The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "Not sure I would have, since I dursn't show my face outdoors after what Missy said. She's a lively lass, she is."

  Luke shot him a grin. "You'll meet more lively lasses, you young rapscallion. Now stop your mooning and finish packing while I write my excuses."

  Ten minutes later, the note to Marcus written and Luke's single trunk packed, the two headed cautiously down the back stairs. Leaving Flute with the trunk just inside the servants' entrance, Luke stole back to prop the note against the library mantelpiece. Marcus likely wouldn't believe his explanation of an urgent summons from his aunt, but it was the best he could think of under the circumstances.

  Returning to Flute, he told him to remain where he was while Luke went out to reconnoiter. Sure enough, a man was leaning against a lamp post across the street, watching the house. They'd need a distraction.

  Still dressed in his finery, Luke was less likely to excite suspicion than his confederate, particularly if the Runners had Flute's description. Pinning an expression of grave concern on his face, Luke walked right up to the man.

  "Sir," he exclaimed, "one of the stable lads says you are an officer of the law. I hope you can help my friend —he was set upon by footpads not a block from here!"

  The man straightened at once to regard Luke warily. "I heard nothing," he said. "Are you sure?"

  "Sure!" Luke waxed indignant. "I was with him at the time, man! I helped to frighten them off, but my friend sustained a blow, so I was obliged to go for help. My good friend, Lord Marcus, is from home, or I'd have enlisted his aid."

  At the invocation of Lord Marcus's name, the man snapped to attention. "Of course, sir! Which way did you say, sir?"

  Luke pointed in the opposite direction from the one he and Flute would take. "In the alley behind those houses there. If someone else has rendered him aid by now, perhaps you can catch the men who did this— there were three of them."

  "Three. Very good, sir." Without further hesitation, the man hurried off in the indicated direction.

  Quickly, Luke returned to Flute and together they disappeared into the shadows to make their way back to Seven Dials. As the streets got narrower and dirtier, Luke felt his spirits, briefly elevated by the encounter with the Runner, sinking into his shoes. In vain he tried to tell himself that he was happier here, free of the restraints trammeling the upper classes. At the moment, all he could see was the squalor.

  Abruptly, he realized that he was seeing Seven Dials the way Pearl must have seen it, that first night he met her. Not for a moment had she quailed, though the filth and poverty had to be a completely new experience for her. Instead, she had looked for ways to help those in need.

  "Shall we separate here?" Flute recalled him from his thoughts when he nearly walked past the building where he had his lodgings.

  "I think you'd better stay with me for the time being," Luke replied. "It's entirely possible your crib is being watched, if the authorities know who you are."

  "Are you sure, sir?" Flute had only visited Luke's lodgings once or twice before, and always surreptitiously, so that they couldn't be tied to each other by witnesses.

  "Have you anywhere else to go?"

  Flute shrugged. "I can always find a corner somewhere. I've done it often enough."

  But Luke had had enough this night of abandoning those who trusted him. "This will be warmer. Come on."

  As he had feared, the place had been ransacked in his absence. For a moment anger assailed him. After all the help he had given these people, he'd have thought— But no. For the residents of Seven Dials, gratitude could scarcely compete with hunger, or even the need for spirits to dull their pain.

  Prying up a corner floorboard, Luke was relieved to find that the thieves hadn't found his "safe"— the place he kept a few small but valuable items. From the little recess he pulled a pair of diamond earrings, a dozen gold coins and an emerald watch fob. His retirement fund.

  Flute gave a low whistle. "Good to see they didn't get everything —not by a long shot! You want I should fence those for you?"

  Luke shook his head. "Too risky, now you're being sought. These items were recognizable enough that I stashed them away for a rainy day, some months since. For now, the gold should see us through." He pocketed two of the coins, then rewrapped the rest and replaced the bundle.

  Only as he spoke did it occur to him what a momentous decision he'd made. Though he wouldn't accept Pearl's charity, he didn't intend to steal anymore. Not for himself, and not for anyone else. No matter how he justified it, doing so injured him more than it did his victims, destroying a tiny piece of his soul with every theft.

