The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  More and more certain that he was here on a fool's errand, Marcus headed toward the other American ship, inconveniently located at nearly the opposite end of the docks. As he drew near the warehouses midway, however, he was startled by a tug at his sleeve. Turning, he discovered the tall street urchin, Stilt, from the group he had befriended.

  "Oi! That is, ah, beg pardon, m'lord." the boy stammered nervously. "But I'm that glad to see you here. I think someone you know may be in a spot o' trouble."

  * * *

  Quinn stared at her reflection in the bleared looking glass with revulsion and shame. The gaudy red and black dress was scandalously low cut. Her inadequate bosom, shockingly enhanced by the corset Sally had insisted she wear, was almost completely exposed. Below, only a flimsy red petticoat concealed her legs, as the skirt was split from the waist down.

  "Now, a touch of rouge and you'll pass for a lusty fifteen-year-old," Sally declared, applying the cosmetic herself to Quinn's already flaming cheeks. "What are you really— seventeen?"

  "Twenty," Quinn whispered. What would her father say if he saw her like this? Or her brother? She tried not to think of Lord Marcus, though in comparison with what she surely faced, marriage to him would have been paradise.

  For a moment she allowed herself to imagine it again— chatting with him across the dinner table, perhaps an occasional touch of the hand, bidding each other a pleasant good night with a kiss, or perhaps more . . . No chance of that now.

  "Twenty? I never would have guessed it. Mind you don't tell anyone. No one will believe you're still virgin at twenty."

  Quinn glared at her, a spurt of anger reviving her courage. "Why should I cooperate with you in any way? I'll claim to be thirty, and spit in the face of any man who comes near me."

  Sally merely shrugged, her ample bosom rippling with the motion. "Some gents like that kind of spirit— mostly the ones what like it rough. I can always save you for them."

  Her courage dissipating as quickly as it had revived, Quinn turned away— only to catch sight of herself in the mirror again. She looked every bit as frightened as she felt. She simply had to escape somehow, before the worst happened.

  "That's better," said Sally when Quinn remained silent. "Now, I'll go down and do a bit of advertising. Want I should bring you back something to eat?"

  Quinn shook her head. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, but the thought of food made her nauseous. With another shrug, Sally left her. Quinn heard the key turn once the door closed, but she tried to turn the handle anyway. Locked, of course.

  Frantically, she gazed about the room. The window, true to Sally's words, was covered by an iron grating, impossible to climb through. Perhaps, though, she could summon help from it?

  The casement was stiff, and it was difficult to push against it through the close-set bars of the grate, but finally Quinn managed to open the window. Looking down, however, she saw only a drunken group of sailors emerging from the tavern below. She definitely didn't want their attention.

  Scanning the street as best she could from the deep-set window, she saw what might be a gentleman's horse tethered nearby, judging by its clean lines and rich harness. If only its owner would come back, perhaps—

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Quickly, she pulled the window closed again, though she didn't latch it. Could Sally have found a . . . customer already? The tiny chamber offered no place to hide. In unthinking panic, she threw herself flat on the floor and tried to squeeze beneath the bed, just as a male voice rumbled outside the door, the words indistinguishable.

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure. Keep yer shirt on," Sally grumbled in response to whatever the man had asked. Did that mean she had brought up one of the rougher "gents" after all?

  Frantically, Quinn wriggled further under the bed, then stuck, a button catching on a loose floor board. The door creaked open.

  "What trick is this? Where is she?" demanded a voice that Quinn recognized with a shock. She swiveled her head painfully, to see Lord Marcus gazing angrily around the room —and Sally staring straight at her.

  Turning quickly away, Sally said, "I must have been mistaken, my lord. Perhaps she's in the next room along." They moved back through the door.

  "No! No, wait!" Quinn cried, scrambling out from under the bed. "I'm here!" Almost weeping with relief, scraping her knees and elbows, she crawled forward, then stood up. Sally uttered an extremely unladylike curse.

  "Miss Peverill! Thank God I found you," Lord Marcus exclaimed, striding forward. Then he stopped, suddenly awkward, gazing fixedly at a point over her head.

