The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Francesca nodded vigorously. "See how your hair wishes to curl of itself? A natural curl, when released from its bondage, one many women would envy. And the color, so rich, now that one can see it. You will wish for that richness about your face, no?"

  Rowena glanced questioningly at Pearl, who echoed the woman's nod. "I've learned to trust Francesca in such matters," she said.

  "Very well," Rowena agreed. "At least she's not proposing to cut too much of the length, so if I don't like it, I can still put it back into its bun." She was only half teasing, still determined to go through with it. What did she have to lose, after all?

  Only her integrity, a small voice whispered.

  "It's as well the men will not be here for dinner, " Pearl was saying. "You must take breakfast in your room tomorrow as well. That way, we can wait until everything is complete before springing you upon the world tomorrow night at the ball. I can scarcely wait to see Luke's face, or Mr. Paxton's."

  Rowena had thought the same, but now her feelings swung from one extreme to the other. Suppose she looked ridiculous in her new trappings, like an ape playing dress up? She didn't think she could bear for Mr. Paxton to regard her as a figure of fun.

  "Now then." Removing Rowena's spectacles, Francesca plied her scissors. At the first sound of her hair being shorn, Rowena closed her eyes. Pearl was her friend. She would never make her a laughingstock, she told herself desperately.

  Still, she was just as glad she was unable to watch as the coiffeuse fluttered about her head with scissors, pins and hot tongs. Pearl made no sound at all, which Rowena considered ominous. Finally, Francesca removed the cloth she had draped about Rowena's shoulders and backed away.

  "Voila!" she cried. "A glass, my lady, if you please."

  Rowena opened her eyes to see Pearl approaching with a hand mirror and a smile. "See what you think," she said, handing her the mirror.

  Hesitantly, she lifted the glass and looked. And gasped. How could a mere hairstyle effect such a change? But it had. Framed by coppery ringlets, her face looked softer, more feminine. Prettier. She darted a questioning glance at Pearl.

  "I always told you that you were not so plain as you believed," her friend reminded her with a smug expression. "Now you must confess that I was right."

  Rowena looked again at the image in the mirror, not quite able to believe what she saw there. "My spectacles?" Pearl handed them to her and she donned them for a better look.

  Now she looked a bit more like herself, her eyes less pronounced, the curve of her cheek somewhat disguised.

  "Are you sure you don't want to try doing without them?" Pearl asked. "You could carry them with you, of course, to use when absolutely necessary."

  For a long moment, Rowena hesitated. Dispensing with her spectacles would be pure vanity, and would make her feel more vulnerable, besides. But if she kept them handy . . .

  After all, her original goal in agreeing to this transformation was to become the sort of woman who might influence those in power to bring about necessary change. Slowly, she took off her eyeglasses and looked again at the mirror. Perhaps it would not be so impossible as she had thought.

  "Very well," she said. "I will try."

  * * *

  "You're certain the family is away?" Noel surveyed the rear of the fashionable Town house on Mount Street, noting that every window on the main floors was dark.

  Stilt, the tall urchin lad, nodded. "Aye, guv. Lots of swells and their families are gone this time o' year, off to the country for whatever it is they do there."

  Noel smiled at the boy's baffled tone. Clearly he couldn't imagine anything that would lure someone away from London. For a moment, he thought longingly of Tidebourne, his little estate in Derbyshire. And then there was the grander estate of Ellsdon Abbey, where he had spent a few summers as a boy, and which he seemed likely to inherit on his uncle's death.

  "Good," he said. "I'll try not to give the servants any reason to leave the attics." He started across the alleyway leading from the mews.

  Stilt followed him. "Nowt but two of 'em anyway, from what we've been able to tell. An old couple, housekeeper and butler, most like."

  In other words, no one to pose any threat, Noel thought. Still, he would do his best to get in and out undetected, so as not to alarm them.

  His goal tonight was simply to acquire enough booty to feed and house three Seven Dials families —and to brush up his housebreaking skills. Luke had told him about those families at their meeting earlier, suggesting he use this free evening for his first foray as the Saint.