  No, the Saint of Seven Dials would never ride again.

  * * *

  Pearl slept surprisingly well, considering the dramatic turn her life had just taken. Awakening to bright sunshine that chased away all fantasy and pretense, she found she still could not regret what she and Luke had done the night before. The experience had completed her somehow, even though she'd never known before that anything was missing from her life.

  With her usual impeccable timing, Hettie entered as she stretched, carrying a steaming basin for her morning wash. "I see you're feeling much recovered this morning, my lady," she said with a smile.

  "Indeed I am," Pearl declared, hugging her secret knowledge to herself. It seemed remarkable that Hettie could not perceive a change in her, so profound was her shift in perspective today.

  Standing, she turned her face to the sunshine streaming in the window. Even the slight soreness between her legs could not dampen her spirits. She felt like dancing. Remembering her plan, her smile broadened even further.

  "I have a new project in mind, Hettie, and again I'll need your help."

  Not surprisingly, her abigail regarded her with alarm. "Not another disguise, surely, my lady?"

  Pearl laughed, perhaps a bit too gaily, for Hettie's alarm did not abate. Forcing herself to something more resembling her usual mien, she reassured the maid. "No, a mere fact gathering mission. Who on our staff would you trust to make inquiries, perhaps unusual inquiries, and keep anything he found to himself?"

  Hettie thought for a moment. "William, the head coachman, has been with the family the longest, but I doubt he'd do anything behind the Duke's back. There's Jimmy, who works in the kitchens, who'd do anything for a price —but he's a bit too fond of talking. Wait!" She snapped her fingers. "John Marley. He's worked his way up from stable lad to footman, and I'd trust him with my life."

  "But will he not feel obliged to report to my father?"

  With a slight blush, Hettie shook her head. "Not if I ask him to report only to you. He . . . seems to have a fondness for me."

  Pearl grinned, where two weeks ago she would have frowned at such an admission. Though servants were generally discouraged from forming attachments for each other, just now she could not bring herself to condemn romance in any form. "He sounds perfect. Once I have breakfasted, ask him to attend me in my sitting room."

  An hour later, seated in her favorite chair, Pearl regarded the young footman who stood glancing nervously from her to Hettie and back. Though not particularly handsome, he had an honest, pleasant face. And Hettie trusted him. He would do.

  "John, have you ever been to Edgeware?" she asked without preamble.

  Too well trained to show surprise, he merely nodded. "Yes, milady. Twice."

  "Good. I have a task for you." Quickly, mindful that morning callers might be arriving downstairs at any moment, she outlined what she wished him to do. Recalling every snippet of information Luke had given her about his childhood, she shared everything that might be helpful to the investigation.

  "Report directly to me— through Hettie, if you prefer —with any information you find. Of course, you'll be well compensated, as this goes beyond your usual duties. I will see Upwood does not question your absence."

  The footman accepted his dismissal with a bow. "Thank you, milady. You can count on me. If the information you seek exists, I will find i
t." His speech, a shade better than the average footman's, made it clear he was still striving to better himself. Pearl thoroughly approved such an effort.

  "Thank you, John. I'm sure you will."

  * * *

  "Very well, Mr. di Santo. You may check back in a week to see if we've found anything for you." The bespectacled clerk at the tiny employment office closed his book, pointedly dismissing him.

  Luke gave the man a terse nod and took his leave, fighting an urge to tell the officious clerk to go to hell. This was the fourth office he'd visited, giving his Oxford name at two of them, for those positions where a formal education would be required, and his real name at the others, for more humble prospects. Using either name was risky, of course, but he was reluctant to invent yet a third one.

  This whole process was even more degrading than he had expected —a massive step down from pseudo-gentleman or even legendary thief. He wondered whether he'd be able to hold to his resolve after all.

