by Brenda Hiatt
Odd as it seemed to Marcus to give a woman, even such a one as the redoubtable Lady Pearl, control of land and wealth, he knew Luke had felt it necessary. Shaking his head at the follies of love, he turned back to the house as the carriage dwindled from sight.
As the day was growing warm, he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow, and from the corner of his eye, he saw something flutter to the ground. Curious, he bent to retrieve it.
Heedless of the merrymakers streaming back into the great hall, Marcus stood on the front steps, frowning at what appeared to be a calling card, but a deucedly strange one. No name was inscribed upon it. Instead, it sported only a black numeral seven, surmounted by an oval—a halo—in gold ink. Abruptly, he recognized it as the distinctive device of the Saint of Seven Dials, which had often been described in the newspapers.
Understanding suddenly broke upon him and he grinned. So that's what Luke had meant! He must have used his legendary skill to slip the card into Marcus's pocket while they were chatting earlier.
Though he had intended to stay the night, Marcus abruptly decided to start back to London immediately. If he was going to take up Luke's mantle and become the next Saint of Seven Dials, he had work to do.
CHAPTER 1
London—July, 1816
Ladylike pursuits were vastly overrated, Quinn Peverill decided, throwing down her pitiful attempt at embroidery in disgust. How could something be simultaneously so frustrating and so boring? Her father insisted that all Society ladies embroidered but after several hours' trial, Quinn took leave to doubt it.
Rising, she restlessly moved to the window of the sumptuous parlor of the hotel suite, kicking at her pale pink skirts as she walked. What did she care whether she impressed her mother's relatives or the stuffy young men her father wanted her to meet? English Society would never accept her as one of their own. Nor did she wish them to.
It hadn't been her idea to come here. Her father had overridden her protests, insisting that she accompany him to England for the sake of the business —and to meet her late mother's estranged family, the very people who had cast her mother off some twenty-five years ago. It seemed almost disloyal to her mother's memory to care what they thought of her.
Quinn thought longingly of Baltimore, an ocean away. Would her brother, Charles, be able to handle her role in the family shipping business? He knew far less than she about the most competitive routes to China and Europe, or the best suppliers, as he'd been away at college for the past few years. What if he botched everything? And who would catch the clerks in their inevitable errors, without Quinn there to oversee them?
With an impatient sigh, she turned from the window just as her father entered the parlor, a broad smile on his handsome, weathered face.
"Quinn!" he exclaimed in obvious delight. "I have the most wonderful news!"
His ebullience was so infectious she couldn't help returning his smile, pushing her worries about the business momentarily aside. "What news, Papa?"
"Look!" He waved a letter at her. "We've actually been invited to stay with your uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Claridge, at their Town house. I feared they might have gone down to the country or to the seaside by now. Your mother used to tell me London is all but deserted from July till October."
Quinn glanced over her shoulder at the activity outside, on the fashionable corner of Albemarle Street and Picadilly. "Clearly not, though I confess it does seem tame compared to the bustle of the docks at home."
"Oh, the docks here in London are every bit as busy —even more so. Don't you recall the confusion when we landed?"
She did. The London shipping district put American ports to shame, in volume if not efficiency. In that, she felt they could benefit from some good, hard-headed American business sense. "So we are to remove to their house?" she asked without enthusiasm. "When?"
"Tomorrow. Lord Claridge himself sent this letter, offering to send a coach to move us and our things to Mount Street. Wasn't that handsome of him?"
"Indeed." Sometimes Quinn couldn't figure her father out. Eminently capable in business and all things nautical, he took orders from no one but himself —yet he seemed to hold the British nobility in a respect amounting to awe. It was an awe Quinn did not share. "I suppose it will be more interesting than staying here, in any event."
Her father's brow crinkled apologetically. "You will enjoy London once I have a chance to show you about, my dear. I know you miss home, but—"
"But this is an admirable chance to expand my horizons," she finished, parroting what he had told her numerous times. "You're right, of course, Papa. I'll have that new French maid of mine pack up my things."
