The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Noel started to reply, then realized he had no actual evidence —and would not be authorized to share it if he did. "I've seen his sort before," he said vaguely. "Professional agitators."

  "So you don't actually know," she said in evident satisfaction. "I suspected as much. I won't have my good opinion of Mr. Richards swayed by mere speculation."

  "Your good opinion—!" Noel was startled by a strong desire to shake her. Why should her opinion of Richards matter to him? But it did. It mattered quite a lot.

  Abruptly, belatedly, it struck him that he was jealous— jealous!— of another man's influence over Miss Riverstone. And that, of course, was absurd. He needed to win her confidence and liking, but he could not allow his emotions to become involved.

  "You're right, of course," he said with an effort. "While I won't deny I enjoy debating such matters with you, I have no real reason to slander Mr. Richards into the bargain. My apologies."

  Her expression softened, and Noel felt his pulse quicken. He felt the strongest urge to lean toward her, to . . .

  "It is not I to whom you should apologize," she pointed out with a smile that forgave him.

  Noel swallowed, thoroughly alarmed by her effect on him. It was as well he was not required to stand just now, or that effect would be evident to the entire room. He had seen others brought low, even destroyed, by the allure of a woman. Then, he had not been able to understand such weakness. But now—

  "If I should see Mr. Richards again, I will be more conciliatory," he said, hoping he would not be called upon to fulfill that promise. "Would you care for some sweetmeats?"

  She shook her head— rather to his relief, since his body's response to her had not yet subsided. "I have eaten enough already to make me sleepy. When do you suppose I can escape without giving Pearl offense?"

  "Some guests will undoubtedly leave after supper, though others will continue dancing for two or three more hours."

  Her eyes widened with amazement. "More dancing? To think that I always regarded those in Society as lazy and useless."

  "Useless some may be," he agreed with a grin, "but the social whirl can be gruelling for those determined to keep up with it."

  "So I begin to perceive." Her voice held a hint of regret, and more than a hint of weariness.

  Though aware of the danger, he could not help reassuring her. "You have used your energies far more productively, Miss Riverstone. Do not fault yourself for that."

  She smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you. But now, I do believe I will attempt an escape upstairs, that I may save a modicum of energy for tomorrow's activities."

  Noel stood, finally able to do so without embarrassment. "Come. We'll stroll onto the terrace as we talk. We can make our way toward the garden door, and as soon as no one is looking, you may disappear inside that way. I can make your apologies to Lady Hardwyck once you are upstairs."

  "You are very good to me, sir," she said, rising to place a hand on his outstretched arm.

  He felt a ridiculous urge to confess to her his true motive in being kind, and squelched it at once. The mission was the thing, after all.

  "Common courtesy is the mark of a gentleman, or so I have always heard," he said instead. "It is a designation I strive to merit."

  "I too believe that a gentleman is evidenced by his behavior rather than the accident of his birth," she said as they moved toward the open French doors along the side of the ballroom. "As is a lady. I should wish to do as well in meriting that designation as you do that of gentleman, Mr. Paxton. But of that, I despair."

  He glanced at her, to find her gray eyes twinkling. "Why, Miss Riverstone, I do believe you are fishing for compliments. Far be it from me to refuse to rise to the bait."

  They had reached the terrace now. A quick glance about showed no one observing them, so he led her down the broad stone steps into the gardens.

  "Allow me to say that the world would be a better place were more ladies like yourself," he said as they moved along the graveled path toward the back door. "You have made the evening thoroughly enjoyable, and interesting as well."

  Her eyes widened at his serious tone and he thought he could discern a blush by the light of the three-quarter moon. "Thank you. I . . . I must say the same for you."

  They stopped near the door and Noel moved closer, probing her eyes with his own, trying to divine her secrets —for secrets he was certain she had. At the same time, her gray eyes searched his, threatening to unravel his own secrets. He felt another, stronger compulsion to tell her everything.

  "Miss Riverstone —Rowena," he murmured.

