spent his days about. Luke turned aside to walk briskly in the direction of the Covent Garden market.

  Why had he not come up with some alternative to inviting Purdy to stay with him? A woman—particularly one who needed the level of care this one did—was the last thing Luke needed in his life right now. His livelihood depended on his ability to come and go unobserved and unrecognized. Her presence would complicate his life on more than one level—which meant he'd best take advantage of the time he had now.

  At this early hour, the shops and stalls of Covent Garden were hives of activity. Poorer people from the surrounding neighborhood jostled with expensively dressed servants from Mayfair to buy fresh fruits, vegetables and flowers. An occasional burst of song or shouting from drunken revellers only now making their way home punctuated the market bustle.

  Luke stopped to purchase a bundle of tea leaves and a few fresh-baked rolls from stalls at the outskirts before proceeding to the fruit stands. At least he could provide his impromptu guest with a good breakfast before sending her on her way. As he walked, he watched the colorful, shifting crowds for one particular face.

  "'Ere you are, then," piped a clear voice from behind him.

  Luke turned with a grin. "Flute! The very man I was looking for." He gripped the grimy hand of his sole confederate, a scrawny lad with a shock of straw-colored hair peeping out from under his tattered red cap.

  "You have something, then?" Though he was probably near fifteen, Flute looked no more than twelve, underfed as he'd been by the flash house master he'd picked pockets for until Luke had taken him under his wing two years since. Now, with better victuals, he was beginning to fill out, though slowly.

  "Aye, some plate and baubles for you to take to the fencing ken," said Luke, falling easily into the street cant. "After your cut, you can give enough of the ready to Mrs. O'Malley to spring her feckless husband from Newgate, then bring the rest to me."

  He pulled from his pocket the parcel he'd retrieved last night and handed it to the boy. Flute tweaked open the wrapping to catch a glimpse of assorted silver and a diamond necklace and whistled approvingly before stuffing it into his own pocket.

  "Mrs. Breitmann sends thanks to the Saint," he told Luke then. "Her old tub was past fixing, so the new was in the nick o' time."

  Luke resisted the urge to tousle the boy's hair, knowing how it irritated him. "Good lad. Off with you, then." With a quick nod, they went their separate ways, careful as always not to spend too much time in each other's company in public.

  That task settled, Luke took his time selecting the choicest hothouse oranges. Then, on sudden impulse, he stopped by one of the flower carts and bought two bunches of violets and another of daisies. Perhaps they would make Purdy smile—something he'd like to see again before she left. He wondered fleetingly whether she'd ever received flowers before in her life. Probably not, poor girl.

  Finally he headed back. On reaching his crumbling building, he decided to take the stairs rather than risk crushing the flowers. He unlocked the door, then knocked softly, not wanting to startle the girl. When there was no answer, he cautiously pushed the door open.

  Purdy was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, blinking dazedly. "Where . . . How? I, er, did not hear you go out."

  "I didn't wish to wake you."

  She looked absolutely adorable with her honey-blonde hair half-tumbled from its bun and her expression charmingly confused. Adorable and delectable. It was a crying shame she was . . .

  "I brought breakfast," he added, cutting off that line of thought. "And some flowers for the table." He produced them with a flourish.

  She brightened at once. "Oh, how very thoughtful!"

  The smile he had hoped for flashed out, and again Luke felt that odd warmth surge through him at her eager pleasure at small kindnesses. What a difficult life she must have led. "Come, have a seat while I serve it up."

  She complied hesitantly as he pulled tea leaves, rolls and oranges from his sack. He handed her a knife so that she could peel her orange while he set water to boil, but when she fumbled ineffectually with it he took it back, afraid that she might cut herself.

  "Have one of these rolls," he suggested, deftly peeling her orange for her. "They're still warm."

  Her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment, but she mutely accepted his help and his suggest
ion, taking a big bite of the sweet bread. "Oh, this is very good," she exclaimed in evident surprise, making him wonder what she'd had to subsist on before.

  "Where did you say you were from?" He spoke casually, not wanting her to suspect how curious he was about her.

  Still, her expression became wary. "Near Oaklea," she replied after a hesitation that came either from caution or a spotty memory. "To the north of London."

