The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Both Pearl and Mr. St. Clair moved forward, but she reached the girl first. "Do you keep poison out for rats?" she asked quickly.

  "Aye, we can't keep 'em out of the food, otherwise. D'ye think poor Mimi . . . ?"

  "Yes, I do. Have you any asarabacca about?" The woman regarded her blankly. "Mustard, then?" Already, Pearl was reaching for the child, prepared to thrust a finger down her throat if nothing else would serve.

  "Mustard? Aye, but—"

  "Bring it, please. Quickly." The tiny girl convulsed again, a blue rim appearing around her lips. Pearl took the mother's place at her side, supporting her. "There, there, sweetheart. You'll be all right. Everything will be fine."

  "Do you have it, Mrs. Plank?" Mr. St. Clair asked urgently. Pearl had nearly forgotten his presence. "Good. Hurry, woman!"

  He took the bottle and handed it to Pearl, who quickly pried little Mimi's tight-clenched teeth open and poured a liberal amount down her throat. After only a few anxious seconds, the little girl retched, expelling the contents of her stomach, mustard and all. Pearl continued to hold her as her tremors slowly subsided. Finally, with a little sigh, she fell asleep.

  "I think she'll be all right now," Pearl whispered to the girls's mother, transferring the tiny bundle into her eager arms. "Give her some water when she wakes, as much as she will drink. You should also have her seen by a physician as soon as possible."

  The woman nodded. "I'll . . . I'll try. I don't know how to thank you, Miss—"

  "Purdy. I'm just glad I was able to get here in time." She turned to Emmy, who had watched in silence the entire time. "You may have saved your sister's life. You should be very proud."

  Emmy responded with a gap-toothed smile. "Thank you, Miss Purdy. Thank you, Mr. Saint." She then flung herself at Pearl and hugged her tightly, before turning back to watch her sleeping sister.

  Pearl stood, smiling. This was what she had always loved best about living on her father's estates—the personal contact with the tenants, the knowledge that she could render needed assistance. It was good to know the skills she'd accumulated there were useful here in London, as well. This was far more satisfying than playing the part of a glittering ornament in some ballroom.

  "Shall we go?" murmured Mr. St. Clair at her side, careful not to wake the sleeping child.

  "Oh! Yes, of course." With a last glance at the tiny apartment where she had made a difference, Pearl followed him back out into the sunlit alley. "I'm so glad we were coming by just then," she commented as they continued on their way.

  "Yes." At his tone, she glanced up at her companion, to find him regarding her intently. Her heart quickened its pace. "You saved little Mimi's life. I wouldn't have known to do that. Where did you learn such skills?"

  She realized abruptly that she had completely forgotten her role as a simpleton in the face of the emergency. "Ah, on Hettie's farm, of course. The . . . the dogs there are always getting into the rat poison."

  "Of course." His intense, dark gaze did not leave her face, and she felt it coloring under his solemn regard. "I can see that there is more to you than meets the eye, Purdy." His expression told her that he intended to find out what.

  CHAPTER 4

  "Would you like to go back to my lodgings for some more tea, to settle yourself?" Luke asked the unusual woman at his side. "Or would you prefer to go on at once?"

  Purdy blinked up at him, again giving the impression of a lovely idiot, something he had now begun to doubt she was. Or was that wishful thinking on his part? In daylight, her eyes were an astonishingly beautiful violet-blue.

  "Let's go on," she said. "I must try to find Hettie."

  "Very well. This way, then." Luke noticed that she was again speaking with an uncultured accent. During the crisis at the Planks', both her manner of speaking and her vocabulary had improved markedly. He decided not to tell her he'd noticed—not yet, anyway.

  He led her through the alleyways of Seven Dials, avoiding the foulest areas. Even so, he heard an occasional indrawn breath of dismay at the poverty and filth around them. Whether dimwitted or a clever liar, Purdy clearly had a compassionate heart.

