The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Now Marcus laughed. "I fear neither of us were particularly convincing that evening. It's a good thing I never attempted to earn a living treading the boards."

  "Nor I." Quinn recalled the shock and dismay she had felt when her father had manufactured their betrothal and Marcus had confirmed it. "But . . . we do seem to be making the best of things, do we not?"

  His smile grew tender, making her heart race. "We do indeed. Did I not tell you that we would deal quite comfortably together?"

  Comfortably. Hardly a declaration of affection. She felt a small knot of disappointment in her breast. "Yes, you did."

  And she had thrown the words in his face, she recalled. To change the subject, she asked, "Are we to go out this afternoon? You mentioned something yesterday about the Tower."

  "I did, didn't I? And we will go, if there is time. I fear I must meet with Mr. Paxton first, however."

  "That man we met at the Tinsdales'? Does he really think you can help him to catch the Saint of Seven Dials?" The idea of proper Marcus being in even the slightest way associated with such a dashing, daring figure seemed rather comical.

  "He seems to, though I can't conceive why. I'm curious, so I sent word that I would speak with him this afternoon. I doubt I will be gone long. We are to meet at White's."

  Struck with a sudden idea, she said, "Oh, do not rush through what is likely to be an interesting interview on my account. We can always visit the Tower another day. In fact, I believe I may take the opportunity to run an errand or two myself, if I may have the carriage."

  "Certainly. I can take the phaeton, or ride. But what sorts of errands?"

  She was reminded of her father questioning her the day she attempted to take ship and fell into such trouble at the docks. But of course she planned nothing so risky today —just a visit to Mrs. Hounslow, in a perfectly respectable part of London.

  "Shopping, of course," she said innocently. "I will need a new parasol if we are to attend that Venetian breakfast."

  "Very well, I won't worry if I should run into friends at White's, then, which is not unlikely. I will be home in time for dinner though, certainly."

  "As will I. Perhaps I will speak to a draper about fabrics for my bedchamber, as well. You approve my ideas?"

  They fell to discussing her redecorating plans then, and if Marcus seemed distracted, Quinn attributed it to the usual male disinterest in such matters.

  * * *

  Not until he handed his horse to one of the grooms at White's did Marcus think to wonder whether Noel Paxton could get in. A member himself since leaving Oxford, he tended to forget that the requirements were fairly stringent. There was no sign of the fellow loitering outside, however, so he determined to wait inside, keeping an eye on the street from the bow window.

  He'd only taken a few steps into the main room, however, when he saw Mr. Paxton motioning to him from a table in the corner.

  "I hope my choice of meeting place is amenable?" he asked, joining Paxton at the table.

  "Perfectly," the other man replied pleasantly. "Newly wed as you are, I understand your preference to meet here rather than at your home. I daresay your wife is still settling in. I recall the fuss my sister made over her first establishment after she married. Organizing and redecorating and such."

  "Quite so." Marcus found himself liking the fellow and caught himself, realizing how dangerous that could be. "Some port, perhaps?" He signaled a passing waiter.

  Once he had gone, Paxton said, "I won't keep you long. I'm sure you are eager to return to your bride."

  There was no point delaying the inevitable, Marcus decided. "You wished to speak with me about the Saint of Seven Dials?"

  "Yes. I had a most curious tale from the Marquess of Ribbleton a week or two since. It involved a duel, in which you and he acted as seconds."

  Marcus thought quickly. Luke had been engaged to duel Lord Bellowsworth over Lady Pearl's honor, but had ended up fighting —and killing —his own uncle instead. According to Luke, the man who had passed himself off as Lord Hardwyck for years had been a murderer, and well deserving of his fate, and the Duke of Oakshire had apparently agreed, for he had ensured that the details never became public.

  "I was there, yes," he replied after what he hoped was no more than a reasonable hesitation.

  "Then you know that it was a most irregular proceeding, quite apart from the fact that duels are illegal in England."

  Though Paxton was watching him narrowly, Marcus merely shrugged. "Do you mean to set the Runners on the lot of us for taking part? Can't see how that would help your case."

