The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Deep in thought, making no sound in his soft-soled slippers, he drifted around a corner and came face to face with a young housemaid dusting a set of Grecian urns. Her mouth formed a perfect "O" and her eyes went wide and wild. For several long heartbeats, they stood still, staring at each other, then she took a quick step backward.

  Instinctively, Luke reached out with one hand to reassure the terrified girl, but before he could speak, she let out a shriek, whirled, and ran. Belatedly, he realized that speaking or touching her would have ruined the effect. Before she could bring any witnesses, he ducked back around the corner and through the nearest door, into what appeared to be a bedchamber.

  He checked the wall near the fireplace, hoping to find another hidden door to the servant passages, but without success. Turning, he examined the room by the dim light filtering in through the partially curtained windows, searching for a suitable hiding place. Only as he secreted himself behind the voluminous bed curtains did he notice the ornate initials carved on the mahogany headboard: JLK. Had this been his father's room at one time, then? Perfect.

  Before he could consider how to put that interesting tidbit to use, he heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, coming closer.

  ". . . too many sweetmeats last night," came a male voice. "Mrs. Duggin warned you about that. Dreaming, you were."

  "No! I truly saw it! From another age, he was, floating inches off the floor, with eyes like dark fire. Looked right through me, they did— then he reached for me, never making a sound."

  Luke smiled silently at the housemaid's description, far better than anything he could have devised. Imagination was a wonderful thing. The door to the chamber opened then, and he held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. The faint glow of a candle penetrated the heavy draperies surrounding him.

  "See? Nothing here either," said the male voice. "If any room was going to be haunted, it would be this one."

  Luke's ears pricked at this, and he was glad when the maid asked, "Why?"

  Unfortunately, the male servant did not explain, but merely said, "If no one's told you the story, it's not my place to do so. Come, let's go back to the kitchens. I'll have Mrs. Duggin fix you a cup of something to calm your nerves, and you can work downstairs for the rest of the evening."

  The door closed, leaving Luke in darkness and little wiser than he'd been before. Now he was sure, though, that this had been his father's room. And it appeared that at least some of the Hardwyck servants knew his death had been untimely, if not unnatural. He smiled grimly.

  This first encounter had been accidental, but had turned out exactly as he might have wished. No doubt the housemaid would tell the story of what she'd seen to every other servant in the house. They'd be on the lookout now, but they would also be predisposed to terror —just the atmosphere he needed to carry off his plan.

  A more thorough search revealed a hidden door on the wall opposite the fireplace, leading into the servant corridor. Deciding he'd done enough for one evening, Luke waited half an hour, then made his way back to the storeroom and out of the house. Flute was surprised to see him so soon, but he quickly explained that they'd be back the next night —and the next.

  "For how long, sir? You're sure to be caught eventually if you keep breaking into the same house."

  "For as long as it takes," he replied. "But less than a week, I hope. I'll simply play it by ear. Meanwhile, I have a different task for you. I need to find out what the servants are saying about their ghost, and how far and how fast the rumors spread."

  "Can do, sir!" Flute exclaimed eagerly. Ferreting out information had always been a specialty of his, and he took pride in it.

  "Good man. Now, let's rest up. We've got several interesting nights ahead of us."

  * * *

  After her last encounter with Lord Hardwyck, Pearl would have preferred never to see the man again. But chance, or fate, seemed to have other ideas. Two days since, she had nearly bumped into him while shopping on Bond Street. Last night he had attended the same two functions at the same times she had, though she had avoided any interaction beyond a nod of greeting.

  And now, tonight, Obelia had joined with perverse fate by actually inviting Hardwyck to accompany them to the theater. Conversation with him would be virtually impossible to avoid. Pearl whetted her tongue, determined to say and imply only what she intended this time, as they approached Covent Garden.

  The environs reminded her vividly of Luke, though this was a different theater. His lodgings, however, were only a few streets away. Four days had passed since she had spoken with him, sent her letter. What had he been doing all this time?