  In ten minutes they had reached more respectable environs, where tradesmen and regularly employed workers lived. In another ten minutes they approached the outskirts of Mayfair. "Not far now," he said encouragingly.

  Purdy nodded, but pulled her kerchief lower, so that it concealed part of her face as well as her hair. Again Luke wondered what she'd been running from the night before. He couldn't believe that the girl had committed any sort of crime, but as they neared the Mountheath house, her steps slowed.

  "I, ah, what should we do now, do you think?" she asked him, her voice reflecting her uncertainty. "Hettie won't be here today, surely."

  He placed an arm around her shoulders, hoping to bolster her courage. Oddly, he still felt protective toward her, even knowing that she was hiding things from him. He'd never felt that way about any woman before. Before, he'd assumed it was because of her mental deficiency. But now . . .

  "We can go around to the mews and ask for news of her," he suggested. "Perhaps you'll see the footman who hired you."

  She nodded, swallowing. Luke frowned but said nothing further, and she accompanied him around to the back of the square without further protest, though she hung back when they neared a small knot of stable hands. Before anyone had spotted them, she halted.

  "I . . . I don't see him," she whispered, clearly anxious to retreat. Unwilling to add to her distress, Luke refrained from urging her forward.

  "Would you like me to make inquiries on your behalf?" he asked gently. It would be risky, of course, if last night's thefts had been discovered, but he discovered he was willing to do almost anything to erase the fear from Purdy's sweet face.

  "If you wouldn't mind terribly?"

  The gratitude in those lovely violet eyes made him feel willing to slay a dragon for her, if necessary. "Just a moment, then," he said, stifling a smile at such an absurd notion. "You can wait here beside the gate, out of sight."

  Giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, he walked over to the stablehands, hoping the girl wouldn't flee before he returned. Just before he reached the group, a liveried groom emerged from the servants' entrance at the rear of the house and hurried in the same direction.

  "Hoy there, lads!" he called out to the workers, who immediately broke apart and grabbed their shovels and brooms, attempting to look busy. "More news from Hodge, who had it direct from his lordship himself."

  Luke slowed his pace to a stroll, making it look as though he were merely headed down the alley toward the houses beyond the Mountheath's, so he could listen.

  "We're all to keep our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Her ladyship's suspicions were right, it seems. Not just jewels were stolen last night, but some of the plate, as well."

  An excited murmer arose. One of the hands even exclaimed, "Was it the Saint, think you?"

  Luke had all he could do to maintain his leisurely pace as he came level with them, only a few yards away, his ears straining. Luckily, he'd seen none of these men last night, so they wouldn't recognize him.

  "Aye, it were him all right. Hodges was in a fair fury when he found his calling card in the plate closet. But there's more." The groom raised his voice to be heard above their mutterings. "The thievery here was bad enough, but the blackguard did even worse two houses down." He nodded in the direction Luke was heading. "Miss Fannie's maid, Maggie, overheard her ladyship saying there was a kidnapping last night, as well."

  A stunned silence greeted his words, and Luke nearly stopped to hear the rest. "Who?" one of the men finally asked, as the groom seemed determined to milk the situation for its drama.

  "The Lady Pearl, daughter to the mighty Duke of Oakshire," he said at last, just before Luke had to pass out of earshot or become obvious for lingering. "Snatched right out of her very bedchamber, she was! Mark my words, the Saint of Seven Dials will hang for last night's work."
<
br />   * * *

  Peering out from her hiding place beside the Mountheaths' back gate, Pearl frowned as she saw Mr. St. Clair veer away from the group of stablehands and continue on down the alley. Too far away to hear anything herself, she could see that the servants were excited about something, waving their hands and chattering to each other. Perhaps Mr. St. Clair had decided it wasn't a good time to be asking questions.

  Of course, that was just fine with her. She much preferred to avoid anything that might link her to the Mountheaths'. Or, worse, to the Duke of Oakshire. But now her confederate was walking briskly in the direction of Oakshire House itself! Had he discovered the truth about her after all?