  Glancing down, Quinn saw that one breast had sprung free from the low neckline of the awful dress. With a gasp, she turned away to rectify the problem, noticing as she did so that her chest and arms were filthy from scrambling about on the floor. "Might I have my own dress back?" she asked Sally, turning back to face them.

  "Hmph. Your fine gentleman ought to pay me the fifty pounds I'm out, plus extra for my trouble. If he won't, I'll have to keep the fancy frock to offset my losses." The procuress looked up at Lord Marcus hopefully.

  "Don't pay her a penny!" exclaimed Quinn before he could answer. "It would only encourage her in her disgusting trade."

  "No fear," replied Lord Marcus, stepping toward her again now that she was as decent as the garish dress allowed. "She'll be lucky if I don't use my influence to have this place burned around her ears and her clapped in irons."

  Sally glared at them both. "Big talk, when there's nowt but the two of you, and me with a houseful of friends. Threaten me and I'll not let you leave after all."

  Quinn shrank toward Lord Marcus at the woman's venom, but he never flinched. "I rather doubt you or your confederates could prevent it. Though if you'd care to try—" He took a step toward her, smiling dangerously. Quinn blinked, not having seen this side of him before.

  "Go on, then," snapped Sally sullenly. She backed through the door, then turned away with a flounce.

  "There, I thought you'd see wisdom. And just as well, as my brother and an army of servants will be here momentarily. Miss Peverill, if you are ready to depart?" He turned back to Quinn.

  "Oh, yes, please!" But then she paused, glancing about for a shawl or anything else she might use to conceal her bosom.

  "Here." As though reading her mind, Lord Marcus stripped off his coat and placed it around her shoulders.

  She shot him a timid, grateful smile, and pulled it tighter. "Thank you. And now, let's leave this place before anything else dreadful can happen."

  One hand at her waist, he led her back to the staircase, keeping himself between her and the crowd in the taproom when they reached the bottom. His touch was vastly comforting, if a bit distracting. She wanted to ask whether he'd been bluffing about his brother and army of servants, but didn't dare while they might be overheard.

  "How did you find me?" she asked instead.

  He escorted her out of the building before answering. "Someone saw you being forced into the Scarlet Hawk. A few inquiries yielded your exact whereabouts."

  Stopping, he gazed down at her, his expression showing some strong emotion held in check. "You're certain you are all right?

  She nodded, suddenly shy. "I was never more relieved in my life than when you appeared. It was like an answer to prayer —a miracle. I told no one I was coming here, so I thought—" To her horror, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

  "Shh! It's all right." He folded her against him, and she gratefully pressed her face to his shirt front, hiding her tears. They stopped almost as soon as they began, so novel was the sensation of being held against a man's hard chest.

  "When I heard you were missing," he continued, "I recalled what you said yesterday in the Park. This seemed a logical place to look." His voice vibrated through his chest, against her cheek, making her even more aware of his body, his masculinity. Hastily, she backed away.

  "How are we to get back?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.

  He released her at once, l
eaving her slightly shaky —but it was what she had wanted, wasn't it? She sneaked a glance at him, but he was gazing up and down the street.

  "That's my horse, but we can scarcely go riding double through London, with—"

  "With me dressed like this," she finished, a fresh wave of mortification making her flush.

  "Er, yes. But hackneys seem scarce hereabouts. Perhaps we could—" he broke off, staring.

  Following his gaze, she saw an elegant crested carriage coming their way. Mindful of her appearance, she shrank back, trying to hide behind her rescuer. To her dismay, however, he strode forward and waved.

  "That will be Peter," he said reassuringly, though she felt anything but reassured. "Our difficulties are solved."

  The carriage pulled to a halt before them and not one, but two men climbed out. Lord Peter Quinn recognized from the evening at the Trumballs' but the other gentleman, dressed just as impeccably, was a stranger to her. Glancing quickly up at Lord Marcus, Quinn was startled to see annoyance, even anger, on his face, though it was quickly concealed.

