The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  He clasped the boy's grimy hand. "Well met, Renny. What can you tell me?"

  "Gobby, Stilt, and me, we've took turns watching the house all day. Seems to be just the one bloke what lives there, and he's out now. Two other chaps dropped in a couple hours ago, and he left with 'em. Nobody home now but one manservant and two maids, from what we can tell."

  "And Tig?"

  "Up in the attics. He knows we're here— he came to the window after the swells left. We didn't dare shout, though, for fear of raising the alarm."

  Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "Good lad. That means he's not bound, or at least I hope so. That will make things a bit easier." Thoughtfully, he contemplated the house.

  "There's another door in back," Renny told him, "but it leads to the kitchen, where the servants are like to be now. Windows are a good size, though."

  "Yes, I was noticing that. Come on and show me which window is Tig's."

  Crossing the street, they went to the end of the row of houses, to reach the alleyway running behind them. In a few moments, they joined Stilt in the tiny patch of garden behind Tig's prison and looked up at the narrow top window.

  "That window's too small, even for Tig," Marcus commented softly. "Nothing for him to climb down by, anyway."

  Stilt nodded. "He wanted to try, earlier. Just as well he couldn't squeeze through —he's not as sticky a climber as he claims. We'd have picked him up dead, I don't doubt."

  Marcus had to agree. The upper walls were sheer, with no handholds visible, at least by the light of half a moon. Below, however, a sturdy trellis and some ornamental brickwork might offer a way to a second story window.

  "Right then," he said in sudden decision. "If you two will keep watch, I'll see if I can spring him."

  Already he was picking up their street cant, some of which he'd learned from Luke, he realized, back in their Oxford days. At the time, he'd assumed Luke had picked up the expressions abroad, he thought with amusement.

  The trellis wasn't quite strong enough to bear his weight, but he was able to use it to steady himself as he slowly worked his way up the protruding bricks. It had been years since he'd done this sort of thing, but he soon discovered he still had the instincts that had aided him in many a prank on his brothers and his Oxford classmates. In ten minutes, he had reached the darkened second-floor window that was his target.

  As he'd hoped, no one had bothered to lock the upper windows, and it yielded to his tug easily. No doubt it had stood open earlier, hot as the day had been. With a scramble that he hoped wouldn't be audible as far away as the kitchen, he hoisted himself over the sill and into a fair-sized bedchamber. He paused for a moment to listen, but heard no sounds from within the house. Good.

  Quickly, he crossed the room and emerged into the short passage leading to the stairs at the side of the house. In a moment, he had climbed past the third storey to the low door of the attic. "Tig?" he whispered. "Are you alone?"

  A soft scuffling came from within, then a voice answered him. "Aye, guv, none but me here, but I can't reach the door. I'd a' picked the lock hours ago if I could."

  Marcus smiled at Tig's cocky tone, glad that the boy hadn't had his spirit squelched. "I'll have you out of there in a trice."

  Tig's captors had foolishly left the key in the lock, so there was no need to test his skill at picking it, rather to Marcus's disappointment. The attic was lit by a single guttering candle that showed the lad tied by a stout rope to a beam near the tiny window, his hands bound behind him.

  Marcus refrained from asking how he'd have picked the lock— or scaled the wall— without use of his hands, and set about untying him. With the aid of his pocket knife, he soon had him free. "There we are, then. Follow me."

  When Tig opened his mouth to thank him—or perhaps for more bluster— Marcus silenced him with a finger to his lips. "Later," he whispered. "Stay close."

  Quietly, he led the boy down the stairs, pausing at the second floor, then proceeding down to the first. Motioning Tig to wait, Marcus slipped into the small parlor, gazing about for anything he might—ah! On the mantel stood a pair of figurines that he was fairly sure were Chinese, and quite valuable. With a grin, he slipped both of them into his pockets and left a calling card in their place.

  He then went to the small writing desk in the corner of the room. A quick search revealed a paper or two, and he added those to his pocket in hopes that in better light they might reveal more about Tig's captor.

