The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  He nodded sadly. "I never blamed her for cutting all ties with her family. Father was really quite harsh. But he is gone now, and I'm delighted at this chance to mend old breaches." He patted Quinn's hand.

  Involuntarily, Quinn glanced past him to Lady Claridge.

  "Yes, even Lenore now admits that the scandal my father kept alive for so long is dead at last, and that the family reputation is in no danger from you. It is my hope that we will see much of you, and that you and Constance might become friends."

  Lady Constance apparently heard that final remark, for she turned, her eyes meeting Quinn's for an awkward moment. But then she smiled tentatively, and Quinn smiled back. It was a beginning.

  Turning back to the play, Quinn realized that her father's wishes had been answered —she truly had been reconciled to her mother's family. Had her own marriage been a necessary means to that end, however? And even if it were not, did she truly regret it now? She honestly didn't know.

  * * *

  Quinn was unusually quiet during the drive home from the theater, but as on the drive there, Marcus was too wrapped up in his own plans to pay much attention. Not until they were inside the house did he rouse himself to his surroundings, asking if she'd like to join him in the library for a brandy.

  He wouldn't risk hurting her again by pleading weariness, he'd already decided that. But perhaps if he could convince her to drink more than one glass—

  "No, I don't think so tonight," she said then, spoiling that plan. "In fact, I believe I will go up to my bed at once, as I find myself quite tired. If you will excuse me?"

  Though it solved his problem handily, Marcus could not help feeling a trifle disappointed. He took care not to show it, however. "Certainly, my dear. Are you feeling indisposed again, as you did last night?"

  "No, no, merely tired. Good night, Marcus."

  He leaned over to kiss her good night, but she had already turned away. Surely this was more than mere tiredness? He remembered how she had acted just before the play, after Ferny's foolishness. "Quinn—" he began.

  She turned, questioningly, but he remembered in time that he had work to do tonight. He could unravel this mystery tomorrow. "Sleep well," he said.

  "Thank you. I'll try." Without a backward glance, she mounted the stairs, leaving him to frown after her.

  If he could finish his business with the crimps, once Luke was back in Town he'd have no pressing reason to play the Saint again. That excitement had already paled in comparison to what he was finding with Quinn, in any event. He looked forward to a time when he could safely tell her everything.

  That reminded him that he had yet to warn Gobby about Paxton's suspicions. He'd need the boy to act as lookout for him tonight, as well. Brandy forgotten, he headed for the mews.

  Gobby popped out from behind the stables as he approached, clearly waiting for him. "I'm that glad to see you, milord!" he exclaimed as soon as they'd gone a discreet distance from the other stable hands. "Something havey-cavey going on."

  "Oh?" It appeared his worries had been well founded. "Are you being watched?"

  But Gobby shook his head. "Not so's I've noticed, and I've kept my eyes peeled. But something's up, word getting around somehow. Your missus was out here earlier asking about the Saint."

  "My wife? Lady Marcus came out to the stables to speak with you specifically?"

  The lad nodded emphatically. "Aye, that she did. I didn't think much of it, till she mentioned the Saint. After all—" But he broke off whatever he'd been about to say and concluded, "I didn't tell her nothing, of course."

  Marcus briefly wondered why Gobby wouldn't have thought her very presence here odd. Did she perhaps come frequently to visit her new mount, Tempest? Not that it mattered just now.

  "Good lad. It's especially important now that you not let on—to anyone —that you've ever had any dealings with the Saint. That investigator I told you about appears to be suspicious already, and he's likely enlisted others— possibly even my wife— to help him dig up information."

  "Suspicious about me, milord?" Rather than look frightened, Gobby grinned and puffed out his chest. "I ain't never been specifickly investigated. Can I tell Stilt an' all? Tig'll be—"

  "You can warn them, but be careful. Someone has clearly tipped Paxton off about you working here, and it may well be one of the lads you trust. We don't dare trust anyone too far." And that included Quinn, unfortunately.

  Gobby's eyes widened. "One of me mates? I don't believe it! More like it was one of the other stable lads here, or one of Ickle's lads."