  She swayed toward him, almost imperceptibly, clearly eager to hear whatever he might say. Trapped between warring temptations, he gave in to the less dangerous of the two. Holding her gaze, he leaned down, resting one hand lightly on the nape of her neck. Her thick-lashed eyes drifted closed as he covered her mouth with his.

  Noel thought to just brush her lips—a quick kiss to confuse her senses and keep her off balance, the better to question her later. Instead, her sweet softness captivated him, demanding that he taste what she had to offer, to explore, to claim—

  With a tiny sigh, she lifted her arms to his shoulders, clinging to him as though for support. Her answering kiss was innocent, inexperienced, but that made it all the sweeter. He found himself exulting that he was the first man to awaken this side of the serious Miss Riverstone.

  Splaying one hand against her back, he drew her closer, intensifying the kiss, teasing at her lips with his tongue, coaxing them apart. Who could have guessed she would taste so good? He wanted—

  Abruptly, she pulled away, staring up at him in near panic. "Oh! I—I—Good night!" Not quite meeting his eye, she turned and fled to the garden door, disappearing inside.

  Noel stared at the closed door, reflecting that it was just as well she had broken off that remarkable kiss. If she had not, he would almost certainly have accompanied her upstairs —and that was a commitment he was by no means ready to make.

  * * *

  Rowena ran straight to her room, refusing to look back, refusing even to think, until she had barricaded herself inside. Was Mr. Paxton mad? Was she? What on earth had just happened?

  "Miss? Is something wrong?" Matthilda emerged from the dressing room, her eyes wide with concern.

  Managing a shaky laugh, Rowena shook her head. "No, of course not. I am tired, that is all, and ran up here to escape before Lady Hardwyck could tease me into staying below. If you will unhook my gown, I can do everything else myself. I'm sure you want your bed as much as I do."

  While the maid helped her to undress, Rowena tried to reel in her imagination. It was just a kiss, after all. Had she not read that men set little store by such things? It would not do to weave romantic fantasies about one single occurrence. No doubt she had said or done something to make Mr. Paxton think she was inviting such an attention, and he felt it was only polite to comply.

  That had not felt like a "polite" kiss, however.

  "Thank you, Matthilda. Good night."

  Slipping out of her shift and into her nightrail, Rowena shook her head. She would not know a polite kiss from a passionate one, never having experienced either. Perhaps he had meant it as a polite one and she had tried to turn it into something else. What must he think of her? Her cheeks burned with sudden embarrassment. Her inexperience must have been crystal clear to him. Was he even now chuckling at her expense?

  She didn't know what to think, and her brain seemed too fuzzy to sort things out. She had not been exaggerating her weariness, but now her whole body tingled with newly awakened longings. Slowly, she climbed into bed, guiltily reliving every delicious sensation until she drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  The day was well advanced when Rowena awoke, fully refreshed, if a trifle stiff from her unaccustomed exercise of the night before.

  "Good morning, Miss," Matthilda greeted her, bustling in as Rowena stretched the kinks from her joints. "Or good day, more like. It's
nigh noon, but I dursen't wake you, late as you went to bed."

  "And I thank you for that. I presume I've missed breakfast?"

  The maid shrugged. "I wouldn't know, Miss, but I can have a tray sent up if you'd like."

  "No, I'll go down." She was eager to see Mr. Paxton again, though embarrassed as well. Would he act differently toward her now? Should she act differently toward him?

  Two new day dresses and another evening gown had been delivered while she slept, so Rowena donned a flattering yellow round dress with moss-green ruching about the neck and wrists. Not wishing to wait for Francesca, she had Matthilda pull some of her hair back into a knot while allowing the rest to fall past her shoulders.

  "You look a treat, Miss," the maid assured her, and Rowena had to agree. Why had she eschewed bright colors all her life? As no guests were likely to be below so early in the day, she donned her spectacles and went in search of sustenance.

  Pearl and Mr. Paxton were just leaving the dining room when she arrived.

