by Brenda Hiatt
Marcus partnered her again for the supper dance, and paid her some small compliment as the dance brought them together. She responded automatically, wondering whether she was truly capable of breaking into a house and escaping again undetected, as the Saint so frequently did.
There was only one way to find out.
CHAPTER 21
Marcus led Quinn in to supper, wondering at her abstraction during their last two dances. Something was clearly preying on her mind, but what?
"Penny for your thoughts," he whispered, bending close to her ear as he pulled out a chair for her.
She froze in the act of sitting down, her head snapping up. "What? I . . . I was just thinking how long it's been since I attended a ball." Her smile was no more convincing than her words.
Seating himself beside her, Marcus took her hand. "Come now, my dear, I can tell something is bothering you tonight. Can you not tell me what it is?" If Paxton were here tonight, he might suspect it had something to do with her questioning of Gobby, but he hadn't seen the man all evening.
She hesitated for so long that he thought she might not answer. Finally, she said, "Much as I hate to admit it, I suppose I am a bit shocked by some of the people who are considered haut ton. From things I have, ah, overheard, it sounds as though some of them indulge in rather shocking vices. Perhaps I was more sheltered in Baltimore than I realized."
Marcus relaxed. "I'm surprised that anything can shock you in a ballroom after your experience at the Scarlet Hawk."
Though she blushed charmingly, she shook her head. "That was different. The people there— Well, they weren't the sorts from whom one would necessarily expect the highest standards of behavior."
"Whereas the people here should be above the baser sins of the flesh?" He chuckled. "Sheltered indeed. But I do understand what you mean. Some of the men here have seats in Parliament. I suppose, at least in theory, we should expect better of those who make our laws."
"Exactly. But you think that's foolish, don't you?" Her green gaze was doubtful, as though she expected a rebuke from him.
They were interrupted briefly as another couple took their places just across the table. After nodding a greeting with barely concealed impatience, Marcus turned back to Quinn, his voice low and serious.
"No, it's not foolish at all. If more thought that way, I have no doubt this country would be the better for it. Don't let anything my frivolous friends say—or that I say myself —make you compromise your ideals."
She regarded him for a long moment, as though trying to divine exactly what he meant, then nodded. "Thank you. I won't."
"Good girl. Now, what can I get you from the buffet?"
As he filled their plates a moment later, he wondered why it had seemed so very important that she realize he meant what he said, and whether his words signaled yet another change in him.
The remainder of supper was conducted on a lighter note, trading quips and gossip with Mr. and Mrs. Beckhaven, the couple opposite them. They were pleasant people, and both Marcus and Quinn warmed to them as they talked.
They rose from the table as the orchestra resumed its labors and Quinn concealed a yawn behind her hand. "How late is this ball like to last, do you think?" she asked.
He smiled down at her, a protective fondness that could only be love welling up within him. "We can leave at any time, if you are tired. The orchestra will likely play on until two or three."
Her answering smile did indeed show signs of weariness. "I fear I may never get used to Town hours," she said apologetically.
"Come, let's make our excuses to our hosts, then. I had forgotten what a long day you have already put in with the decorators."
By the time they reached Grosvenor Street, it was clear to Marcus that Quinn's tiredness had not merely been a ruse to be alone with him, as he'd hoped it might be. Therefore, he offered no objection when she apologetically headed straight for her bed.
Feeling disinclined for sleep himself, he went to the library for a brandy. He couldn't deny he'd enjoyed all the talk of the Saint's exploits, exaggerated though they were by late in the evening. It was amusing to listen, knowing they were actually discussing him— amusing to be a secret celebrity of sorts.
Still, he intended to give it up. Not only for Quinn's sake, but for his own. Already he was growing hardened to the idea of stealing, and he didn't care to think where that might lead. Luke had stolen from necessity and a thirst for vengeance, but he himself, while using the proceeds charitably, was primarily in it for the thrill. Not a particularly noble motive.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half past one. Perhaps he would attempt his final foray, to Lord Ribbleton's house, tonight, and get it over. Draining his glass, he stood, only to be startled by the sound of the front door knocker. He emerged into the hall just as the door was opened by a sleepy footman to reveal Lord Fernworth.