  "No, of course not," replied Paxton with a smile. "My concern is with the irregularities —I believe a man was killed? But more particularly with something Lord Ribbleton told me that man said before Lord Hardwyck ran him through."

  It took an effort to keep his expression pleasant and unruffled, but Marcus had long years of experience at inquisitions by his tutors, father and older brothers when he'd landed in various scrapes.

  "Ribbleton and I were at the far side of the field. I can't recall anything that was said with any clarity, and am rather surprised that he claims to do so. I do know Lord Hardwyck acted in self-defense," he said earnestly, as though that must be the main concern. "Knox threatened the lady who is now Luke's wife."

  "Yes, I have spoken —briefly —with the Duke of Oakshire, and he tells me there was no question of a murder charge. Knox was apparently quite deserving of his fate."

  "There you are, then." Marcus sat back with a smile, as though the interview must now be at an end.

  But Paxton shook his head, tenacious as a dog with a bone. "Ribbleton claims that Knox identified Lord Hardwyck as the Saint of Seven Dials just before he died. That Hardwyck killed him for it, in fact, though the Duke does not appear to share that view."

  Marcus managed an incredulous laugh. "Luke? The Saint? I'm not surprised the Duke of Oakshire won't credit such a theory. Why, he wasn't even in London for most of the Saint's career, nor has he the temperament for it." He was confident that if Paxton ever had opportunity to interview Luke himself, his friend could portray himself in whatever light he chose.

  "As I said last night, I simply wish to follow every lead. If it were only Ribbleton's word, I might have discounted it, but one of the Runners claims that a boy known to fence for the Saint is now in Lord Hardwyck's employ. Do you know anything about that?"

  That would be Flute, Marcus realized, a lad Luke had rescued from the streets once he came into his title. "I know he took in a street urchin or two at the instigation of his wife, who has long been known for her acts of charity."

  Paxton frowned. "I didn't know that. Lady Hardwyck was doing this sort of thing even before her marriage, then?"

  "Yes, quite the crusader, Lady Pearl. You must be new to Town not to know that. I'm sure Luke will have his hands full trying to keep up with her reforming and such."

  "I see." Paxton was clearly disappointed. "As Hardwyck is reportedly still on his wedding trip to the North, I would have found it difficult to link him with the Saint's most recent theft, in any event. Still, I felt obliged—"

  "Of course," Marcus agreed, feeling almost weak with relief. "Such thoroughness is admirable. Sir Nathaniel is fortunate to have you on the hunt."

  Paxton grinned at him, relaxing a bit now that the inquisition was over. "I was recommended to him by the Foreign Office, now the war is over. I was offered a diplomatic position, but it wasn't my cup of tea."

  Marcus's curiosity was piqued. Had the man acted as some sort of spy, then? But it would be tactless to ask, apart from the fact that too much conversation with the fellow could be risky. "Prefer more of a challenge, do you?" he contented himself with asking.

  "You could say that. And the Saint is presenting the finest I've had since Waterloo. I've barely started my investigation, but I hope you'll alert me should you hear of anything that might be helpful."

  "Of course, of course," Marcus assured him. Finishing his por
t, he rose to go.

  Mr. Paxton stood as well. "Once your friend Lord Hardwyck returns to London, I'll have a word with that street urchin of his. Perhaps he can provide the scent I'll need to bring this fox to ground."

  Marcus felt a sudden thrill of alarm. Flute had been friends with Gobby, Stilt and the others. Suppose— But no. If Luke trusted the lad, then he would trust him as well. And if Luke thought there was any risk to him, he wouldn't bring the boy back to London. Still, a discreet letter north might be in order.

  "Excellent plan," he agreed as he and Paxton headed toward the door. "He may well know something, if he actually sold goods for the Saint at one time."

  They reached the street a moment later, and Marcus waited impatiently for his horse. As pleasant a fellow as Noel Paxton seemed, he felt more than ready to escape him.

  "Of course, the Saint must have another fence working for him now," said Paxton as Marcus mounted. "I have someone on the street who can keep me apprised. The Saint may be a hero to the poor, but loyalties can be bought, as I've discovered time and again. Good day to you, and my apologies for taking you away from your bride."