  "Good afternoon, sleepyhead," Pearl greeted her with a smile. "It seems Mr. Paxton was not bamming me when he said you were tired last night. In truth, I think you did splendidly for your first ball. I recall I slept until two the day following mine."

  Rowena, acutely aware of Mr. Paxton's regard, returned Pearl's smile. "Then, as you were a mere sixteen while I am of a far more advanced age, I must credit myself with unusual stamina."

  "You make it sound as though you are in your dotage," Pearl said with a laugh. "As we are of an age, I should take insult."

  "No one could ever think either of you anything but young and vibrant," Mr. Paxton said gallantly. "Are you recovered from last night's exertions, Miss Riverstone?"

  Something in his tone, and in his eyes, made Rowena blush, though it was a perfectly innocent question. "Yes, I thank you. Or will be, once I've had a bite to eat. Dare I hope—?"

  "Yes, there's still plenty on the sideboard," Pearl assured her. "I expected you would be hungry when you finally emerged. But now you must excuse me. I need to speak with the housekeeper about arrangements for this evening's card party."

  "And I must go out, I fear." Mr. Paxton sounded genuinely regretful, but Rowena tried not to read too much into that.

  "How progresses your pursuit of the Saint?" she asked, more to remind herself of how divergent their ideals were than because she wanted to know.

  He had started to turn away, but now faced her again, his gaze surprisingly sharp. "Slowly. Why? Have you heard anything?"

  "I? Of course not," she said quickly, then immediately wondered if her vehemence might make it sound as though she were hiding something. Which she was, she realized, but it was of an emotional rather than a factual nature. She schooled her features to an expression of innocent interest.

  He continued to regard her speculatively for a long moment, then gave a barely perceptible shrug. "I know you do not approve of my task, Miss Riverstone, but I hope that if you hear of anything . . . irregular, you will tell me."

  Rowena would not promise anything that might lead to the capture of the Saint, but she could not quite hold out against the plea in those intense hazel eyes.

  "I truly have heard nothing, Mr. Paxton, and can't imagine that I will. But if anything happens that causes me concern, I will let you know."

  "Thank you. That is what I had hoped."

  Again, his expression gave his words added meaning, and she realized that her promise could pertain to much more than news of the Saint. Still, she found she did not wish to retract it. Something about Mr. Paxton compelled trust, whether she agreed with his principles or not.

  "You two are free to make moon eyes all afternoon, but I really must leave you," Pearl said then.

  Belatedly aware that she had been staring, Rowena dropped her gaze. Therefore, she could not tell whether Mr. Paxton was similarly embarrassed.

  "A dozen or more people will be here at two for a trip to see the tigers at the Exchange," Pearl continued. "We will return in time to change for dinner and the card party. You will both come, will you not?"

  Rowena nodded, but to her distinct disappointment, Mr. Paxton demurred.

  "My business is likely to take longer than that, my lady, though I will be here this evening, of course. And if I finish sooner than expected, perhaps I may join you at the 'Change."

  He took his leave then, and Pearl bustled off as well, leaving Rowena to a solitary breakfast and some much-needed thought. Any eagerness she had felt for the afternoon's excursion had been dimmed by the news that Mr. Paxton would not be one of the party —and that was absurd.

  To distract herself, she again picked up the copy of the Political Register which had been left in the dining room, as she had not been able to finish it the other morning. She was deep in an editorial on the injustices endured by factory workers in the north, when a noise behind her made her turn to find Mr. Paxton reentering the dining room.

  "I felt the need for another cup of coffee," Noel explained, nodding to the footman to bring him one. "What have you there?" He had returned in the hope of speaking privately with her, and was delighted at his good fortune in finding her holding that particular paper.

  She made a motion as if to hide it again, then lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely. "The Political Register. Are you familiar with it?"

  "Indeed I am. I can't say I always agree with the views expressed therein, but it makes for interesting reading." He seated himself across from her. By unspoken agreement, neither referred by so much as a look to that remarkable kiss they had shared last night.

