The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  She relaxed. "I trust you." And she meant it. Amazingly, she had never trusted anyone as wholeheartedly as she trusted this man who had lied to her almost from the moment she'd met him. "Show me what to do."

  "Ever my little academic," he said with a grin. But then, pulling her against him, he sobered. "I want you, Pearl. And I want you to want me. But you must be absolutely sure."

  In answer, she lay back, pulling his face down to hers for a kiss, running her hands up and down his bare back, enjoying the warm, firm smoothness of his skin. Shifting slightly, he did the same. His fingers seemed to leave a trail of fire everywhere they touched. She wanted more —much more.

  He gave it to her.

  Slipping one hand between them, he ran his palm down her belly, making her quiver. Then, before she could even realize what it was she needed, he buried his fingers in the cluster of curls between her thighs. She gasped with pure pleasure, a pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. But still he had not done.

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he massaged the spot that was the focus of her desire, then slipped one strong finger inside her. Instinctively, she tightened around him and he drew in a quick breath. Then, still slowly, he moved his finger out, then back in, setting up a rhythm that her body echoed, demanded.

  Though she wanted these wonderful sensations to go on forever, she still wanted more. Cupping his muscular buttocks in her hands, she pulled him closer, until the hard shaft that had shocked her with its size brushed against her, right next to his questing fingers.

  When he broke the rhythm within her, she nearly cried out in protest, but at once he replaced his finger with the very tip of his shaft. Slowly he reestablished the rhythm, sliding ever so slightly inside her, then withdrawing. Without thought, she moved her hips to greet him, urging him deeper with each thrust.

  They rocked together, first gently, then more and more forcefully, until finally he drove into her with his entire length. Pearl gasped, her body seeming to explode into a shower of colorful sparks. Never had she imagined such sensation, such ecstasy, was possible. She tightened around him convulsively as he thrust again and again. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he thrust one last time, even more deeply, and remained there, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he expended himself into her depths.

  For several long minutes they lay entwined. Pearl felt her heartbeat gradually returning to normal as a sweet lassitude came over her. Refusing to think beyond the moment yet, she gloried in the contentment pervading her mind and body.

  All too soon, Luke stirred, but only to touch her cheek gently, and to kiss her lightly on the lips. The warmth had not left his eyes. "No regrets?" he asked softly.

  She smiled at him—at her lover. "None at all. I never imagined . . ."

  "Nor did I." Now his expression was one of wonder. "Pearl, I . . . I . . ." He seemed on the verge of disclosing something vitally important, his eyes burning into her in their intensity. Then, suddenly, his expression changed. Swallowing visibly, he pulled away from her— first emotionally, then physically.

  She started to protest, but restrained herself. He was right, of course. She had known —they both had known —that he must leave, most likely never to see her again. Better that whatever feelings they shared remained unspoken. But while the logical portion of her mind explained all this to her, her heart wailed in silent sorrow for what could never be.

  In silence, he resumed his clothing and she her shift and then a nightrail, he apparently as deep in thought as she. Was it possible that he also wished . . . ? But no, she could not ask him. It would not be fair to either of them.

  * * *

  Luke finished dressing and faced this woman who had become so inexpressibly dear to him. He had to leave, of course, for her sake even more than his own. But saying goodbye, most likely forever, was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

  "You won't return to . . . to thievery, will you?" she asked hesitantly, her concern evident.

  He blinked in surprise, realizing he hadn't even thought that far ahead. "It's what I do best," he reminded her—and himself. "And it's not as though I have another trade to return to. Besides . . . "

  "Besides, the poor people of Seven Dials depend upon you." Her smile was tender, sending a shaft of sweet agony through him, but he shook his head.

  "No, I can't let you believe that I steal only for altruistic reasons. When I see a need I try to help, yes, but my primary motive has always been—"

  "Revenge." She finished his sentence again, this time correctly.

