The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "'Most thirteen," she replied, standing up straighter. "Twitchell says I'm old enough." Despite her proud stance, however, fear lurked in her eyes. "How else can I take care of Gobby —and myself?"

  Quinn made a sudden decision. "You probably don't know this, but I've just married. I'll need to hire a servant or two. I don't know whether it will pay so much, but I promise it will be far safer —and completely respectable. Would you like to work at that house there?" She pointed to Lord Marcus's townhouse.

  "Oh, mum! D'ye mean it?" There was no mistaking the girl's delight at the prospect.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Quinn nodded. "I certainly do, and I'd like you to start as soon as possible." If Marcus minded, he would simply have to get over it. "Where are you living now?"

  "Twitchell's flash house in Seven Dials, with Gobby and the others."

  "I take it you have no parents?"

  She shook her head.

  "Would Gobby want a position with us as well, do you think?" What could a boy of nine do? She'd ask the housekeeper.

  "I'll ask him, mum. He won't want to leave his mates, but I think he'd be better away from there."

  Quinn would have preferred to take them all in, but knew Marcus would never allow such a thing. "Yes, please try to convince him to come. That can't be a wholesome environment for a small boy."

  "Aye, mum, I'll do that. Shall I come to you tomorrow?" Polly's demeanor had brightened considerably since Quinn's offer.

  "Tomorrow will be perfect. I'll notify Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper, to expect you first thing in the morning."

  With profuse thanks and repeated promises to do her proud, Polly hurried away. Quinn watched her go, then turned thoughtfully back to the house.

  It was a small start, but a start nonetheless. Perhaps she would not have time to make much of a difference before leaving England, but if she could salvage one or two young lives, she would at least feel her time here had not been wasted.

  Feeling more cheerful than she had in days, Quinn mounted the steps and reentered the house, which somehow seemed far less like a prison now.

  * * *

  Marcus scowled across Swallow Street at the narrow but well-kept house Gobby indicated. Not quite in Mayfair proper, it was on the fringes of the most fashionable part of London. "You can't tell me anything at all about this so-called gentleman who is holding Tig?" he asked again.

  "He's tallish, with light hair. Never caught his name, though," Gobby replied. "Haven't had time to put a watch on the house, so I dunno if anyone else lives there with him or not."

  The house was single-fronted, which meant it probably contained only two rooms, one behind the other, on each of its three floors, plus the attics. An upper window opened and a servant girl leaned out to shake a considerable amount of dirt from a small rug.

  "We can't do much at the moment, with so many people about and all the servants awake, obviously," Marcus observed. "If you or any of the others can discover by nightfall which room Tig is being held in, however, I'll see what I can accomplish tonight."

  "Aye, m'lord, we'll do that!" Gobby agreed enthusiastically. "Thank you, m'lord." Tugging the shock of red hair that hung over his eyes, the boy grinned his gratitude.

  "Good lad. I'll be off home now, but look for me here sometime around midnight." He started to walk away, then stopped, frowning down at the diminutive boy. "Perhaps one of the older lads should wait for me. You'll need your rest if you're to help me tomorrow."

  In truth, he couldn't think it safe for a lad Gobby's size to be wandering the streets at night, though no doubt he did so all the time. Still, he felt a duty to do what he could to safeguard "his" boys— especially if this crimp had any cohorts about.

  "You'll have something for me to do tomorrow, then?" As Marcus had hoped, Gobby fixed on the more exciting part of his comment.

  He nodded. "Yes, but only if you're well rested and alert, mind you. It won't do to make careless mistakes." If the boy suspected for a moment that Marcus was coddling him, he would surely rebel. An idea suddenly occurred to him.

  "What would you say to a real job, somewhere about my house? That way I could contact you whenever I needed to, and you could carry messages for me to the others."

  "A job?" Gobby looked suspicious. "What sort of job?"