  Moving to a good vantage point just outside the back gate, he waited until the attic went dark, then cautiously moved forward. The gate was locked, but it was the work of a moment to climb it. As he'd expected, the back door and windows were also fastened securely. This would be the first test of his skills.

  Luke had offered him the use of his set of lockpicks, but Noel preferred to use his own. They had served him well during his career as Puss in Boots in France, getting him into various locked offices and drawers.

  Sliding a thin, curved piece of metal into the keyhole, he expertly turned it until the latch released. Then, pulling a tiny bottle from his breast pocket, he oiled the hinges before pushing the door silently open.

  "Wait here," he cautioned Stilt, who had stood watching with obvious approval. The one thing that had motivated him to continue pursuit of the Saint, once he'd learned the Black Bishop wasn't involved, was the mistaken belief that the Saint was recruiting boys to help in his housebreaking. Noel certainly wasn't going to involve them now himself, any more than necessary.

  The back hallway was almost entirely dark, the only light coming from a fanlight above the front door at the far end, which let in some faint illumination from a nearby street lamp. Noel moved in that direction, peering into each of the four doors on that level as he went.

  With the owners away, the plate would be securely locked up, probably in a closet belowstairs. He decided to check the dining room first, pulling a large sack from his waistband as he entered to examine the sideboard. The only dishes appeared to be pewter in the feeble light from the long front window, and the pair of candlesticks on top were undoubtedly silver plate. Still, they'd fetch something. Wrapping them in the cloths he'd brought, he stuffed them into his sack.

  On his way back to the stairs, he slipped into the study for a quick look around. An ornate clock on the mantelpiece joined the candlesticks, and then he turned his attention to the desk.

  Sir Randolph Olney was known to have strong connections to the Sussex smugglers, though no charges had ever been brought against him. It was one of the reasons Noel had targeted this house. He felt few qualms about stealing from a man whose wealth was largely ill-gotten.

  The desk at first revealed nothing beyond a few letters, impossible to read in the darkness of this rear-facing room. Reaching to the back of the smallest drawer, however, Noel discovered a handful of coins that, by their size and heft, he deduced must be gold guineas. Smiling, he pocketed them. No trip to the plate closet would be necessary now.

  From the same breast pocket where he kept his phial of oil and his lockpicks, he pulled one of the cards Luke had given him, etched with the Saint's trademark sign: a black numeral seven surmounted by a golden halo. He tucked the card into the drawer from which he'd removed the guineas, then, with a last glance about, left the room and, a moment later, the house.

  Rejoining Stilt in the small garden, he felt his first foray as Saint of Seven Dials had been rather anti-climactic. But then, he'd expected it to be easy, compared to most of his exploits in France. Even if he were caught —an unlikely event, considering he himself was Bow Street's prime weapon against the Saint —he'd face a more merciful fate than the French would have granted him.

  "Care to have another go, guv?" asked Stilt as they regained the alleyway behind the garden. "House two doors down is empty as well. Skeet checked it out."

  But Noel shook his head. He didn't
know who lived in the other house, and he was determined to steal only from those he felt deserved it in some way—or who might yield some information about the Black Bishop.

  "Not tonight, Stilt, but thank Skeet for his intelligence. We may attempt that one a different time," he added, hoping thereby to prevent the boys from trying a housebreaking on their own.

  Unwrapping the candlesticks, he handed them to Stilt, along with the guineas. "Here's tonight's haul. This should take care of the O'Malleys, the Fabrizios and old Mrs. Fenniwick, as well as your cut for Twitchell."

  "Aye, this'll do 'em for a good bit," Stilt agreed, rewrapping the candlesticks and pocketing the coins.

  "You know how to contact me, if something else arises?"

  The lad nodded. "Tig'll slip a note to Squint, who'll see you gets it."

  "Right. Now, you boys keep your noses clean, and your ears to the ground in the meantime. We'll meet again in a few days."

  Though he'd have liked to bring all of the boys back with him that very night, Noel knew they wouldn't come. Besides, they were useful on the streets. In addition to keeping an eye on the poorest denizens of Seven Dials, he'd told Stilt just enough about the Black Bishop that he was confident the lad would notify him if he heard anything.

