The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  She couldn't help feeling that Marcus was keeping a part of himself from her, nor could she deny that she was doing the same. To surrender herself to him completely, to let him know how much he meant to her, would be to lose the last of her freedom. Irrational as it was, she feared to take that final step.

  "I suppose we'd both best dress, if we are to go to the theatre," she suggested as Marcus set their empty plates and glasses back on the tray. She remembered that Polly had promised those names to her this evening. Would she have them by now?

  "Yes, I suppose you're right." Though he spoke as though he were reluctant to let her go, he stood at once, helping her to her feet. "You'll want these, I suppose, in case your abigail is lurking in your chamber," he said, picking up her chemise and gown. "Here, I'll help you into them."

  Quickly and competently, he helped her back into her clothes, making her wonder afresh how much experience he'd had with such things. More than she'd originally credited him with, obviously. The thought brought with it a pang of something beyond simple surprise, but she refused to dwell on it.

  "Thank you. Shall we meet downstairs later?"

  He nodded. "We needn't leave for nearly two hours, so you've time for a bath, if you'd like. I have a few things to do as well."

  With a light kiss that seemed almost to make a mockery of the passion they had so recently shared, he opened the dressing room door and saw her back to her room.

  Instead of the bath she'd have preferred, Quinn had only a quick wash before dressing, so that she would have time to speak with Polly before meeting Marcus again. When she reached the kitchen, the staff was just finishing their own dinner at the long wooden table, Polly at the end nearest the back door.

  Catching the girl's eye, Quinn gave a few instructions for the next day's meals to Mrs. McKay, then said, "I wish to take a look at the garden before it grows dark. If we can find seeds or seedlings locally, there are one or two American vegetables I'd like to attempt here."

  She motioned for Polly to follow her, and at a nod from the cook, the girl accompanied her out into the garden.

  "It's that lucky you came by now, milady," Polly said softly as they moved among the rows of greens, ostensibly looking for a suitable spot for additions. "Annie should be by any time."

  Even as she spoke, the gate creaked. Looking up, Quinn saw a girl in faded blue silk standing frozen in surprise at the sight of her. She turned as though to flee, but Quinn called out, "Please don't go, Annie. I'd like to speak with you."

  Hesitantly, the girl stepped into the garden, looking to Polly for reassurance.

  "It's all right, Annie. Her ladyship wants to help, the way she's helped me."

  "Truly, milady?"

  The girl, only a year or two older than Polly, with wide blue eyes and pale curls, was very pretty —or would have been, if not for the ugly purple bruise that spread across one cheek. Anger boiled up in Quinn's breast at the sight of it.

  "I do indeed, Annie. Can you stay to talk for a moment, while Polly fetches you something to eat from the kitchen?"

  Annie nodded. "Mr. Twitchell won't let me work until this fades." She indicated the bruise. "Leastways, not where I usually work, and the lower sorts don't start their carousing till later in the evening."

  Quinn's mind shied away from the particulars of what this girl's life must be like, but her resolve to help stiffened. "And where do you usually work, Annie? No, you won't get into any trouble," she promised when the girl looked wary. "But to help you, I'll need some information. Polly says you'd like to leave this line of work?"

  Now the girl smiled at last, making her appear even lovelier—and younger. "Oh, yes, milady! I've a cousin who's an actress at one of the theatres, and she says I'd be a natural there, but Mr. Twitchell, he won't hear of it. I even offered to pay him part of my wages if they hire me, but he says it won't be enough."

  "How much . . . are you earning now?"

  "I don't rightly know, milady. The gentlemen, they pays Mr. Twitchell direct. He don't trust us girls with that kind of money. Prob'ly figures we'd run off with it."

  As they'd be quite justified in doing, Quinn thought. This Mr. Twitchell was no fool, apparently, for all he was evil. She wondered whether Mr. Paxton might be willing to do something about him.

  "Annie, will you tell me who gave you this bruise?" Quinn gently touched the girl's discolored cheek.

  She bit her lip, then nodded. "'Twas Lord Pynchton," she admitted. "He gets a bit rough sometimes. None of us girls like to go to him, so Twitchell makes us take turns."