  She lingered, debating whether to wait for him to return, or to slip away before he could, just in case. Or she could simply return to Oakshire House and suffer the consequences of her ill-advised flight, as she'd have to do eventually anyway. She grimaced at the thought.

  Without her father there, she'd be completely at the mercy of the Duchess, who would doubtless be very creative in meting out what she considered appropriate punishment— especially when she realized that her plans for a quick match had been overthrown. Obelia had never been susceptible to the tears and pleading that worked so well with the Duke.

  No, she wouldn't give her stepmother that satisfaction. However, she might try to contact Hettie without being seen . . . Backing away from the gate, Pearl glanced around. If she could find something to write with, and on, then perhaps—

  "You weren't leaving, were you?"

  The voice, directly behind her, startled Pearl breathless. Whirling around, she found herself face to face with Mr. St. Clair, a knowing gleam in his eye.

  "How . . . ? You . . . Leaving?" she stammered, her heart pounding. "Of course not. But where did you come from?"

  "I cut through the gardens of the next house over and circled around. I didn't mean to frighten you, however. Were you getting bored waiting?" He still watched her expectantly.

  Pearl quickly shook her head. Her shock had faded, but her heart didn't slow its beat noticeably. "No, I was going to come after you. I had an idea for contacting Hettie."

  With a flash of inspiration, she realized she could ask him to deliver a note for her. No one at Oakshire House would have reason to connect Mr. St. Clair with her, and a note given to one of the scullery maids, addressed to Hettie, should be passed along without suspicion. At worst, the servants might speculate that Hettie was carrying on a flirtation with the unknown man.

  She somehow suspected that Mr. St. Clair would be very good at flirtation.

  "You can tell me your idea as we walk," he said, interrupting that thought. "Right now, I think we'd best be going. It appears there was some sort of criminal activity here last night. If we linger, we might be noticed—and questioned."

  "Criminal—Oh, my!" The last thing Pearl wanted was to be questioned by Mountheath servants in her present guise. "Yes, let's leave, please."

  As he led her away from Berkley Square, she realized that her eagerness might be incriminating. Did Mr. St. Clair believe she had done something criminal? Of course, he had been equally eager to leave the area, just as he had been last night. What might Mr. St. Clair be hiding? And just how safe— physically safe—was she with him?

  "I'm sorry," he said after they'd walked a few minutes in silence. "You must be thinking all manner of terrible things. The truth is, I owe money to one of the Mountheath footmen. Money I don't have at this precise moment. It's why I needed to leave last night, and why I'd as soon not draw attention to myself today, but it's not very fair to you. I thought you deserved to know."

  Pearl's mounting tension melted away at this entirely reasonable explanation. "Thank you. I admit I was becoming a bit worried."

  "Yes, I thought you must be." His eyes held more than a hint of a question, however.

  She cast about for an equally plausible reason for her own flight last night. "I have no wish to encounter a particular servant there, either. He made . . . improper advances to me last night, and became rather insistent when I refused."

  His brows drew down alarmingly. "What kind of a man would force himself on—Who was it?"

  His protectiveness warmed her, even as she had to hide a spurt of amusement. Again he'd almost called her an idiot to her face. "It was the butler," she replied, her resentment of that autocratic man who'd been her undoing overcoming her judgement for the moment. "I don't know his name."

  "Hodge," he said through gritted teeth. "I should have known."

  Nervously, Pearl wondered what she'd done. She couldn't have Mr. St. Clair risking himself on her behalf—especially for an insult she'd invented. "No harm was done," she said hastily. "I'd simply prefer to avoid him in future, that's all."

  With a visible effort, he brought his sudden anger under control. "Yes, of course. I understand. You needn't worry I'll challenge him to a duel— much as I might like to."

  They veered south, taking a different route from before, but Pearl barely noticed, startled by his words. She'd assumed dueling, though illegal, was restricted to the upper classes, where the law was willing to look the other way. It appeared she was wrong.

