The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

"I'll speak with you later, Miss Riverstone," Richards said after the most formal of greetings and an awkward pause.

  She nodded, but scarcely seemed to notice his defection, so interested was she in hearing Mr. Southey's critique of a new play he had seen the week before. Noel could not regard Mr. Southey as a threat, given the man's age and marital status, so allowed himself to relax —only then realizing how tense he had been.

  "Might I prevail upon you to make a fourth at whist?" Lady Hardwyck asked him then, and he hesitated only the barest moment before assenting. He could not afford to have his interest in Miss Riverstone marked again by his hostess. Miss Riverstone's continued conversation with Mr. Southey meant that she was safe for the moment from Mr. Richards' return.

  Noel couldn't claim to play his best, distracted as he was by discreetly watching Miss Riverstone. She and Mr. Southey moved to another table to play at piquet, where they were soon surrounded by several others of the literary set.

  Determinedly, Noel turned his attention back to his own game. What did he hope to gain from his observation of Miss Riverstone, anyway? Now that he'd ruled out her brother as a likely suspect, she had no particular bearing on his case.

  Or did she?

  "Mr. Paxton?" Miss Cheevers, his partner, recalled him to the game.

  "Sorry." He played a card almost at random.

  There was still the matter of those essays, which, according to the clerk he'd questioned at the Political Register, had been posted from Oakshire. He glanced in her direction again —to see her rising from the piquet table.

  "Your game again," Miss Cheevers said to Lord and Lady Hardwyck, with understandable irritation. "Mr. Paxton, will you deal?"

  But Noel rose. "I beg you will excuse me. I seem to be too tired to concentrate properly." He beckoned to Harry Thatcher, just passing with a group of other men. "Take my place, won't you, Harry?"

  With a shrug, Mr. Thatcher assented, freeing Noel to follow Miss Riverstone, who had just disappeared in the direction of the back staircase. Quickening his pace, acknowledging greetings from the two Mountheath sisters with only a nod, he reached the landing just as Miss Riverstone began to mount the stairs.

  "Escaping again?"

  She turned with a gasp. "You startled me, sir. But yes, I had thought to retire. It is well past midnight, after all."

  "I've also had enough of games and chatter for one evening," Noel confessed. "May I escort you upstairs?"

  She frowned, her cheeks brightening. "Surely that wouldn't be proper?"

  "Who is to know?" he asked reasonably, though she was perfectly correct. "Besides, is not propriety one of those social constructs you despise?"

  One corner of her mouth quirked up, fascinating him. "So I have always claimed. Come, then. We will escort each other."

  Now that was a fascinating concept.

  "It appears your brother does not share your political views," Noel commented casually as they mounted the stairs together.

  "Nelson?" She chuckled —a low, erotic sound. Erotic? "Rather the opposite, I should say. It's why he—and my father —never wished me to come to Town. I fear I've been rather an embarrassment to them."

  Noel didn't see how this intelligent woman could be an embarrassment to anyone. "Someone must have shaped your views," he persisted. "An uncle? A neighbor?" Perhaps whoever was writing those essays?

  "My mother was rather a free thinker for a woman but she died when I was fourteen. I have shaped my own views, after reading widely. I need no man's sanction to form opinions." She spoke archly, daring him to doubt her.

  And indeed, he could not. In fact, he could scarcely think, with her gazing up at him like that.

  They had reached the upper hallway, where the bedrooms were situated. He wondered which was hers.

  "You are unique, Miss Riverstone," he said warmly. "Or—may I call you Rowena? I feel I know you quite well, for all we've only been acquainted a few days."

  "I . . . I was thinking the same," she said in a voice that was almost a sigh. "Still, Mr. Paxton—"

  "Noel," he corrected her gently.

  She smiled, a small, shy smile. "Noel, then. But I was going to say, as well as we understand each other, we seem to disagree about a great many issues."

  He moved closer to her. "But that is what makes things so interesting."

  "Yes." She all but sighed the word, her wide gray eyes locking with his.