  Quinn didn't think she'd met the man in question, but the very idea of someone who wielded the power of a peer doing something like this to a helpless girl appalled her. "Are there any others like him? To truly help, I need as many names as you can give me."

  "He's the worst," Annie said, "but Lord Ribbleton once blacked Maisie's eye when she took too long getting undressed. Most of the others aren't too bad—not scary-like, anyway."

  Quinn made a mental note of the two names she had so far. "And who are some of those others?"

  "There's a fair number, milady. Some of my own regulars are Sir Hadley Leverton, old Lord Simcox and Mr. Hill."

  Under continued, gentle questioning, Quinn was able to elicit another dozen names of gentlemen who patronized Annie's friends, under the auspices of the enterprising Mr. Twitchell. Polly returned with a pair of meat pies as she finished.

  "Thank you, Annie, you've been most helpful. I intend to assist as many of your friends as I can. But please, don't let anyone know what you've told me. It could put you at risk, as well as making it more difficult for me to help you."

  Both girls promised fervently to keep her secret, and Quinn waited until they left— Polly back to the kitchen and Annie through the gate —to pull out the small notebook she'd brought along. Quickly, she wrote down all of the names before she could forget them.

  Then, finally, she was able to give way to the shock and dismay she felt, which she'd carefully concealed before, not wanting Annie to construe her reaction as blame. Looking down at her list, she shook her head, fighting a wave of queasiness.

  Several of the names were familiar to her. In fact, she had met two of these men—and their wives —at the Claridges' house. What would her aunt and uncle —and others —say if they discovered the truth about those so-called gentlemen?

  And what might those gentlemen pay to avoid such discovery? Enough to fund her school for girls, she hoped. She just needed a suitable —and anonymous —way to put the choice before them.

  Reluctantly, she skimmed to the bottom of the list. Surely, Lord Fernworth was a friend of her husband's? If members of Marcus's own circle patronized these poor girls, did that mean that he was aware of it, and did not care? Or worse . . . No, she would not even consider that possibility.

  She started to head for the house, then paused. On sudden decision, she turned again and instead went through the gate and around to the mews. There was a fair amount of activity in the stables as the carriage was readied for their trip to the theater. Further along, other carriages were being made ready for other residents of Grosvenor Street as the fashionable hour approached.

  Then Quinn saw what she was looking for—a shock of hair as red as Polly's. "Gobby!" she called softly. "I need to speak with you."

  Putting down the pail he carried, he came forward, respectfully tugging his forelock. "Aye, milady?"

  "Is . . . is your job here to your liking?"

  "Oh, aye, milady! I thank ye kindly for taking me on, and his lordship, too."

  Quinn bit her lip. "Has his lordship spoken with you since you began working here? Has he . . . seemed to notice you?"

  She thought the boy looked confused for a moment, but then he shook his head. "A great lord like that wouldn't speak with the likes of me, milady."

  "No, no, I suppose not. Then we'll hope he doesn't remember you from that day on the street last week."

  Gobby's eyes widened, and Quinn could
see he had just realized that she was the girl who had been dressed as a boy that day. He opened his mouth as though to ask a question, then closed it, apparently recalling their comparative stations.

  Quinn smiled. "Yes, that was me. The workings of fate are strange, are they not? But I hope in this instance it has worked to your advantage, and to Polly's. "She hesitated for a moment, but then curiosity won out over caution. "Gobby, what can you tell me about the Saint of Seven Dials? What sort of man is he?"

  Instantly, his smile disappeared. "I dunno what you mean, milady, and that's a fact. If Polly told you I know anything, she's wrong. I've heard tell of him, that's all, like everyone else."

  "Of course, of course. I'm sorry." She should have known he'd never betray the Saint to someone of her class! "I was simply curious. Now, I have a favor to ask of you."

  "Yes, milady?" He still looked suspicious.

  "I'd like you to run over to Grillon's Hotel when you get an opportunity and ask if any message has been left for A Sympathetic Lady. If there is one, bring it back here and have Polly give it to me. It's for a friend of mine."

