by Brenda Hiatt
Once in his chamber, he took her in his arms for a long, passionate kiss. Finally, when she was breathless with desire, he raised his head to look deep into her eyes. "I love you, Quinn. And after tonight, I hope we never feel the need to keep secrets from each other again."
Quinn felt as though something inside her was unfolding, blossoming, filling her whole being with new hope and life. "I love you, too, Marcus. I have from the start, though I tried to convince myself otherwise." She sighed happily, resting her head against his broad chest. "And now, I can't wait to hear all about the Saint, who you so cleverly pretended to disdain."
"Are you sure you can't wait?" he asked, leaning in for another kiss.
"On second thought, I suppose I can."
* * *
"Yes, Paxton and I had a long talk." Luke sat at his ease in the library of Hardwyck Hall, a room nearly three times the size of Marcus's library.
It was now two weeks since Marcus and Quinn had achieved perfect understanding. Marcus glanced over to where she sat talking with Lady Pearl, Luke's wife, a fresh wave of love and desire pervading him sweetly. Life was exceedingly good.
"Do you think he suspects?" Marcus asked, turning back to Luke. "What about Flute?"
Luke shrugged. "He suspects, that's obvious, but he has no proof, particularly with Flute still at Knoll Grange, two hours away. Oddly, I didn't get the feeling he was really trying to force me to admit anything. He seemed more interested in what I could tell him about the Saint's history and methods."
"Perhaps he means to write a book about him," suggested Marcus with a chuckle.
"Perhaps. I'm hopeful he'll put Twitchell out of business, at the very least. But tell me, have you given any more thought to purchasing that estate we spoke of yesterday? The one adjacent to Knoll Grange? Pearl and I would spend more time there if we had agreeable neighbors."
"Among your dozens of estates? I'm honored." Marcus grinned. "And yes, Quinn and I discussed it last night. She feels we could open a sort of boarding school for street urchins at Bloomfield Manor, though of course we'll have to take a look at the house, farm and buildings before deciding."
Luke glanced over at their wives, in animated conversation. "Then I can guarantee Pearl— and I—will want to be a part of it. And I don't doubt Flute would be willing to help fill it with students. His knowledge of Seven Dials and its denizens is formidable."
Quinn and Pearl joined their conversation then, and the four of them discussed at some length the logistics of setting up such a place. Quinn then went on to describe the progress being made with her school for girls here in London.
"Already, Mrs. Hounslow has hired several teachers, as well as a housemother. If all goes as planned, we will be able to open the school in September with fifty or sixty girls, with room to triple or quadruple that number over time."
As she elaborated on her plans, Quinn sparkled with excitement, alive with purpose and enthusiasm. Marcus realized anew how trammeled she must have felt with only the circumscribed role of Society matron to fill. Her talents would have been wasted running a single small household, planning nothing more challenging than balls and teas.
Driving home to Grosvenor Street an hour or so later, he said casually, "Luke tells me that Bloomfield contains an ironworks as well as farm that was once far more productive than it is now. He thinks that with a bit of good management, it could easily become self-supporting again."
Quinn looked up at him, her interest clearly caught. "Might it also support the school we discussed —perhaps with enough left over to send periodically to Mrs. Hounslow here in London?"
Marcus shrugged. "I have no notion of how to make a profit from iron, wool or produce. A steward, perhaps—"
"Let me try!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining. "I'll hire a steward, of course, but I can research the markets, transport, price margins . . ." she trailed off, frowning. "But I suppose ladies— especially conventional English ladies —don't involve themselves in such things."
He pulled her against him, to nuzzle the top of her head. "One of the things I love most about you is the fact that you're anything but a conventional English lady. I'd be delighted for you to try your hand at running our new 'family business.'"
Her smile returned, lighting up her face —and his heart. "I do love you, Marcus." The emotion shining out of her green eyes made him hard with desire, even as it sparked an answering wave of tenderness within him.
