by Brenda Hiatt
"Had a nice long chat with Lady Constance, I suppose?" he asked instead, watching her closely, counting on her inability to hide her emotions to give him a clue to her plans.
Indeed, she started slightly, and her eyes avoided his as she responded. "Yes, it was pleasant to get to know her better. Will you have a bit more of this haunch? It's remarkably tasty."
She clearly wished to drop the subject, so he followed her lead and moved the conversation to more general topics, though his fears were by no means allayed. Her refusal to join him in the library after dinner, on grounds of having correspondence to attend to, only lent more weight to those fears —but still he could not bring himself to ask her directly.
"I'll see you in the morning, then." He tried not to make it a question, but it came out that way.
"Of course." With no more assurance than those two cool words, she left him and headed upstairs.
Marcus tried to settle himself in the library with a brandy, but his mind was focused wholly on Quinn. What might she really be doing, thinking, planning? How cowardly of him not to come right out and ask her.
Abruptly, he stood, his brandy scarcely touched. He would not wait until midnight to visit Lord Ribbleton's house after all. The marquess was known as an upright sort, so tonight being Saturday, he likely wouldn't be out past that hour in any event. No, this would be the best time to catch him away from home.
Besides, Marcus felt he might go mad if he sat here thinking any longer.
* * *
"Is all of my hair concealed?" Quinn asked, turning from the glass so that Polly could check the back of her head. "You're certain it won't be dangerous to attempt this so early?"
Polly shrugged. "All's I know is, this is the time of night servants most often slip away, knowing their masters and mistresses are out for the evening. Then they make sure to be back by midnight, so's they won't be missed."
"Very well, then." Quinn had to admit that she'd prefer to get this over with while she was still relatively alert. It was amazing sheer sleepiness hadn't caused her to do something foolish at Lord Pynchton's house the night before. "Let's go."
As before, they used the servant's staircase, Polly going first to make certain Quinn wasn't seen in her odd attire. The kitchen servants were yet about, so they exited through the ground floor entrance to the garden, though the chance of being spotted by Marcus was greater. Quinn was fairly certain she had heard him go into his room earlier. She hoped he wouldn't take it into his head to check on her. Not tonight.
Safely out of the house, they quickly walked the short distance to Lord Ribbleton's imposing house on Grosvenor Square, directly opposite the Duke of Marland's mansion. Quinn stared at it doubtfully, wondering if she had the courage for this after all. It was a far grander house than Lord Pynchton's and would doubtless have more servants about, even if Lord Ribbleton were out— which she had no real way of knowing.
"Let's go around to the back," she suggested to Polly. "Perhaps I'll be able to peep through a window or two to determine whether it is safe."
They had to go all the way to the end of the square, then back through the alleyway behind, where the mews were located. Though a few stablehands were about, no one paid them any notice. Lord Ribbleton's gardens were far grander than their own, with ornamental plantings and raked paths between the shrubbery —which offered an ideal place for Polly to hide while keeping lookout.
Cautiously, Quinn approached the house, every sense alert so that she could hide if anyone came to a door or window. There was a light in the sunken kitchen windows, as she'd expected, so she went to the door leading from the main floor to the gardens, as she had at Lord Pynchton's last night. Here, however, the door was firmly locked.
Bending, she examined the lock, wondering if she might be able to pick it somehow, as the Saint apparently did on a regular basis. Five minutes probing with a hairpin, however, produced nothing but a few scratches on the door and one rather painful one on her hand. With a disgusted sigh, she gave it up and moved to inspect the lower windows.
She would not give up on her plan. The afternoon with her cousin had shown her that she could, indeed, fit into English Society, with a bit of effort. Her existence for so many years had revolved around the family business that even after achieving a degree of understanding with Marcus, she'd believed, deep down, that she must one day return to it.