  "Ickle?" Marcus hadn't heard that name before.

  "He heads up another bunch of pickpockets and such. Him and Twitchell are always trying to steal the best lads from each other. Kind of competitive, like."

  A rival gang, then. Marcus knew that there were many more thief-masters than Mr. Twitchell about, of course, but he could only attempt to rescue so many lads at a time.

  "Yes, that's a possibility, I suppose," he admitted. Surely a more likely one than that Quinn had tipped off Paxton? "Still, for now we'd best operate on the assumption than anyone may be an enemy. It should only be for another week or so, at any rate."

  Gobby stared up at him. "Why's that, milord?"

  "Because the Saint will be retiring —for good."

  "That'll be a sore blow to . . . to lots of folks." The boy looked stricken, in fact.

  Marcus laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know, but it will be for the best. And in the meantime, I'll need you as lookout again tonight, if you're willing."

  Though he still looked disappointed at the news of the Saint's retirement, Gobby nodded eagerly. "Willing and able, milord! Right now?"

  "I need to change my clothing first. Then we'd best wait another hour or so, to increase the likelihood that the household in question will be abed. I'll be back for you then."

  Walking back to the house, he considered what Gobby had told him about Quinn. It was possible, of course, that she was simply curious about the Saint, as so many ladies seemed to be, and was asking all of the servants about him. Or, if she'd learned that Gobby was recently hired— perhaps from Mrs. Walsh —she might have been fulfilling her promise to Paxton.

  Either way, it was dangerous. Clearly, his instincts had been sound to keep the truth from her, much as he hated doing so.

  * * *

  The moment she reached her room, Quinn sent for bathwater to be brought. She hadn't had time for a real bath earlier, and now she felt even more in need of one—not that mere water could wash away the taint she imagined.

  Remembering Marcus's conversation with Lord Fernworth, she took what comfort she could from the fact that Marcus had refused to meet him tonight. But what of Fernworth's comment about Marcus "swearing off" certain pleasures, implying women were involved?

  Had Marcus consorted with fancy girls, as Polly called them? Quinn had not led a particularly sheltered life. She knew that unmarried men—and some married ones— kept mistresses. Adult mistresses. To know that Marcus had done so would not upset her. Or, well, not horribly, at any rate. Perhaps that was all Lord Fernworth had meant.

  A tap at the door heralded the arrival of her bathwater. She waited while the maids poured kettle after kettle of steaming water into the tub, then dismissed them all, her abigail included. She needed to be alone.

  The hot water seemed to clear her mind as it cleansed her body. While she soaked, her nebulous plans took shape. Lord Fernworth had said he would be at the Wittington's ball tomorrow night. Knowing that, she could make certain he was the first to be given an opportunity to contribute to her school fund.

  As they were such close friends, Fernworth would likely tell Marcus of the potential threat. She would then be able to judge by Marcus's demeanor whether he feared similar extortion. If he remained calm, she would consider him innocent. If he grew nervous, however . . .

  "I pray he will not," she murmured aloud, scrubbing her arms with the washcloth. In truth, she was unsure if even c
ertain knowledge of past atrocities could extinguish her love for him now. And what did that say about her?

  She scrubbed harder.

  As she was toweling herself dry, another, tentative tap came at the door. Throwing on a wrapper, she opened it to find Polly, an envelope in her hand.

  "Ah. From Gobby, I presume?"

  Polly nodded. "He brought it to me while you were out, but this was my first chance to slip away from the kitchen without anyone asking questions. Gobby had enough questions of his own, the meddling little worm." Her freckled face primmed up with disapproval.

  Frowning, Quinn ushered the girl into her room and closed the door. "Questions? What sort of questions?"

  Now Polly flushed, as though belatedly realizing what she'd said. "He didn't mean no harm, milady, I'm sure of it. But you know how curious young boys can be."

  "I do indeed, and I'm not angry at Gobby. Please, though, tell me what questions he asked."