"And I love you, my enterprising wife. With so many worthy causes to occupy you, I hope you will never feel the need to seek secret adventures again."
Quinn snuggled against him. "Being your wife is quite adventure enough," she assured him. "And remember? We have already promised each other: no more deceptions, ever, no matter how noble our intentions."
"Agreed." He lowered his lips to hers, sealing their vow—and their love.
THE END
Table of Contents
INNOCENT PASSIONS
by Brenda Hiatt
CHAPTER 1
London—August 1816
"We'll be murdered in our beds, Miss, just see if we won't."
Rowena Riverstone smiled indulgently at her maid, though in truth she was rather overwhelmed herself by the teeming streets of London on this, her first visit to the metropolis.
"Nonsense, Matthilda. My brother's house is in the nicer part of Town and quite secure. As long as we refrain from wandering the streets alone and at night, we should be perfectly safe."
But Matthilda shook her head and continued to mutter dire predictions for their visit. "The sooner we can return to River Chase, the happier I'll be."
"Especially since that will mean returning to your Jeb," Rowena said, chuckling at the maid's blush. "Very well, I won't tease any more."
In fact it was partly for the sake of Jeb's future that she'd felt it necessary to come to Town, his future and that of other tenants like him. As for her own future . . .
Rowena stifled a sigh. After twenty-one years immured in the country, her future was all too easy to predict: year after year of spinsterhood, perhaps to be enlivened someday by the role of maiden aunt, should Nelson ever marry and have children.
She refused to give in to regrets, however. She led a full life, what with her studies, the management of Nelson's country household and the writing of her political essays— essays that would become more timely once she was established in London.
She smiled, a secret smile, for not even Matthilda had any clue that Rowena was the mysterious MRR, regular —and controversial —contributor to William Cobbett's Political Register. If she stayed in London long enough, she might meet Mr. Cobbett himself, as well as some of the other men whose views she admired, such as essayist Leigh Hunt and her idol, the fiery Spencean reformer Lester Richards.
She had actually corresponded with the latter early in the year—not that he was likely to remember, of course. Still, she cherished his two letters, and had all but committed them to memory. To meet him face to face would be—
"This be Hay Street, Miss," the coachman called down to them. "What number did you say?"
"Number twelve," Rowena replied, adjusting her spectacles and leaning forward to peer out of the window.
Her father had maintained this Town residence for fifteen years and her brother for two, but this would be her first glimpse of it, as neither of them had ever allowed her to visit London. Now that she was mistress of her own funds, however, her brother could no longer prevent her doing as she wished.
"I hope Nelson is in," she said to Matthilda. "And that he has room for us."
The maid stared at her in horror. "Is he not expecting you, Miss? But you said—"
"I said I was needed in London —but not by my brother."
Matthilda sputtered her dismay as the coach had pulled to a halt, but Rowena ignored her to stare with interest at the tall, narrow house, virtually identical to all of the other tall, narrow houses on Hay Street.
"I can't say it looks like muc
h," she commented as the coachman lowered the steps and assisted her from the coach.
"Shall I knock, Miss?" he asked.
"Please." Head high, trailed by her maid, Rowena mounted the steps to the door, trying to look as though she'd done so every day of her life.
A portly butler answered the knock. Regarding the young lady on the doorstep without recognition, he raised a supercilious eyebrow but Rowena refused to be cowed by a mere retainer when she had fiercer dragons to face.
"Pray inform Sir Nelson that his sister, Miss Riverstone, has come to visit." She rather enjoyed the blank astonishment that replaced the butler's original haughtiness.
"Of . . . of course, Miss." He stood aside so that she and her maid could enter. "If you'll wait in the parlor while I inform Sir Nelson, I can have tea brought."
"That would be lovely," Rowena said graciously. She directed the coachman to have her trunk brought in, sent Matthilda off to the servants' hall, then followed the butler across the wooden parquet floor of the front hall to the indicated room.