  It had been nearly a week now since he'd left Mayfair behind him, and he'd made a point of reading the scandal sheets every day. So far there'd been no mention whatsoever of any furor to do with the Lady Pearl. That could only mean that she hadn't told anyone after all. It made his position here safer, but he couldn't help wondering at her reasons.

  Whether she was too ashamed to admit their liaison, or whether she remained silent out of concern for him, it made no difference, he reminded himself. They were of different worlds and it was best for both of them if they remained in those separate spheres.

  He was in no very pleasant frame of mind when Flute greeted him at the door of his lodgings.

  "I saw me old master," he said, his expression as sullen as Luke himself felt. "Had to nip 'round a corner so's he wouldn't spot me. I won't be able to work that crossing as sweeper no more. If he don't finger me for the reward, one of me old chums will."

  Luke nodded heavily. "No, you mustn't risk it. We'll find you something less visible to do, until the Runners have given over looking for you."

  Flute's "master" was the head of a flash house, a den of thieves, from whom Luke had rescued the boy two years since. The scoundrel had never forgiven Flute for leaving, of course, and would snatch at a chance to make an example of him to the other boys.

  "I could always go back to work for him again," Flute ventured, though without much enthusiasm. "He weren't as bad as some— didn't beat us unless we went two days in a row without bringing him brass, except when he was in his cups."

  Luke supposed that in comparison to his earlier life as a climbing boy, picking pockets had seemed a soft job to Flute. His master there was far more lenient than the old chimney sweep who'd forced him through the narrow, soot-filled pipes of London until he got too big for the task. But he wasn't about to let Flute go back —it would be an admission that he had failed the boy completely.

  "Nonsense," he said with a heartiness he was far from feeling. "You've got some education now. Didn't I teach you to read? We'll find you something far better, though it may not pay as well at first."

  "Aye, sir, we will." Flute grinned, his spirits reviving. The total confidence he showed in Luke's abilities was rather unnerving, outstripping Luke's own confidence substantially.

  He tousled the lad's hair, laughing at his protests. "I've got some fair prospects now," he lied. "If I get the position I'm hoping for, I'll be able to hire you myself, as my manservant."

  "Really, sir?"

  Luke steeled himself against the eagerness in the boy's eyes. Somehow he had to make good on his words —and he would. "Really. So why don't you practice right now, by polishing these boots for me while we eat? I have a few more stops to make before nightfall."

  Flute took to the task with enthusiasm, and Luke watched him for a moment before turning away to cut up bread and cheese for their simple midday meal. Despite his resolve to reform, he couldn't help thinking that one spectacular theft might be enough to set him —and Flute —up in relative comfort for a year or more.

  Without Pearl his life had no meaning anyway. What was the point of integrity, after all, without her there to applaud it? And then there were all of the people who still desperately needed whatever help he could offer. Perhaps one last burglary would be worth the risk after all.

  Handing Flute a plate, Luke sat down to plan while he ate.

  * * *

  Pausing to let Hettie slide one last pin into the cluster of curls on top of her head, Pearl listlessly thanked her and descended to the main parlor. Her spirits had gradually fallen over the past week as life returned to the same dull routine it had followed before her adventure and all that happened afterward. Rise, dress, eat, freshen up, receive callers . . .

  No news had come about Luke's antecedants —not that she had really expected any yet. Entering the parlor, she was both pleased to see that she had only two callers, and irritated that those callers were two of her least favorite people.

  "I give you good morning, Lord Bellowsworth, Lord Hardwyck," she greeted those most persistent suitors with what she hoped was enough cordiality to conceal her feelings about them. "Such a pleasure to see you here again."

  "Lord Bellowsworth was just about to tell us some news from his cousin, about that investigation we discussed last week," Obelia informed her, her eyes rebuking Pearl for her tardiness.

  About the tardiness she could not care in the least. But about the investigation—"Have they caught the Saint of Seven Dials then, Lord Bellowsworth?" She was careful not to display undue interest, though her insides contracted in sudden fear.