  "Miss Peverill, may I present two of my brothers," he said then. "Lord Peter, whom you have already met, and Robert, Lord Bagstead, my eldest brother."

  Lord Bagstead looked down at Quinn as he might at a grubby child in danger of sullying his boots. "Miss Peverill." He inclined his head very, very slightly. "I understand that felicitations are in order."

  Quinn swallowed. "Thank you, my lords. May . . . may we go?"

  Lord Peter stepped forward, shooting a glance of disgust at his elder brother. "You mustn't mind Robert, Miss Peverill. He's insufferably high in the instep, already fancying himself a duke. Only brought him along because his carriage was ready. Marcus, help her into it, there's a good lad. I'm sure this has been a most unsettling experience for the lady."

  With a warm rush of gratitude and relief, Quinn smiled at Lord Peter, then extended her hand to Lord Marcus. When he took it without a word to help her into the carriage, she glanced up at him. His lips were pressed tightly together, as though in barely suppressed fury, and he avoided her eye. He hadn't seemed angry at her earlier. Was it something she'd said?

  Lord Peter climbed in next, then, after instructing the coachman to tie Lord Marcus's horse behind the carriage, Lord Bagstead joined them, sitting beside Lord Peter on the backward-facing seat. Quinn felt uncomfortable in the extreme under his supercilious regard, so looked again to Lord Peter, who suddenly seemed her only ally in the group.

  "I . . . I don't know how to thank you—all of you. I've never been so frightened in my life."

  "There, my dear, pray try not to regard it," responded Lord Peter with a paternal smile. "It's all over, and you'll shortly be restored to the bosom of your family."

  His choice of words was unfortunate, reminding Quinn of the scandalous nature of her present attire. But though she felt herself reddening again, she said nothing. Apologies would only make things worse.

  Lord Peter, seemingly unaware, chattered lightly about the latest social and political news for the duration of the drive. Though his brothers appeared bored by such trivia, Quinn was grateful, for it distracted her from her situation and the reception she was likely to face at the Claridges' house.

  It could not distract her, however, from Lord Marcus's nearness, his thigh nearly brushing hers. As the carriage turned one corner they did touch, and the contact made her whole body flare into gooseflesh, a tautness she could feel to the tips of her breasts.

  He seemed completely unaware, however, and she was careful to allow no hint of her response to show in her expression. What was the matter with her? It seemed her frightening experience had completely overset her wits. With an effort, she focused again on Lord Peter's continuing monologue of small talk.

  When they turned onto Mount Street, Quinn felt both trepidation and relief. Finally rousing from his brooding silence, Lord Marcus turned to her. "Come, I'll take you inside and help you to make your explanations."

  "Good man, Marcus," said Lord Peter. "We'll leave your horse and see you at home. See if you can't distract Lady Claridge while Miss Peverill runs up to her room— that would probably be best."

  Quinn thanked the brothers again, then followed Lord Marcus from the carriage, pulling his coat even more tightly across her exposed chest. Perhaps no one would be home. Perhaps they were all out looking for her, or visiting—

  The door opened to Lord Marcus' knock, and Quinn was dismayed to hear the hum of numerous voices from the parlor. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, determined to brazen it through somehow —unless she could indeed slip up to her room unnoticed.

  For a moment she thought it might be possible, as they neared the parlor door and she saw that it was partially closed. "I'll just—" she began, turning to Lord Marcus, but then the door was flung wide to reveal her father.

  "Quinn!" he exclaimed. "You're safe! Look, everyone, she's here— Lord Marcus has found her!"

  To her mortification, the Captain pulled her into the parlor, where no fewer than six other people were assembled —her aunt and uncle, Lady Constance, Lady Mountheath of all people, and two others she did not recognize.

  Behind her, Lord Marcus cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, she is safe, but she has had quite a fright. I imagine she would like nothing more than a hot bath and a lie-down, in fact."