  "He started off accusing me of telling you about him knowing the Saint and all. Said you asked him questions—"

  "Yes, I'm afraid I did," said Quinn, interrupting her. "I shouldn't have done so, for of course he would assume you were involved. I'm sorry. Was that all?"

  Polly shook her head. "He wanted to know about this letter, too—who this Sympathetic Lady is, and what she's up to. Likely the Saint asked him to find out. Or maybe his lordship. I saw him talking to Gobby not ten minutes ago, though they didn't see me."

  "His lordship? Lord Marcus, you mean?" Quinn asked in astonishment. He must know Quinn had hired Gobby as well as Polly, then. He had overheard her speaking with Mr. Paxton earlier today, and must have known she was being less than truthful. Why had he not mentioned anything to her afterward?

  "Aye, milady. Will he be angry that me and Gobby have been sending notes for you? Will he turn us off?" Polly's eyes were large and worried.

  "Absolutely not." Quinn put all the conviction into her tone she could muster. "You were acting under my orders, and I certainly won't allow either of you to suffer for that. Nor can I imagine Lord Marcus seeking to punish you in any way."

  Whatever faults she might imagine him to possess, vindictiveness did not seem to be one of them. Of course, she'd known him less than two weeks, amazing as that seemed . . .

  "Thank you, milady!" Relief shone from Polly's face, the worry gone. She turned to go.

  "Just a moment." Going to her writing desk, Quinn pulled out two silver shillings, then came back and dropped them into Polly's hand. "One is for you, and one for Gobby. Thank him again for me."

  "Aye, milady, I'll do that. And thank you!" With a grateful curtsey, Polly hurried out.

  Quinn smiled after her for a moment. It was so easy to give pleasure, sometimes. If only everything could be so simple. Then, closing the door, she turned her attention to the letter.

  It was from Mrs. Hounslow, not the mysterious Saint of Seven Dials, she saw with a tiny pang of disappointment. The contents, however, quickly revived her spirits. A small square of paper fluttered out when she broke the seal, which she ignored while she read the letter.

  My Dear Sympathetic Lady,

  I cannot thank you enough for your intervention on behalf of the school we discussed. Though normally I would prefer to operate strictly within the bounds of the Law, for the sakes of those poor unfortunate girls, I must gratefully accept the generous donation, in the sum of one thousand, two hundred pounds, from that remarkable gentleman known only as the Saint of Seven Dials. I have enclosed the note he left with his donation for your perusal. This sum will allow the immediate purchase of a suitable building near the area discussed, as well as most of the necessary furnishings. I should say that as much again would allow the hiring of as many teachers as we need, as well as board for students and teachers for the first year. In other words, we are half-way there! Should you somehow be able to prevail upon the Saint to duplicate his generosity, or should you otherwise procure the remainder of the funds needed, you will have made a lasting difference in the lives of those unfortunate girls we discussed, as well as making a very real investment in our Country's future. Pray accept my gratitude, from the bottom of my heart.

  —E. Hounslow

  Quinn read through the letter with delight and amazement, then bent to snatch up the paper that had fallen. It was a card, inked on one side with a numeral seven, surmounted by a golden oval. On the reverse, in print rather than script, so as to make the hand unrecognizable, were these words:

  Mrs. Hounslow,

  Enclosed please find a donation for your girls' school, submitted at the request of A Sympathetic Lady.

  Your servant,

  The Saint of Seven Dials

  Halfway there! Clutching the letter and card to her breast, Quinn twirled about the room, feeling even more pleased with herself than she had the time she had saved her father's business fifteen thousand dollars with her accounting skills and suggestions. That had only brought her family more wealth, when they already had enough and to spare. But this! This would transform lives, bringing the possibility of a secure future to girls who previously had no such hope at all.

  Even her lingering doubts about Marcus could not dampen her euphoria. Seized with sudden determination to raise the remainder of the money at once, she went to her desk and cut a sheet of heavy, pressed paper into six squares, discarding the portion with the crest. On these squares, she wrote identical notes, taking her cue from the Saint and disguising her handwriting by printing:

  Your lewd activities with girls below the age of consent have been documented. To avoid general exposure and the censure of the world, leave two hundred pounds, in notes, at Grillon's Hotel, wrapped in an envelope and addressed to A Sympathetic Lady.