  Both gentlemen had risen at her entrance, but now they reseated themselves, one on either side of her.

  "No, but they expect to have him within the week," Bellowsworth replied. "His henchman —the lad—was traced to Mayfair itself, if you will believe it. He was seen by several servants in Grosvenor Street, but their stories apparently conflict. Just yesterday, however, he was spotted working as a crossing sweeper near Covent Garden. One of the Runners is shadowing him even as we speak. As soon as he returns to his master, we'll have him!"

  Lord Bellowsworth preened as though he himself were responsible for the all-but-certain capture. Pearl could only smile fixedly and pray that Luke —and Flute —were too clever to be caught so easily.

  "I don't know why they bother, myself," drawled Lord Hardwyck, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from one pearl-gray glove. "Where's the real harm in the fellow, after all? He merely redistributes a few trifling bits of money or jewelry before Parliament can do so. And he gives the ladies an object of interest to swoon over."

  He sent Pearl an indulgent smile, which she forced herself to return. Lord Hardwyck had always been insufferably condescending, toward her and other women. Just now, though, she preferred his viewpoint to that of Lord Bellowsworth.

  "Besides," he continued, "if the man is caught, he'll become a martyr, I doubt not. How would ordinary fellows like ourselves glean any attention at all from the fair sex if he were being paraded about the city in irons?"

  "You do yourselves a disservice, my lord, I am sure," exclaimed the Duchess. "Does he not, my dear?"

  Thus appealed to, Pearl was obliged to agree. "Indeed. How could any woman of sense prefer a common thief —or even a legendary one— over a man of rectitude and substance?"

  Both men bowed, acknowledging the ladies' compliments, but Pearl scarcely noticed. Where might her thief be now? She yearned for him with every fiber of her being.

  Just then, a cough at her elbow alerted her to the butler's presence. His expression implied a private matter, so she stood and followed him to the door of the parlor.

  "Yes, Upwood, what is it?"

  "I would not normally interrupt you, of course, my lady, but I was told you had given very explicit instructions. Young John Marley has completed the commission you gave him." As were most of the Oakshire servants, the butler was far too well-trained to betray the curiosity he undoubtedly felt.

  "Thank you, Upwood.
Tell him to attend me in my private sitting room at once."

  The butler bowed and left without another word.

  Returning to the others, Pearl said, "I fear my abigail has had a small mishap with the gown I intended to wear to tonight's rout. I must choose another one at once, so that she will have time to purchase matching accessories. I know you will excuse me."

  It rankled to give such a frivolous excuse, but in her excitement to hear what John Marley might have to say, she could think of nothing better. At once the gentlemen stood to take their leave, protesting that they had outstayed the customary quarter hour already. Obelia frowned, but made no objection, so Pearl was free to hurry up to her rooms.

  There she found not only John Marley, but an elderly woman she had never seen before. Hettie was hovering nervously in the background.

  "And who might this be?" Pearl asked, then immediately regretted her imperious tone. The old woman looked harmless enough —even kindly.

  "Milady, I—I hope you'll forgive me," stammered the footman, "but I thought you would want to hear Mrs. Steadman's tale from her own lips. It's a rather remarkable one."

  Pearl turned to the woman with interest. "Indeed? Pray, have a seat, Mrs. Steadman. I presume you have some connection to Luke St. Clair?"

  The old woman walked with halting steps to the nearest chair and eased her narrow frame into it with a sigh. "Aye, my lady, that I do. I were his nurse when he were a lad, and his mother's nurse afore him, God rest her."

  Eagerly, Pearl moved to the chair opposite her and leaned forward. "Then Mrs. Steadman, you are precisely the person I most wished to see! Surely you must know the truth about Mr. St. Clair's background."

  The woman nodded. "Aye, that I do—more than he ever knowed himself, for his mother wished it that way. Now he's a man grown, though, it's time he knew. It's that grateful I am that your man here came calling, for I hadn't the faintest idea how to go about finding the lad. You'll bring me to him, won't you, or tell him the news yourself?"