  "All right, let's go," he said when he rejoined the boy on the stairs. They continued down to the ground floor, where they stopped again to listen. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen below, along with the sound of snoring —at least one of the servants was taking advantage of her master's absence for a nap.

  Deciding it would be quieter than opening another window, Marcus boldly went to the front door, unlocked it, and led Tig down the front steps to the street. He waited until they'd walked a few houses down before speaking.

  "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it? Were you able to discover anything about your captor or his friends?"

  Tig gazed up at him in rapt adoration. "Gorblimey, guv, but you're slick as the Saint ever was. Taking over for him, are you?"

  Marcus tousled his dark hair. "Helping him out, let's say. Look, here are the others." They'd rounded the corner into the alley, surprising Stilt and Renny, who were still waiting behind the house.

  "Mission accomplished," Marcus said. "Now get yourselves a good meal and a good night's rest. You've earned it." He flipped a shilling to Stilt, who caught it neatly. "I'll send Gobby to you tomorrow with further instructions."

  The three boys nodded vigorously, all of them now regarding him with something like awe. With a chuckle and a wave of his hand, Marcus headed back to Grosvenor Street. Luke had pegged him, it seemed. Becoming the Saint of Seven Dials was just the change he'd been needing.

  * * *

  By morning, Quinn was able to congratulate herself on her narrow escape the night before. Had she given in to that flare of passion—surely temporary!—she would never be able to justify escaping England and her marriage, which she still intended to do. Almost certainly still intended to do.

  Which meant things had surely turned out for the best.

  She was still assuring herself of this as she went down to breakfast a few minutes later. Marcus was not in the dining room, which Quinn regarded as fortunate—because it gave her the opportunity to go speak privately with Mrs. Walsh. She arranged for Polly's placement among the lower servants, then asked about possible positions for a young boy.

  "Perhaps the stables, my lady," the housekeeper replied. "Would you like me to speak to the head groom about it?"

  "Yes, please do," Quinn replied. "I'd like him to start immediately, if possible." Pleased with this progress, she returned to the dining room to find Marcus awaiting her.

  At once, the feelings of the night before rushed back, and she felt her face coloring. Determined not to reveal more than she could help, she moved forward after only the slightest hesitation. "Good morning," she said, as brightly as she could.

  Marcus returned her greeting blandly, adding, "I trust you slept well?" Perhaps she imagined the twinkle in his eye that accompanied the question.

  "Yes, I thank you. Though the decor of my room is not to my taste, the bed itself is most comfortable." Mention of the bed threatened to make her blush again, so she quickly turned her attention to her plate.

  "Will we be attending church this morning?" she asked then, to further distract herself from feelings best left unexamined.

  Marcus looked up in evident surprise. "I haven't been in the habit of it, but, er, of course, if you think it best."

  Quinn shrugged slightly. "I assumed it was customary."

  "Yes, well . . . it is, I suppose. Why don't we, then? Start off on the right foot and all that." He seemed as relieved as she to have something specific to discuss —to do—on this first, awkward morning of their marriage.

 
; Accordingly, they headed out right after breakfast and soon Quinn found herself in a small parish church much like the one she had attended with her father the morning after their arrival in London. The sermon itself was uninspiring, but she found a measure of comfort in the familiar rituals.

  Upon leaving, a group of Evangelicals accosted them, handing out pamphlets. Not wanting to seem rude, she accepted a few and tucked them into her reticule. Perhaps she would glance at them later, if time hung heavily on her hands.

  A light luncheon awaited them upon their return, as well as the Sunday newspapers —both most welcome diversions. Though they had grown comfortable together last night, now awkwardness erected a new wall between them, allowing only the most inconsequential of small talk through.

  Quinn knew she should be glad, but instead felt vaguely bereft —even lonely. With an inaudible sigh, she picked up one of the papers and began reading. The article on the effects of strengthened Corn Laws meant nothing to her, unfamiliar as she was with English politics, nor the items about various members of Parliament and their views.

