The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "Only at first," he assured her, his mind wandering to other things than sherry. "Once you become used to it, I'm sure you'll find it quite pleasant."

  Frowning, though seemingly oblivious to his double entendre, she took another sip. "It is sweeter than I expected. What did you wish to discuss, my lord?"

  "As we have clearly progressed past the point of casual acquaintanceship, perhaps you can call me Marcus? 'My lord' is so impersonal."

  She swallowed visibly. "Impersonal, but . . . safer. Very well, however, if you insist."

  "No, of course I don't insist. It's just that—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration— frustration of more than once sort. "Never mind. Call me whatever you wish. May I call you Quinn?"

  "That is your prerogative, obviously. But yes, I prefer my own name to 'Lady Marcus.' What odd customs you English have. I see now why we Americans abolished titles."

  Though her assumption of Colonial superiority irked him, he had to smile. "That particular convention may be one of our strangest, but it's a time-honored one for wives of younger sons, nonetheless. I trust you will grow accustomed to it in time."

  She set down her glass with a sharp click. "I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to any of this. I wish I could wake up to discover this was all a dream and I had never left Baltimore at all!"

  Marcus felt he had been more than patient, but now that patience suddenly give way. "Would that I could grant your wish! I was perfectly happy with my life before this complication, I assure you."

  Quinn stood. "And I can assure you that I never intended to be a complication, my lord— even one that has been extremely profitable for you."

  That stung, for it was quite true that this marriage had improved Marcus's financial situation substantially —so much so that he would be able to buy his own estate, a dream that had previously been out of reach. He wondered now whether it would be too dearly bought.

  "In that case, it would have been well if you had behaved more circumspectly," he snapped. "I certainly never went looking for profit."

  "Yet you found it. Had I known what would ensue, I would have run for my very life when first I saw you. And I may yet!" She took a step toward the door.

  Marcus surged to his feet. "You'll do no such thing. Like it or not, you are Lady Marcus now, and hold my reputation and that of my family in your hands. I will not permit you to sully it in any way. I was jesting before when I called this house a dungeon, but if I have to lock you up to shield you from your own foolishness, I'll do just that."

  Though she trembled, her green eyes blazed up at him in fury. "How dare you? I thought you were only stodgy and grasping, but now I see that you are also cruel, tyrannical, and an insufferable bully. If this is how Englishmen treat their wives, it is no wonder my mother contrived to escape this country. And if she managed it, then so can I!"

  With that, she fled the room, Marcus close behind her. Reaching the hallway, she hesitated, and he quickly placed himself between her and the front door. She glared at him for a moment, then, with a strangled sob, she turned and ran up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 8

  Quinn reached the upper hall, half blinded by tears, with no firm plan in mind. She did not even know which room was hers. A door on her left opened then, and Monette emerged.

  "My lady?" she said, in evident surprise at Quinn's distress.

  "I . . . I wish to be alone," said Quinn as steadily as she could, pushing past her maid into the chamber she assumed must be hers and closing the door behind her.

  She stopped then and looked around, momentarily distracted from her anguish. The room was certainly sumptuous, with rich fabrics at the windows and bed frame and a thick, springy carpet underfoot, but it was also masculine. Definitely masculine. Dark woodwork, deep green and brown draperies and upholstery, even a hunting scene on one wall. Had she shut herself into her husband's room by mistake?

  Hurriedly, she reached for the door handle, but then paused, relaxing slightly. There would have been no time for any sort of redecorating on her behalf, of course. Most likely, this chamber had been occupied by Lord Peter or Lord Anthony until yesterday.

  Not for the first time, she wished it had been Lord Peter who had come to her rescue twice this week rather than his brother. Peter seemed so much kinder, gentler . . . so much more manageable. All good qualities in a husband, surely? She had to admit, however, that Peter had never caused that same tendril of warmth to curl through her that Marcus did, and certainly not that something . . . more . . . she had felt at the docks two days since.

  Not that that mattered now.