  Some of the tension left her shoulders, as though his response reassured her. "I agree. Mr. Cobbett and his contributors have a way of cutting to the heart of the injustice and hypocrisy infecting England."

  "And yet," he said, taking a sip from the cup just handed him by the footman, "some of those contributors hide behind false names or initials. Is that not a brand of hypocrisy in itself?"

  Sudden alarm flared in her eyes. So, she did know something! "Can you really blame them, sir, when Cobbett himself was once charged with sedition, along with such luminaries as Leigh Hunt?"

  "The Hunt brothers were merely unwise enough to openly criticize the Prince Regent. I tend to agree that imprisoning them was an overreaction on the Regent's part, and only served to make him look foolish. Cobbett and some of the others, however—"

  "Exposing injustice is not sedition," she insisted passionately. "If anonymity allows the truth to reach the public, I cannot help but think it justified."

  Surely, this was the fervor of a sister defending a brother? His pulse quickened as he sensed his quarry almost in his grasp.

  "One would almost think you had a personal stake in protecting the identity of these anonymous writers," he said, watching her closely.

  There was no mistaking her alarm this time. "Why do you say that?"

  "You seem so passionate in their defense," he explained. Unbidden came a vision of how passionate she had been last night— how passionate she might prove in other endeavors as well. Hastily, he thrust it away.

  "I, ah, share the opinions of some of those writers, so in that sense I suppose I feel a personal concern."

  She still appeared more agitated than the discussion would seem to warrant, but he realized that she, too, might be remembering that kiss. He needed clearer proof.

  "Have you no suspicion, then, as to who any of those writers might be? There is one in particular—" Reaching across the table, he twitched the paper from her grasp, his hand grazing hers in the process.

  They were both ungloved, and he was startled at the impact of that brief contact. That she noticed it too was evident in her quick, indrawn breath and the widening of her eyes.

  Steeling his emotions against such weakness, Noel quickly scanned through the pages. "No, he appears not to have an essay in this issue. If you are a regular reader, however, you are doubtless familiar with the author I mean. He signs his pieces 'Mr. R.'"


  She swallowed convulsively, but then took a deep breath and met his eye. To his surprise, something like amusement flitted across her face. "I fear I pay little attention to the initials following the essays, Mr. Paxton. Do you recall the topics this particular writer addresses?"

  "Oh, the usual rants about the evils of the landed class, the plight of the poor farmer, the conditions of the poorhouses. You know." He spoke disparagingly, hoping to goad her into defending the writer —and perhaps giving something away.

  "Rants? Those essays are well-researched, and quite logical in presentation —or so I have thought."

  Noel couldn't suppress a triumphant grin. "Ah, then you do know which essayist I mean?"

  Caught, she flushed scarlet. Still, he couldn't help but admire the way she lifted her chin and tried to brazen it through. "I find that true of virtually all of the essayists, with one or two exceptions."

  "Of course." He let her see that he wasn't fooled in the least. "To be more specific, one such essay a month or two ago was emphatic in its defense of the Saint of Seven Dials as a champion of the common man. As you may imagine, that caught my attention."

  In fact, that was the essay which had convinced Noel that the author and the Saint might be the same.

  "He spoke of the necessity of the redistribution of wealth," he continued, "insisting that if Parliament would not see to it, the public should support the efforts of vigilante reformers like the Saint. He was rather persuasive, alas, which has not made my job any easier —nor more popular."

  She shrugged slightly, taking a bite of shirred eggs that must be stone cold by now. "You already know my own views on the subject, Mr. Paxton. Is it any wonder I should be sympathetic to that essayist?"

  He frowned, nettled that he'd given her a plausible counter argument. "I still find hiding behind initials cowardly," he said, and was rewarded by seeing her flinch. "If convictions are firmly held, should they not be stated openly?"

  "Perhaps some writers have other reasons for disguising their identities," she suggested, her color still high. "A . . . man in the public sphere may hope to effect change through conventional channels even while he persuades the public through others." She motioned at the paper Noel held. "Were it known the two were one, it might make both avenues less effective."