  She was prepared to elaborate on her fictitious friend should he ask questions, but he only nodded. "Aye, milady, I'll go tonight. Will there be anything else?"

  "No, Gobby, thank you. Do let me know— through Polly if you prefer —if you need anything. And if his lorship should question you, please don't mention any of this."

  She headed back to the house then, slipping back upstairs to her room where she again pondered her list of names until a tap at her door interrupted her plotting. Fearing that it might be Marcus, she quickly tucked the notebook into the drawer of her writing desk before rising to answer. "Yes?"

  One of the housemaids opened the door with a curtsey. "Begging your pardon, but his lordship says to tell you he's in the library, whenever you wish to join him."

  "Thank you." Checking her hair in the glass, she followed the girl downstairs, her mind still occupied with plans for the coming days.

  CHAPTER 19

  If Quinn seemed preoccupied on the way to the theater, Marcus scarcely noticed. He'd found a letter from Luke awaiting him when he went downstairs earlier, informing him that his friend would be returning to London by the first of August, less than two weeks from now. After his conversations with Paxton, he felt it was more important than ever to establish that Luke could not possibly be the Saint of Seven Dials— which meant he had work to do tonight.

  The Lyceum was relatively crowded when they arrived, a testament to how few theaters were open at this time of year. Lord Claridge spotted them at once, however, hurrying over to greet Quinn warmly.

  "How lovely to see you again, my dear. It appears that married life agrees with you. Does it not, ladies?" He turned to his wife and daughter, who had followed more slowly.

  Lady Claridge smiled —a less artificial smile than Marcus had yet seen her wear, though he could not have called it warm. "You are looking well indeed, Lady Marcus."

  "Yes, Cousin, you are. And what a scrumptious gown!" exclaimed Lady Constance, her enthusiasm apparently genuine. "Lord Marcus, we are cousins now, as well." She extended her hand with only a hint of a simper.

  Marcus greeted them all warmly, feeling far better disposed toward these people who had helped to force him into marriage than he had the last time he'd seen them.

  "I am honored by the connection, I assure you, Lady Constance," he said, bowing over her hand, and then her mother's.

  "I must warn you, Lord Marcus, that I promised my brother-in-law, before he left, that I would stand in his office by making certain our Quinn is happy."

  Though the marquess spoke with his usual mildness, there was an underlying seriousness to his tone. For the first time, Marcus noticed that his eyes were much like Quinn's. "Are you, my dear?" Lord Claridge asked then, turning to his niece.

  Smiling, she nodded. "It seems Papa was right about Lord Marcus. He's showing himself to be quite passable as a husband." She slanted a mischievous glance up at Marcus, making him remember rather too vividly their afternoon tryst in his bedchamber.

  "I trust you can say the same of your bride?" Lady Claridge asked then, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

  "More than passable, Madam, I assure you," he replied.

  "Lord Marcus is most kind," Quinn said. "I fear I've been a bit of a trial to him, with my unfamiliarity with English ways."

  "Not a bit of it," he retorted at once, determined to put her concerns on that score to rest—as he should have done before. "I find her most refreshing, and no more prone to error than any girl raised in the country might be."

  Lord Claridge nodded affably. "Quinn has no doubt been accustomed to more independence than is usual here, between my dear sister's influence and her American upbringing. I've never felt that was altogether a bad thing, and I'm happy to hear it has caused no problems between you."

  Lady Claridge sniffed, but did not contradict her husband, rather to Marcus's surprise. It appeared that the balance of power there had shifted subtly, and he suspected that Quinn and her father were largely responsible. Lady Claridge and Lady Constance appeared happier than before, if anything. Curious.

  They all moved toward the gallery as they spoke, as this theater did not have the private boxes that the larger, more fashionable ones did.

  "My dear, you already know Lord Fernworth and Sir Cyril Weathers," Marcus said when two of his formerly closest friends approached. He wondered now that he had ever found pleasure in their dissipated and generally drunken society.

  Ferny bent over Quinn's hand. "Delighted to see you again, Lady Marcus," he said, with slightly less slurring than he'd used at the Tinsdale do. "Just as charming as before."