  "I give you good evening, my lady," Lord Hardwyck greeted her as she stepped from the ducal carriage. Was it her imagination, or did the man appear on edge—even nervous?

  "Lord Hardwyck." The very name on her lips seemed a betrayal of Luke. She stepped back while he exchanged greetings with the Duke and Duchess, then reluctantly placed her fingertips on his outstretched arm to follow them into the theater.

  "I apologize if I somehow offended you a few nights since, my lady," he said quietly as they walked. "It was unintentional, I assure you."

  She slid a sideways glance at him. "Your offense to me was but trifling," she said. "Far worse things are done by man to fellow man every day, or so I hear."

  Now there was no mistaking his nervousness. "You hear? What do you hear, my lady?"

  "Rumors. Only rumors," she replied lightly, though she watched him closely now. He appeared to realize he was staring at her intently, for he shifted his gaze away.

  "Rumors can be oddly distorted, especially at a distance of years," he murmured, so low she barely caught the words. "I try not to put stock in them, myself."

  Something had brought his old crimes to mind, that was clear. Might that something have been Luke? "A wise policy for one's peace of mind, no doubt," she responded noncommitally.

  He shot a sharp glance her way, but said nothing more, instead quickening his pace to close the gap with the Duke and Duchess, who were now some way ahead.

  With what Pearl could only consider true poetic justice, the play they had come to see was Hamlet. Though Hardwyck made only the idlest of conversation, seeming to prefer now to speak with Obelia rather than herself, Pearl could not help watching him closely as the play progressed.

  As the spirit told Hamlet of "murder most foul," Lord Hardwyck shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And when Hamlet exclaimed to his father's ghost, "O my prophetic soul! mine uncle!" he flinched visibly.

  Pearl smiled inwardly. Whether or not something had occurred previously to remind him of the events of the past, this production was bringing it home to him forcefully, it was clear. The moment the curtain fell for the first intermission, he rose.

  "I cannot thank you enough, your graces, for the invitation," he said, though he spoke so absently that it seemed he scarcely knew what he was saying. "Pray forgive me, but it seems something I ate at dinner has disagreed with me. I fear I must take my leave early tonight."

  Obelia was all concern, recommending a particular potion she had found effective against dyspepsia. "An unsettled stomach is such a misery, my lord. We will hope you feel better directly, once you reach home, will we not?" She appealed to Pearl and her husband.

  "I'm certain that will be the case," Pearl said with a smile. "The source of the irritation will likely be removed the moment you leave the theater."

  With a frown of comprehension, barely even waiting to acknowledge the Duke's halfheated echoing of his wife's wish for his recovery, Hardwyck fairly fled the box.

  At once, Obelia rounded on Pearl. "It's clear you said or did something to offend him. What was it?"

  Pearl stared her innocence. "I did nothing, I assure you, your grace. I thought he seemed . . . disturbed by the play, but no doubt it was merely the indigestion."

  "Leave the girl alone, my love," the Duke advised his Duchess. "Hardwyck always was an odd duck— never trusted him above half,
myself."

  Obelia seemed about to protest this characterization, but at that point a group of acquaintances descended upon the box to pay their respects, effectively distracting her. Pearl nodded and smiled as was proper, but her thoughts were on Lord Hardwyck's strange behavior. If it wasn't absurd, she would almost have thought he seemed frightened. What had Luke been doing?

  * * *

  Wallis Knox, Lord Hardwyck, fitted a key into his front door with shaking fingers. The bottle of wine he had consumed at his club after leaving the theater had not calmed his nerves as much as he'd hoped. His phlegmatic butler, along with most of the other servants, had given notice that morning, forcing him to the unaccustomed task of opening the door himself.

  Going to see Hamlet tonight had been a mistake. He realized that now. He'd always detested the play, and had anyone but the Duchess of Oakshire issued the invitation he would have certainly have refused. Especially with so many old memories recently stirred up by these ridiculous "sightings."

