The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  She sent him the very slightest of smiles, drawing his attention to her full lips in a way she likely didn't intend. For a moment, he could think of nothing but what those lips had tasted like beneath his own. So soft, so yielding . . . Guiltily, he jerked his glance away and took his seat— which was closer to hers than he'd realized.

  Conscious of the Duke and Duchess just beyond, he focused on the audience below, willing his body to behave before anyone could notice its betrayal of his feelings.

  "Look at those two ladies, wearing identical gowns," he said, pointing to divert everyone's attention, including his own. "They appear to have just noticed each other."

  Pearl looked at the two women he indicated, then laughed. "Ladies?"

  "I admit I used the term rather loosely." Indeed, it was obvious even from this distance that both were women of easy virtue, on the prowl for protectors. To his relief, he knew neither of them —not that Pearl would ask, of course.

  As they watched, the two advanced on each other, their mouths moving with what were doubtless insults as vulgar as the tight-fitting red dresses they wore. There was a time when Luke would have been attracted to women like those. He wondered whether he ever would be again, now that—

  "Oh! It's as good as a play," Pearl exclaimed, as the women began snatching at each other. One yanked a scarlet feather from the other's hair, only to have the shoulder strap of her dress torn away.

  At that point, two men appeared from opposite directions, to pull the women apart before they could inflict more damage on each other. A smattering of applause from the surrounding boxes showed that they were not the only ones to witness the spectacle.

  "Never a dull moment at the theatre, eh?" asked the Duke with a chuckle. "I tend to think the audience is more amusing than the play, myself. I've often said so. Don't you agree, Mr. di Santo?"

  Luke swallowed. The Duke of Oakshire was an almost legendary figure, overshadowed only by the Royal Dukes and the Regent himself on the political as well as the social scene. That the man should be making small talk with him seemed somehow unbelievable.

  "I've never before had opportunity to observe the audience from such a vantage point," he confessed. "I understand now why the boxes are so coveted."

  The Duke chuckled again, though his eyes were disturbingly perceptive. Luke realized how easy it would be to underestimate this man—no doubt a mistake others had made in the political arena, and lived to regret. Did Lady Pearl realize what a dangerous man her father could be? He rather doubted it. For the moment, though, he appeared to be in the Duke's good graces, so he tried to relax.

  When the curtain rose a few minutes later, Luke tried to concentrate on the performance but Pearl's proximity made it difficult. His every sense was keenly attuned to each tiny movement of her hand, each change in the angle of her head. Her scent, delicate and feminine, made its way to his nostrils with erotic effect. Sliding a glance her way, he fixed on a single curl of her honey hair kissing her throat. How he envied that curl!

  His surreptitious gaze wandered to her face, only to find her watching him as slyly as he was watching her. They exchanged a slow, tiny smile that had him instantly hard with desire again. In vain, he tried to remember other women he had known intimately, to overshadow this subtle flirtation with the memory of more overt physical pleasures.

  It did no good. In Pearl's presence, such memories had no power whatsoever. The realization was profoundly disturbing.

  Distracted by his thoughts, he was caught off guard when Pearl leaned toward him, her curls brushing his shoulder as she whispered, "That is Mary Sedgehill, playing Desdemona. She is held to be almost as good as Keane. What do you think of her?"

  Luke swallowed, striving yet again to rein in his unruly body and focus on the stage. Did Lady Pearl have any idea of what she was doing to him? Almost certainly not.

  "She seems very good," he whispered back, barely knowing what he said. Unable to resist the temptation, he allowed his hand to brush hers, where it lay on the arm of the chair.

  Her eyes widened slightly, and though he could not tell in the dimness, he imagined that her color rose. They both turned back to the stage, but he suspected —hoped? —that she was now as aware of him as he was of her.

  * * *

  What was it about this man, Pearl wondered, that affected her so profoundly? A simple brush of his hand on hers, and she felt her insides turn to warm liquid, her every nerve focused on that point of contact. She stole a quick glance at his hand where it lay just grazing her own. Large, much larger than hers, and undeniably masculine, even sheathed by buff-colored kidskin.