Today had brought home to her that that chapter of her life was truly closed. Which meant she needed a new purpose, a permanent purpose —and this must be it. Last night she'd told herself that after leaving Ribbleton's note she would be done, but now she knew she could not walk away and leave everything else to Mrs. Hounslow.
No, A Sympathetic Lady would continue her crusade, one way or another.
Ah! The tall window on the corner farthest from the kitchen appeared to be unlocked. Peering inside, she saw what appeared to be a music room, deserted and lit only by the window and faint candlelight from the hallway beyond.
With a quick glance to be certain no one was watching, she tugged at the window sash. It was heavy, and took all of her strength to budge, but when it finally did it moved soundlessly, its casement clearly well tended. Her heart pounding, she took a deep breath and stepped over the low sill, then pulled the window almost closed behind her.
* * *
From just inside the garden gate, Marcus surveyed the back of Ribbleton's ostentatious mansion. Upright or not, the man clearly wasn't above flaunting his not inconsiderable wealth. "Wait here," he cautioned Gobby, and made his way silently through the elegant but deserted ornamental garden to the house.
He was nearly there when he heard a sudden rustling and what sounded like a gasp from a nearby stand of shrubbery. Frowning, he took a step toward it, only to startle a pair of ring doves into the air with a clap of wings that made him jump himself.
Shaking his head, he turned back to the house with a rueful smile. Just as well he was planning to retire. This business was starting to make his nerves jittery. First dogs, and now doves. What next? Mice?
Returning to his purpose, he went to the window he'd already noticed was slightly ajar. It opened easily enough, into a deserted music room. As he crossed it, he caught up a golden ornament perched on the pianoforte and pocketed it, then went on to peer into the hall beyond. Would Ribbleton's study be on this floor, or the one above, he wondered?
Across the way, double doors stood wide, leading to a large parlor of some sort, also dark, lit only by the sconces in the hallway. Marcus moved softly in that direction, intending to only glance within for any sign of a desk before continuing in search of a study or library.
As he reached the double doors, however, a movement near the fireplace sent his pulse racing. Blast! Was some maid in there, dusting in the dark? But no. Looking closer, he saw that the slim figure was in breeches, and moving furtively. Some scullery or stable lad, looking to line his pockets illegitimately?
The figure turned his head, and something about him suddenly struck Marcus as familiar. The cap, the coat, the build —he had met this lad before. Was it one of his own group? Too tall for Tig, too short for Stilt, but—
With a shock that nearly knocked him reeling, he suddenly remembered where he'd seen this "lad" before. His heart pounding again, but with a completely different sort of fear, he moved softly into the room.
CHAPTER 22
There! Lord Ribbleton could not possibly miss her note, propped right against the clock on the mantelpiece like that, Quinn thought with satisfaction. She only wished she'd asked for more money, as the man could clearly afford it. Too late to change the note now, but perhaps she might steal something?
With an eye to small valuables, she turned —only to discover the large shape of a man looming between her and the hallway.
She nearly screamed, but clamped a hand to her mouth so that only a squeaky gasp escaped. The man stood still, his back to the dim light, watching her, his face obscured in shadow. "What . . . what do you want
?" she managed to whisper, realizing as she said it what a stupid question it was.
He must assume she was a thief, a housebreaker —and he was not far wrong. What would Marcus say if she were arrested? How would it affect his reputation, his standing in Society? And why had she not considered that particular pitfall before?
When the man neither answered nor made any move to detain her, a thread of hope tempered her fear and despair. Perhaps this was a dull-witted servant that she could talk her way around, one who had no more business in this room than she did.
"I was just . . . bringing some coal for the grate," she explained lamely, gesturing toward the hod. Perhaps in the dark he would not notice it was empty. "His lordship likes to have it ready, even in summer."
Finally the imposing figure stirred, then spoke. "Does he? You must be quite useful to him, then."
Quinn felt her mouth fall open. "M—Marcus?" It came out as a strangled whisper. "What are you doing here?" Before he could answer her question, she did so herself. "You followed me!" She wasn't sure if she was outraged or touched by his concern.