  As yet, he himself had seen no sign of the alleged ghost. Still, he found it hard to convince himself that four different servants had independently conjured the same apparition. The focus had been James' old bedroom, and the descriptions had matched the portrait in the gallery —the one that had been taken only a month before his brother's death.

  He paused in the library for a brandy, downing it quickly before heading for his bed. Though he had never been a superstitious man, Hardwyck now climbed the main staircase with dread prickling along the back of his neck.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned to go to his own rooms. Cranley, his personal manservant, would still be here, at least. But then he paused, glancing down the hallway in the other direction. Had he heard something there? For a moment, he half-fancied the door to his brother's old room had just snicked shut.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to walk to the door of James' room. It was closed. For a long moment he stood there, debating. He was no silly housemaid, he reminded himself, but one of the most influential men in all England. He turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  There it stood, in the very center of the room, just as the servants had described it—an apparition dressed in the style of the end of the last century. As he stared, his brain refusing to accept the evidence of his eyes, its mouth opened and it actually spoke to him, in sepulchral tones.

  "Hello . . . Brother."

  CHAPTER 14

  The look on Hardwyck's face alone was worth the last few nights of skulking, Luke decided. For a moment, he thought the man might faint dead away or expire from shock, but then he seemed to rally slightly. He opened and closed his mouth several times before any sound emerged.

  "Wh-what do you want?" The question, when it finally came, was barely more than a whisper.

  "Justice," Luke replied in the voice he'd been practicing all morning. Flute had assured him it sounded sufficiently ghostly. He watched the emotions playing across his opponent's face in the dim light —fear, disbelief, cunning. This man was almost certainly his nearest living relative, yet Luke felt nothing but a rather dispassionate disgust toward him.

  Hardwyck swallowed a few times, then asked, "But how? You are already dead."

  Luke had his answer ready. "Truth. The whole truth." He didn't dare anything longer, for fear Hardwyck might penetrate his disguise.

  "Truth? About . . . what I did?" Hardwyck glanced over his shoulder, as though considering fleeing.

  Luke waited until he had the man's full attention again, then slowly, emphatically nodded. "Truth," he repeated.

  "I . . . I only have to tell you? And then you'll leave me alone? Leave this house?"

  Again, Luke nodded. He had a few ideas for how he might use whatever information he gained, but they didn't involve playing ghost again.

  "Very well," said Hardwyck. "It would be almost a relief—" He cleared his throat, declining to finish that thought. "Your death wasn't the accident everyone believed. I had debts— gaming debts. I knew—" Again he broke off. "I cut the cinch on your saddle, the morning of your last hunt. Whether you were killed or only injured, I knew I'd have access to the books, at least for long enough to pay off my debts. I . . . never gambled again, for whatever it's worth."

  But Luke wanted more than that. "Dorothea," he said.

  Hardwyck flinched as though he'd been struck. "How could you . . . ? Did she . . . ?" He glanced around the room, as though expecting yet another spirit to materialize.

  It took rigid control, but Luke kept his lips from twitching. He merely waited, impassive.

  "Very well," said Hardwyck in a rush. "Yes. I'm guilty there, as well. Once you were dead, I decided if I was in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound. I had Cranley burn down the Dower House, with your wife and son inside. He's made me pay dearly for his silence all these years, too, I can tell you."

  Luke slowly raised one arm to point at Hardwyck where he stood, trembling and pasty-faced. "Guilty," he pronounced.

  Hardwyck's eyes widened. "What . . . what . . . ?"

  "Guilty!" Luke repeated, more loudly, taking a step toward his uncle.

  "I . . . But . . . " Luke took another step, and Hardwyck abruptly lost his nerve. Letting out an absurdly high-pitched shriek, he turned and fled. A moment later, Luke heard Hardwyck's voice from down the hall. "Cranley! Get up. Pack my things. We're leaving London at once. Never mind why— just do it."