  Quinn very nearly snatched her hand away, and it appeared to Marcus that she had all she could do to cling to her smile. "Too kind," she murmured, then turned to greet Sir Cyril with only slightly more warmth.

  Had Ferny done something to offend her? He would have to find out— and give the fellow a friendly thrashing, if he deserved it. Every now and then Ferny needed a reminder that everyone didn't value the pursuit of pleasure above all else, as he did.

  That thought made Marcus wonder again at the change that had occurred in himself over the past few weeks, as undeniable as it was profound. He hoped he wasn't turning into a crashing bore.

  "It's been ages since we've had a good carouse," Ferny said to him then, echoing his thoughts. "Realize there are some pleasures you've likely sworn off—" he winked at Quinn, who stiffened and looked pointedly away— "but a night out gaming might do you good. What say you to a stop in at Boodle's later?"

  Marcus had to grin in spite of himself. The fellow really was incorrigible. "I think not, though I thank you for the offer. My gaming days are behind me as well. But perhaps I'll see you tomorrow night, at the Wittington do?"

  "Oh, aye, I'll be there. But how you can live without—" Catching Quinn's eye again, Lord Fernworth broke off. "See you then," he finished lamely, and he and Sir Cyril went off to find their seats.

  "Don't mind Ferny," he said to Quinn, as her expression still seemed strained. "He's a nodcock, of course, but not a bad sort for all that."

  She looked at him doubtfully. "You don't think so?"

  He shook his head. "If he doesn't cut back on the spirits he may find himself permanently dicked in the nob, but most of his vices are cheerful ones. Still, if he says or does anything to offend you, you must let me know."

  "Of course," she replied, allaying his earlier worry somewhat, though she still looked rather perturbed. Likely she didn't care for Ferny's innuendoes in front of her relations. He'd see it didn't happen again.

  Marcus, Quinn, and the Claridges moved on to take their seats at the front of the gallery, which offered an excellent view of the stage as well as the promenade below. His mind still puzzling over his new reaction to Ferny's old habits, he almost didn't notice one of the crimps he'd been tormenting.

  Mr. Hill, the most highly pl
aced of the group, was taking his seat on the lower level, deep in conversation with Lord Ribbleton. Could there be a connection there? It seemed unlikely. Ribbleton, a marquess, had no need of funds, to the best of his knowledge, and surely wouldn't risk his standing in Society by becoming involved in criminal activity.

  Still, there was that matter of his carrying tales about Luke to Mr. Paxton. Perhaps a visit to Lord Ribbleton's study —and valuables —would not be out of order.

  Tonight, however, if he could slip away from Quinn, he intended to conduct some Saintly business at the home of Sir Gregory Dobson, Mr. Hill's cousin. Even if he had no knowledge of the crimps' activities, his wealth was helping to support them. Besides, Marcus had never cared for the fellow.

  * * *

  "What's the matter, Cousin?" Lady Constance whispered as the curtain rose. "You look as though you've swallowed a fly."

  Realizing she had allowed her false smile to slip, Quinn hurriedly pulled it back into place. "I was simply lost in thought. It . . . seemed that those gentlemen had been drinking."

  In fact, it was Marcus's very friendliness toward Lord Fernworth that had soured her mood. The thought that Marcus might ever have been involved in the things she knew his friend to be guilty of made her almost physically ill.

  Lord Claridge, who was seated between his daughter and Quinn, overheard her. "Now, dear, pray don't judge your husband by his friends," he murmured, as though reading her mind. "Single gentlemen often behave less than circumspectly, but marriage generally sets them right." He smiled fondly at his wife, who, surprisingly enough, smiled back.

  "Yes, my lord, I'm certain you are right."

  The comedy began, the music and singing raucous enough that only Quinn could hear her uncle's next comment. "Take your father, for example. He was quite the rebel in his youth, as I recall, encouraging poor Glynna to leave all she'd been raised to, to join him in the former Colonies."

  Quinn stared at him, the mediocre performance quite forgotten, trying to imagine her father as a rebel. "Is . . . is that why your father cast her off?"