He shook his head, but she grasped him by the arm. "Come, we must leave at once! It would never do for us to be caught here."
"I tend to agree." His voice was cool, with so little inflection that she could not tell whether he was angry or not. "Follow me."
"But—" He shook his head again, silencing her, then took her by the hand to lead her to the very room where she had entered. He must have seen her climbing through the window, she realized. Why had Polly not warned her?
He paused for a moment, one hand in his pocket, staring at the pianoforte, but then shrugged and continued on toward the window. "You first," he whispered. "I'll follow and close it behind us."
He seemed remarkably calm, she thought —far calmer than she felt, and he was the one who should be most rattled, discovering his wife in breeches, in another man's house. Wondering frantically how she should explain her actions to him, she stepped through the window, to the terrace outside.
Marcus followed her, pulling the window nearly to. Then, as she watched in mounting amazement, he pulled some sort of wire from his pocket, looped it around the latch inside, closed the window and neatly dropped the latch into place before extracting the wire.
"Where on earth—?" she began, but her question was cut off by another voice, from a few feet away.
"Now this is a surprise. I had always believed the Saint to work alone."
Quinn whirled, her heart again in her throat, to see Noel Paxton coming up the steps of the terrace toward them.
"I confess, I had begun to have some sympathy for your cause, if not your methods," he continued amiably, as though conversing over tea in a drawing room. "But now that I find you are teaching your young apprentices to housebreak, my duty is clear."
With a shock as great as the one she'd experienced inside, Quinn realized that Mr. Paxton believed Marcus to be the Saint of Seven Dials. Though the idea was laughable, she could not allow it to persist, not when it was in her power to set him straight —no matter what it might mean for her own future.
"I fear you have mistaken the matter, Mr. Paxton," she said, and felt a spurt of amusement when he started visibly at the sound of her voice. "Lord Marcus is here because of me, not the other way around. He followed me, to keep me from coming to harm."
Paxton stared at her, then back at Marcus, then at her again. "But . . . but you cannot be the Saint, Lady Marcus. You have only been in England a few weeks, and the Saint has been operating for several years."
Quinn forced a smile to her lips. Where was Polly during all of this? she wondered. She hoped the girl had the sense to remain hidden. "I never claimed to be, Mr. Paxton. I am simply A Sympathetic Lady."
A long silence greeted her words. Marcus was staring at her, apparently as astounded as Mr. Paxton. Finally, the latter found his voice. "Perhaps we should move farther from the house before discussing this, if we are to avoid alarming those within."
"We can return to my house, if you'd like," Marcus suggested. "I should like to get to the bottom of this as well." His tone made Quinn shiver.
But no. She was not sorry for what she had done. Head high, she accompanied the two men from the garden, through the alleyway, and down the street. From the corner of her eye, she saw two smaller shapes following them. A glance behind revealed Polly and Gobby, their heads close together as though deep in an argument. It appeared that Polly had some explaining to do, as well.
Ten minutes later, they were all seated in the library of Marcus's house, Quinn feeling more than a little bit self-conscious in her breeches. Not for the world would she go change, however, and give these two the opportunity to decide her fate in her absence.
"Now, perhaps you can tell me how breaking into Lord Ribbleton's house denotes any sort of 'sympathy,' Lady Marcus?" Mr. Paxton began, taking a sip of the brandy Marcus had poured him. "Sympathy for whom?"
Quinn lifted her chin and met his gaze unflinchingly. "For the unfortunate young girls Lord Ribbleton has abused. He, and others like him, deserve to be exposed for the depraved monsters they are."
Paxton nodded, patronizingly, she thought. "I agree that prostitution is a grave evil, and far too prevalent in London. However, were I to try bringing all of their patrons to justice, I fear half the male population would have to be taken into custody."