The worry disappeared from her father's brow. "That's my girl! When I return from my meeting, I'll pack as well."
"Another meeting? Can't I come this time? I have a proposal about the tobacco trade, and some thoughts about the cotton warehouses that—"
He cut her off, as he'd done whenever she raised such subjects lately. "Not today. I'll pass along your ideas, and if there are any developments, I'll inform you when I get back."
Though Quinn frowned, she did not protest, knowing it would do no good. When he left, she headed to her bedchamber where, instead of her maid, she found only a hotel chambermaid —a young redheaded girl of perhaps twelve. At Quinn's entrance she snatched up her dust cloth, ducked her head and hurried to the door.
"Excuse me," said Quinn, halting her flight. She had meant to ask the girl to fetch her maid, but a glimpse of her frightened face halted her. The girl's eyes were red with weeping, and a large bruise was purpling across one cheek.
"What on earth . . . ? Who did this to you?" Quinn demanded.
The girl shook her head violently. "Nobody, mum. I . . . I fell, is all." She headed for the door again, but Quinn put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
"Please, don't be afraid. Did someone here at the hotel strike you?"
Another quick shake of the head. "No, mum. I'll . . . I'll be fine."
"What is your name?" If she could get the girl talking, she might be able to get at the truth.
"Polly."
"And have you worked here at Grillon's long?"
That question, unaccountably, seemed to increase the girl's alarm. Ducking away from Quinn's restraining hand, she darted for the door, but before she could reach it, a heavy enameled box slipped from beneath her apron to bounce on the thick carpeting. The girl froze, lifting horrified eyes to Quinn's.
"My jewel case. You were . . . stealing it?" Quinn could scarcely believe it. The girl was a mere child!
Polly's reserve broke, shattered by fear. "Oh, please, mum, don't tell no one! I ain't never stole nothing before, I swear! I only did it for my little brother. His master beats him if he don't bring nothing back, but if he's caught again they'll hang him, sure."
Now Quinn was confused. "Your brother's master makes him steal? Is he the one who struck you?"
She nodded. "I tried to keep him from beating Gobby yesterday, so he walloped me and said I could just bring in Gobby's share instead. But Gobby, he's that stubborn, he wants to do his own work, for all he's only nine." The girl began to cry.
"Shh, Polly, it's all right. I won't turn you in, and in fact I'd like to help you. Will you take me to your brother's master? I should like to have a few words with the man." What kind of monster forced children to steal for him?
"Oh, no, mum! He might hurt you—and me, too."
"To your brother, then? Perhaps together we can persuade him to a more honest way of life." A nine-year-old boy could scarcely be a hardened criminal, after all.
Now Polly's thin face brightened. "Oh, would you, mum? That might work. Likely he'd listen to a real lady like you. But—it mightn't be safe for a lady to go there. It's a rough area."
"I won't go as a lady, then," Quinn said, after scarcely a moment's thought.
Opening her trunk, she quickly dug to the bottom to retrieve an old outfit of her brother's, which she'd occasionally
worn at home when climbing trees or riding astride. She'd packed them at the last minute, for purely sentimental reasons, never expecting occasion to wear them in England, but she was glad of that impulse now.
By this time tomorrow, she would be trapped in her stuffy English relatives' house, unable to do anything but play the proper lady. So why not snatch at this unexpected opportunity to do something worthwhile —and exciting –first? It would likely be her last chance for a very long while.
Polly helped her undo her gown, then watched, wide-eyed, as Quinn donned Charles's shirt and breeches. Glancing into the pier glass as she tucked the last strand of her curly dark hair beneath Charles's cap, she decided she made a fairly credible boy.
"There. I should be safe enough like this. Let's go."
* * *
Lord Marcus stared sightlessly through White's famous bow window, letting Lord Fernworth's idle chatter wash over him. Peter was right. The fellow was a complete nodcock.