  As before, he could not seem to stop himself. As he lowered his head, she parted her lips slightly, her tongue flicking out to moisten them. That tiny motion undid him. With a gutteral moan, he pulled her against him, claiming her mouth with a fierce kiss.

  At once, her arms went about him, urging him closer, even as her lips responded eagerly to his claim. Somehow he had known, had known from the first, that she was capable of such passion, that a fire was concealed beneath her prim exterior . . . not so prim anymore.

  His hands roved up and down her back, exulting in her lush curves, the way her small waist flared to generous hips. She twined her fingers through the hair at the sensitive nape of his neck, slid one hand across the breadth of his shoulders, his back.

  Noel felt his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Never could he remember wanting a woman so desperately as he wanted this one. In vain he tried to remind himself that she was but a means to an end, but the feather-light explorations of her fingers, now stroking his ears, drove him past rational thought. Teasing her lips apart with his tongue, he tasted all her kiss had to offer, demanding that she do the same.

  Nor did she hesitate. She twined her tongue with his, a joining that went beyond the mere physical. It was as though their very souls touched.

  It was that sense of connection, of vulnerability, that recalled him to his senses —the knowledge that he danced on the edge of a precipice and longed to plunge over until he lost himself in her entirely.

  "I—we—" he murmured into her hair.

  "Yes?" she breathed, then, "Oh!" much more distinctly. Taking a quick step backward, she stared at him, clearly aghast. "Oh, my."

  "Indeed. I had no— That is, I suppose I should apologize, but—"

  "No, don't. Unless . . . you are sorry?"

  Slowly, he shook his head. "Not in the least, unless I've distressed you."

  Her half-smile that made him want to kiss her again. "Confused, perhaps. But distressed? No."

  "I'm glad. I never want to be a source of pain to you, Rowena." He realized he meant it— which presented him with a problem.

  "Thank you. That is— This morning I thought—"

  "Yes, I know," he said before she could say too much, tempt him to promise things he was not ready to promise. "I handled that clumsily, and for that I do apologize."

  She smiled her acceptance of his apology and suddenly she was in his arms again, though he couldn't have said who moved first. Only that it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  Again he felt as though he were falling as desire swept away reason. Her tentative touch revealed her innocence, unleashing a fierce need in him to show her new delights, to be the one who led her through the maze of adult pleasures.

  Dimly, in some far-off corner of his mind that still clung to the capacity for reason, he registered the fact that they were exposed here in the hallway. A servant might appear at any moment.

  "Which is your room?" he murmured against her lips.

  He felt rather than saw her swallow. "Here." She half turned, taking a step toward the next door on the left. "But my maid—"

  Abruptly, reason returned. What on earth had he been contemplating? Had she been ready to allow—?

  "Your maid. Yes, of course. I do apologize. I've overstepped —that is— Good night, Miss Riverstone."

  Though his body protested, he turned from her and strode down the hall to his own room, only two doors away from hers. Not trusting himself to so much as glance back, he shut himelf inside and leaned against the door, gulping great draughts of air to calm himself.
/>   "Sir?"

  Damn. "I'm fine, Kemp. I just need to think."

  His manservant took the hint at once and withdrew without another word.

  Was he mad? More than one French beauty had attempted to cloud his mind during the war. Always, he had been able to take his pleasure while keeping his mind, his mission, perfectly clear. Why should this be so different?

  Perhaps he was simply out of practice. Still, did he dare risk his investigation —and perhaps men's lives —on the assumption that he would be able to rein in his emotions where Rowena Riverstone was concerned?

  "Kemp?"

  "Sir?" The man emerged from the dressing room.

  "Pack my things. We're returning to our lodgings tonight."

  He needed to put some distance between himself and Rowena Riverstone, so temptingly situated but two rooms away. Then, perhaps, he'd be able to recall just how vital his mission was.