  Unbidden came the thought of that hand— both of his hands, ungloved —touching her body as they kissed. She imagined those hands touching her in other places, even more improper places . . . Her face heated, reflecting the sudden warmth of desire she felt below.

  Preoccupied as she was, the intermission seemed to come in no time at all. It was as well she knew Othello by heart, for she hadn't heard more than a dozen lines of the first act. The Duke and Duchess would be receiving a continuous stream of visitors during the intermission, as they always did. She stood.

  "Father, I'll take this opportunity to show more of the upper gallery to Mr. di Santo, if you don't mind." She usually contrived to escape the parade of obsequious toadeaters, having no patience with that sort of hypocrisy, and her father well knew it.

  "As you wish, my dear," he responded with a wave of his hand, though Obelia's brows arched with disapproval. "We'll look for your return in fifteen minutes."

  Luke was already standing at her side, so she took his arm and escaped from the box with him, her senses thrumming with the close contact after her inappropriate thoughts during the performance. "What would you like to see?" she asked him, realizing belatedly that her words could have more than one meaning.

  He smiled down into her eyes, his own dark ones kindling in a way that set her very blood afire. "Everything," he replied huskily. "What would you like to show me?"

  With an effort, she pulled her gaze away, her breathing suddenly shallow. "The, ah, view from the topmost balcony is said to be quite impressive." Her voice sounded high and unnatural to her own ears.

  "Lead on, then." She didn't dare look, but suspected from his tone that he was grinning at her. Tilting up her chin, she ordered herself not to blush.

  "We only have a few minutes, and we may be interrupted at any moment, but I wished to have a private word with you." She spoke softly but quickly, before she could change her mind, using the words she had rehearsed earlier today. "Do you still intend to leave London —my part of London —shortly?"

  "I must," he murmured, his head close to hers. "I don't belong here."

  She fought the distraction of his nearness. "I have a favor to ask of you, but it would entail delaying your departure. You know that my stepmother intends me to marry before my twenty-first birthday, at the end of June. I'd like your help in thwarting her plans."

  "How?" As they talked, they moved slowly in the direction of the balcony, avoiding the more thickly crowded areas of the mezzanine.

  Pearl swallowed, then plunged ahead. "If it were assumed that I had . . . formed an attachment, it would deflect other suitors, and force my stepmother to expend her energies elsewhere."

  He halted to face her, his expression inscrutable. "Are you asking me to court you openly?"

  "No, not really." Not unless you want to. "Just to pretend that you are doing so, as I will pretend to welcome your advances. Once my birthday is past, I could seem to change my mind. You would be free to go back to whatever life you prefer. And I'll be able to live my life as I wish."

  She rather hoped that by then she would have convinced him that he could do more good from within Society than from without. And perhaps she could convince him of other things, as well . . .

  "I see." He walked on in silence for a few moments. Whether he was relieved or disappointed at her caveat, she could not tell. Then, "Will your par
ents not send me to the right-about? It is clear already that the Duchess, at least, does not approve of me dancing attendance on you."

  Now she smiled, relieved beyond measure that he had not rejected her idea out of hand. If he had, she'd have had to summon her courage to propose a second, far more scandalous scheme to achieve her ends. "Father will permit it if I ask him. He rarely denies me anything that I truly want, and the Duchess will not gainsay him."

  They had reached the fourth balcony now and paused, as though admiring the view. Luke appeared to be deep in thought. Finally, he stirred and looked at her again, searching her face with serious eyes. Pearl returned his gaze earnestly, her heart in her throat, hoping she had not gone too far and alienated him beyond recall.

  Suddenly his expression softened, and he smiled. "I begin to see why the Duke can deny you nothing. If you really think it will help, I'll pose as your most earnest suitor for as long as you consider it expedient."

  Pearl was startled by the elation that surged triumphantly through her at his words. It was only to be a sham, she reminded herself sternly. "Thank you . . . Luke. I'll do everything in my power to make certain you do not regret this."