  He nodded. "I told you how my mother was treated, how she died. For most of my life I have seen the Quality as the enemy, people to be taken advantage of whenever possible, as some small recompense to her, and to me."

  But did he feel that way now, knowing that Pearl was of that previously hated class? He wasn't sure. Of course, his revenge had gone far beyond mere thievery. He'd nearly lost count of the number of titled gentlemen he'd cuckolded, seducing their paid mistresses and, once or twice, even their wives. And now he'd gone even further, snatching the virtue of a Duke's only daughter.

  Luke turned away from Pearl's earnest gaze to stare blankly out of the window, hating himself.

  "The fact remains that you have benefited many people, perhaps even saved their lives, through your generosity." Her simple faith in him made him feel even worse. "I understand why you might feel you can't just abandon them."

  Warily, he met her eyes again, willing himself not to flinch away from the warmth and understanding —so undeserved! –he saw there. "I know you won't set the authorities on my tail, and I'm grateful for that."

  She dismissed that with a quick wave of her hand. "That was never in question. But the authorities are already on your tail, or very nearly. That is why it's far too risky for you to resume your activities as the Saint of Seven Dials."

  This was news to him. "What do you mean?"

  "According to Lord Bellowsworth, a boy has been recognized, disposing of some of the items, er, missing from the Mountheaths'. No doubt he is being followed, in hopes of leading the law officers to you." Now she looked doubtful. "Do you truly have children in your employ?"

  How to respond, without blackening himself further in her eyes? "Not children, precisely, no. But I have Flute."

  "Flute?" Her puzzlement was obvious.

  "You met him once, actually, on our drive. He has been useful to me in both of my guises."

  Her brow cleared, then drew down in a frown. "You have put that boy at risk, taking in stolen goods? Even helping you to steal?"

  He opened his mouth to defend himself, to tell her that he had rescued the orphaned Flute from a far worse fate at the hands of a vicious master, but then closed it again. Better that she believe the worst of him. She would forget him more quickly that way.

  Instead of condemning him, however, she only said, "By returning to thievery, you will put him at even greater risk —and yourself as well. I have a proposition instead."

  "Another proposition?"

  She chuckled, but there was no real mirth in the sound. "I don't wonder you are concerned, but this one is solely for the benefit of the wretched denizens of Seven Dials. I have money and to spare, and will soon have even more. I can supply you with whatever is necessary to meet their needs —and yours."

  Until the addition of those last two words, he had almost been tempted. It would be so simple. But the idea of Pearl supporting him was intolerable. He would not become one of her social projects. "Thank you, but I'll manage," he said, perhaps more stiffly than he intended. "I always have."

  For a moment she looked as though she meant to argue, but then, apparently realizing she had offended him, she let the matter drop. Instead, she said, "As we're unlikely to see each other again, will you tell me more about yourself, and your past, before you go?"

  He suspected he had not heard the last of her plan to help him, but he welcomed the change of subject. He led her back into her sitting room, to stand before the hidde
n servant panel.

  "Are you certain you wouldn't prefer that I simply disappear without a trace?"

  She smiled briefly, acknowledging his teasing and her own curiosity, but then became serious. "It is possible that my father may already be making inquiries into your background, which could well prove disastrous for you. If—"

  "He'll find nothing," he assured her, grateful again for her concern. "At worst, your father will conclude that I am an imposter, a fortune hunter. He'll discover nothing whatsoever about my real background, simply because it doesn't exist."

  Clearly confused, she frowned. "Don't be absurd. Of course you have a real background, however unsavory it might be. What of your mother? She was a real, flesh-and-blood woman, was she not?"

  "She was," he conceded. "But I can tell you little more about her, save her heroic character. Her name was Dorothea St. Clair— though whether that was her true name, I can't say for certain. Even as a child, I knew she was afraid of something or someone. We moved frequently until I was eight or nine years old, sometimes at a moment's notice."

