by Brenda Hiatt
He glanced down at her in surprise, but she was gazing off into the distance, her cheeks still pink despite the parasol that shaded them from the August sunshine.
"I am flattered that you wished it—and I can assure you that it did indeed . . . work." He did not bother to hide his smile, as she was not watching him.
"So what shall we do about it?" she asked then, finally turning to meet his eyes.
Again startled —and charmed —by her directness, he quickly schooled his expression to one of proper seriousness. "I am open to suggestions. What should you prefer?"
She frowned, apparently not seeing the humor in this unconventional conversation. "I suppose it would make the most sense for us to avoid each other. While I would prefer to, ah, distract you from your investigation of the Saint of Seven Dials, it seems unsporting of me."
"That's unusually gallant of you, Rowena, presuming that avoiding me entails any sacrifice on your part. I would have thought your championship of the Saint would take precedence over the demands of sportsmanship."
She regarded him uncertainly. "Are you poking fun at me? However, I do see your point. Perhaps my priorities are askew."
"I would be surprised to find your priorities anything other than well thought out."
Finally, she smiled, an arch smile that only made her more fetching. "I'm pleased that my lack of social experience is a source of amusement to you, sir. On further thought, however, I see little point in our continued association."
"Oh?" Every statement she made seemed more surprising than the last. Noel was enjoying this conversation immensely.
"We have so little in common," she explained. "You are a proponent of the status quo, putting man-made laws above essential justice, while I am an unrepentant idealist."
He nodded. "I see. But what of chess? We have that in common, as well as a mutual enjoyment in arguing our differing views."
Her glance slid away from his again. "That . . . that is true. But scarcely enough to base a lasting— friendship —upon."
Noel abruptly realized that he wanted Rowena Riverstone for much more than a passing dalliance. He wanted to explore every facet of her mind as well as her body, to take his time getting to know her better than she even knew herself. He wanted her for life.
That shattering discovery sobered him as nothing else could have done. How could he have allowed this to happen, particularly now? But the fact was undeniable.
"Perhaps," he finally admitted, bringing his attention back to her words with an effort. "But friendships have flourished on far less, from my observation. Nor am I convinced that our ideals are so divergent as you seem to believe."
"Then— do you not wish to avoid me after all, despite the danger you claim I present to your pursuit of the Saint?" The look she sent him from under her lowered lashes was positively flirtatious —both out of character and exceedingly alluring.
Though still shaken by his discovery, Noel couldn't help grinning. "So you have decided to do your part to save the rogue, have you? But no—I cannot honestly claim that I wish to avoid you. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"Does that mean you will be returning to Hardwyck Hall?"
Noel considered. He still had numerous inquiries to make, and likely numerous forays as the Saint, to discover what he needed to know about Mr. Richards. In addition, there was his plan to positively identify the mysterious Mr. R once and for all.
"In a day or two, perhaps," he replied. "I do have certain responsibilities that I cannot ignore, much as I might like to. Once I have discharged them, I hope to have opportunity to turn my attention to more pleasant pursuits."
"Once you have captured the Saint, do you mean? Do you believe you are only days from doing so?" There was no mistaking her alarm. Noel rather enjoyed her concern for the Saint, construing it as concern for himself even though she could not know that.
He shrugged. "I dare not be so specific, but my investigation is progressing well. I begin to understand the Saint quite well, in fact."
"Yet you still wish to put a stop to his work? You disappoint me, sir." Her eyes reproached him even more strongly than her words.
Noel wished, more than ever, that he could tell her the whole, not only about being the Saint, but about his suspicion that Mr. Richards was the traitorous spy he sought.
It was too soon, however. Too many pieces of the puzzle were yet missing. If he believed she was in any danger that would change things, but that seemed unlikely. She posed no threat to the Black Bishop, after all.
"Perhaps when you come to know me better, you will feel differently." It was all he dared to say, and it was not enough to erase the censure from her eyes.
He felt a strong desire to please her, to give her some tangible evidence of the feelings he finally admitted to himself. The perfect compliment, the perfect gift—
Her mother's jewels? He recalled how upset she had been last night to see them upon Lady Mountheath's arrogant neck. Surely it would please her to have them back.
While he, Noel Paxton, could not approach Lady Mountheath about them without giving rise to dangerous speculation, the Saint was under no such constraint. The Saint worked anonymously.
And tonight, in keeping with his legendary modus operandi, the Saint would restore those particular jewels to their rightful owner.
CHAPTER 12
Rowena released Noel's arm as they reached the pond. He had that look again, the one he wore during chess matches —and this time she feared it boded ill for the Saint of Seven Dials. She had let his flattery distract her, even as he claimed she distracted him, but she saw now that they were as much at odds as ever on this one point.
"Do you know —or think you know —who the Saint really is?" she couldn't help asking, though she doubted he would tell her.
Nor did he. "See, here is the risk I spoke of. I find myself sorely tempted to tell you all I know, but that would be most unwise. Let us say that I suspect the Saint may reveal himself soon— perhaps to you as well."