"I need to speak to Lord Marcus," he said in agitated tones. "It's rather important. Pray tell him—Ah! Good, you're still up." Spotting Marcus near the library door, he came forward eagerly.
"A bit late for a social call, Ferny," Marcus commented, wondering whether his friend was even drunker than usual.
But Fernworth shook his head. "Not a social call, not exactly. I need to ask your advice."
Marcus stood aside to allow his friend to precede him into the library, then closed the door. "Well? What is it?"
Fernworth paced back and forth for a moment before dropping heavily into one of the soft leather chairs. "Perhaps it's just a prank. I'm hoping that's all it is. But if it ain't, I'll need to decide what to do."
"What sort of prank?" Marcus asked patiently. "Has someone filled all of your wine decanters with water?"
"No, no, nothing so harmless. Here, see for yourself." Ferny pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Marcus, who read it through, then looked his friend in the eye.
"So? Is it true? Have you been engaging in—" He glanced down at the note—"in 'lewd activities with girls below the age of consent?'"
"That's the devil of it," said Ferny, running a hand through his fair hair. "I don't ask for a wench's age, as long as she's willing. But it's possible."
Marcus felt a twist of revulsion. The age of consent was only twelve, though laws had been proposed to raise it. "If you think it's possible, you'd be wise to pay the lady, I should think, rather than risk running afoul of the law— not to mention social censure." Quite an enterprising woman, this Sympathetic Lady!
"Give in to extortion? That's your advice?" Ferny looked disappointed. "I thought you'd have a better plan. And suppose this woman, whoever she is— assuming it really is a woman —is preying upon others, as well?"
"Presumably, if they are innocent, they will ignore her warnings, fearing no reprisals. If they are not . . ." He shrugged. He could feel no sympathy for men who would use mere children —not even for Ferny, if it were true.
But now another thought occurred to him. "Where did you come by this note?" he asked.
"Found it in my pocket. Someone at the Wittington do must have put it there, but I've no idea who."
"Indeed?" Now Marcus's interest was well and truly caught. So this Sympathetic Lady had been present tonight, had she? That narrowed down the possibilities considerably, unless— "Could a servant have done it, think you?"
Lord Fernworth shook his head. "Don't see how. The only ones I recall being close enough were the footmen serving drinks, and one of them could hardly have slipped anything into my pocket without dropping his tray. No, it must have been during a dance, or at supper."
A woman of quality, then. He'd suspected it from first reading her note to the Saint. Ingenious of her to go after the very men who made her proposed school so necessary. He was glad he'd done his bit to contribute.
"Pay it," he advised Ferny now. "What is two hundred pounds, after all? And stick to the older wenches when you go carousing from now on."
His friend nodded fervently. "I'll do that, right
enough. Two hundred pounds ain't a small sum for me, but I can call it the price of a lesson, I suppose. What will this Sympathetic Lady do with the money, do you think?"
Marcus shrugged, hiding a smile. "Perhaps something charitable. Believing so should soothe your conscience, as well as easing the sting of payment." That sum would have been significant for Marcus as well, before his marriage to Quinn, he realized.
Ferny snorted. "First the Saint, and now this mysterious lady. As if taxes weren't steep enough without such vigilante philanthropists." Rising, he poured himself a generous measure of brandy and tossed it down so quickly that Marcus winced. "Here's hoping Paxton can catch them both. But for now I suppose you're right and I'd best pay."
With that, he took his leave, Marcus staring after him thoughtfully. Ferny was right. This Sympathetic Lady and the Saint did have much in common, at least on the surface. He found himself more and more curious about her true identity.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would take steps to discover it, if only so that he could warn her about Paxton. In any event, he planned to send what he'd stolen from Sir Gregory to Mrs. Hounslow, as well as whatever he picked up at Ribbleton's house. He'd have to go there tomorrow night, as it was too late now to ask Gobby to play lookout.