  Two days' ride north, in fact. Oaklea was barely more than a village, but Luke knew his geography well. "Did you travel to London by stage, or with friends?"

  Again she looked confused for a moment before replying. "Hettie's father is a farmer, and let us take his gig. We traveled slowly, so that we would not have to change horses."

  All the way to London in a farm gig? More like five days, then. Luke restrained himself from asking about their accomodations along the way, or what kind of father would let two young women—one of them of childlike intellect—come so far alone. "Did you live on the farm, too?"

  She nodded, then shook her head. "Near, but not on it. I . . . I lived in a cottage near the village until my mother died. Then I decided to come to London to find work."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," he said softly, but she averted her gaze—no doubt to hide tears.

  "Thank you," she murmured, before devoting her attention to the now-peeled orange, clearly wishing to drop the subject.

  Luke respected her feelings, though there were a dozen more questions he'd have liked to ask. Instead, he watched as she took a bite of the orange, then had to avert his own eyes rather than risk revealing the sudden surge of desire that shot through him. He simply had to get his unruly passions under control before he frightened her.

  A moment later, Purdy asked a question of her own. "Have you always lived here? In London, I mean?"

  Trying not to notice the way her pink tongue licked the juice of the orange from her perfect lips, he responded, "Near London, anyway. I grew up just outside of Edgeware."

  He recalled the tiny hovel he and his mother had shared, and the abuse she had endured—always for his sake—at the hands of the upper classes, whose sewing she took in and whose great houses she helped to clean.

  "What brought you into London?"

  The question caught him off guard, though he should have expected it. Impossible to tell the truth—that he'd been lured here as a lad to learn thievery after his mother's death. That after escaping that life, he had later returned to revenge himself on those he considered responsible for that death. That only here could he simultaneously embarrass the ton and help those who were even more reduced by circumstances than his mother had been.

  "There was no living to be had elsewhere," he said at last. "Probably much the same reason you came to London yourself."

  She blinked, then apparently decided against further questions for the moment, again applying herself to her breakfast. Luke wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

  * * *

  Though her curiosity about her rescuer was by no means sated, Pearl needed to think through her own circumstances before pushing further. How much did she dare tell him? As little as possible would be safest.

  Still, this was a far better opportunity than she had expected, aside from the chance to free herself from her stepmother's matchmaking plans. She had wanted to see how the common people lived, and those in Seven Dials were the very commonest of the common—with the exception of Mr. St. Clair, who seemed most uncommon indeed.

  She had hoped, upon awakening, that she had merely imagined the effect the man had on her, but if anything it was stronger than ever today. His voice flowed over her like warm silk, dizzying her senses in a way she could not call unpleasurable. His eyes, far more intelligent than she'd have liked, also stirred up odd longings she couldn't quite decipher. Hastily, she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  While it pained her to think how Hettie must be worrying, wherever she was, she hadn't the faintest idea how she was to find her, or even get a message to her, without giving herself away. By now she was sure to have returned to Oakshire House, and Pearl was by no means ready to go back. Not yet. But was spending the next few days in Seven Dials—in Mr. St. Clair's disturbing company—really a viable option?

  Her ingrained sense of propriety—and, yes, her pride—recoiled at the thought, useful as it would be for her purposes. Yet the reformer in her exulted at this chance to educate herself in a way few of her class ever had—and, perhaps, the chance to do some actual good among the wretched poor of London's slums.

  Finishing both her breakfast and her ruminations, she asked hesitantly, mindful of the role she was playing, "If we are unable to find Hettie today, would you . . . mind too much if I stayed here for a few days?"

  Mr. St. Clair, having just taken a sip of tea, sputtered and coughed. Pearl feared that boded ill, but as soon as he recovered he said cheerfully enough, "Of course I don't object. But don't give up so easily. We'll find your friend, never fear. Why don't you tell me everything you can about her?"

  Pearl examined his face for signs of reluctance—or lechery—but found only kindness and curiosity. She really had been exceedingly fortunate that he, and no one worse, had appeared to assist her. His curiosity was the biggest threat. That, and her undeniable attraction to this totally unsuitable man.

  "Hettie is very nice," she offered unhelpfully after a moment. "I told you last night what she looks like—shorter and plumper than I, with curly brown hair."