  She took his arm again and they headed back toward the Duke's box in silence. What Luke was thinking, she had no idea —nor was she entirely sure she wanted to know. It was enough that he would stay.

  * * *

  Luke untied his cravat and tossed it over the back of a chair in the sumptuous guest room of Marcus's Town house, careful not to awaken Flute, asleep in the dressing room. He needed solitude to think.

  He was a fool.

  Never, never should he have given into temptation and agreed to Lady Pearl's scheme. She was an idealist, a dreamer, and he should have told her so. Instead, he'd stared into her beautiful violet-blue eyes and said exactly what she wanted him to say. Even now, the memory of her beseeching gaze stirred him powerfully.

  And he was supposed to pretend to be courting her for two entire months? To look but not to touch? It would be sheer torture. But that wasn't even the worst of it.

  Only a few things worth selling remained in his lodgings in Seven Dials— assuming that by now the place hadn't been stripped bare. To maintain his charade as a man about Town for another two months, more money —much more— would be necessary.

  Marcus was kindly providing him with a place to stay and regular meals, but he could scarcely keep wearing the same two sets of evening clothes indefinitely —nor the single pair of daytime breeches he owned. Marcus hadn't commented on it yet, but he must think it as odd as Luke's preference for dining at home rather than at one of the clubs.

  Then there was the matter of flowers and other trinkets for Pearl, to keep up appearances. He'd love to give her something that would bring a smile to those luscious lips. But he knew only one way to obtain the necessary money.

  He'd have to turn to theft again.

  Why the thought should bother him, he wasn't sure—it never had before. The ton had far more than they could ever use or need, and it had always seemed only fair that he, and others like him, benefit from their plenty. Stealing from them was a form of justice —to himself, his late mother, and to the downtrodden denizens of the London slums. But would Pearl see it that way?

  No, almost certainly not. And therein lay the rub.

  Luke removed his coat and waistcoat, then his shirt, and shrugged. He'd simply have to make certain she never found out, that was all. What other choice did he have, situated as he was? None. His conscience still niggled at him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He'd do what needed to be done, just as he always did, and leave any moralizing for another day.

  Climbing under the sheets, he closed his eyes to dream of Pearl and the future they would pretend awaited them. A future that could never be.

  * * *

  Two days later, Luke was the subject of considerable speculation. The news that Lady Pearl finally had a favorite had made its way through the active gossip chain of Society, and all of fashionable London was abuzz with the news.

  Marcus was the first to congratulate him. "You're a sly dog, you are, Luke," he exclaimed when they met at his house for luncheon. "All that talk of going back to your aunt, but I knew that the proper inducement could keep you here in Town. Do you think Oakshire will actually give his consent?"

  "I sincerely doubt it," Luke confessed truthfully. "But so long as he doesn't forbid me to my face to see his daughter, I intend to continue doing so."

  "And the Duchess? Has she had nothing to say on the matter? No offense, Luke," Marcus added quickly. "You're the best of good fellows, but—"

  "But basically a nobody," Luke concluded for him. "No offense taken, as you're quite right. The Duchess has asked a few pointed questions —it's clear she considers me a fortune hunter —but her main interest seems to be whether or not I'll come up to scratch."

  "Women do love to plan weddings," Lord Marcus agreed with a grin. "So will you?"

  Luke shrugged. "I've known the lady for less than a week. And, as you so diplomatically pointed out, my chances of gaining her father's consent are small in any event."

  A betrothal was out of the question, of course. Such a step would require the drawing up of settlements and an inevitable inquiry into Luke's background and finanaces —dubious in the one case and nonexistent in the other. He reminded himself of that fact frequently, whenever his hopes and desires threatened to overset his reason.

  That evening he was to be Pearl's escort at a musicale at Oakshire House itself, where all of polite Society from the Prince Regent on down would be in attendance. When he arrived, one glance told him that he was the most inexpensively dressed man there. While his evening clothes were fashionable, he hadn't had the time or the funding to have them made by one of the premier tailors. Unfortunately, it showed.