  He paused, remembering. "I never knew my father," he continued after a moment, "nor did she tell me anything about him, except that he was a good man, and that he was dead. I did ask her once, shortly before she died, whether I was illegitimate, but she denied it." He had never dared to believe that, much as he'd wanted to.

  "You told me she died when you were still young— eleven or twelve?" Pearl prompted him. "What did you do then?"

  Again he hesitated. "I stayed with my old nursemaid briefly, but she did not have the wherewithal to care for me, nor did I feel she should have to. I went out to find employment and fell in with . . . an unsavory crowd." It was an understatement, but he saw no point in arousing her pity.

  "Is that when you turned to thievery?" she asked gently, apparently guessing some of what he'd left unsaid.

  "Yes. I joined a ring of pickpockets, whose leader offered to teach me the trade. I was reluctant at first, of course, but I soon discovered that it paid far better than anything else a twelve-year-old boy could do. Well enough that I was able to lay enough money by to break away from them eventually."

  "And go to school." Her gaze seemed almost admiring, which shamed him.

  "Yes, to school. You'd think once I had a university education to my credit, I'd have turned to a respectable trade, wouldn't you?" he asked wryly.

  "Why didn't you?" No condemnation, just simple curiosity.

  Luke shrugged, then sighed. "I did try, actually. I held two or three different positions —first as a clerk, then apprenticing with a barrister. I don't take orders well, however, nor do I do well in situations where I have to acknowledge others as my betters."

  "Perhaps because they really are no better," she said with a smile. "I have little patience with fools myself."

  He had to restrain the urge to laugh wildly —for surely there could be no greater fool in England than Luke St. Clair! It was high time he took his leave.

  But what he would do then, he honestly didn't know.

  CHAPTER 11

  The distant, forlorn look in Luke's eyes as he told his story made Pearl want to fold him against her breast and comfort him, but she did not dare—not now, knowing what his touch did to her. Knowing he must leave.

  Watching him as he spoke, the light of the fire playing about the firm line of his lips, his expressive brows, Pearl felt again, more poignantly, the crushing disappointment that had assailed her the moment she saw Lady Glinnon's bracelet in his hand. Then an idea, perhaps born of desperation, struck her.

  "Since you know so little about your parents, it is possible your birth is perfectly respectable," she said when he did not reply. "Have you considered that?"

  "As a lad I thought of little else." His chuckle seemed a bit forced, she thought. "I spent long hours fantasizing about my royal heritage —how one day, out of the blue, someone would appear to tell me I was actually a prince, or heir to a dukedom." He shook his head. "At best, I suppose I might be the byblow of someone important."

  "Don't you want to find out? Have you tried?" She tried to bank the sudden, wild hope flaring to life from the ashes of her despair.

  But his expression hardened, closing her off. "No. What would be the point? As things stand now, I am beholden to no one, free to live my life as I choose. Besides, I have no place to start looking, even if I wanted to—which I don't."

  Despite the pain his words caused her, Pearl's quick mind was already formulating the beginnings of a plan. She would say nothing to him about it yet, as he was so resistant—not until she knew what fruit it might bear.

  Instead, she asked, "So what now, Luke? Do you mean to vanish at once, or will you go back to Lord Marcus' house?" She needed to know how to find him, just in case.

  He regarded her warily. "That depends upon you. On what you mean to do now that I've given you . . . what you wanted." The words were harsh, and he seemed to realize it, for he softened them with a smile.

  The thought of never again experiencing the wonder they had shared tore at her, but she had known beforehand that was the way it must be. "I won't put you at risk, of course," she told him. "Not until you are safely away will I make use of my, er, changed circumstances. I trust that you can disappear without a trace, as you have done before? Back to Seven Dials?"

  He nodded, though his eyes searched her face. She was careful to allow no trace of hope to show there.

  "Tomorrow, then? Once I know you have gone, I can confess what has happened. I'll . . . say that you seduced me, then fled. That you were not what you seemed to be."