  Once finished, she regarded her handiwork with satisfaction. Now she had only to deliver these notes to six of the gentlemen Annie had named. If all of them complied with her terms, the school would be completely funded.

  The only problem was delivery. The first note would somehow find its way into Lord Fernworth's pocket at the Wittington's ball tomorrow night, but what of the others? She would simply have to keep the cards with her and wait on chance— unless she could form a better plan.

  Accordingly, she tucked them into the lining of the reticule she meant to carry to the ball, then hid the notes from Mrs. Hounslow and the Saint at the back of her desk drawer, next to her list of potential contributors and her original letter from Mr. Throgmorton. So light was her heart now, she felt disinclined for sleep.

  Only one thing remained to mar her peace of mind. On sudden decision, she rose, pulling her wrapper more tightly about her. She would confront Marcus now, this very night. She would ask him what Lord Fernworth had meant, and allow him to clear himself of her suspicions. Then she would confess that she had hired Polly and Gobby, for charitable reasons.

  Depending on his reaction, she might even tell him the truth about A Sympathetic Lady and enlist his help in her scheme.

  Knowing that she was letting her heart rule her head, but at the moment caring not a whit, Quinn passed through the dressing room and cautiously opened the door to Marcus's chamber. At once his valet came forward.

  "Yes, my lady?"

  She swept the room with a glance, ascertaining that Clarence was its sole occupant. "Where is Lord Marcus?" she asked, attempting an authoritative tone fitting to the lady of the house.

  "Out, my lady."

  Her composure slipped. "Out? He has gone out? Did he say when he planned to return?"

  "Not for two or three hours, I should say, my lady. He asked me not to wait up for him."

  Quinn swallowed. Had he decided to join Lord Fernworth and his set at Boodle's after all? What might their evening entail, besides gaming? She couldn't bear to think about it.

  "Thank you," she belatedly said to his valet, then retreated to her own chamber, feeling both foolish and angry.

  Why had he not told her he would be going out? It must be because he intended to do things of which
he knew she could not approve. And all, perhaps, because she had pleaded weariness, leaving him to his own devices.

  No! She would not accept the blame for this. Marcus was a man grown, and his choices were his own responsibility. She only hoped that she was mistaken in her guess at what those choices might be.

  Her earlier exhilaration gone, a sudden weariness took its place. With trembling fingers, she removed her wrapper and prepared for bed.

  She would carry through with her plans for raising the remainder of the money. Until she did, it would doubtless be best if she could contrive to spend as little time in Marcus's company as possible.

  Her heart would be safer that way.

  CHAPTER 20

  Getting into Sir Gregory's house had been more of a challenge than Marcus had expected. Two servants had still been very much awake, one in the kitchen and another moving about the house, when he'd arrived. He'd had to enter through the coal bin, then dart from room to room to avoid detection.

  Finally, however, all was quiet, and he was finally able to set to work. His first goal was Sir Gregory's study, a small room adjacent to the parlor on the first floor. A quick but thorough search turned up no evidence that the man was involved in any way with the crimps —not that Marcus had particularly suspected he might be. He therefore pocketed the fifty or sixty pounds in notes that had been hidden in the desk and moved on.

  Mindful of the girls' school that doubtless needed more funding, he took a candle from one of the hallway sconces and headed for the plate closet on the ground floor. It was locked but unguarded. He'd been practicing his lockpicking, and had the door open in the space of two or three minutes. Raising his candle, he surveyed the silver stored there.

  Quickly, he made his choices— flatware and a few silver plates that would be difficult to trace, as they bore no crests or other identifying marks. Wrapping the pieces in cloth to prevent their clanking, he filled the small sack he'd brought, then, with a flourish, placed a card in the empty space remaining. Finally, he left the closet door ajar, so that the theft would be sure to be noticed on the morrow.