  Returning to Hardwyck Hall half an hour later, he was glad he planned no similar excursions over the next few days. Already he found himself missing Miss Riverstone and her quick wits. Perhaps he could manage a chess game with her before Lady Hardwyck's ball. It would be a good way to keep his own wits sharpened, and might afford him the opportunity he needed to ask about her brother.

  Whether he had any other motive, he refused to contemplate.

  The next morning, Noel was up early, despite a poor night's sleep. Thoughts of the intriguing Miss Riverstone had repeatedly interfered with the plans he needed to make, plans for the eventual unmasking and capture of the Black Bishop.

  He could no longer deny that he found Miss Riverstone dangerously attractive. Her intelligence, curiosity and innocence all combined to form a potent allure that threatened to distract him from his real goal—a vitally important goal, he reminded himself. One that would likely alienate her forever, should he achieve it.

  "Your blue coat, sir?" Kemp asked, opening the carved oaken wardrobe.

  Noel shook his head. "Too flashy. Save that for tonight. The brown today, I think. I've an early appointment at Bow Street that's likely to last several hours, then I plan to spend the afternoon and evening catching up with the word on the streets in the usual haunts. I've been out of circulation too long."

  And starting tonight, he was unlikely to have a chance to approach his usual informants for some days, trapped here as he'd be by Lady Hardwyck's house party. He was determined to use that opportunity to gather a different sort of information, however. If his suspicions proved correct, it would be the only information he needed.

  "Thank you, Kemp," he said as his manservant helped him into the brown coat. "Nip down to the kitchens and bring up a roll or two and some coffee, and then we'll be off."

  Not knowing what stratum of Society the Black Bishop inhabited in England, Noel had begun with the lowest and worked his way up. Only in the past few weeks had he made real forays into the upper echelons of Society, and had spent most of that time pursuing the false lead of the Saint.

  He wondered if he should publicize the fact that his sister was so highly placed in Society, perhaps play up his grandfather's title. Neither fact would stay secret for long, anyway. But then Miss Riverstone's face rose before him.

  No, he would wait. For the moment, he preferred she think him a mere son of a younger son. It would make her more likely to . . . to tell him what he needed to know.

  * * *

  "Luncheon as well?" Rowena asked in dismay when Pearl appeared in her bedchamber at two o'clock, followed by a maid bearing a covered tray. She had spent the morning writing a draft of her new essay for the Political Register. Now she had nothing to do—or even to read.

  "I told you, I don't want anyone to see you before our grand unveiling tonight. Guests will begin arriving around six," Pearl continued, joining Rowena at a small table to partake of the tea and sandwiches. "Your gown should arrive by four. What fun it will be to put your toilette together!"

  Rowena frowned at her friend. "I'm beginning to feel like a large doll, here for your amusement. I warn you, I won't go down at all if you make me ridiculous."

  "Ridiculous!" Pearl's lovely eyes went wide and innocent, which Rowena found not at all reassuring. "Have you no more faith in me than that? You will be stunning, my dear —the belle of the evening. You must trust me."

  Rowena relaxed her frown. Though she knew that her friend had unrealistic expectations, she could trust her to make certain Rowena's appearance would not be an embarrassment to either of them. It would be up to Rowena to make certain the same was true of her behavior.

  The new dress arrived on schedule. Matthilda lifted the emerald silk ballgown from the elegant box and gasped with delight. "Oh, Miss!" she exclaimed in hushed tones. "The drawing at the modiste's didn't do it justice, not by a long shot."

  "No. No, it didn't." Rowena gazed at the shimmering gown in mingled awe and delight.

  "Let's see how it looks on, shall we?" Pearl suggested.

  Matthilda laced her into her best corset and dropped the silken folds over Rowena's head.

  "Oh, Rowena, it's simply scrumptious!" Pearl declared. "I wish I could wear such a color. No, don't turn around. Not yet."