Looking forward more than ever to the time when he could tell the entire story to Quinn, he extinguished the candles and headed up to bed.
* * *
"Oh, do be careful, milady!" Polly whispered as Quinn headed around to the back of Lord Pynchton's Town house. Looking over her shoulder at the girl, she put a finger to her lips and nodded.
Getting here had been tricky enough. On reaching her room at home, she had sent Monette to bring Polly to her, then had dressed once again in Charles's clothes. But as they had tiptoed down the back stairs, someone had knocked at the front door, nearly scaring her to death. She had listened long enough to discover that it was Lord Fernworth before slipping out through the garden.
As she'd hoped, Polly knew where Lord Pynchton lived, and had been quite willing to accompany her to his house on Mount Street once Quinn explained her purpose. Now, however, faced with the reality of housebreaking, Quinn had to confess she was as nervous as Polly appeared to be. She had come this far, though, and had no intention of turning back now.
The back of the house looked much like their own. The kitchen and back doors would doubtless be locked. She tried them anyway, and discovered to her intense relief that the door leading to the ground floor had not been latched properly. Softly, she pushed it open and crept into the back hall.
A moment later, she understood why the door was unlocked, for she heard the unmistakable sounds of a man in the throes of sexual excitement coming from behind what must be the parlor door. Lord Pynchton must be engaged with one of those poor girls of the street at this very moment!
Incensed, Quinn took two quick steps toward the parlor, then stopped. How could she possibly explain her own presence here, in her current attire, even if her intervention might spare the girl a bruising like Annie's? No, she would do better to stick to her original plan, much as she itched to punish Lord Pynchton more directly.
Reining in her fury, she moved to the card tray in the front hall and deposited her note. Even if he paid, she was determined to report Pynchton to the authorities —not that she knew how to go about it. Perhaps Mr. Paxton could be of help.
Her task complete, she tiptoed back through the house, steeling herself against the faint whimpers now coming from the parlor. In a moment she was in the garden, hurrying back to where she'd left Polly as a lookout.
"Let's go," she said, belatedly realizing that she was trembling. This had been far more upsetting than she had expected. Weariness overwhelmed her as fear and anger receded, and she was stumbling with it by the time they returned to Grosvenor Street.
How did the Saint manage such activity night after night? Her admiration for the mysterious hero rose even higher. She was glad she herself intended only one more such foray. After visiting Lord Ribbleton's house tomorrow night, she hoped to have enough money for the school. Then A Sympathetic Lady could retire, secure in the knowledge that she'd made a difference.
As she and Polly neared the house, she recalled Lord Fernworth's visit. Could it be that he had discovered her note and had come to tell Marcus about it this very night? If so, what did that mean? And was he still here?
She hesitated, but then saw that the library window was dark, as was the window of Marcus's bedchamber, above. Creeping back into the house as quietly as she'd left it, she secured the door behind her.
Whispering her thanks to Polly, she made her weary way up to her bed. Even dismay at the possible implications of Lord Fernworth's visit couldn't keep sleep at bay, and her last thought was to wonder whether the Saint felt this tired after every caper.
* * *
Rather to Marcus's surprise, he was up before Quinn the next morning, though it lacked only a few minutes to noon. When he had finished his breakfast without her appearing, and ascertained that she had not rung for a tray in her room, he became concerned that she might indeed be ill, despite her earlier denials.
Unwilling to wake her, he decided to spend an hour or two at White's, in hopes of hearing something of the progress of Paxton's investigation. Perhaps a few discreet questions might elicit some clue to the identity of the elusive Sympathetic Lady, as well.
White's was rather thin so early in the day, but Marcus spotted Sir Cyril Weathers at a table with two or three other men of his acquaintance, all equally dissolute and brainless. He approached them, however, as they were all associates of Ferny's.
