The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "Excellent work! So those windows, there, would be his?" Marcus asked, pointing. The boys nodded.

  He considered the house for a moment. The front door might well be unlocked for the convenience of other lodgers, but then it might not. It would be exceedingly awkward if someone came along while he attempted to pick it, not to mention any explanations he'd have to give if he were seen inside the house and possibly recognized.

  Luke's primary strengths had been his ability to disguise himself as anything from beggar to bishop, and sleight of hand. Marcus's own specialty was getting in and out of rooms undetected. So, the window it was.

  Telling off the boys to stand guard, he set to work. This window was lower than the one he'd breached two nights since, and the wall far easier to climb. In moments he was inside, with none the wiser.

  A quick search showed Captain McCarty's lodging to consist of only two rooms, a bedchamber and small parlor. Marcus turned his attention to the writing desk, as before, and this time was better rewarded. A book of accounts appeared to list money paid and owed to McCarty, though he couldn't read it clearly by only the light from the windows. He pocketed it to peruse later, and continued his search.

  He took a few more papers that looked as though they might be useful, then discovered a secret drawer. When opened, it proved to contain a sheaf of bank notes and a small pile of golden guineas. With a grin, he took it all, leaving a card in its place. Money needed no fencing, and therefore wouldn't put his lads at risk.

  Satisfied, he left the way he had come, latching the window behind him with a variation on the same trick he'd used at Lord Hightower's house. The whole operation had taken no more than fifteen minutes.

  "That's done," he said to the waiting trio. "Let's see if we can find Renny near one of the other gents' houses. It's early yet, so I'm hoping to accomplish a bit more before bedtime."

  * * *

  Quinn was up early the next morning, bathed and breakfasted before eight o'clock. Marcus had not yet come down, so she took the opportunity for another private word with Polly under the pretense of showing her which brasses needed polishing.

  "I've spoken with a lady who wishes to establish a school for girls in London, not far from here. Tell me, if such a school existed, and you and other girls you know were allowed to attend for free, would you want to do so?"

  Polly frowned at her, as though not quite understanding. "A school? To teach us ciphering and geography and such? What good would that do the likes of us? And what would we live on?"

  Quinn had anticipated just those questions, and had her answers ready. "Yes, you would learn arithmetic, and to read and write better. But you would also receive training that would fit you for employment in a shop, or a higher position in a household. Your meals and lodging would be provided as long as you were in the school, and you'd be protected from your old master."

  Now Polly nodded slowly. "I'd like that, I think, meaning no disrespect for what you've done for me already, milady. And I knows some other girls what would jump at the chance. Just yesterday I had a quick word with poor Annie, her face all black and blue. She's wanting to quit as a fancy girl, but Twitchell won't let her."

  "Do you mean Twitchell beat her for trying to leave?" Quinn asked angrily. "I really must—"

  But Polly shook her head. "No, mum, it weren't Twitchell. It was the swell what paid her. Some likes it rough, she says, and she wants out. She's afeared next time the gent might kill her."

  Quinn's eyes narrowed. "Gent? Might you know the man's name?"

  "No, milady, but I could probably find out. Why?"

  "Don't worry about the why just now. See if you can get me his name, as well as the names of any other gentlemen patronizing your young friends. I may be able to, ah, protect the girls somewhat. I won't let them know you told me."

  "Aye, milady, I'll try, then. I'm that worried about Annie, and some of the others, too."

  "You have a good heart," Quinn told her. "And now, one more question before you get back to your work. What do you know about the Saint of Seven Dials?"

  Polly's eyes widened. "I've had nothin' to do with him, milady, I give you my word! And Gobby, he don't mean no harm, I know he don't. He—"

  "Wait, Polly, I'm not accusing you of anything, nor Gobby. But—do you mean that Gobby has had some sort of contact with him?"

  Though she looked as though she wished she hadn't said anything, Polly answered slowly. "He says so, but you know how boys like to brag. Could be it's just so much moonshine."