  Turning the page, she skimmed the Society gossip with a sinking heart, thinking it was only a matter of time before she herself would be pilloried there —if she stayed. Then, on the opposite page, she found an article that caught her interest.

  The Saint of Seven Dials Strikes Again! it began in bold letters, going on to describe a recent robbery by this apparently legendary thief. "For several years now, the audacious Saint has made a mockery of London's pitiful law officers, baffling beadles and magistrates and even the Bow Street Runners as he steals from the rich to give to the poor, like Robin Hood of old."

  Fascinated, she read on as the article recounted a few of the Saint's more daring exploits over the past few years. Sir Nathaniel Conant, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street, was quoted as saying, "A month ago we were sure we'd identified him, but these latest burglaries have set us back. Still, we are confident we will bring him to justice soon."

  "Found something interesting, have you?" Marcus asked from across the table, making Quinn realize she must have made some sort of exclamation.

  "Yes, this Saint of Seven Dials they write about," she responded with a smile, eager to return to a more companionable footing with her new husband. "Quite the storybook hero, though your government officials don't see him in that light, as might be expected. Have you heard about him?"

  To her disappointment, Marcus withdrew behind his own paper. "Oh, yes, we've all heard of him, of course," he said absently. "Fellow goes a-thieving every few months and suddenly he's a legend. Can't say I see what the fuss is about, myself. London is full of thieves, after all, and he is just one more."

  "Oh, but he's not, if this article is to be believed!" Quinn exclaimed, puzzled and hurt by Marcus's withdrawal. "He gives what he steals to the poor, which I'm certain the average thief does not. And these calling cards he leaves, as though he is daring someone to catch him. He sounds rather extraordinary."

  "Do you think so?" Marcus lowered his paper to regard her for a long moment. Then, his tone again bored, "The ladies all seem fascinated by him, now that I think on it. Personally, I believe the newspapers exaggerate the truth out of all reason to increase their sales. Legends make good reading, after all."

  Quinn felt a stab of disappointment, but whether at Marcus's continued indifference or the idea of this Saint not being a hero after all, she wasn't sure. "Yes, I suppose that's likely, pity though it is," she admitted.

  With another sigh, she leafed through the rest of the paper, finding nothing else of particular interest —until her eye fell upon a column on the last page, entitled "Shipping News." There were listed the departure dates and destinations of ships from each of London's docks, as well as other English ports.

  A quick glance at Marcus showed him still apparently absorbed in his own reading, so she quickly scanned the listings. The only ship leaving for Baltimore this week appeared to be from Liverpool. There would be others, though. She'd check this column regularly, until she found one leaving from London. And perhaps she would leave with it.

  With a simulated yawn, she rose. "If you don't mind, I believe I will go up to my room and attend to some correspondence. Perhaps I will give some thought to redecorating, as well."

  "As you wish." He showed not the slightest reluctance to let her go. "I may go out for a bit, briefly. Dinner at six again tonight?"

  "Six will be fine." She stood there for a moment, wondering whether she should say something, do something, to get him to really see her again. But no, things were safer this way.

  Mounting the stairs to her room, she began to wonder if she had only dreamed the friendliness —and the passion —they had so briefly shared the night before.

  * * *

  Marcus waited until Quinn's footsteps receded up the stairs before reaching across the table for the paper she had been reading. He hoped he hadn't said anything to make her suspicious, but her mention of the Saint of Seven Dials had caught him rather off guard. Quickly, he located the article and read it through, chuckling when he came to Sir Nathaniel's quote.

  "Well, it looks like I've about got Luke off the hook, then," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps one more foray, just to clinch it." That thought reminded him that Gobby would be arriving shortly to take up his new job, and that he still had to speak with the head groom. He headed for the stables.