The small, pleasant parlor was furnished in ruby and cream— favorite colors, she recalled, of her mother, who had died seven years earlier. No doubt she'd had a hand in decorating the house when her father had first purchased it for his extended stays in London, where he had held a position of some importance in the Home Office.
"Rubbish!" came a familiar voice from the hall. "My sister never comes to Town. It must be some supplicant pretending—" Entering the parlor, he broke off, sandy eyebrows ascending into carefully disordered sandy hair as he spotted her. "Ro? What the devil are you doing here?"
"Good afternoon, Nelson," she responded calmly to the stocky young man some three years her senior. "I am pleased to see you, too."
His brows now drew down to a frown. "You didn't answer my question. Nor did you send word you were coming."
"If I had, you would have forbidden it." She glanced at the listening butler, who, catching her eye, suddenly seemed to realize he was needed elsewhere and hurried off.
"With good reason." Sir Nelson's frown deepened to a scowl. "You and your radical ideas." Belatedly, he glanced behind him.
Seeing no listening servants, he closed the parlor door. "I won't have you spouting your seditious theories here in London, Ro. It could do irreparable damage to my position. The politics at Whitehall are dicey right now. Besides—"
"You've been saying that for two years, and Father for years before that," she reminded him. "And my theories are not seditious. They are mere common sense, if you'd only—"
He held up a hand. "Not another word. If you can't promise to hold your Whiggish tongue on such matters, I'll pack you straight back to River Chase in the morning."
That had always been the sticking point. Their father had demanded just such a promise as a condition of Rowena visiting London and she had never been willing to give it. After all, what would have been the point in coming to the seat of England's power if she had to compromise her principles to get there?
Now, however, she smiled. "Perhaps you have forgotten that I celebrated a birthday five days since. If you are unwilling to house me, I am quite capable of setting up an establishment of my own—nor can you prevent me doing so."
Nelson stared. "Devil take it, I had forgotten." He ran a hand through his hair in agitation.
"Don't worry, Nelson. I haven't come here with the express purpose of embarrassing you. I simply wish to see London."
Her brother frowned again, clearly disbelieving. "I know you better than that, Ro. That time Lord Sidmouth came to the Chase to see Father while he was ill—you hadn't been in the room with him ten minutes before you started talking about the plight of the soldiers released from service after the Treaty of Paris."
"I remember. But it was important that—" At her brother's alarmed expression, she stopped. "I'm older and wiser now, Nelson, and I can't stay buried in the country forever."
Though he still looked skeptical, her brother shrugged. "I suppose it's only fair you should have your chance before you're permanently on the shelf," he said grudgingly.
Rowena ignored the hurt and resentment his words produced, focusing instead on her real goal. "I'm glad you understand." She was pleased with the evenness of her voice.
A tap on the door heralded the arrival of tea.
"If you're going to stay here, you'll need a companion," said Sir Nelson, his expression softening slightly. "I'll order a room made up while you have a bite to eat."
"Thank you," she said. "And I'll send a note round to Lady Pearl, telling her I'm here. I'm sure she can give me pointers on how to behave properly."
Her brother opened his mouth as though to say something in reply, but then closed it again and shrugged. "I'm expected at Whitehall," he said instead. "I'll see you this evening."
When he had gone, Rowena carried her cup and a plate of biscuits to the writing desk near the window and proceeded to write her note to Lady Pearl—now Lady Hardwyck—her best friend in the world.
She and Pearl had practically grown up together, as River Chase bordered the main estate of the imposing Duke of Oakshire, Pearl's father. She and Pearl had shared many interests as well as a strong bond of friendship, and the disparity in their social stations had never mattered to anyone except Pearl's stepmother.
Now, however, Rowena's pen hesitated. That was in the country. Here in London, where Pearl was not only daughter to a duke, but also a countess, wife of one of the wealthiest men in England . . . Would it be terribly forward of her to write?