  Her heart beating faster, Quinn tried not to let her excitement show. "Do—do you think Gobby might be willing to send a note to him? I'm hoping he might be convinced to help support the school I mentioned."

  "Oh!" Polly's eyes went round with surprise. "I can ask him, milady."

  "Thank you. I'll get a note to you later today. Mind, though, that Gobby is not to say where it came from. Not even a hint!"

  The girl nodded vigorously, clearly delighted to be involved in the excitement of a secret scheme. Quinn left her to her polishing then, her mind full of plans.

  If the Saint could be persuaded to help, she wouldn't have to approach Marcus about money at all. She trusted her husband, of course, but he might be so scandalized on learning about those poor street girls —and more, her own involvement —that he would have them arrested, when they were no more than victims of circumstance. She didn't dare risk that.

  And even if the Saint wouldn't help —or if Gobby couldn't contact him— she might now have the means to implement her original plan to raise funds. Who better to underwrite their redemption, after all, than the very gentlemen who were debasing those poor girls? Once she had their names, she was confident that she could find a way to induce them to pay.

  Quite pleased with her morning's work, she headed up the stairs to pen the note she had promised to Polly —her first contact, she hoped, with the legendary Saint of Seven Dials.

  * * *

  "Thank you, Clarence," said Marcus with a yawn as his valet finished tying his cravat. He'd been out later last night than planned, but it had been worth it. He now had written evidence of the involvement of four of the five men in the kidnapping ring.

  Now he just had to decide what to do with that evidence.

  Would Captain McCarty or Mr. Hill report the theft of their ill-gotten gains, now that they must be aware that incriminating documents had been stolen as well? If they did, he would be hard pressed to turn over those documents to the authorities without implicating himself. Perhaps he shouldn't have left the Saint's calling cards after all.

  But no. This sort of work was right up the Saint's alley, in his opinion. The idea of filth like those men quaking in fear of the Saint's retribution amused him mightily, in fact. Somehow, he'd find a way to put those documents to use without giving himself away.

  Finishing his ruminations as Clarence finished with his boots, he stood and left the room, wondering whether Quinn would have breakfasted yet.

  On discovering that she had, he ate quickly, then sent a servant to ask her to join him in the library. A minute or two later, she appeared in the doorway.

  "You wished to see me?" She seemed somehow remote, though lovely, in a dove gray round dress. More like the Quinn of a week ago than the passionate woman of the past two nights.

  "We'll want to leave within the hour if we're to catch the beginning of the balloon ascension," he said. "I think you'll find the preparations interesting."

  She nodded. "I'm certain I will. I must speak with Mrs. Walsh for a moment, and then I will be ready to go—if that is acceptable?"

  Why was she being so tentative? He must have hurt her feelings last night, though she had pretended otherwise. He wanted to apologize again for sending her from his room, but feared he'd be tempted into unwise explanations if he did. He'd simply have to cajole her into better humor over the course of the day— without dropping his guard.

  "Certainly. Do whatever you need to do, and I'll arrange to have
the carriage ready in half an hour."

  With another quiet nod, she left him. Just as well, he told himself. Clearly he needed to rein in his feelings for Quinn, or he might do something foolish, like tell her everything. Far safer for both of them that they maintain an emotional distance for the present, much as he might wish otherwise. Act like Robert would, he reminded himself.

  Though they were early, a fair crowd had already gathered in Green Park to watch the brightly colored silk balloon fill slowly with heated air. As this entertainment cost nothing, the lower orders jostled with the upper classes for a better view.

  Marcus took the opportunity to strengthen Quinn's false impression of him. "Perhaps we should stay in the phaeton to watch. Some of this crowd looks as though they haven't bathed in weeks," he said pompously. "They should be cordoned off in a separate area from the rest of us."

  As he'd expected, she frowned at him. "They have as much right to see the spectacle as we have, surely, my lord?" But then she paused, biting her lip. "I . . . do see your point, however. I have no wish to have my reticule snatched by pickpockets, which no doubt abound at such events."

