The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  As her brother spoke, Miss Riverstone herself became visibly upset, first seeming to accuse, and then to reassure him. So, big brother found himself in some sort of scrape, and little sister was promising to help him out of it? That was Noel's guess —and experience had proved his guesses accurate more often than not.

  From the look on Sir Nelson's face as his sister left him, he clearly believed she could help him. She was intelligent, and her brother appeared to trust her. Might she possess the information Noel needed to solve his case? If Sir Nelson was the essayist, she would surely know it. Might she be aware of his treasonous activities as well? Surely she couldn't condone—

  She was coming his way. Not wishing to be caught staring, he quickly turned to find himself facing Lord Peter Northrup and Harry Thatcher, who had been in conversation just behind him.

  "—last night. Or so the servants claimed, according to the paper," Lord Peter was saying. "If they're right, it appears the Saint is still quite active among us."

  Noel hid a smile. "So you're among the group that believes that the Saint of Seven Dials is a member of the ton?" he asked.

  "He'd almost have to be, wouldn't he?" asked Harry, gesturing with a half-empty wineglass. "Not for a job like last night's —any street thief could have broken into an empty house, after all. But some of his more legendary heists have occurred in the middle of Society dos, where no one but high sticklers were present."

  "Except servants," Noel pointed out. "He could simply be an enterprising footman."

  Lord Peter nodded. "Just what I've said myself. No need for the Upper Ten Thousand to go about suspecting each other—though I'll admit it's possible he's one of us. Easier for a gentleman to ape a servant than— Ah, Miss Riverstone!" he exclaimed then, looking over Noel's shoulder.

  Noel forced himself not to look around, though the temptation was strong. He could feel his body responding to her presence.

  "Pray forgive me for not seeking you out sooner," Lord Peter continued. "This is our dance, is it not? Come, I'll tell you the latest news." He led her to the floor, chattering about the Saint's latest caper, while she listened with apparent eagerness.

  Once her back was to him, Noel turned to watch her, his eyes enjoying her progress while his brain dissected the conversation just past. He hadn't expected the servants to find his card quite so quickly. Still, that might work to his advantage.

  "Pretty thing, isn't she?" Harry said, breaking into his thoughts. "At least, if you like that bookish type. Can't say that's my usual style, but I'd not say no to a tumble with her."

  Noel rounded on him, a swift, unreasoning anger nearly stealing his control. "I can't think Miss Riverstone is the sort to offer you one," he said coldly, fighting down an irrational urge to plant the fellow a facer.

  "No, probably not, more's the pity," Harry responded, oblivious to Noel's sudden fury.

  With an effort, Noel brought his emotions into check. He couldn't help thinking of some of the women Harry had seduced in Vienna. The very idea of Miss Riverstone being numbered among such ill-bred, willing wenches— Mentally, he shook himself. What was wrong with him? Harry always talked like this.

  "So, what was this story you and Peter were discussing, about the Saint?" he asked, as much to change the subject as to learn what was being said about his adventure last night.

  But as Harry related the details— accurate for the most part, but with some embellishments on the part of the servants —Noel found his attention drifting again to the dance floor, where Miss Riverstone was dancing the Boulanger.

  She smiled up at Lord Peter as their hands touched. He spoke a few words and she laughed, then the movements of the dance parted them again. But now she was facing Mr. Galloway again, and the fellow was leering at her even more offensively than he had during the minuet.

  Clearly, Noel hadn't managed to discourage the fellow by drawing Miss Riverstone into talk of chess and politics. He would have to risk her ire by broaching those topics again, he supposed. Better that than she fall victim to a rogue like Galloway.

  Because that would undermine his goal, of course. He needed to reach a level of intimacy with her where she would not hesitate to tell him everything she knew. Therefore, he must make certain she cared more about him than about any other man.

  It made perfect sense.

  * * *

  By midnight, Rowena was ready to drop with weariness. She had now danced at least twice as long as the longest lesson she'd ever had. How on earth did Society ladies hold up, dancing for hours on end, night after night —in corsets? She wouldn't be plump for long, if she kept this up.