  Luke stood where he was for a moment, chuckling quietly to himself. Then he whisked through the hidden door, to take the servant passage back to his exit through the storeroom. His work here was finished —for now.

  * * *

  "Left Town?" Pearl asked Hettie in surprise. "What do you mean? Why?"

  Her abigail shrugged. "Word is, he lit out for the country in the middle of the night, night before last. I thought you'd want to know, but I don't know anything else, beyond the rumors."

  "Rumors? What sort of rumors?"

  Hettie looked uncomfortable. "I don't usually listen to such foolishness, mind you. But it's certain that the day before he left, most of his servants quit his employ. Belowstairs gossip was that Hardwyck Hall is haunted."

  This was so unexpected, Pearl nearly laughed. "Haunted? You're saying ghosts drove Lord Hardwyck out of London?"

  "I'm not saying," Hettie corrected her hastily. "I'm just telling you what the rumors are saying."

  Pearl sobered. "I can well believe his guilt might have induced him to imagine vengeful apparitions . . . but not that others would have seen them as well. Perhaps he went suddenly mad, and that frightened the servants."

  Hettie shrugged again, unhelpfully. "It seems as good an explanation as any," she conceded.

  For a long moment, Pearl considered. She had still had no word whatsoever from Luke. It appeared that he intended to do nothing with the information she had given him. Even now he might be falling back into a life of crime, out of habit or necessity. But with Hardwyck out of London, she should be able to help Luke with minimal risk of retribution from his uncle —the main thing that had held her back before.

  "Send John Marley to fetch Mrs. Steadman," she told Hettie with sudden decision. "And check to see whether my father will be free at any time this afternoon. It is time justice was done."

  Two hours later, having heard all of the old nurse's story, the Duke shook his head. "It's a damning tale, I grant you. I've never cared for the fellow personally, but the law will want more than one person's twenty-year-old recollections to bring a charge of murder, particularly against someone of Lord Hardwyck's stature."

  "I have already checked the available records, Father." Pearl pushed the letters she'd received from Somerset House across the top of the massive desk. "Marriage dates, birth and death dates —they dovetail with Mrs. Steadman's story in every particular."

  The Duke looked over the documents and nodded. "That is something, at least. But why are you doing this, Pearl? Where is Mr. St. Clair, or di Santo, or whatever he calls hi
mself? Why does he not press his own case?"

  "He seems . . . reluctant to put himself forward," she replied. "To be honest, I suspect he may be intimidated by the responsibility such a position would entail. He was not raised to it, you see, not knowing the truth until very recently."

  "What of this Italian uncle of his? Some relation of his mother's?"

  "I believe so," Pearl agreed cautiously. Her father, of course, knew nothing of Luke's recent life. The old nurse's story ended shortly after his mother's death. "He put Luke, er, Mr. St. Clair through Oxford, on condition he take his name."

  Mrs. Steadman regarded her confusedly, but did not contradict her, to her relief.

  "Hmph. Dashed queer business, if you ask me," said the Duke, knitting his bushy brows. "How will your Mr. St. Clair prove his identity? Is there any physical evidence to back up these accusations? The College of Heralds will insist on more than hearsay, my dear, I assure you."

  Pearl bit her lip. Luke had offered these same objections, but she had swept them away, assuming he was merely reluctant to take his place among the class he so despised. Before she could confess she had no answer, Mrs. Steadman spoke.

  "What sort of proof might you need, Yer Grace? I have Lady Dorothea's diaries, as well as a trinket or two she left to me."

  The Duke's brows rose. "Do you have the items here, madam?"

  Mrs. Steadman nodded. While Pearl stared at her in surprise, she fumbled through the pockets of her cloak and finally drew out two small leather volumes. Then she unpinned a brooch from her own homespun gown and laid it on the table, beside the diaries. "Will these help?" she asked.

  Though she itched to have a look herself, Pearl forced herself to sit patiently while her father leafed through the diaries in silence, then picked up and examined the brooch. "This is the Hardwyck crest," he commented.