  Thinking over what he had learned last night from Tig, he realized there was something else Gobby could do for him— something that might keep other boys from suffering the fate Tig nearly had. With added resolve, he strode through the kitchen garden and out the back gate, to speak with the groom.

  "That's right," he said to Gobby a few minutes later. The boy had already been lurking in the mews, waiting for him, when he emerged from the stable. "You have yourself a job as a stableboy. It will be up to you to work your way up to groom."

  Gobby grinned widely. "I'll do just that, milord, wait and see if I don't!"

  Marcus nodded encouragingly. "I'm sure you will. Before you begin, though, I want you to ask the others to find out who this Mr. Jarrett's cohorts are, and where they live."

  The papers he had taken Saturday night had revealed nothing but the name of Tig's captor, unfortunately.

  "Aye, milord, I c'n do that," Gobby agreed enthusiastically. "They'll be able to tell you by tonight, I'll be bound."

  Though he had to smile at the lad's eagerness, Marcus put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "There's no great rush, now that Tig is safe. Tell them not to let themselves be seen. Just follow him for a few days, find out his habits, his friends, and send me word. I'll take it from there."

  Gobby nodded vigorously, a shock of red hair falling into his eyes. "I'll tell them, right enough, milord. They can get word to you through me."

  "That's the idea. Off with you, then. Take this with you." Marcus handed him a meat pie he'd filched from the kitchen on his way through to the garden. "Report to Mr. Peters when you return, and he'll tell you what to do and where you'll sleep."

  With a grin, the boy took a big bite of the pie and headed down the lane. Marcus gazed after him for a moment, hoping he wasn't putting any of the other boys in danger. But no, these lads faced terrible risks every day of their lives. He was simply trying to eliminate one of those risks. Once that was done, perhaps he'd tackle another. And Gobby should be safer, at least.

  Turning back to the house, it hit him that he was planning to continue as Saint of Seven Dials even now that Luke's name was apparently cleared. But why not? Those boys clearly needed him, and so far his marriage wasn't creating much in the way of an obstacle. Rather less than he'd hoped, in fact, though he fully intended that would change.

  All things considered, he had to admit that his life had become far more interesting than it had been only a week earlier.

  * * *

  Quinn set down her pen with a sigh. She'd written a letter to her brother, advising him of her marriage and including some sug
gestions about changing their tea and spice routes, based on what she'd read in the London papers. Charles would likely ignore her advice, but she felt obligated to pass it along. It was all she could do now for the business that had consumed the past few years of her life.

  "Blast!" The unladylike exclamtion escaped her when a tear fell on her completed letter, smudging her signature. Quickly, she scattered sand across it, before the ink could run.

  Folding up her letter, she set it aside for later posting, then cast about for something else to do, feeling unequal to facing Marcus again just yet. She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule, to dab nose and eyes, then noticed the pamphlets she had collected after church. The first was on temperance, the second a treatise on the necessity for daily Bible reading. The third, however captured her attention.

  A Mr. Throgmorton, a follower of the teachings of William Wilberforce and Hannah More, was soliciting funds for the establishment of a school for boys in London's slums. The pamphlet went on to press the advantages to the wealthy of getting homeless, wretched boys off the streets and trained up for useful occupations, and ended with a direction for sending funds.

  Taking up her pen again, Quinn began another letter.

  Dear Mr. Throgmorton,

  If you will consider establishing a school for girls, as well as boys, and placing it near the West End of London, I may be in a position to supply a large part of the necessary funding. I have observed that the lot of orphaned, homeless girls is at least as wretched as that of their brothers, and would do something to improve their lot.

  Now, how to receive a reply, without betraying her identity? Ah!

  You may leave word for me at Grillon's Hotel.

  —A Sympathetic Lady

  Before she could change her mind, she folded and addressed that letter as well, then rang for a maid. "Have one of the footmen post these at once," she said. Taking the letters, the girl curtsied and left. Fortified by her renewed sense of purpose, Quinn headed downstairs to find her husband.