  "No doubt," he agreed, though he regarded her curiously. "Unattended children, particularly, are like to be thieves."

  She turned her head to watch the slowly inflating balloon, so that he could not see her expression. "So I have heard. Why do not the officers of the law do something about them? People should be protected from such activity."

  This was a change, but he did not dare point that out—or mention how he really felt about the plight of those poor children. "London needs more police officers, no doubt of that. Law enforcement in the city is a disgrace, giving criminals far too much leeway. My father has been attempting to change that."

  In fact, the Duke was a proponent of much harsher penalties as well as an expanded police force, and while Marcus agreed in principal with the latter, he could not approve the former. Not now that he knew what drove so many lads to thievery.

  "Good . . . good for him," Quinn said, her face still averted. Then, in a completely different tone, "Oh, there is your brother, Lord Peter!"

  Sure enough, Peter was making his way through the crowd toward them, smiling broadly. "Delighted to see you both here!" he exclaimed as he drew near. "I haven't quite dared to call, so soon after the wedding, but I've been eaten up with curiosity to know how you are adjusting to married life. May I?"

  Though Marcus cursed Peter's timing in appearing just now, while he was intentionally keeping Quinn at arm's length, he reached down a hand to help his brother into the phaeton.

  "Quinn, you are lovelier than ever. A good omen, I hope?" Peter asked as he settled himself on the high seat behind them.

  She dimpled up at him, looking more animated than she had yet today, Marcus thought irritably. "Why thank you, Lord Peter. I have . . . little to complain of, thus far." She glanced quickly at Marcus, then away.

  "We're rubbing along quite well," Marcus said in response to his brother's questioning look, trying to stifle the resentment he felt. It was none of Peter's concern, after all. And why did Quinn have to sound as though she had reservations?

  "So this brother of mine has done nothing to embarrass you yet?" Though Peter's tone was teasing, Marcus felt an irrational desire to push him to the ground six feet below.

  Still smiling, Quinn shook her head. "Not at all, though I fear he cannot claim the same of me. Just yesterday he had to scold me for galloping in the Park. I'm trying to reform my madcap ways, however."

  Scolded! He had not scolded her! Marcus opened his mouth to say so, but Peter was already speaking again, damn him.

  "Pray don't change a thing, my dear. You are perfectly charming as you are. Is she not, Marcus?" His tone held a hint of rebuke now.

  "I tell her so constantly," Marcus said as blandly as he could manage.

  Peter regarded him narrowly. "I hope that's true. Mutual respect and kindness are essential to a happy marriage, while constant criticism is likely to injure it untimely."

  "Speaking from your years of experience, are you?" Marcus snapped, finally goaded into losing his temper.

  But Peter was impossible to provoke. He merely put up a hand as though defending himself and said, "I'm only sharing what I've observed in the marriages of friends."

  "If I wish for your counsel, I will request it." Even marriage, it appeared, was not enough to render him an adult in his brother's eyes, insufferable mother hen that he was.

  Some measure of his anger must have penetrated, for Peter finally said, "Of course, dear boy. I had no wish to meddle. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone, then."

  With an agility at odds with his dandified appearance, Peter sprang lightly down from the phaeton, then swept Quinn a parting bow. "May all your days be happy ones, my lady. And yours too, of course, Marcus."

  "Thank you, Lord Peter," Quinn responded, with a curious frown at Marcus. "I hope to see you again soon."

  "Feel free to call on me at any time. I am staying at Marland House until September. I would offer to drop by, but I believe I'd best wait until my brother issues an invitation." With a jaunty wink that only irritated Marcus further, he sauntered off.

  Quinn rounded on Marcus at once. "You were abominably rude to Lord Peter, when he was only trying to be kind. Why?"

  "Kind?" Marcus echoed sourly. "He was meddling where he had no business meddling, and he knew it. And I'll thank you not to air our private concerns before my family."