  "I'll do my best not to embarrass you," he murmured to Lady Pearl as they moved from the receiving line into the main hall. "This is all a bit over my head, you know."

  She squeezed his arm encouragingly. "You're doing splendidly. Your manners are better than many a titled gentleman's, I assure you, and that is what really matters."

  He couldn't help being touched by her faith in him, though he feared it was misplaced. When he'd ventured into great homes in the past, he'd relied on remaining inconspicuous to get by. As Lady Pearl's rumored favorite, that would scarcely be an option tonight.

  Rather than a single musical performance at a set time and place, the Duchess had decreed five different venues throughout the mansion. At least one performance, therefore, was going on at all times, and the guests were free to wander as they chose from one to another. For several minutes, Luke and Pearl stood listening to a particularly brilliant pianist in one of the smaller parlors.

  "Remarkable, is he not?" Pearl commented in an undertone. She had not released his arm all evening, but Luke did not mind in the least.

  "Mmm," he responded noncommitally, as music was something he knew very little of. He was simply enjoying Pearl's nearness, occasionally allowing himself —unwisely —to fantasize that things were other than they were, that he had a chance of spending his life with her, his nights with her . . .

  "Let's go see if that flutist is still performing in the atrium," she suggested when the pianist ended his piece with a flourish. "There's supposed to be a soprano here, as well, who they say was the toast of Italy. Perhaps you'll have heard of her through your uncle?"

  That was impossible, of course, but Luke merely said, "Perhaps. Did you catch her name?"

  "Signora Donatelli or something like that—oh! There is Lady Minerva beckoning to me. She'll want to meet you, I know."

  Luke obediently accompanied her to the young lady in question, relieved that the topic of his Italian uncle had been dropped. Lying to Pearl was becoming increasingly difficult.

  "Pearl! I vow I'm simply perishing to meet your Mr. di Santo. I hear such interesting things about him," exclaimed Lady Minerva the moment they were within ears
hot. The petite blonde's beauty was only slightly marred by the avid curiosity in her bright blue eyes.

  Pearl merely smiled, answering her implied question with an introduction. "Lady Minerva Chatham, meet Lucio di Santo. Luke, Minnie is one of my closest friends."

  "Hmph. Not close enough to have anticipated this development, if development it is," said Lady Minerva with a toss of her golden curls. "Mr. di Santo, pray fetch us something to drink, so that Pearl and I may have a proper coze."

  At Pearl's slight nod, he bowed. "It is my great honor to be of service to two such exquisite ladies. Will ratafia do, or would you prefer champagne?"

  Lady Minerva tittered at the compliment and waved her furled fan at him. "Oh, champagne! Pearl choosing a favorite is a festive occasion, after all. But pray take your time about it."

  Luke left them to their chatter, taking a roundabout route to the buffet tables, where champagne was in abundance. Having no particular desire to carry the glasses longer than necessary, he moved slowly, nodding and speaking briefly to various new acquaintances along the way. He peered into the atrium to discover that the flutist was indeed still playing, storing that information to share with Pearl later.

  As he finally approached the tables, his attention was caught by an elderly dowager a few steps in front of him. Dressed all in black silk, the woman positively dripped with jewels, from the emerald-encrusted comb in her hair to her diamond-studded slippers.

  Speaking with an equally antiquated gentleman, she gestured with her left hand, and a heavy ruby and diamond bracelet nearly slipped from her wrist. She bobbed her head emphatically at something the old gent said, then gestured again. This time the bracelet did come free, its clasp either broken or undone, to slide along the folds of her voluminous skirts to the floor, where it formed a glittering puddle.

  The two octogenarians moved on, oblivious, leaving Luke to stare at the sparkling bit of temptation in his path. Only for an instant, however. With the nonchalance of long practice, he moved forward without breaking his stride, seeming to focus on the table ahead while surreptitiously ascertaining that no one else had noticed the old lady's accident.