"—overheard Leverton saying he discovered one in his pocket as well," Sir Cyril was saying as he reached the table. "A dull stick like that, can you imagine? Oh, hello, Marcus. Care to join us?"
"For a bit," Marcus replied, pulling up a chair and signaling for a glass, that he might partake of the bottle of claret on the table. "What news?"
"Bit of extortion, it seems," replied Lord Pynchton sourly. Marcus had never cared for the man, ever since seeing him viciously beating his mount in the Park once, for shying at a particularly loud claptrap of a carriage.
"Indeed? Have you informed the authorities?" he asked, filling his glass and taking a judicious sip.
Sir Cyril leaned forward. "That's the problem, you see," he said earnestly. Clearly this was not the first bottle the group had shared today. "This person threatens to go to the authorities herself, if her terms aren't met."
Marcus feigned surprise. "Her? Never say any of you are engaged in illegal activities! I'll not credit it."
Lord Pynchton waved a dismissive hand. "Illegal. Pah! As though anyone cares about what one does with street whores. I'll not pay a groat myself, I can tell you that."
Marcus's attention sharpened. To the best of his knowledge, Pynchton had not been at the Wittington ball last night. "So you've received some sort of threat yourself?"
He nodded, though he looked more angry than distressed. "Right in my own home. If I can find out who this Sympathetic Lady is, she'll be up on charges of housebreaking. Now that's a crime."
A chorus of agreement greeted this declaration, and Marcus listened as they continued to discuss the outrage. It appeared that Sir Hadley Leverton, among others, had discovered a note like Ferny's in his pocket last night. They knew of no one but Lord Pynchton who had received one at his home, however.
This new topic crowded out all others, to include any news of the Saint or the Runners' investigation.
Finishing his glass of claret, Marcus rose. "I'll give you good day, gentlemen, and wish you luck in unraveling the mystery. Should I hear anything to the point, I'll let you know."
He returned home to find a message from Quinn stating that she had gone out shopping with Lady Constance, and might spend the afternoon with her as well. She must not be ill, then, he thought, relief mingling with disappointment at missing her.
Over a solitary light luncheon, he thought
over the women who had been present at the Wittingtons' last night, trying to guess who this Sympathetic Lady might be. Not Miss Chalmers, surely? She was high spirited, but didn't appear to have the intelligence for such a scheme. Nor did either of the Misses Melks . . .
By the time Quinn returned for dinner, he had narrowed the likely suspects to three or four ladies, all known for their outspokenness on political matters. He still had trouble imagining any of them actually breaking into Pynchton's house, however.
"Well met at last, my dear." He greeted her at the door with a kiss, unconcerned by the footman's presence. "I presume you are feeling much more the thing after a good night's sleep and a day of shopping?"
"More—? Yes, thank you," she responded with a bright smile that held a trace of something almost like guilt. "The outing cleared out the last of the cobwebs, I believe. I was clearly more unused to the exercise of dancing than I realized."
Marcus couldn't deny that some of the country dances, in particular, were quite physically demanding —and Quinn had danced almost every one. His worries about her health dissolved, to be replaced with other, vaguer ones. "Your lack of recent practice was not evident, I assure you." In fact, she had put half the English ladies to shame.
"You are too kind. But now, I hope you will excuse me. I wish to have a word with Mrs. McKay before I go up to dress for dinner." With another falsely sunny smile, she eluded his grasp and headed for the kitchen.
He stared after her, frowning. What the devil was the matter with her? Had he offended her in some way? Her demeanor reminded him of the first day or two of their marriage, when she had still been so wary of him. But why should she be so now?
A sudden chill swept through him. She had spent the day with her cousin, likely talking about home and family. Was she considering a return to Baltimore after all?
He almost asked her over dinner, but realized how such a question might sound if she was planning no such thing. And if she was, did he really have any right to stop her? Oh, he had a legal right, of course, as her husband, but he couldn't be easy at the idea of ordering another person's life to suit his own.