  Quinn heartily agreed, but Lady Claridge was staring at her in horrified outrage —as were most of the others. "What are you wearing, Miss Peverill?" she demanded. Then, to Lord Marcus, "My lord, I had thought better of you than this. Indeed—"

  To Quinn's relief, her father waved a quelling hand, then pushed Quinn back into the passageway, closing the parlor door behind him. "Never mind her right now. You go on up for that bath, Quinnling. Lord Marcus and I need to discuss your wedding —which I begin to think should occur without further delay."

  * * *

  Captain Peverill waited until his daughter had disappeared upstairs before turning to Marcus. "I would be most interested, my lord, in an explanation of what occurred today and how Quinn came to be wearing such, ah, odd attire. But that can wait. Surely you will agree that a quick marriage is an absolute necessity now?"

  After only the barest hesitation, Marcus nodded resignedly. "Yes sir, I believe it is."

  "Come, then. Let's go down to the library to discuss the most expeditious means of achieving it."

  By the time Miss Peverill ventured downstairs an hour later, clean and properly clad in a flattering but discreet gown of cream muslin, all had been arranged. The Captain was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, Marcus hovering uncomfortably behind him. The Claridges, thankfully, had gone upstairs to change for dinner.

  "My dear, you look much recovered from your experience," boomed the Captain as she reached them. "Lord Marcus has told me all about it."

  She darted a quick look at Marcus, who gave a quick shake of his head to reassure her that he had not told her father everything. "If I might have a few moments with Miss Peverill?" he asked, preferring that she hear the news from him.

  "Of course, of course!" exclaimed Captain Peverill with irritating joviality. "You'll want to discuss the wedding, your wedding trip, and other such things. A special license, my love!" he then said joyfully to his daughter, dashing Marcus's hopes. "With that, you can marry at once. Isn't England grand?"

  He kissed her cheek, and, with a jaunty wave of his hand, headed up the stairs, whistling a sea chantey.

  "At once?" she echoed, looking up at Marcus doubtfully, her green eyes wide and dark.

  "Come, let's step into the parlor to discuss it." The sight of her brought back everything he had felt upon finding her at the docks. Overwhelming relief, an inclination to shake her, and— desire. The way she had felt in his arms. That perfect, pert breast, peeking above that garishly seductive gown . . .

  He forced the image away as she preceded him into the room, then chose a straight-backed chair as far from any of the others as possible. With an inward sig
h, he pulled another chair over so that he could speak to her without raising his voice.

  "My father said at once?" she asked again, and he thought he heard a hint of a quaver in her voice. "How? I'm afraid I don't—"

  "Not today, obviously. We agreed on Saturday, day after tomorrow. A private ceremony, with a discreet announcement in the papers after the fact. Your father thought that would be best."

  "My father? I'd have thought he'd want to trumpet it from the rooftops." Now her voice was wry.

  Marcus felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, despite the seriousness of the situation and his own wildly conflicting feelings about it. "I was able to persuade him that such fanfare might draw unwelcome gossip. He seems eager enough for the match that he was willing to be reasonable on that head."

  She dropped her eyes, all trace of amusement gone. "And now I've made that match inevitable. I'm sorry, my lord. My intent was quite the opposite."

  "Yes, I know. You intended to take ship—any ship—to America to avoid our marriage. I'm sorry the idea is so repugnant to you, given our present circumstances."

  Though he'd wanted this match no more than she, it was galling to think she would actually risk her life rather then marry him. Nor did she deny his assessment of her feelings.

  "In that case, why did you agree to wed me?" she asked, raising her eyes to his again. "Why not convince my father to allow me to return home instead? No scandal would follow me to Baltimore."

  Her intelligence combined with her courage stirred him again, but he commanded his body to behave. This was not the time. "I did point out to him that you seemed unwilling to marry, and even to suggest that as a possible solution, but in the face of his insistence—"

  "You quickly capitulated," she said accusingly.

  Frustrated desire, her clear rejection of him and his brothers' interference in his affairs all combined to provoke Marcus's own temper. "If I'd refused, he'd have been well within his rights to call me out. I am not willing to sacrifice my honor to keep you from reaping the consequences of your own foolishness."