  "Air—I did no such thing! I was simply being polite— something you cannot claim, my lord."

  "Perhaps you'd do better to be less polite to other men in public, then." Even to his own ears, his words sounded unreasonable, but the sight of her smiling at Peter after her earlier coolness toward himself had stirred up feelings he didn't care to define.

  Quinn was glaring at him, her green eyes fairly ablaze. "Are you accusing me of flirting with your own brother? It seems nothing I do can please you. I should have gone back to Baltimore after all."

  Marcus wanted to tell her that she pleased him very much, more than any woman had ever pleased him, but instead he pointed across the field. "The balloon is beginning to rise. I know you don't want to miss it."

  She stared at him disbelievingly for a moment, then turned away to focus on the brightly colored balloon, her back rigid. He wanted to touch her, to twine her dark curls around his fingers, to pull her against him, but he couldn't do any of those things in this setting. And he had no words to explain the jumble of feelings that were fighting for supremacy in his breast. He would try to explain later, when he was calmer, he told himself.

  As the balloon rose slowly into the sky, Marcus guiltily realized that his foolish jealousy —for that was what it must be—had spoiled much of Quinn's pleasure at the novelty.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly, watching her tense profile.

  She shifted slightly, but did not look at him. "Is that an apology, or are you saying you are sorry you married me?" Her voice was muffled, as though she was fighting back tears.

  "The former, of course. How can you ask?" Now he did touch her, a tentative hand on her shoulder.

  She shrugged it off. "Then I accept your apology. And now, my lord, I wish to watch the ascension."

  His hand hovered near her curls, then he dropped it into his lap. Damn Peter, anyway! They had been getting along so well until he came along with his impertinent questions.

  But no. Quinn had been withdrawn all morning, doubtless because he had sent her from his bed last night with no better explanation than wanting sleep. Peter had simply pointed up the problem that already existed —the problem of trust.

  He didn't dare trust Quinn with the truth about the Saint of Seven Dials, and now he'd implied that he didn't trust her near other men, either— which he had to admit wasn't true. And she, apparently, couldn't trust him to accept her as she was, but felt she had to change to please him.

  That was absurd, of course. She must see that. He
had apologized, hadn't he? And she had shrugged it off, along with his touch, as though it meant nothing.

  Reluctantly, he realized that he would be wiser to leave this little estrangement in place until his business with the crimps was finished. He wouldn't have to make excuses to keep her from his bed if she avoided it on her own. That wasn't at all what he wanted, however.

  Wrapped in his warring thoughts, Marcus was surprised when the crowd began to disperse, the excitement over. He'd missed it entirely. Not that it mattered much —to him.

  "What did you think?" he asked Quinn, picking up the reins and urging the pair forward. "Did it live up to your expectations?"

  She glanced at him, a sad smile curving her mouth. "Does anything, ever?"

  He had no answer for that, and they drove back to Grosvenor Street in silence.

  "I believe I'll rest until dinner," Quinn told him as they entered the house.

  "Of course," he said, still uncertain how to breach the wall she had erected between them, and even less certain that he should try.

  With a distant nod of her head, she moved to the stairs. He started to go after her, his heart urging him to take her in his arms and prove to her with his body how he felt, but then he stopped. As he stood irresolute in the hallway, reason again warring with passion, he noticed a crudely addressed letter amid the elegant invitations and cards on the hall table.

  Mindful of the footman at his post by the front door, he picked up the entire stack of letters and retreated to the library with them, momentarily distracted from his dilemma over Quinn. A sheet of paper, addressed to him in Gobby's unschooled hand, was wrapped around another letter whose direction had been much more neatly penned: The Saint of Seven Dials it read.

  He would have to have a stern talk with Gobby, he realized with a sense of foreboding. This could easily be a trap set by Paxton or someone else who had somehow linked the boy to the Saint. Suppose one of the servants had become suspicious and opened the outer paper?