  Marcus thought for a minute, taking Gobby's size and age into account. "Perhaps something in the stables? I'll talk to the head groom to see where he can use you. You'd have a warm place to sleep, as well— away from Mr. Twitchell."

  Though he still looked doubtful, there was no mistaking the hope in the boy's eyes, and it tugged at Marcus's heart. "D'ye really think he'd have me? I've allus liked horses, though I ain't been around 'em much."

  "I'm certain he can find work for you there. Report to the stables tomorrow, and after that we can discuss the next step in this current matter. Remember to tell Stilt or one of the others to meet me here tonight."

  "I'll do that, m'lord. You can count on me!" Whistling cheerfully, Gobby headed back toward Seven Dials, presumably to recruit more lads to help in the reconnaissance of the crimp's townhouse and to prepare for his new job.

  Satisfied that he had done all he could for the moment, Marcus headed back to Grosvenor Street —and his new bride. It was high time he showed her that he was anything but stodgy.

  Or was it?

  The last thing he wanted was for her to guess his new identity as Saint of Seven Dials. If she truly believed he was a thorough stick-in-the-mud, she would never suspect. But could he really act the part?

  He grinned. He would simply take Robert, his stuffy eldest brother, as a model. If ever anyone merited the epithet "stodgy," Robert did. Meanwhile, would she have noticed that he'd left the house— assuming she hadn't taken this opportunity to flee? He spent the rest of the short walk concocting a reason for his absence, just in case.

  "George, has there been any—" he began on entering the house, then broke off, catching a glimpse of a lilac skirt through an open door. "Never mind." He handed his hat to the footman and cautiously approached the drawing room.

  Quinn looked up as he entered and startled him with a smile. "Good afternoon, my lord, er, Marcus. Would you care for some tea?"

  "I, ah, yes. Of course." Nonplussed, he seated himself across the small table from her. "I'm, er, pleased to see you in better spirits," he ventured as she poured.

  "Thank you. I fear I was rather overset earlier by the rapidity of events. A good cry has done me a world of good, however." She handed him his cup.

  He blinked at her matter-of-fact tone. Taking the cup from her, he noticed that she was very careful not to touch him. He also noticed that her dusky curls looked remarkably fetching against the lilac gown she now wore. A very flattering gown.

  "I've often heard that tears can be a sort of release for women," he commented inanely.

  But she smiled again, as though he had said something perfectly reasonable. "I believe that may be true, though I am rarely given to weeping myself."

  "No, I wouldn't imagine you are," he said truthfully. Diminutive she might be, but there was a strength about Quinn he had noticed from the first. "The week you have had would overset anyone, I should think. In fact, most women in your place would have taken to bed for days with the megrims."

  "I rather doubt there are many other women in my precise position." For a moment her smile evinced actual amusement rather than mere politeness. "But I thank you for the compliment."

  Marcus relaxed marginally. As she seemed willing to forget the angry words that had passed between them earlier, he was more than pleased to do likewise. Rather than allude to their unusual situation, therefore, he stuck to safer ground. "Did you find your room to your liking? It was Anthony's, as you may have guessed."

  "I assumed it had been his or Lord Peter's."

  Surely he'd imagined that trace of wistfulness as she spoke Peter's name.

  "Would it be permissible for me to have the hunting scene removed?" she con
tinued. "I fear I may find it a bit unsettling to sleep beneath."

  "'Slife, I'd forgotten that painting! Anthony is mad for the hunt, of course. I'll have it sent on to him. And you're welcome to do anything you like to the room. Replace everything in it, if you wish. Indeed, I'd be amazed if your taste in any way resembles his. If there had been time—"

  She held up a hand—a dainty, extremely feminine hand—to stem his babbling. "No, I realize there was no opportunity for redecorating, though I confess I was a bit startled at first." Her color deepened and for a moment she did not meet his eyes. Had she thought it was his room, perhaps?