  "Yes, you can claim to have been deceived, along with the rest of the ton." Now a smile lurked behind his eyes, though she read pain there, too.

  She fought down a sudden surge of panic at the idea of facing the censure of her peers alone. "I think you enjoy deceiving the ton rather too much," she said with mock severity, to distract herself.

  "I have in the past," he confessed, suddenly sober again. "But now—" He pulled a small stack of calling cards from his pocket, fingering them for a moment before suddenly flinging them into the fire. "There. That is the end of the Saint of Seven Dials."

  He faced her again. "I hope you'll believe me when I say that never for a moment did I enjoy deceiving you, Pearl."

  She reached up and touched his cheek with a smile, enjoying for one last time the rough feel of the light stubble on his jaw against her bare fingers. "You had no choice—and I forgive you."

  He took her hand from his face and kissed the very tips of her fingers. "Yours is the truest heart I've ever known, my Lady Pearl," he said, sincerity shining from his eyes. "Farewell."

  Releasing her hand, he moved as softly as a shadow to the hidden servants' door. Then, with one last bittersweet smile, he was gone.

  Pearl stood rigid before the cold fireplace, the fingers he had kissed at her own lips. Despite what she had told him, despite her need to secure Fairbourne, she doubted she would ever tell another soul what had happened here tonight.

  * * *

  Luke slipped soundlessly along the narrow passage, pausing at one juncture on hearing voices, waiting until they moved on before proceeding. Hurrying down two flights of steps, he cracked open a door that led to the kitchens. He watched and waited until he had a clear path to the outer door, then whisked out while the servants were busy dealing with a minor crisis of spilled sweetmeats.

  Quickly he moved through the kitchen gardens, then out to the alleyway behind the great houses. There he paused for a moment, breathing in the cool night air. Looking up, he identified the window that would be Pearl's. What was she doing now? Thinking now? He prayed she wasn't already regretting what they'd done . . . what he'd done.

  He had difficulty regretting it himself. Never had he bonded so completely with a woman, been so willing to sacrifice everything for her. He turned away and began walking quickly in the direction of Lord Marcus's house, self-loathing again effacing his euphoria.


  Sacrifice? Instead, he'd sullied the only thing he cared about. He should have stood firm, knowing the world as he did. Knowing the risks.

  Unbidden, a vision rose before him, of Pearl at her most alluring, pleading with eyes and body, using her considerable intelligence, equally attractive to him, to formulate persuasive arguments. In her, Luke had finally met his match.

  But what of that? By her own admission, they must never meet again, nor would he be fool enough to attempt it. If he thought he could protect her from scandal by standing at her side, he wouldn't hesitate. But his presence would only make things worse— especially if he were arrested for thievery. A fat lot of good he could do her swinging from a gibbet.

  Pushing his conflicting feelings down deep, into an obscure corner of his heart, he quickened his pace until he was nearly trotting. Letting himself into Marcus's house, he hurried up to his temporary chamber without encountering any of the servants. Good.

  "Flute?" he called softly. "Are you here?"

  The lad emerged from the dressing room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I were just takin' a bit of a catnap, sir. You're back early, ain't you?"

  "Yes. Wake yourself up, Flute, and pack up my things. I wish to be gone within the hour— before Lord Marcus returns."

  Instead of evincing surprise, Flute nodded sagely. "Got wind of the Runners, did you? I meant to tell you as soon as you got back."

  Luke paused in the act of pulling out pen and paper for the note he meant to write to Marcus. "The Runners?" Did everyone know of this investigation except him? "Tell me."

  Flute frowned, tugging at his straw-colored forelock. "You didn't hear, then? Seems I was recognized by someone hereabouts as the one what fenced them baubles last week. Old Fenster described me to the Runners, the snitch. After all the business I brung him. Then today, Missy from the kitchens tells me one of 'em was here, talking to the stable lads."

  "Bow Street Runners? Here?" It appeared they'd be leaving just in time—if they were in time. "Have you noticed anyone watching the house?"