  Her troubles came rushing back, and she threw herself onto the brown counterpane of the four-poster to resume her interrupted cry. What hateful things Marcus had said to her! And now she was a prisoner here, with no hope of parole, her jailer a man who, in the eyes of the law, had complete authority over her person.

  For nearly half an hour she wallowed in the wretchedness of her lot, weeping until no more tears would come.

  Finally she sat up, feeling far more clear headed after the catharsis of a good cry. Self-pity would solve nothing. What she needed was a plan, and the means to implement it.

  She went to the window and looked out. Unfortunately, it faced the street, so there were no trees nearby —nor did the wall look particularly scalable. And even if she did escape, say, through the kitchens, what then? She had no place to go in London. Not the Claridges, and certainly not the docks again, not if the next ship for Baltimore wouldn't be sailing for weeks.

  No, at the moment her choices were severely limited —but she was determined to change that.

  Suddenly, her gaze sharpened. On the street below, directly across from the house, a boy and girl stood talking —and the girl was almost certainly Polly, from Grillon's hotel. The boy must be her brother, Gobby . . . short, red-haired—yes, he was one of the urchins Marcus had been bullying the day Quinn met him.

  Perhaps she couldn't escape just yet, but Quinn could do something worthwhile until an opportunity presented itself. Somehow, she would find a way to help children like Polly and Gobby, to give them a chance at a better life— but she would have to do it without Marcus's knowledge. She was such a project would never meet with his overdeveloped sense of propriety.

  The very idea of rebelling by doing something useful, perhaps even noble, but of which Marcus was sure to disapprove, made her feel better immediately.

  * * *

  Marcus finished a third glass before deciding he'd never cared for sherry in the first place and switching to Madeira. As often as he'd railed against his older brothers for sticking their noses into his business, just now he would have welcomed Peter's sage advice.

  Well, perhaps not Peter's. Quinn seemed to like Peter better than she did himself. Not that he could blame her. There was no denying he'd made a total botch of things today. Hell, he'd botched everything since meeting her!

  Stodgy?

  "Damnation," he said aloud to the fireless grate. It wasn't the first time she'd called him that. It galled him, considering that he was anything but. Perhaps he should just go upstairs and prove to her that—

  "Excuse me, my lord."

  Turning, he saw the head footman hovering in the doorway. "Yes, what is it?"

  "A, er, young man is asking for you at the kitchen door. Cook would have sent him away, but recalled that you had invited him in earlier this week, so sent me to ask you first."

  Marcus rose, welcoming the distraction, though he itched to prove Quinn wrong. "Thank you George. I'll go see what he wants."

  The footman bowed and disappeared as Marcus made his way to the kitchen to find Gobby waiting for him just inside the door.

  "Ah, yes, I did promise you a shilling to bring me a bouquet for my new bride," he improvised. "Come, let's go out into the garden to discuss what flowers would be best." Marcus generally trusted the staff, but there was no point in being careless.

  Once outside in the flowerless kitch
en garden, he turned to his small cohort. "I trust you were able to put those candlesticks to good use?" he asked.

  The redheaded lad nodded, though Marcus thought he looked worried. "Aye, m'lord. The Planks be set up in new digs now, rent paid out a year in advance —and enough left over for me and the lads to satisfy old Twitchell, too. Hope you don't mind."

  "No, no, you're entitled to a cut for doing the legwork for me. But what's wrong? Is this Twitchell still requiring you to steal?" Marcus had difficulty imagining how anyone could be evil enough to live off of the criminal proceeds of children.

  "Oh, he don't much care, long as we bring in the brass regular like," said Gobby with a shrug. "Tig, though, he's always been one for taking chances for a lark, and now he's landed in trouble for it."

  Tig, Marcus recalled, was the lad who had stolen his handkerchief and unwittingly led him to this group of boys in the first place. "What sort of trouble?" he asked. "What did he do?"

  "Picked a gent's pocket," Gobby replied. "Thinks he's real slick at it, but he ain't. Didn't you catch him at it yourself? Well, he got caught again, but this bloke don't want to help him none."