  Suddenly Marcus was assailed by a vision of Quinn in his own bedchamber, lying upon his own bed, gazing up at him with those remarkable green eyes, her body—

  He cleared his throat hastily. "I'll order dinner, and we can discuss whatever changes you'd like to make, both there and elsewhere in the house, over the meal. Is there any particular dish you favor?"

  "I—well, you see . . ." She paused, appearing embarrassed. "I spoke with Mrs. Walsh a short time ago and took the liberty of ordering our dinner myself. She was kind enough to offer a suggestion or two as to what you might favor."

  Marcus blinked, startled yet again. What a transformation from the railing termagent who had stormed up to her room earlier! "Well that's just capital, then," he said, fighting a distinct sense of unreality. "When is it to be served?"

  "I asked her to have it ready an hour after your return, so that you would have time to change if you wished. I should have informed you at once." There was a question in her eyes, though she pointedly did not ask where he'd been.

  "It will take me but a moment to change," he said, dismissing that concern before addressing the unspoken one. "Walking often settles my mind, and I felt the need for a good long one after—" He stopped, not wanting to bring up their earlier argument. "I should have left word, however, and for that I apologize."

  Her smile did not quite reach her eyes, though it was pleasant enough. "You may come and go as you wish, of course. But I appreciate your apology."

  Marcus distrusted this new side of Quinn, so different from what he had seen of her before. He stood, his tea untouched. "I'll just go up and change, then, and will see you shortly at dinner."

  He bowed and left her, his head buzzing with the enigma that was his new bride. She was doubtless up to something, but until he knew what, he might as well enjoy this new civility between them. Perhaps he could even use it to get to know her better, even to win her trust— though he must be careful not to let down his own guard.

  Still, if he could induce her to drop hers, to acknowledge the attraction that had more than once sizzled between them, it was just possible that this marriage could become quite tolerable. Quite tolerable indeed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Quinn waited until Marcus's footsteps faded up the stairs, then hurried down to the kitchen to check on the progress of their dinner. So far, her plan of defusing her husband's antagonism and soothing him into complaisance seemed to be working. Now she was determined that the meal be perfect.

  What she hadn't counted on was how pleasant —and attractive —Marcus could be when they weren't arguing.

  "Mrs. MacKay, can dinner be served in half an hour?" Mrs. Walsh had introduced her to the kitchen staff at her request, during Marcus's absence.

  "Aye, milady," the cook replied, wiping flour from her hands onto her broad apron. "Everything will be just as you asked."

  A quick glance about the kitchen showed everything in order and progressing nicely, so Quinn thanked her and then headed upstairs herself to touch up her own toilette before meeting Marcus again at the table.

  One curl was unruly, refusing to cluster with its mates along the side of her neck. While Monette brushed it into submission, Quinn told herself that her appearance should not matter. She only wished to mollify her husband, not attract him. If she was to help Polly, and perhaps others like her, he needed to believe Quinn was satisfied with —or at least resigned to—her life here. That would also allay any suspicions he might have, making her eventual escape that much more likely to succeed.

  Still, she couldn't suppress a feminine touch of pleasure at knowing she looked her best as she headed back downstairs.

  Marcus was already in the dining room, looking outrageously handsome himself in a midnight blue coat and buff breeches, his dark hair falling rakishly across one eyebrow. "My lady." He greeted her with a formal bow, then held out a chair for her at one end of the long table.

  He himself did not sit at the opposite end, however, but on the side, almost at her elbow. Her surprise must have shown, for he said, "This has been my accustomed seat for years. Besides, I thought conversation would be easier this way."

  Quinn swallowed, finding his nearness oddly distracting. "Of course," she said, her voice higher than she'd expected. "And whose seat was this?" she asked then, in a more normal tone.

  "No one's, unless we had guests," he replied. "Peter and Anthony generally sat across from me, on the rare occasions that we were all home for dinner at once. More often, whoever happened to be here had a tray in the library, the better to read while eating."

  "I thought I was the only one who liked to do that," said Quinn, surprised again. He had not struck her as the reading sort. "My mother often admonished me for it."