"I am not stupid, Mr. Paxton. I realize that the general problem is too large for me, or you, or anyone, to remedy. My concern is with the youngest girls forced to this life, before they are even aware of other options. And with those so-called gentlemen who not only use them sexually, but injure them in the process. Lord Ribbleton is one of those, as is Lord Pynchton. Both have recently beaten young girls in the course of pursuing their . . . pleasures." She felt her mouth twisting with disgust.
"I see." To her relief, the patronizing tone had disappeared. "That is a bit more serious, and something I believe I must look into. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Lady Marcus."
Quinn inclined her head graciously, aware how absurd she must look, but relieved that he now understood. His next question, however, brought her up short.
"But where does the Saint come into this?" He turned to regard Marcus narrowly. "Are you helping your wife in this crusade?"
"The Saint has helped me, yes," Quinn replied, though the question had been directed at Marcus. "He has contributed money toward a school I am attempting to establish for those unfortunate girls, with the help of Mrs. Hounslow of the Bettering Society. We hope to give them alternatives to the life they now live. But Lord Marcus knew nothing about any of it until tonight."
Mr. Paxton never took his eyes from Marcus, however. "Indeed?" he asked. "I rather doubt that, since his movements over the past week have dovetailed remarkably well with the Saint's activities. He was even seen leaving a package at Mrs. Hounslow's house on Gracechurch Street a few nights ago. Perhaps the donation you spoke of?"
Quinn turned to stare at her husband. Surely, Paxton couldn't really believe—
"I'll have to have a word with Gobby," Marcus said then. "I thought he was a better lookout than that."
Paxton smiled. "He's very clever, actually. I was forced to rely on boys of a similar age from a rival flash house to avert his suspicions —which unfortunately makes their testimony suspect. And some of your targets have been rather unusual, I confess, if they are to be believed. Or perhaps there is more to this than simply the amassing of charitable funds?"
Quinn felt the blood drain from her face as she stared from one man to the other in complete shock. Could it be true? She could draw no other conclusion. Marcus— Marcus— was the Saint of Seven Dials!
"In fact, there is. I'm surprised your own spy never mentioned the kidnapping of some of his fellows by a ring of crimps operating right out of Mayfair."
Mr. Paxton frowned. "In fact, he did. He feared I was one of them when I first approached him. I had no leads to pursue, however, as he co
uld give me no names or descriptions."
"Then you may be interested to know that I have all the proof you'll need to bring those men to justice— written proof. It's yours, on condition my wife is kept entirely out of this."
Quinn gazed at Marcus gratefully, though her head still swam at the enormity of her discovery. And she had never suspected a thing! How could she have been so blind? To think that, even now, he could be more concerned about her than about himself humbled her further.
Paxton shrugged. "Housebreaking would be the most I could charge her with, and there is no indication that anything was stolen. Besides, I cannot fault her reasons." He paused. "Or the Saint's."
"Then—?"
"I'd still like to speak with your friend, Lord Hardwyck, when he returns to Town," said Paxton, rising. "But I've begun to believe that the Saint of Seven Dials may be legendary after all, as no one man seems to fit all of the facts I've gathered."
Grinning, Marcus rose to shake the other man's hand. "Perhaps he is," he said. "In any event, I believe London has seen the last of him."
Paxton shrugged, his expression enigmatic. "Perhaps —for the present. But if a future need for him should arise, who knows?"
With that cryptic comment, he bowed and took his leave. Marcus saw him to the door, then returned to the library. "It appears we both have some explaining to do," he said.
Rising, Quinn put both of her hands in his, wondering how she could ever have considered this man the least bit stodgy. "We do. But first, I should like to get out of these clothes. Perhaps . . . perhaps you would be willing to help me?"
"More than willing." The worry that had lurked in his eyes since their meeting at Ribbleton's —nay, since before dinnertime today— melted away and he smiled, extending his arm to escort her upstairs.