by Brenda Hiatt
The blue-capped lad sniffed. "Transportation or the gibbet," he said carelessly. "We know, guv. But you got no proof."
"No?" Before the boy realized what he was about, Marcus reached out and snatched his own handkerchief from the lad's pocket. "Perhaps you've forgotten this?"
The boy blanched, but before Marcus could reassure him that he would not involve the authorities, he saw the brown-capped lad, the last one he'd rounded up, inching back toward the gate.
"All of you, into the house," he said, herding them like so many skittish lambs through the back door and down into the kitchens. Heedless of the staring servants, he turned first to the brown-capped boy.
"You, lad, what's your name?" He had to somehow establish a rapport with these boys, if he was to help them.
"I'd rather not say, if you don't mind," came the reply.
Marcus stared, for the voice was undeniably feminine —and cultured, as well, though with an accent he couldn't place.
The other boys were staring, too, clearly as surprised as he. With a deep sense of foreboding, Marcus pulled off the brown cap. As he'd feared, a mass of dark curls tumbled down to dance around the girl's shoulders.
"You . . . you're not a part of this group, are you?"
Five heads shook back and forth.
"May I go now?" she asked, her gold-flecked green eyes holding more than a hint of amusement.
"Not just yet," replied Marcus, feeling both foolish and irritated, now all too aware of the interested audience of servants. "You four, stay here. You— come with me," he said to the girl.
Whispering quick instructions to the startled cook that she was to feed the boys all they could hold, he led the girl out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the front hall. "Now, perhaps you'd care to tell me who you are and why you were wandering about London in breeches?"
"Not particularly," she replied. "Your bullying tactics may work on those poor boys, but they won't intimidate me."
He blinked. Short and slight as she was, he'd taken her for maybe fourteen years old. Now he revised that estimate upward.
"I wasn't trying to intimidate you," he said, nettled. "Do your parents know you are out on the streets dressed like that?" Her clothing was probably borrowed from a brother, as it was clearly too large for her. "I thought not," he continued, when she colored instead of replying. "I'll escort you back to them."
"Escort—? Now that would present a pretty picture, wouldn't it, with me in breeches?" She still seemed more amused than concerned, which irritated Marcus further.
"One of the maids can lend you a skirt." He glanced in the direction of the kitchen. He didn't want to leave that gang of young thieves under the cook's supervision for long.
She clearly understood his concern. "You can't very well leave them here while you take me home," she pointed out.
He ignored her, instead motioning to a passing housemaid. "Millie, have you or one of the others a skirt this young lady can borrow? Quickly, please."
The maid nodded and scurried upstairs, and he turned back to the girl. "I can have a footman take you home —or even send you in a carriage, if you'd prefer it."
"I'll walk —by myself, thank you. It isn't far."
That meant she lived in or near the West End. Perhaps she feared a scolding, or worse, if her ramblings were discovered. Certainly she deserved it! He didn't think much of parents who left a mischief-prone girl like this to her own devices.
"Very well," he said at last, "but you must promise me to be careful —and never to go out on your own like this again. You haven't lived in London long, have you?"
After a slight hesitation, she shook her head. "I've been in England only two days."
He finally placed her elusive accent. "American?"
She nodded.
"A piece of advice: London is larger, and far more wicked, than your towns back home. You're lucky you didn't end up in a brothel."
Her eyes widened, making him feel oddly protective. She was a pretty little thing, under the male garments. He was about to elaborate, but just then Millie returned with the requested skirt.
"Here, fasten this on over your breeches. Otherwise you'll have to carry them, which would look odd." It also meant she wouldn't have to remove them, and he felt awkward enough having an apparently gently-bred girl in his house.
She pulled the skirt on, tucking it into the waistband of her breeches when it proved both too long and too big around the waist. "Will that do?" She was still mocking him.
"I suppose it will have to." He tried not to think about what she would look like in proper attire. She was surely too young for him to notice in such a way. "Are you certain you don't want a footman to—?"
"No! I'll be fine."
Mindful of the boys waiting in the kitchen, Marcus decided to take her at her word. It was still full daylight and no one was likely to accost her in the heart of Mayfair. He led her to the front door, as that seemed more fitting than the back.
He opened the door and she stepped through, then paused on the broad top step to sweep him an absurdly formal curtsey. "My thanks for your assistance, kind sir."
Marcus started to reply in the same vein, then glanced beyond her. Three Society matrons were strolling past, clearly enjoying the fine weather, and had paused to witness the unusual tableau on his doorstep. Worse, one of them was Lady Mountheath, possibly the biggest gossip in Town.
Mindful of their stares, Marcus raised the girl from her curtsey, then planted a light kiss on the back of her hand. "Be careful," he repeated, reinforcing his warning with an earnest look he could only hope she might heed.
She flashed him a grin that lit up her face, including those unusual eyes, quite remarkably. Then she hurried down the steps and away. He gazed after her for a moment, then turned to face the ladies who were still watching him with varying degrees of disapproval. Doubtless they thought he was bidding farewell to a lightskirt whose favors he had just enjoyed. The notion both amused and disturbed him.