  "Thank you, Lord Marcus," she said as an unnecessarily vigorous country dance ended. Clearly these Society types carried on until all hours on a regular basis, so she must learn to do likewise, if she was to fit in.

  "The honor was mine, Miss Riverstone. Ah! That would be the supper dance," he said then, as the orchestra began a waltz. "If you will excuse me, I am promised to my wife for this one." He bowed over her hand and made a quick departure.

  Rowena smiled after him, thinking how lucky his wife was to have such a devoted husband —as lucky as Pearl. Perhaps happiness in marriage for an intelligent woman was not so impossible as she had always—

  "My dance, I believe?" came a familiar voice at her elbow.

  Turning, Rowena fought down the blush that threatened at Mr. Paxton's appearance on the heels of her foolish fancy. He could have no notion of her thoughts, after all. She summoned a smile and a careless air.

  "Thank you, sir. I am yet nervous of attempting a waltz with anyone else," she said, placing her hand in his outstretched one, determinedly ignoring the effect the contact had on totally unrelated parts of her body.

  He placed his other hand at her back, intensifying the effect. "You needn't be, from what I have observed tonight. You are extremely quick at covering any small errors you make while dancing."

  Mortified that he had noticed such errors —and she knew there had been dozens —she averted her gaze as he moved her into the dance. "Thank you . . . I think."

  He didn't respond for so long that she finally glanced up at him again, to find him looking sheepish. "That was a clumsy thing to say," he responded to her questioning look. "I'm not particularly gifted at compliments, am I? For that's what I meant that to be."

  "And I should have taken it as such," she replied, her earlier embarrassment evaporating. "I've made no secret to you that I am unused to dancing. I only hope to keep some portion of the room relatively ignorant of that fact."

  "I'm quite certain they have no suspicion," he assured her with a smile that set her nerves tingling again.

  She wasn't sure whether she believed him, but was grateful for his reassurance nonetheless.

  "I owe you another apology," he continued before she could respond.

  "You . . . you do?" She'd have liked to blame her concentration on the steps of the dance for her conversational shortcomings, but she feared that was not the true culprit.

  He nodded. "I had promised to introduce you to General Wellington. He left early, however, and heads back to Paris tomorrow."

  Sudden disappointment stole a measure of Rowena's pleasure in dancing with Mr. Paxton. "I'm sorry to hear that —but it is scarcely your fault, sir."

  "No, I suppose not. And I did try to catch your attention earlier, while I was talking with him— but you were quite absorbed in the dance, and your partners, at the time."

  Did she detect a faint trace of disapproval —even jealousy? Surely not, but it was pleasant to imagine. "I would far rather have spoken with the Duke, had I known," she said with perfect truth. He could be reassured or not.

  "In recompense, suppose I repeat to you everything he said, over supper?" Mr. Paxton offered. "Mind you, I only spoke with him briefly."

  "I—I should like that." She hoped he interpreted her response as pertaining to talk of the Duke, not to the prospect of having supper together. That was what she meant, of cour
se.

  The dance ended, and he led her to one of the small tables set up near the buffet and held out a chair. "Do you suppose your brother would care to join us?" he asked, glancing about the room.

  Again, Rowena couldn't help feeling a bit flattered that he wished to make her brother's acquaintance, but she had to shake her head regretfully. "I fear he has already gone. He . . . was not feeling well."

  "Nothing serious, I hope." Did she imagine that glimmer of knowingness in his eyes? "Perhaps you can tell me a bit about him as we eat—after I tell you about Wellington, of course."

  "Er, certainly," she replied, though of course she could not tell him about Nelson's dilemma.

  "Would you like me to get a plate for you, or would you prefer to make your own selections?" he asked then.

  "I will trust your judgement." She didn't relish the idea of choosing foods she could not see clearly. Tired as she was, she was sure to squint.

  While Rowena waited for Mr. Paxton to return, Pearl stopped at the table. "How are you holding up, Rowena? You've been every bit the success I predicted, you must admit."