  If he felt any exasperation, he hid it admirably, only saying patiently, "Yes, I remember. But what is her last name? Where is her father's farm? Can you remember anything at all that she said about where you would be staying?"

  "We were to stay with her cousin," she said, sticking to the story she'd given him last night. "I don't think her last name is the same as Hettie's though." She couldn't give him Hettie's last name either, for she could too easily be traced to the Oakshire household.

  "And her father?" His wonderful voice was still patient. "He has a farm near Oaklea, you said."

  Pearl hoped she wouldn't regret naming a village barely three miles from her father's primary estate in Oakshire, but it was the first thing that had popped into her head. She must not allow Mr. St. Clair to distract her so! "Yes, just a small one. He's a tenant—"

  "Of the Duke of Oakshire, I presume."

  She glanced up at the change in his tone. "You do not like the Duke of Oakshire?"

  He was frowning, but at her question he smoothed his brow with a visible effort. "Actually, I know very little of him. I simply believe that farmers should be allowed to own the land their families have tilled for generations."

  "So do I," she agreed eagerly, though she knew what she said would be heresy to most of her class. She opened her mouth to elaborate with her theories on how such a radical shift might benefit the economy, but remembered in time that she was supposed to be simple-minded. So instead, she merely said, "I've . . . often thought that."

  He smiled at her approvingly. "Come, let's go back to the vicinity of the Mountheath house to begin our search. You can give me more details as we go."

  Rising, he plucked her cloak from the back of a chair and draped it over her shoulders. At home, Pearl received such courtesies as a matter of course, never thinking a thing about them. So why should this instance, by this man, cause her arms to tingle? For a fleeting moment she considered what Society would be bound to believe, once it became known that some nameless commoner had compromised Lady Pearl.

  They would think that he and she had . . . The tingling increased, and she felt herself pinkening. No, she didn't dare think along such lines. It was absurd, of course, yet far, far too easy to imagine.

  She thanked him haltingly, chiding herself for such foolishness, then tied her kerchief securely over her hair. Wishing vainly for a thorough wash and a change of clothes, she accompanied him out the door and down to the street.

  Seven Dials by daylight was far
less frightening, but no less squalid. A woman sat in a narrow doorway nursing an infant, while two painfully thin toddlers, dressed only in tattered rags despite the chill wind, played in a rubbish heap nearby. A few steps farther along, a man wearing the remnants of a cavalry uniform sat slumped against a wall, his single leg extending into the alley as he shook his tin cup at them.

  Pearl choked back a gasp of pity, momentarily distracted from the man at her side. "Was that man a soldier?" she whispered.

  Her companion nodded. "One of thousands reduced to begging, discarded by their country after serving in its cause against the French." His voice was bitter.

  Though she had read such accusations in the Political Register, until now Pearl had not fully believed her own government, run by men like her father, could be so callous. But here was the evidence before her. She wished she had money with her, that she might ease the poor man's straits, though she knew it would do nothing to solve the larger problem.

  "Hey mister, Mr. Saint, sir, can you help my sister?" A little girl, no more than five years old, her face as dirty as her torn dress, ran up to tug on Mr. St. Clair's sleeve.

  He glanced quickly at Pearl, then said, "Not right now, Emmy. I'll be back soon."

  "But she's so sick. Mama thinks she might die." The tyke's chin trembled as tears made pale tracks down her smudged cheeks.

  When he hesitated Pearl put a hand on his arm. "Let's go see what we can do," she suggested. "Please. I don't mind."

  He shot her a grateful glance that made her heart tremble, then nodded. "Very well. Lead the way, Emmy."

  The child led them into a dark doorway, down a narrow hallway, then through another door into a cluttered room with several straw pallets along one wall. A thin woman knelt over one of the pallets, where a girl perhaps a year younger than Emmy was shaking violently.

  Pearl recognized the symptoms at once, and spoke before Mr. St. Clair could. "How long has she been like this?" she asked the woman sharply.

  The woman turned, her tearful eyes wide and frightened. She looked first at Mr. St. Clair, with dawning hope, then at Pearl. "Thank ye for comin', Mr. St. . . . Clair. Thank ye from the bottom of me heart. I fear we may be losin' poor Mimi. She started shakin' just a few minutes since, but can't seem to stop."