  Feeling more than ever like a large doll, Rowena stood passively while Matthilda and Pearl fussed about her, though her frustration at not being able to see the result was growing by the minute. Pins and ribbons were placed just so, with twitches at shoulders and waist to improve the fit of the gown.

  "Now the hair. No, not yet, Rowena!" Pearl admonished as she tried to peek over her shoulder at the pier glass. "Francesca must put the finishing touches to you first. Promise not to look." She sent Matthilda to fetch her coiffeuse and a pot of tea.

  The moment she arrived, Francesca set to work, murmuring to herself in French and English. "This curl, so. Ceci aussi. A ribbon through the top cluster. Et voila!" After what seemed an eternity, she stepped back, beaming at her handiwork.

  Rowena glanced questioningly at Pearl, who was smiling as broadly as her hairdresser was. "Yes, you can look now."

  Almost fearfully, Rowena turned around to see the stranger in the glass —for stranger it certainly appeared to be. Surely, this vision could not be herself?

  The emerald green silk brightened the copper of her hair until it nearly glowed. Tied tight under her ample breasts with a darker green ribbon, cut low, but not too low, the gown emphasized her curves, skimming her narrow waist and the generous flare of her hips, making her look voluptuous rather than simply plump.

  "Your spectacles, remember?" Pearl prompted as Rowena stared transfixed at her image. She handed her the green silk reticule that had come with the gown.

  "Yes. Yes, of course." Still unable to look away from her reflection, Rowena removed her spectacles —and the reflection blurred.

  "No squinting," Pearl reminded her as Rowena instinctively squeezed her eyes into better focus. "Here's your reticule. You can keep your spectacles there —in case of emergency."

  Rowena glanced at Pearl in vague alarm, but even without seeing her expression clearly, she could tell that her friend was teasing. "Yes, we wouldn't want me to pick up a candlestick instead of a glass of ratafia, or a carnation instead of a canape, would we?"

  "Now, now. I know you're not as blind as all that and it's not as though you'll do any reading at a ball. Have you a fan?"

  "Yes, right here." Rowena displayed the green silk fan figured in gold that she'd purchased to go with the dress.

  Pearl stepped back to take one more good look —an ability Rowena now envied —and nodded her approval. "You'll do excellently. Now, wait here while I get ready myself —it won't take me mo
re than half an hour, I promise."

  She bustled off, Francesca in tow, and Rowena sighed. If only she shared Pearl's confidence! Now that her first evening in Society was less than an hour away, she realized afresh how unprepared she really was.

  Oh, she looked well enough —far better than she'd ever imagined she could, in fact —but what of the woman beneath the trappings? She had no gift for small talk, for conversing upon trivialities while ignoring the larger issues.

  And what would she do, she wondered in sudden panic, if some gentleman were to flirt with her? She would be completely out of her element. She'd do far better to remain in her room, where she would be unable to embarrass either Pearl or herself.

  Matthilda, returning just then with the tea tray, gasped with delight. "Oh, Miss! Who'd have ever thought it? You're as beautiful as any fine lady ever was, and that's the truth."

  Rowena shook her head, both irritated and flattered by her maid's overblown admiration. "Hardly that, but I do confess the gown suits me well. Have I not taught you by now not to focus on appearances, however?"

  "I already know what's underneath," Matthilda replied with a shrug, setting down the tray. "And that won't have changed, will it? Where's the harm in saying how well you look?"

  More than a bit shaken at her maid's so closely echoing her own thoughts, Rowena didn't answer, but moved to pour out the tea, instead. She was relieved to discover she could do so without the benefit of her spectacles. Perhaps she could manage this after all, she thought, taking a fortifying sip of the hot liquid.

  True to her word, Pearl reappeared before twenty minutes had passed, resplendant in pale blue satin and snowy Mechlin lace. "Ah, pour me a cup as well, Rowena, do. We still have a few minutes before we need to go down."

  This time, conscious of her friend's watchful eye, Rowena spilled a few drops while pouring. Though it was surely due to nervousness rather than nearsightedness, she said, "See what comes of taking away my spectacles? You are fortunate I've sullied only the tray and not your gown."