  Rowena returned her smile. "I won't deny I'm exhausted, but I have enjoyed myself for the most part. Thank you, Pearl."

  "I'm sorry that I've been unable to introduce you to any of the intellectual set, as I'd hoped. Even the Duke of Wellington left before I could bring you to his notice. However, there is one gentleman—"

  Mr. Paxton returned just then with two heaped plates, a footman with glasses hovering behind him. "Will you be joining us, Lady Hardwyck?" he asked pleasantly.

  Pearl shook her head. "Luke is waiting for me over there, once I've had a chance to make certain everyone is well situated for supper. I hope you are finding everything to your liking."

  He and Rowena both assured her that they were. She moved on to speak with Lord and Lady Mountheath and their daughters, leaving Rowena to wonder who she had been about to mention before Mr. Paxton had interrupted them.

  "Wellington is pleased with the peacetime progress in Paris, but finds administrative duties terribly dull," Mr. Paxton said as he seated himself across from her.

  "Indeed? What of the rumors that Napoleon may attempt another escape?" she asked, Pearl's unfinished sentence forgotten.

  They talked of Wellington and the politics of war and peace as they ate, Rowena eagerly adding specifics to her more general knowledge of recent and current events.

  Every now and then something in Mr. Paxton's expression would recall her to the present. Was he amused by her interest in such things? But amusement did not seem to be the precise emotion behind the occasional unsettling intensity of his gaze. She tried to remind herself that such a thirst for knowledge was unconventional, even unladylike, but as long as he was willing to supply so much information, she was more than willing to absorb it.

  "I'm now giving you more surmise than fact," he said at last. "As I said, I only spoke with Wellington for a few minutes. But you were going to tell me a bit about your brother, Sir Nelson, were you not?" Again, there was a certain acuteness to his gaze.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Rowena glanced down and was surprised to see that she had eaten everything on her plate. So much dancing had given her quite an appetite.

  "Yes, of course. What did you wish to know?"

  "What sort of man he is, what sort of work he does. Are the two of you very close? Is he . . . protective of you?"

  Rowena's breath caught. Was he asking whether he would need Nelson's permission to . . . to court her? No, of course he wasn't.

  "I can't say we've been particularly close in recent years," she confessed. "Once he went off to Cambridge, I rarely saw him. From there, he went to the Home Office, where Father obtained a position for him. Since Father's death, he has taken on more and more important duties there."

  "What sort of duties?"

  Rowena shrugged. "He's never discussed them with me, to be honest. I know more about his work from what I read in the papers than from anything he has said to me."

  "The papers?"

  "Well, nothing specifically about Nelson, of course, but occasional news items mention John Addington, under whom he works. They seem primarily concerned with implementing Parliament's charges for peacetime defense and the rebuilding of the economy."

  She thought Mr. Paxton looked vaguely disappointed, but couldn't imagine why. "Surely, now that you are in Town, you will be seeing more of him? He must have wished that, to send for you."

  "Oh, he did not send for me," she exclaimed without thinking. "That is, he was pleased to see me, of course." That was stretching the truth a bit, but he would not know that. "But I decided to come on my own."

  "Did you? Why?"

  Rowena hesitated, trying to formulate an answer that would be both truthful and vague. But before she spoke, she felt a touch on her shoulder. Glancing up, she saw Pearl and an unfamiliar gentlemen.

  "Rowena, I promised to introduce to you the more interesting of my guests," Pearl said with a smile toward her companion. The tall, dark-haired man returned it briefly, though his angular face, more interesting than handsome, remained somber.

  "Mr. Richards, let me make known to you Miss Riverstone, my oldest, dearest friend. I can't help but think you will find her opinions both well-informed and interesting. Rowena, Mr. Paxton, may I present Mr. Lester Richards."

  Rowena stared up at her idol, the chandelier behind him casting a halo of light about his head that blurred and exalted his features. Struck speechless, she could only offer Mr. Richards her hand, scarcely noticing Pearl's departure. He bowed, never taking his piercing dark eyes —his most attractive feature —from hers.