He bowed to the matrons, at which they seemed to realize the impropriety of staring, and continued along their way. Lady Mountheath, he noticed, was already whispering something to one of the others. But what did it matter? If the girl were merely in England for a visit, they could do her reputation no lasting harm.
With that reassuring thought, he headed back to the kitchen to begin the task of getting his group of street urchins to trust him— something he didn't think he'd accomplished with the girl. It was just as well he was unlikely ever to see her again.
CHAPTER 2
Quinn hurried along Grosvenor Street, her heart hammering at the nearness of her escape —and at her reaction to that final, searching gaze from those outrageously gorgeous blue eyes. No man had a right to be that handsome!
Walking quickly, she shook her head over the encounter. She hadn't helped Polly as she'd promised —hadn't had a chance to talk to Gobby at all. There was no knowing what that self-righteous Englishman meant to do to those poor boys. Probably send them to some horrible workhouse somewhere, just to get them off the streets. At least he hadn't turned out to be their monstrous "master," as she'd assumed when she first followed him home.
Then she chuckled. Handsome as he was, he was also insufferably pompous, and the expression on his face when he realized she was female had been positively priceless.
Still, his interference meant she'd be late returning, and if her father discovered what she'd done, she'd have quite a bit of explaining to do. Though generally affable with family, he was capable of stern discipline, as he'd often demonstrated on the Baltimore docks. She much preferred not to provoke that side of him toward herself.
Squinting up at the westering sun to get her bearings, she headed south. Unfortunately, her route was less than direct, due to the layout of the roads, and it took her nearly forty-five minutes to finally reach the hotel.
Even more unfortunately, her father was waiting for her.
"Where on earth have you been —and what ar
e you wearing?" he demanded, in the voice she recognized all too well from his ship-captaining days.
"I was just . . . exploring." Mentioning Polly might bring her father's wrath down on that poor girl, too.
"Inside." He waited for her to precede him through the front door and up the wide stairs to their second-floor suite before continuing. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you to wander the streets of London alone?"
He sounded remarkably like that insufferable English gentleman. The similarity irked her enough that she found her voice and spirit again. "I came to no harm. I was careful."
"Careful?" Her father snorted. "This is not Baltimore, where everyone knows you—and knows that you are my daughter. Perhaps you don't realize what protection that confers."
Quinn swallowed. She hadn't thought of it that way, but he was doubtless right. Captain Peverill had a formidable reputation throughout Baltimore and up and down the American coastline.
"London is a far bigger —and older —city, with corresponding dangers," he continued. "I've even read of young women kidnapped off of the streets and sold into prostitution."
She started as he again echoed the gentleman who had sent her home. Was such a thing really so common? She'd had no idea. "Surely, here in the West End—"
"Less likely, I'll grant you, but not impossible. And what of your reputation? I've told you that English Society demands much stricter standards of behavior in young ladies than you've been used to at home. Did my words make no impression on you at all?"
"Of course, Papa. I simply thought—"
"No, I don't believe you did." But now his tone softened slightly. "Quinn, you frightened me half to death, disappearing like that. Promise me you'll do nothing of the sort again. If you wish to walk outdoors, take your maid —and have her dress you properly. Where did you get those clothes, anyway?"
Relaxing slightly, she dared to meet his eye. "They were Charles's —well, except for the skirt." She kicked at it, briefly revealing the breeches underneath. "That belongs to a maid." She saw no point in mentioning where that maid was employed.
"I'm glad you had the presence of mind to add the skirt, at least. Running about in breeches at home is one thing, but merely being seen in them here would make you—us— unreceivable. You need to consider consequences before you act, Quinn."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I know how important it is that we be accepted by English Society —for the sake of the business." That did matter to her, even if she didn't share her father's other social aspirations. "I'll, ah, go change now."
"Excellent idea," he agreed. "And don't forget to choose a nice outfit for your introduction to Lord and Lady Claridge tomorrow. I'd like you to look your best for that."
Quinn hurried to her own chamber, grateful to have escaped so lightly. Papa —and that high-handed young gentleman, much as she hated to admit it— were right. She'd been so glad of a chance to escape, if only briefly, she hadn't thought through the possible consequences before agreeing to help poor Polly.
Still, she did wish she could have done something for the girl and her young brother. She sighed at the realization that there were probably hundreds of children in such straits in a city this size —and that there was no way she could make a difference in their lives. The longer she stayed in England, the more that knowledge would gnaw at her.
Better that she return as soon as possible to Baltimore and the business, where she could make a difference.
* * *
On descending to the kitchens, Marcus discovered that generous helpings of Mrs. MacKay's excellent Yorkshire pudding and mutton collops had already predisposed the four street urchins more kindly toward him. The boys were making serious inroads into two large mince pies by the time he joined them.
"You're a right 'un, guv, and no mistake," declared Stilt. Nods and mumbled assents implied that he spoke for the group. "I got to wonder, though, what you'll be wanting for all this."
Sending the servants out of the room, Marcus seated himself across from Stilt at the kitchen table, ignoring the stares of the other boys. "I can't blame you for being cautious," he said. "And in truth, I do want something, but I hope it's something you'll be only too happy to share."