"Nonsense," she told herself sternly. "This is Pearl. Besides, when have you ever cared about other people's opinions?" She wrote quickly, then rang for a footman to deliver the note before she could reconsider.
* * *
Noel Paxton signed his report, set his pen down on the battered oak writing desk and sighed. This had become the most frustrating investigation of his career, and not because he'd failed to apprehend the notorious Saint of Seven Dials. In fact, the legendary thief would be in prison now, had Noel chosen it, but that would have brought him no closer to his true goal—a goal his "superiors" at Bow Street knew nothing about.
"Will you be wanting anything else, sir?" Kemp, Noel's aide, manservant and confidante, refilled the empty teacup on the corner of the desk.
"A clue, Kemp. A clue. I can't help feeling we're missing something obvious."
Abandoning his proper servant pose, the wiry young man leaned against the mantelpiece, balancing the chipped teapot between his hands, handle in one, spout in the other. "Can't see how, sir. You've picked up on things Runners with years of experience missed. Had the Saint in the palm of your hand."
Noel wished he could share his henchman's unswerving faith in his abilities. "At least I've verified that the Saint— Saints, I should say—and the Bishop are not the same man. Which means those anonymous essays are again my only lead."
It was damnably frustrating. He'd been so certain the author of those essays was the Saint, as well as the soulless Black Bishop, that vile traitor who had cost so many English lives during the recent war.
Who had killed at least two men Noel had called friend.
Posing as a British agent in France, the Black Bishop had in fact sold information to Napoleon. His treason had endangered more than one true agent, including Noel himself. Twice, fellow agents had come close to identifying the man and both of those agents had died violently before revealing what they'd learned.
Based on certain evidence found on the battlefield, the Foreign Office had believed the Bishop perished at Waterloo. Noel reluctantly retired to his Derbyshire estate, his services as Puss in Boots, the Foreign Office's top spy, no longer required. He had finally accepted that the Bishop was beyond justice —until portions of a certain essay in the Political Register had struck him as eerily familiar.
Noel wrote to the Foreign Office of his suspicion that the Bishop was in fact alive and in England, only to learn that his superiors had already come to the
same conclusion. Another agent, investigating the disappearance of certain Home Office documents pertaining to the Bishop, had recently died in an all-too-convenient accident. Noel was recalled to service to hunt down the traitor, a task he was more than willing to resume.
A visit to the offices of the Political Register revealed that the essay in question had been posted from Oakshire —and that the handwriting of the original bore striking similarities to the Bishop's letters to the Foreign Office during the war.
"Mr. R," the anonymous essayist, was so passionate in his defense of the Saint of Seven Dials that Noel had postulated a link. Noel had therefore offered his services to Bow Street to help apprehend the thief —an offer the Magistrate had eagerly accepted.
At first, it had appeared he was on the right track. Bow Street's primary suspect seemed to fit everything Noel knew of the Black Bishop. Going by the names of Luke St. Clair, Lucio di Santo and now the Earl of Hardwyck, the man possessed a genius for disguise, a Continental background, even an Oakshire connection, through his wife.
But further investigation revealed that Hardwyck had never been in France, had never left England, in fact. His supposed Continental ties were fictitious, invented to allow him to fit in at Oxford and, later, in Society —to further his larcenous ends. Nor had he written those essays.
Frustrated as he was, Noel couldn't find it in him to condemn Lord Hardwyck, nor his successor as Saint, Lord Marcus Northrup. Both had given the lion's share of their booty to London's poor, and had stolen only from the most underserving of the ton. No, he'd prefer not to be known as the man who brought Robin Hood to justice.
"I don't fancy myself a modern-day Sheriff of Nottingham, Kemp," he said aloud. "The Saint is free to continue his work, for all of me—not that it sounds as though he plans to do so."
Lord Hardwyck had given up the role upon his marriage two months since, and it appeared that Lord Marcus, also recently wed, had now done the same. Which presented Noel with a definite problem.