  Marcus frowned. "So he's been arrested?"

  "Nah, that wouldn't worry us much. We're all pretty good at talking our way 'round the Charleys, and Twitchell pays 'em to let us go. This gent is running his own game, crimping. Plans to sell Tig to some ship captain, and he don't want to go."

  "I can't say that I blame him." Marcus had heard of crimps, kidnapping or bribing young men into forced labor upon the ships, short of crew after the recent wars. He'd had no idea they took boys as young as Tig, however. "This is a gentleman, you say?"

  Gobby shrugged again. "Don't rightly know, but he was dressed like one, and lives hereabouts, where the other swells live."

  "Here in Mayfair?" This was a surprise. Marcus had assumed such activites were confined to areas near the docks. "Can you show me which house?"

  His answer was a wide grin. "I knowed you'd help, sir. Told the others you would. I can take you there now."

  * * *

  Quinn was rather surprised when more than an hour passed without a summons from Lord Marcus or any attempt at communication whatsoever. Her self-imposed isolation had given her ample time for reflection—too much time, in fact. After running over their last conversation in her mind several times, she was more than a little ashamed of some of the things she'd said—again.

  Not that it altered her resolve to leave England at her first opportunity. This marriage was clearly doomed. Among other things, she had thrown Marcus's relative poverty in his face. Surely no man could forgive such a blow to his pride —not that she wanted his forgiveness, of course!

  Still, it might be as well if she apologized. At the very least, it might lull him into trusting her, which would make her eventual escape easier. If there was any other reason she wanted to lessen the antagonism between them, Quinn refused to admit it to herself.

  Trying the door, she discovered it unlocked —not that she'd heard anyone lock it, now that she thought about it. Monette appeared almost magically the moment it opened.

  "My lady? Will you be wanting to change for dinner?"

  The abigail's eyes were wide with sympathy —and curiosity. Quinn supposed she had been behaving oddly for a new bride, but then her circumstances were odd in the extreme.

  "Yes, Monette. Yes, I would, thank you." She could hardly go wandering about in her wedding dress, she realized. Selecting a simple lilac muslin, she allowed the maid to help her into it, then to unpin her hair and brush it into a simpler style, with a small knot at the back and the rest of her curls falling about her shoulders. She nodded at her reflection in the glass, feeling more like herself.

  "Thank you, Monette. If you'll ask one of the maids to bring a pot of tea to the drawing room, I'll go downstairs now."

  Almost fearfully, she descended the staircase, unsure of her reception. She saw only a footman in the front hall, at his post by the door, and wondered whether he'd been given orders to prevent her from leaving, should she try. Lord Marcus was not in the drawing room, so she peeked into the other rooms. Library, dining room, morning room, all were empty. Had Marcus gone out?

  Frowning, she returned to the drawing room just as an older woman, the housekeeper judging by the large ring of keys she wore, approached with the tea tray. "Bring it in here please, Mrs.—?"

  "Walsh, my lady. And let me take this opportunity to offer my congratulations and welcome you to the family. This house has needed a woman's touch, and it's glad I am that you're here to provide it."

  Tears actually pricked at Quinn's eyes again at such a warm show of support. "Thank you, Mrs. Walsh."

  Preceding the housekeeper into the drawing room, she watched the woman place the tray on a low table between two chairs. Then, oddly unwilling to be left alone, she said, "I hope Lord Anthony and Lord Peter were not terribly inconvenienced by my arrival?"

  Mrs. Walsh's smile was positively motherly. "Oh, no, my lady! Lord Anthony was almost never here anyway, spending most of his time at his hunting lodge up in Leicestershire. And Lord Peter has been talking of finding his own place for two years now. This was just the push he needed."

  "This house, then—it belongs to the Duke?" Everything had happened so quickly, there had been no time for questions and explanations —and when she did have the chance, she'd thrown accusations at Marcus instead.

  "Aye, it's been in the family for two or three generations. It was the present Duke's grandfather's main London residence, before big mansions on the squares became all the thing. Every one of his sons has lived here at one time or another."