The tall lad set down his fork to regard Marcus suspiciously. "Eh? And what's that?"
"Information."
Stilt shook his head quickly and started to stand. "Sorry, guv. C'mon, lads!"
"Wait!" Marcus started to grab the lanky boy's sleeve, but stopped himself. He would never win their trust by force. "I mean the sort of information that has allowed the Saint of Seven Dials to help you and others like you."
Now he had the boys' full attention. "'Ere! What do you know about the Saint?" demanded Gobby, the diminutive redheaded boy.
"Probably more than you do," Marcus replied with a grin. "He's one of my closest friends."
A startled silence was followed by a gust of whispers as the boys debated the likelihood of such a claim. Marcus waited until he had their attention again before continuing.
"The Saint has had to change the way he does things a bit, due to altered circumstances," he said carefully, not wanting to implicate Luke too clearly in case these boys couldn't be trusted. "In fact, he is gone from London entirely for the time being."
The blue-capped lad chuckled. "No wonder the Runners have been asking so many questions. I figured he was lying low somewhere. Fair frustrated them that has. Bet they won't never catch him now." Then he turned serious eyes back to Marcus. "But where does that leave us, guv? And where do you come into it?"
Marcus hadn't realized that the authorities were still seeking Luke, but now wasn't the time to dwell on it. "The Saint hasn't forgotten you," he told them. "He, ah, has asked me to be his go-between for the time being, as his primary informant has gone with him. I also want to make certain the Runners can never touch him, whatever he may do in the future. But I'll need your help."
The boys exchanged glances, then Stilt spoke up. "We have a friend or two what owe their lives to the Saint. We'll help him— and you, Sir— any way we can."
* * *
The Claridge house on Mount Street was every bit as imposing as Quinn had expected. As they mounted the broad steps to the front door, her father seemed almost nervous— a trait she had never observed in him before. She smoothed her skirts as he plied the ornate brass knocker, telling herself again that she cared not a whit what these people thought of her.
The Captain gave their names to the supercilious butler, who then conducted them up a flight of stairs and into an exquisitely furnished drawing room. "Captain and Miss Peverill," he announced tonelessly before fading back into the hallway.
A thin gentleman of about forty, who Quinn realized must be the Marquess, rose to greet them. "Captain Peverill. It has been a . . . a long time, has it not?" he said with an uncertain smile, glancing over his shoulder at a pair of opulently dressed ladies whose handsomely patrician similarity of features declared them mother and daughter.
"My wife, Lady Claridge, and our daughter, Lady Constance Throckwaite," the Marquess said, indicating each in turn. The ladies each acknowledged the Captain's deep bows in their direction with chilly nods. "We are all delighted to have you here, are we not ladies?"
"Assuredly." Lady Claridge's stiff formality belied her response, while Lady Constance declined comment. Lord Claridge, however, had already turned back to his guests.
"And Miss Peverill. Quinn —my dear mother's family name. I must say I am delighted to make your acquaintance. You are . . . very like your mother, you know." Sorrow clouded his expression briefly, but then he smiled again.
Despite herself, Quinn found herself warming to this tentative man with her mother's eyes, who seemed so eager to please everyone —and so unlikely to succeed.
"You resemble her as well, my lord," she replied with a curtsey. "My mother spoke fondly of you." That was an exaggeration, as Glynna Peverill had rarely spoken of her English family
at all, though Quinn did recall her once mentioning her younger brother. In any event, it pleased the Marquess.
"Did she?" he exclaimed. "She and I were very close, you know. Poor, dear Glynna."
The Captain stepped forward with another bow. "It's true, my lord. She even named our firstborn Charles, after you. It was her dearest, almost her dying wish that Quinn come to you, for she much regretted the breach between our families."
Quinn stared at her father, appalled that he would utter such a falsehood. Certainly, her mother had never expressed any such wish in her hearing, nor any regrets, either.
Lord Claridge, however, was profoundly affected, tears starting to his hazel eyes. "Then it is in my power to honor Glynna's memory by welcoming you both back into the bosom of the family. We are to attend a rout at Lord and Lady Trumball's this very evening, a perfect opportunity to introduce Quinn to Society. Will it not be, my dear?" He glanced at his wife again.
"To be sure," she said in frigid tones. "I fear, however, that though you may have forgotten the scandal your sister once brought upon this family, others will yet remember it."
"But . . . but that was nigh on twenty-five years ago," the Marquess said uncertainly. "Surely, by now—"
Lady Claridge sniffed. "I suppose we must hope you are right." She then turned to Quinn and the Captain with a tight, unpleasant smile. "In any event, as it will be known you are both staying here, it will look odd if you do not accompany us."
To Quinn's vexation her father bowed yet again, rather than refuse the ungracious invitation. "You are too kind, my lady, you are indeed. Of course we will be most honored. It will be just the thing for Quinn. Perhaps your daughter can introduce her to other young people, as they appear to be much of an age."
A quick glance at Lady Constance showed Quinn's lovely cousin scarcely more eager to embrace her American relatives than her mother was. In fact, she was regarding Quinn as she might a zoological curiosity.