  * * *

  Rowena stared, openmouthed, as Mr. Paxton —Noel— disappeared into his room without a backward glance. How could he have altered so abruptly? A moment ago, he had clearly wanted her, wanted—

  She put her hands to her flaming cheeks. He'd wanted what she had wanted —what she'd actually been prepared to allow. Was she mad? If her bedchamber had been empty, with no maid to concern them, she had little doubt she and Noel would be in there now, and her virtue on its way to becoming a mere memory.

  Thank heaven he had come to his senses, she thought with a discontented sigh. Turning the handle, she entered her room —only to find it empty after all.

  "Matthilda?" Though the small fire had clearly been recently tended, there was no answer.

  In sudden frustration, Rowena snatched up her hairbrush from the dressing table and flung it across the room. They could have been alone after all! Why, oh why, had she mentioned her maid? She half turned back toward the door, thinking to somehow recall Noel, to let him know, but caught herself before she'd taken a step.

  Really, she must be mad! Matthilda had likely gone down to the kitchens, and would be back at any moment. And even if she weren't, did she, Rowena, really hold her virtue so cheaply? Could she seriously contemplate destroying her reputation for a fleeting moment of passion?

  Yes, she realized, she quite definitely could. She could imagine doing so all too vividly. Not that it meant she would, of course . . .

  With another sigh, she crossed the room to retrieve her hairbrush, then seated herself at the dressing table to unpin her hair and brush it out with vigorous strokes. The rhythmic action calmed her, and gradually the jangling of her nerves, sensitized to a screaming pitch by Noel Paxton's kisses, quieted. When Matthilda entered a few minutes later, she was able to greet the maid with reasonable equanimity.

  "Miss! I did not expect you so early. I'd have come up sooner, if—"

  "It's no matter, Matthilda. I've only been here a moment. Run back downstairs and see if a bath might be possible, then come back to help me out of my gown."

  A few minutes later, a tub and steaming kettles were brought. While the tub was filled, Matthilda undid the row of hooks down Rowena's back, then lifted the blue gown over her head. Not until she lowered herself into the bath, again alone, did Rowena allow her thoughts to return to Noel Paxton.

  What might he be doing, two rooms away? Was he, perhaps, thinking of her? Would he have heard the servants bringing her bath water, know that she was now in here completely unclothed?

  "Oh, stop it," she said aloud to the empty room.

  She had read widely enough to know that men rarely set as much store by kisses, or even lovemaking, as women did. History was littered with stories of women who had foolishly given themselves to undeserving men, only to find themselves ruined and alone.

  Of course, there were other stories that ended quite differently, and it had certainly seemed as though—

  No. She could not count on that. He might have been merely dallying with her. Still, why could she not dally as well? Rowena had never entertained romantic expectations of marriage and family. Her dreams had run rather to ambition and influence, as a man's might. So why could she not take her pleasure as men did?

  The novel notion intrigued her.

  She would not discourage Mr. Paxton, she decided. If he wished to pursue a dalliance, she would indulge him and take what enjoyment she might from it, without expecting anything more. That would leave her heart and her mind free for more important things.

  If men could separate their emotions from their physical pleasures, then so could she.

  But as she drifted off to sleep an hour later, her dreams inexplicably involved Noel Paxton not only kissing her, but declaring his undying love—a love she professed to return.

  CHAPTER 11

  "Gone?"

  Rowena had dressed with extra care for breakfast, even leaving her spectacles upstairs, only to have Pearl inform her that Mr. Paxton had packed his things and left late last night.

  "He said he had things to attend to at his lodgings —that he would be working more closely with Bow Street for a few days, which made staying nearby more convenient," Pearl explained. "I daresay we shall still see something of him, however, as the investigation cannot take up all of his time."

  "I daresay," Rowena echoed hollowly. He had said nothing last night about his investigation, nor about leaving. She suspected his decision had been made after the passionate moment they had shared in the upstairs hallway.

  But what did it mean?

  "You sound tired, dear." Pearl peered at her in evident concern. "It's as well that it is Sunday, and that therefore we have no particular plans for the day. I recommend you take the opportunity to rest."