  "One must do something besides chewing to pass the time, if one is eating alone." Even by candlelight, his eyes were a remarkably bright blue, she noticed irrelevantly.

  "That is what I told her— though I confess that my scoldings were occasionally for reading when others were present at the table, when I was younger."

  "One assumes, then, that their conversation was not stimulating enough to hold your attention." His eyes held hers, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  She forced a lightness to her tone that she did not feel. "Only when I was too young to understand the business that my parents and brother discussed. Once I learned more, I was able to hold my own."

  "You learned about the shipping business?" His surprise surprised her. "How little we know about each other. I would like to remedy that."

  Again the look in his eyes unsettled her. She was relieved when a footman entered just then with the soup. Both fell silent while they were served, but when they were alone again, Marcus said, "You mentioned a brother —the one whose clothes you once borrowed, I presume? He is still in America?"

  She nodded, taking a spoonful of soup. It was delicious. "Charles is to take over the business one day, and my father thought this would be a good opportunity for him to test his wings, so to speak."

  "While the Captain is away, you mean?" Marcus took his first taste of soup, and she tried not to focus on his well-shaped lips as he withdrew his spoon.

  Dipping her own spoon again, she gave a small shrug. "Papa is away more often than not, but this is the first time Charles will have to deal with all of the business details unassisted."

  "So you have actually been active in the running of a major shipping concern? How fascinating."

  Quinn met his eyes again but saw no condescension there, only interest— perhaps even admiration? Flustered, she focused on her soup again. "My mother was, as well, before she died. It is a family business, you see, though it has grown remarkably over the past few years."

  "Due in part to your own involvement?"

  Shyly, she nodded. Admiration from a fine gentleman like Lord Marcus was a novel experience, and not altogether unpleasant, she discovered. She debated telling him just how important her role in the business had been. Would it sound like bragging?

  "Given the slipshod way I have managed my own finances, it appears I may have done myself a greater favor than I realized in marrying you— and I'm not talking about your dowry."

  Raising startled eyes, she found him grinning, but not at all maliciously. "I . . . I do apologize for what I said earlier about that," she said quickly. "I was distraught, and—"

  "A
nd frightened, and looking for a way to strike back. I know, Quinn, and I don't blame you. Besides, you were quite right, in the sense that I have less to offer you— financially —than you have given me. I hope to make it up to you in other ways."

  There was no denying the warmth in his eyes now, and it stirred an answering warmth inside her, even more disturbing —and pleasurable —than what she had felt at the docks, after he had rescued her. She swallowed, her soup momentarily forgotten. "Other ways?" she whispered.

  "I'm sure there are things I can provide you. Introductions, tours of the city and country, new . . . experiences."

  For a breathless moment, she was transfixed by an image of Marcus coatless, even shirtless, inviting her to explore, to touch, to experience— "I, ah, I should like to see more of London, yes," she forced herself to say, thrusting away such imaginings.

  His smile made her wonder if he had guessed the direction of her thoughts, but he only said, "Then you will do so," and dipped his spoon again.

  Over the main course of roast beef, Quinn managed to steer their conversation —and her unruly thoughts —into safer paths. In response to his questions, she told him in some detail about her part in the shipping business, and he regaled her with stories of himself and his brothers when they were younger.

  By the time sweetmeats were brought for the close of the meal, she was feeling more comfortable with Marcus than she had imagined possible. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, she had not yet decided.

  "Would you like me to leave you to your brandy and cigars?" she asked, putting down her napkin. "Or do married couples dining alone do that?"

  "I have no idea," he replied with a grin, "never before having been part of a married couple dining alone. But I see no need for such ceremony —unless you do?" The question in his eyes was rather endearing, reminding her that he was as uncertain as she how to deal with their unusual situation.

  She shook her head. "No, no need at all. I simply wished to do whatever was proper."

  Proper. It was their wedding night, she remembered with a start that set her heart suddenly racing. The proper thing, the expected thing, would be to—