  "Oh, so it's a sort of temporary residence for them?"

  Mrs. Walsh nodded. "As Lord Marcus is the youngest, likely it would have stood empty soon enough, so it's that glad I am that you've come along, my lady. Lord Bagstead's sons won't be old enough to be wanting this place for years and years."

  Quinn poured herself a cup of tea, one source of anxiety gone, if a minor one. "Thank you, Mrs. Walsh. I'm very pleased to know I haven't deprived anyone of their home."

  "Nay, you make it your home, my lady. I hope you and Lord Marcus will be happy here, for many a long year." With that, she bobbed a curtsey and left Quinn to her tea— and her thoughts.

  Where was Marcus? Surely it was not usual for a man to go wandering about London on his wedding day. He couldn't have taken a carriage, or she'd have seen it from her window upstairs —unless he'd left while she was indulging herself in tears.

  Setting down her cup, she decided to attempt a small test. Leaving the drawing room, she went to the front door, where the footman still stood guard. "I believe I'll take a breath of air," she said, expecting him to bar her way, or at least issue a protest.

  Instead, he merely bowed and opened the door for her. Nonplussed, she just stood there for a moment, then stepped outside and down the stairs to the pavement. Glancing up and down the street with no idea what to do next, she saw the girl Polly across the street again, though two houses farther away. It took her a moment to catch the girl's eye without attracting the attention of passersby, but finally Polly turned and saw her.

  At Quinn's discreet gesture, she eagerly moved forward. Glancing back at the house, Quinn saw that the footman had closed the front door again. Still, he might be watching her through the long windows flanking it, so she walked partway down the block, where she would be out of his line of sight.

  "Afternoon, mum," said Polly as she drew near. "I'm pleased to see you're all right. You didn't get in no trouble for trying to help me and Gobby before, did you?"

  Quinn considered all that had befallen her as a result of that impetuous bit of charity, but she shook her head. "No, no trouble to speak of. But what are you doing here now? Not stealing again, I hope."

  "Oh, no, mum! I won't never do that again. I was just keeping an eye on Gobby, so to speak." Quinn noticed that the bruise on her cheek was fading.

  "To keep him
from stealing, you mean?" Quinn asked her. "Is his master still forcing him to do so?" The same anger she'd felt before, nearly forgotten during the turmoil of the intervening days, came rushing back.

  Polly hesitated, then shrugged. "He says he ain't been stealing lately, but he had enough blunt to keep Twitchell off him, so I'm not sure. I told him he wouldn't need to no more, but I don't know if he believes me."

  "Have you found him some sort of employment, then? Or a school, perhaps? He and the others would do much better in school than on the streets, you know."

  "I dunno much about schools, mum. Maybe I can make enough to pay for that, too. It's me what's getting a real job, you see." Polly pinkened as she spoke, however, and didn't meet Quinn's eye, which made her suspicious.

  Tilting her head so that she could watch the girl's expression, Quinn asked, "What sort of job, Polly? Is it . . . respectable?"

  Alarm flashed in the girl's eyes, and her cheeks turned even pinker. "I'm told it pays well," she said evasively.

  Quinn's foreboding deepened. "Polly, look at me. What kind of employment are you talking about?"

  But Polly still refused to meet her eyes. "I'd really rather not say, mum." She began to back away, but Quinn laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  "Is it something illegal? You did say you wouldn't be stealing."

  "No stealing, no, mum. I'm . . . I'm to be a fancy-girl. Mr. Twitchell says I've the face for it."

  For a moment Quinn's mind balked. Surely— "You . . . you can't mean you would sell yourself —your body —to men? Is that what a fancy-girl does?"

  Again Polly shrugged. "I guess you could say so, mum. I've talked to a couple o' girls what does it, and they say it brings in five times the brass any other job does."

  "Oh, Polly, no! You mustn't, really." Her own horrifying experience with Sally at the Scarlet Hawk flashed through Quinn's mind. How much worse would it be for a child like this? "How old are you, anyway?"