In fact, most of his friends were nodcocks, with the notable exception of Luke, who was by now several counties away, more than a week into his wedding trip. Why hadn't he noticed it before?
Peter often warned him that he was frittering his life away on wine, women and cards. He had always credited that to his older brother's propensity to coddle him, as the youngest of their large family. But now . . . maybe he could do something more worthwhile with his life. He idly fingered the now-tattered card in his pocket.
"And then Scottsdale tied her garters to the front gate of Beck House, just to show her he knew what she had done, and with whom!" Fernworth concluded his tale with a laugh. "The scandal sheets are having rare fun with that, as you can imagine."
Marcus managed a smile, but his heart wasn't in it. Why had he come here? He rose. "Sorry, Ferny, but I've just recalled an appointment with my tailor. Think you can finish the bottle without me?"
Fernworth snorted at the foolish question. "You've been a dashed dull dog lately, Marcus. What say we take in that do at Madame Sophy's tonight? All her best girls will be at their finest, I doubt not."
A month ago, Marcus would have jumped at the chance to attend a party at the most fashionable bordello in London. Surely it should bother him that the idea now seemed more wearisome than appealing? What was wrong with him?
"Perhaps I'll meet up with you there," he replied evasively as he took his leave.
Outside, he glanced across St. James's Street at the Guards' Club, where Peter and his friends tended to gather. He'd once thought to make his mark in the Army, as Peter had. He had even tried to run away and enlist when his father refused to buy him a commission. But Robert, his eldest brother, had played tale-bearer, his father had hauled him back home in disgrace, and his chance at that honorable and exciting life was gone.
He shrugged off the old bitterness that had led him to his current dissipated existence. Regret was pointless, and the war was now over. There were other paths to heroism and adventure. Luke had shown him one. Why had he waited a whole week to do anything about it?
Abruptly done with second-guessing his initial decision, he turned his steps east, toward Covent Garden and Seven Dials. Thievery might be beyond him, but he could at least carry on with the help Luke had given to the people there. He headed down Picadilly, then Coventry Street to Cranborn, finally turning north on St. Martin's Lane.
He passed from wide, gracious avenues through narrow but still respectable working class areas and finally to the squalid alleyways of the rookeries. He'd been here before, in the company of other young bucks out on the Town looking for amusement. Alone, however, he was just as glad the July days were long and the afternoon still early.
Looking around him with interest, his earlier enthusiasm for this project reviving. There must be dozens, nay, hundreds of people here who needed his help. He spotted a one-legged beggar in a filthy infantry uniform and walked over to him.
"Ahoy there, my good man," he said jovially, dropping a few coins into his extended cup. "What do you call yourself?"
Suspicion flared in the beggar's rheumy eyes. "What's it to you, guv? Oi've a right to sit here if I likes."
"Of course you have," Marcus agreed, taking a step back, both to reassure the man and to distance himself a bit from his reek. "I mean to do you good, not harm. If you'll tell me what you need to make your way in the world, I'll try to provide it."
Now a cunning gleam warred with the suspicion. "Will you, then? A case or two o' daffy would make my world a better one, I'm thinking."
Marcus clung to his smile. "Surely there's something you want more than gin? Some new clothes, perhaps? A position somewhere?"
The suspicion returned. "One of them do-gooders, are ye? Spare me your temperance yammering." The man spat with disgust. "And here I thought you was wantin' to help."
Against his better judgement, Marcus tossed another coin into the beggar's cup, knowing it would likely go for nothing more constructive than drink. Perhaps these people were already beyond whatever help he could give.
Turning, he nearly bumped into a boy of perhaps nine or ten who had sidled up behind him while he spoke to the old soldier.
"Hey there, my lad, what are you doing?" he asked, quickly reassuring himself that his purse was still in his pocket. His handkerchief, however, was clutched in the boy's grubby fist. With a yelp, the lad turned and ran.
"Wait! I won't harm you," Marcus called. "You can keep— Oh, bother it." Hoping this might be someone more able to benefit by his assistance, he trotted after the boy.