  "I am charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Riverstone," the older man said in a deep, cultured voice. "Lady Hardwyck speaks highly of your . . . abilities."

  Fighting down a blush, Rowena wondered whether he remembered the two rather gushing letters she'd written him. "Pearl is exceedingly kind. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Richards. I would love to discuss Spencean philosophy with you sometime."

  "I am at your disposal, of course." There was no denying the amusement in his eyes. No doubt he thought she was merely flattered to be meeting someone of his stature and speaking of things she didn't understand.

  "Tell me, what think you of Mr. Spence's later treatises, where he elaborated on the Natural Law he first proposed in The Real Rights of Man?" she asked, both because she was interested and to show him she knew the subject well.

  His brows rose, and she was gratified to see a dawning respect in his eyes. "I think—" he began, but was interrupted by a throat-clearing behind Rowena.

  Guiltily, she turned. "Oh! Mr. Richards, Mr. Paxton is a friend of Lord Hardwyck's. He is in Town to catch the Saint of Seven Dials, among other things."

  Mr. Richards inclined his head toward the younger man. "Honored, of course, Mr. Paxton. I have . . . heard of your work." His smooth voice dripped disapproval.

  "And I have heard of yours, such as it is," Mr. Paxton replied, his tone no more cordial.

  Frowning, Rowena glanced from one gentleman to the other. Clearly they had not met before, but their instant antagonism was unmistakeable.

  "I take it you do not approve of my efforts to correct an inequitable system of government." Mr. Richards' words echoed Rowena's thoughts.

  But Mr. Paxton did not rise to the bait, as she had expected him to. "Your efforts to influence Parliament are of little consequence," he replied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It is your impact on impressionable young minds that I find cause for concern."

  Unwilling to witness an argument between two men she would prefer to have as friends, Rowena spoke up. "Suppose you join us, Mr. Richards, so that we can all debate our varying views on the subject."

  Rowena belatedly remembered that she had promised Nelson to plead his case with Mr. Richards— though now she had met him, she found it even harder to believe he was pressuring her brother for money. This was clearly not the time, in any
event.

  "You are kindness itself, Miss Riverstone, as well as a born diplomat," he said. "Perhaps another time." With a bow, pointedly in her direction rather than Mr. Paxton's, he took his leave of them.

  CHAPTER 8

  Noel watched Mr. Richards' retreating back with a frown. He knew little of the man beyond the fact that he was linked to the so-called Spencean Philanthropists. John Stafford, Chief Clerk at Bow Street, suspected the group of sedition, and Noel was inclined to agree.

  Richards, if he recalled correctly, was actively recruiting more adherents to that cause. Surely that was enough to explain his instant dislike of the man.

  "Mr. Paxton?" Miss Riverstone recalled him.

  Turning, he saw both concern and curiosity in her expressive gray eyes. Feeling compelled to reassure her, he managed a smile. "I'm sorry. You were about to tell me your reasons for coming to London, were you not?"

  But she would not be put off so easily. "You clearly do not care for Mr. Richards. Why?"

  "Some of his ideas are dangerous," he said carefully, not wanting to antagonize Miss Riverstone. He still had much to discover about her brother.

  "Then so are my own, for I agree with most of what he stands for," she retorted. "I had thought you somewhat sympathetic to the plight of the common man when last we spoke on the topic."

  "Sympathetic, yes." If only she knew. "But not to the point of overthrowing what has proved a stable and relatively just system of government. Anarchy is not the answer."

  Miss Riverstone frowned. "I don't believe Mr. Richards advocates any such thing. Like me, he simply wishes for reform that will enable families who have farmed the same patch of land for generations to own that land."

  "But if Parliament will not act, is the common man justified in taking up arms against his own government?" he asked, irked at her defense of the man. "Such ideas may sound good on paper, but in practice are likely to lead to bloodshed and suffering."

  "Of course I don't advocate armed rebellion," she exclaimed. "What makes you think Mr. Richards would?"