  Marcus bid the man farewell and headed home, wondering just how deep the loyalty of "his" lads actually ran.

  CHAPTER 15

  "Mrs. Hounslow?" Quinn asked as she was shown into the small but very clean parlor of a small but very clean house on Gracechurch Street. "I am . . . A Sympathetic Lady."

  "Welcome! Welcome indeed!" Mrs. Hounslow, a tiny, active woman with iron-gray hair and very bright gray eyes, hurried forward to clasp both of Quinn's hands with her own. "I have been hoping you might call. If you had sent word in advance, I would have arranged a nice tea, of course, but I'm sure Maggie can find us something."

  The middle-aged maid who had answered the door nodded and bustled off, as energetic as her mistress.

  "Now, my dear, pray have a seat so that we can discuss how best to help those poor, poor girls. I have been after Mr. Throgmorton for a year and more to include them in his plans, but he seems to feel that whatever funds he can scare up are put to better use on the boys, which is rubbish, of course, but men can be so muleheaded, don't you agree?"

  Quinn took the indicated chair, feeling almost breathless herself just from listening to the birdlike woman's rapid speech. "Yes, they certainly can be," she assented. "In fact, the reason I have chosen to use an alias for my help is that I am uncertain of my husband's support in this endeavor."

  "Ah! No doubt a wise precaution, my dear. One never knows how men will react to such things. Even the most charitably minded among them can become rather peculiar when it comes to their own wives participating in a project, particularly a project that has the potential to bring her into contact with the less fortunate —some might say, the less desirable —elements of society."

  Mrs. Hounslow seated herself across from Quinn, but immediately jumped back up. "Ah! Here is our tea. Let me help you place the table, Maggie. Yes, thank you. I'll pour out, there's a dear. I know you want to get back to your baking."

  She turned back to Quinn with a bright smile, speaking as she poured. "Maggie fills a multitude of roles for me, so I hate to demand too much of her in any one of them. Now, where were we?"

  "We were going to discuss how I might best aid your plans for a girls' school," Quinn replied, trying to hide her amusement at the woman's manner. "I am prepared to contribute generously, provided I can do so discreetly."

  "Bless you! Bless you indeed, my dear!" her hostess exclaimed, proferring a plate of tiny tea cakes. "The situation of some of the poor girls in this city is fouler than you can imagine. My heart has ached for them, simply ached."

  "Yes, I agree. I've come to know one girl, have taken her into my employ, in fact, to prevent her turning to an extremely dangerous and immoral line of work."

  Tears started to Mrs. Hounslow's gray eyes. "You are charity itself, ma'am. So many girls forced into that line of work. Would that I could rescue them all. Maggie is the only servant I can afford to keep on, or I'd have some of them here with me, as well. I do what I can, however, with what I can spare from my jointure. We'll get that school now, though, you mark my words, and those poor, dear girls will be prepared for fitting employment." She nodded her head vigorously and took a sip of tea.

  "What will it cost, do you think, to set up a proper boarding school for, say, thirty or forty girls?" Quinn asked, thinking that Mrs. Hounslow more accurately typified Charity than she herself, who was doing this as much for distraction as for the sake of the girls. "I'm particularly concerned for those in and around the Seven Dials area."

  Mrs. Hounslow nodded again, her pristine white cap bobbing on her gray curls. "So Mr. Throgmorton said, and quite understandable, as the girls near the West End will be the ones you have opportunity to observe and feel such commendable sympathy toward. My dream is to eventually see several such schools about London, serving all of the nastiest rookeries. Oh, another word for thief-dens, my dear. I presume from your accent that you are American, and may not be familiar with our local terms— which makes your charity all the more admirable, in my eyes."

  Quinn wasn't sure why that should be the case, but she smiled. "You were going to give me an idea of how much money might be required?" she prompted.

  "Oh! Yes, yes of course. Thirty or forty girls, you say? And a boarding school? Dear me . . ."