  That this man, who had only met her last night, would even consider taking such a risk on her behalf stunned her. Certainly, she was getting the education of her life!

  He led her around another corner, into sudden, bright sunshine. Before them lay a large open square, as large as any of the grand squares of Mayfair, simply crammed with carts, small shops and wide expanses of bunched flowers of every description, color and scent. To Pearl's dazzled senses, it was like a wonderland dropped down into the heart of dirty London.

  "Covent Garden market," he said when she paused. "I thought to buy a few things for our dinner."

  Feeling a bit foolish, she nodded. Odd that she'd never wondered before where the flowers and fresh produce came from that made their way into Oakshire House every day. Her servants surely knew this place well. She breathed deeply of the mingled scents that rose up to greet them, briefly envying those servants.

  "Have you fought duels before?" she asked then, recalling her earlier surprise. She felt an urgent need to know what Mr. St. Clair's life was like, to understand him.

  He grinned, making her heart flutter, then offered her his arm and started forward again, threading their way between the market stalls. "Only two or three, in my hotheaded youth. And with swords rather than pistols. Thus the risk was less, as was the chance of discovery by one of the masters."

  "Masters? Do you mean at school?"

  "Yes, at school," he said with a grimace, as though he'd let information slip that he'd have preferred to keep to himself. "I was . . . able to attend for a few years, before my circumstances were reduced."

  That explained his cultured speech, about which Pearl had been curious from the start. Perhaps he was not so far removed from her world after all. "You've had a gentleman's education, then?"

  "It was my mother's dearest wish. Much as it galled me to submit myself to the whims of my supposed 'betters,' I felt obligated to see it through."

  Again, that animosity toward the upper classes. Curious, but minding her own accent, she asked, "Why do you dislike the nobility so? They've always been, ah, kind to me."

  He paused at a cart filled with vegetables and herbs, looking over the selection, before answering. "You've been fortunate, then. Or perhaps you simply haven't had much experience with them."

  To hide her amusement at his assumption, she buried her nose in a basket of mint and thyme perched on the edge of the cart and inhaled deeply. "Perhaps."

  "I have. Or at least my mother did, enduring their insults and ill-treatment, even as she did the work they wouldn't deign to do with their own hands—for my sake."

  "You mother raised you alone?" Her amusement abrubtly gone, Pearl found that she preferred not to dwell on the shortcomings of her class after all.

  He nodded. "My father died when I was very young. He must
have been poor, for he apparently left my mother nothing, or very little. In any event, she was forced to work to support us both."

  "Until you were old enough to help?" Pearl tried to imagine what it must have been like for the poor woman and her son—now this magnetically enigmatic man beside her.

  "I never had the chance, actually. She died before I was twelve, of a fever she contracted while caring for some titled dame's child. The fine lady wouldn't risk contagion in the nursery herself, of course. And she never so much as inquired after my mother while she was ill."

  Pearl bit her lip. No wonder Mr. St. Clair despised the upper classes. She wished she had stories of compassion and caring to relate, to counteract his own experiences, but she couldn't think of a single one at the moment. More than ever, she was determined to keep her true identity from him. She didn't think she could bear to see that loathing in his eyes turned upon her.

  "Would you like to take that basket of herbs with you?" he asked her then.

  Belatedly, she realized she was still touching the basket, half turned from him in her confusion. "Ah, no. But it does remind me . . ." Turning to the man tending the cart, she asked, "Have you any mallow, or angelica root?"

  The man, a burly fellow with a shapeless black felt hat that partially obscured his blunt features, frowned. "Mallow I gots, miss, right here." He lifted a few sprigs of the familiar plant. "No roots, though. You might try Mistress Wiggan's patch, across the way." He pointed to another, smaller cart, heaped with carrots, potatoes and other roots and tubers.

  Luke paid for the mallow as well as a sack of peas, then led her across to the other cart without a word, though she knew he was watching her curiously. "Mistress Wiggan," she called out as they approached it, "Do you—ah, there, I see it. May we have some of that angelica root, please?"