  Rowena nodded, then turned away to fill a plate from the sideboard before Pearl could read her expression. "Yes, I'm sure that would be best. Then I will be fresh for whatever you have planned for tomorrow."

  "A picnic in Green Park. If the fine weather holds, it will be perfect for a day out of doors. You'll want to choose a dress with a matching parasol, of course, to keep your freckles to a minimum."

  While Pearl elaborated on her plans, Rowena's thoughts returned to Noel, though she tried to appear interested in both her breakfast and Pearl's words. Had he run away from her? Why? Was she really so threatening —or so distasteful?

  But he had not seemed to find her distasteful last night.

  Though she tried to distract herself with both reading and writing, by the end of the day Rowena had examined every conceivable explanation for Mr. Paxton's removal, finding none of them satisfactory. The one she wished most to believe —that he had felt honor-bound to remove himself from the temptation to sully her virtue— seemed the least likely of all.

  Nor was she satisfied with a second draft of the essay she had written for the Political Register. Reading it over, she saw that the opinions of both Mr. Richards and Mr. Southey had crept in, along with the mitigating influence of Noel Paxton's views. Had she always parroted the opinions of others like this, with no original thoughts of her own?

  Pulling out copies of her previous essays, she realized that, to some extent, she had. In fact, her first two essays had been drawn almost entirely from Mr. Richards' letters. She had even used his handwriting as her model, to disguise her own as a masculine hand.

  Surely she was capable of more independent thought —and expression —than she had shown so far. Picking up her pen, she began the essay afresh. Finally, after much work, she was satisfied that the opinions in the essay she would post in the morning were her own and no one else's.

  Still, she went to bed that night in a far less complacent frame of mind than she had done the night before. Her life seemed to be teetering on the verge of some change —but whether for better or worse, she could not at all determine.

  * * *

  Noel also spent much of Sunday reading through all of Mr. R's essays, but with a far different purpose. A previous visit to the office of the Political Register had yielded the original of one of those essa
ys. Now he carefully examined the hand as well as the content, comparing both to letters given him by the Foreign Office— letters known to have been sent by the Black Bishop.

  While the writing had clearly been disguised in both cases, there were enough similarities to make it likely that the same hand had penned both, allowing for differences in pens and circumstances. And the similarity of expression struck him even more forcefully than before.

  That one phrase, "the sacrifice of men as beasts," while perhaps not unique, was unusual enough to stand out when it appeared in both Mr. R's work and a letter from the Bishop.

  He paused then, struck. Had not Lester Richards said something similar last night, while talking with Rowena? At the time, Noel had been watching the young lady's face, trying to convince himself that she felt no more than intellectual interest in the other man. Now he recalled some of the actual words that had been spoken.

  Mr. R.— Mr. Richards? Surely it could not be so easy as that? Nor could he quite trust himself to be objective, given how much he resented the fellow's influence over Rowena. Still, he was duty bound to follow any lead —and he had an idea of how to do so.

  Early Monday morning, Noel again presented himself at the offices of the Political Register, relieved to discover the clerk who had helped him before, a Mr. Bell, was there. Noel waited until the other clerk was busy on the other side of the small, paper-filled room to speak.

  "Those letters you mentioned before, the ones that have accumulated for the essayist Mr. R over the past few months," he said softly. "I have an idea of how you might deliver them."

  The bespectacled young man looked both pleased and surprised. "Do you, sir? Mr. Cobbett would be happy to do so, I know. He's been so concerned some might be important, and of a timely nature, that he talked about opening them, but felt it would be a breach of privacy to do so."

  "He never tried to trace those essays back to their source in Oakshire for that purpose?"

  The clerk shrugged. "He would have, I'm sure, had any of them been delivered other than by post. There's another anonymous writer, an LB, who has his pieces delivered by a footman. That made it easy enough to figure out who he was— and to send on any letters he receives, the same way. He doesn't get nearly so many as this Mr. R, though."