Though clearly underfed, the lad was quick and knew the area far better than Marcus did. He was able to keep the boy in sight for two or three twists and turns, but then lost him heading back west on crowded Monmouth Street.
He continued along the street, alert for a scrawny lad in a tattered blue cap, but without success. Still, there were plenty of other unfortunates about. That girl there, at the corner of Church Street—no more than thirteen or fourteen, and apparently driven to prostitution.
Pricked by sudden compassion, he took a step or two in her direction, then stopped, realizing how his offer of help might be interpreted. No, he'd do better to limit his assistance to the boys on the streets, at least until he knew their world better.
Reaching Gordon Square, he saw a small knot of ragamuffins clustered near a house that likely belonged to a wealthy merchant, as this was still east of the ultra-fashionable Mayfair area. Looking closer, he spotted a blue cap, as well as a general air of furtiveness among the boys. Cautiously, he moved closer.
"Garn, Stilt, he'll still be at 'is shops, and the 'ousehold takin' it easy, loike. Safer now than at night, if you ask me," a redheaded strip of a lad was saying to the tallest of the boys.
"Gobby's right," agreed the blue-capped lad who had absconded with Marcus's handkerchief. "We can nip in and out with none the wiser, and cop enough for a grand dinner wi' enough left over to satisfy old Twitchell. Look at all them open windows!"
A mutter of agreement among the others elicited a reluctant nod from the tall boy, Stilt. "If we're goin' to do it, then, we'd best get to it," he said. "Gobby, you're the smallest."
"Aye," agreed Gobby. "I can fit through that window a treat. And if I'm spotted, I'll just say I got lost."
The group moved toward the house and Marcus abruptly realized he had to act. Here, surely, was the chance he'd been waiting for. Using the hedge for cover, he sidled closer while the boys were focused on the house. Then, as Stilt was whispering final instructions to his cohorts, Marcus burst upon them, grabbing Gobby and the blue-capped lad each by one arm.
For an instant, all of the boys froze, then began to scatter. Tightening his grip on the two he'd caught, Marcus called out, "Wait! If you care about your comrades, you'll listen to me."
Stilt paused, worry and defiance playing across his thin, grimy face, and one of the others slowly returned as well, but the others kept running. "Let 'em go, guv," Stilt said. "We didn't mean no harm, none of us."
"I rather doubt that," Marcus replied, ignoring the struggles of the two boys he held. "But I'm not here to turn you over to the authorities. I want to help you. This doesn't seem like the best spot for a chat, however. Follow me." He guided his two captives out into the lane.
"Gobby! No!" came a feminine cry. Turning, Marcus saw a redheaded girl and a boy in a brown cap approaching, the girl's eyes wide with alarm.
"You two come along as well, if you care about these lads," Marcus called to them. The two hesitated, but then the boy whispered something to the girl, and she turned and ran. The boy, however, came slowly forward, his eyes narrowed speculatively.
There was no way Marcus could pursue the girl, so he focused on the boy. "I won't hurt you or turn you in, I promise. Come on, then." Rather to Marcus's surprise, the lad shrugged and followed along with the others.
They must look an odd bunch, Marcus thought with a spurt of amusement as they turned onto Grosvenor Street a few minutes later. Reaching the house he shared with two of his older brothers, he was just as glad neither would be home just now. Marcus led the motley group of boys around back, to the small kitchen garden, where he released the two boys he held, latched the back gate securely, then turned to face all five of them.
"You may not realize it yet," he began, "but you're all very fortunate that it was I, and no one else, who happened upon you—and that I did so before you could commit your intended crime."
The boys looked skeptical and sullen, and he couldn't blame them. Even to his own ears, he sounded pompous. He tried again.
"I assume you're all in dire financial straits. Do any of you even have parents?"
Most of them shook their heads.
"Though it may seem the quickest way out of your difficulties, thievery is not the answer. It's far too risky, for one thing. You can't possibly realize the consequences, if you were arrested."