  "I rather fear a day school would give those currently employing these girls too much opportunity to impose upon them during their free hours."

  The little woman's eyes widened. "Why of course, how clever of you! And you are quite right. In that case—" She named a sum that made Quinn's eyes widen in turn. How would she ever manage to contribute so much without Marcus's knowledge?

  Mrs. Hounslow must have noticed her hesitation, for she hurried on into speech. "Yes, it is a lot of money, I know, but for a boarding school one must consider meals and dormitories, for teachers as well as pupils, as the teachers would have to live at the school as well. Then there is the building itself. Mr. Throgmorton, I know, has investigated various possibilities for the boys' schools, so he likely would have suggestions for us."

  Quinn nodded. Somehow she would come up with the money, even if it meant asking Marcus to release her own dowry to her—a humiliating prospect, but worse, one that would require some very clever and deceptive explanations. "And how soon do you think we might hope to have such a school in operation?"

  "Oh, I will have to ask Mr. Throgmorton about that, but if an existing building can be used, I should think fairly soon, if the funds are forthcoming. I realize it is likely far more than—"

  "Speak to Mr. Throgmorton," Quinn told her. "I'll send the first few hundred pounds to you by the end of the week, so that he can secure us a building. I'll want regular progress reports, of course. They can be sent to Grillon's Hotel, as before, and I will call here when I can."

  Mrs. Hounslow's eyes overflowed again. "What a saint you are, ma'am! The girls are fortunate indeed to have such an advocate."

  "Hardly a saint, Mrs. Hounslow, but I would like to make a difference." Reference to a saint set her thoughts along a new and interesting path. She rose. "I must go, but I will return when I can. Thank you so much for your assistance in this matter, for I had no notion where to begin."

  With mutual protestations of gratitude, she and Mrs. Hounslow embraced and Quinn left for Bond Street to do a quick bit of shopping to justify her long absence. While looking over a selection of lacy white parasols, she mused over the idea that had struck her just before leaving Gracechurch Street.

  The Saint of Seven Dials was known for helping the less fortunate. Might he be persuaded to contribute some of his spoils to her cause, if she could find a way to contact him? Certainly, it seemed worth the attempt.

  * * *

  Marcus was already home when Quinn returned. As she entered the house, her abigail in tow, he emerged from the library with a smile that held no hint of suspicion. "I trust your shopping exp
edition was productive, my dear?"

  "I'll let you judge," she replied with an answering smile, stifling an unexpected twinge of guilt for keeping the true purpose of her outing from him. Taking one of the parcels from Monette, she opened it to display a pretty, ruffled parasol.

  Before he could comment, she rushed into nervous speech. "It was my first foray onto Bond Street, you know, so it took me a bit longer than I expected. So many shops concentrated into one area! Baltimore has nothing like it."

  He raised a brow at her babbling, but only said, "A lovely trinket, and quite appropriate for a Venetian breakfast. I'm pleased you have returned, however, as ladies generally aren't seen in Bond Street this late in the day."

  "Yes, I noticed that," she replied, biting her lip at the implied rebuke. "By the time we left, it was nearly all gentlemen on the street. I hope I haven't done something improper again?"

  "Nothing that can't be excused in someone so new to Town. I must remember to warn you about such customs before you go out on your own again. But come, show me what else you have bought, that I may exclaim over it."

  Feeling rather foolish and guiltier than ever, she opened the other packages. If not for her visit to Mrs. Hounslow, she would never have strayed beyond the "proper" Bond Street hours.

  "Only a few other things, really. This bonnet, and some ribbon to match my green morning dress. I—I thought I might wear it in my hair." He had moved closer to inspect the items, and his nearness was making it hard to concentrate.

  "Very pretty." He was looking at her, however, and not her purchases. She felt her color rise, as it did all too often in his presence. Surely by now she should be getting over this schoolgirl foolishness?

  "I'm glad you approve," she said, making a job of rewrapping the items before handing them to Monette, to take upstairs.

  She was about to follow her maid when he said, "I had thought we might go for a ride in the Park before dinner, but perhaps you would prefer to rest?"