Now that was an intriguing notion! But she saw from his expression that he would say no more on the subject. Had he meant it when he said she was lovely? No, she could not ask him that, either, without seeming both foolish and insecure.
"Will you be at the literary gathering Lady Hardwyck has planned for tonight?" she asked instead.
To her disappointment, he shook his head. "I am otherwise engaged. It sounds like something you will thoroughly enjoy, however. I daresay you will scarcely miss me."
In truth, she was looking forward to this gathering more than any other event Pearl had scheduled.
"Of course I will miss you," she replied automatically, then wondered if she should have been so honest. He said he admired her candor, but all too often it was simple lack of forethought. Why could she not treat conversation more like chess?
He smiled. "I must comfort myself with that, while I conduct my dull, official business tonight." Pulling out his pocket watch, he frowned. "I must go. I have spent longer here already than I had planned."
Though he sounded genuinely regretful, Rowena gathered what was left of her dignity. She did not wish him—or anyone —to think she could not enjoy herself without him. "Of course. It was pleasant to see you again."
The glimmer in his hazel eyes told her he knew that she had deliberately refrained from calling him by name, thereby not committing herself to intimate —or formal— appellation. "The pleasure was all mine, Rowena."
To her surprise, he raised her hand to his lips, his thumb stroking her wrist as he held it for a long moment. Unbidden, all of the feelings he had aroused in her the night before came flooding back —as he no doubt intended.
"Until we meet again," he said softly, his eyes probing hers, reading her emotions. Then he released her and turned away. As he had done last night, he left her without a backward glance.
Rowena stifled a sigh, but not an unhappy one. This time, he had left her with an unmistakeable promise to meet again —and to pursue t
heir friendship, or whatever it was that was growing between them.
* * *
"Sir Nelson Riverstone? Are you sure?"
Noel had spent the afternoon and evening tracing Mr. Richards' movements over the past few weeks. That the man was fond of gaming and generally won did not surprise him. Discovering that Rowena's brother had lost heavily to him did, however.
"Aye, fair dipped he must be by now," said Willie, the proprietor of a popular gaming hell on Jermyn Street. He had acted as Noel's eyes and ears before —for a fee. "Last time they played, it was for double or nothing."
"And I take it Sir Nelson lost again."
The other man nodded. "Always loses, far as I can tell. Dunno why gents like that keep playing, though it keeps me in business. Must be a sickness, I'm thinking."
If Sir Nelson's luck was that bad, it seemed unlikely Richards was cheating him, as Noel had first hoped. Still— "Who else is deeply in debt to Mr. Richards?"
But Willie shrugged. "There was another government chap— Grant? Something like that. He lost a good bit of blunt, but was able to pay. Haven't seen him in here lately, though."
"Geraint?"
"Aye, that was it. Know him, do you?"
"I did." Roger Geraint was the agent who had been in London investigating the Black Bishop until his untimely death a few weeks since. It had appeared he had been murdered by footpads, but those at the Foreign Office suspected otherwise —and so did Noel.
"Richards suckers them in the usual way," Willie volunteered. "Loses a game or two, till they get cocky, then cleans 'em out."
Noel nodded. It was a familiar tactic. "You've been helpful, as always, Willie." He slipped the man a five pound note.
"Always willing to do my part to keep London safe," he said, tucking the note into his breast pocket with a grin. "Just you let the chaps at Bow Street know how cooperative I've been —and that I run an honest house."
Noel clasped the man's grubby hand in his own. "Of course. May you have a profitable evening."
Walking back to his lodgings, he considered what he had learned today. It was little enough, really. Richards had lived in London for the past year or so, but where he had been before that, no one seemed to know. France was a possibility, of course, but he had no proof of that. That he could have been at Waterloo seemed unlikely, in any event.
Though he mingled with the intellectual set, he seemed to have formed no real friendships. His entrée to that circle was primarily by way of two treatises he had written last fall, on the Spencean ideal of the rights of the common man— the same treatises that had recommended him to Rowena Riverstone.
He appeared to have no family in Town, though Lord Peter Northrup had said something about his father having worked at Whitehall some years ago. Noel would have to follow up on that. Nor did he seem to have any noticeable means of support, beyond his skill at the card table.
Having supported himself in the same way for a time, Noel could not condemn the man for that. But he wondered now whether Richards' gaming concealed a darker purpose. Blackmail, perhaps? Geraint had been privvy to all of the information the Foreign Office had accumulated about the Black Bishop, and Sir Nelson had access to data that might be useful to a traitor as well.
Geraint would have refused to tell him anything, which might explain Geraint's murder. But what of Sir Nelson? Rowena said her brother had sold those jewels, presumably to pay a gaming debt —to Richards? He remembered now the look Rowena had directed at the man after divulging her secret.
He remembered also how agitated Sir Nelson had been that first night, at the ball. What was Richards demanding from him? He meant to find out.
Now, however, he had other business to attend to. A change of clothes, a bite to eat, and then a clandestine visit to the Mountheath house. The Saint of Seven Dials had an interesting evening ahead of him.
* * *
Rowena was enjoying herself even more than she had expected. Never before in her sheltered existence had she had such a wonderful opportunity to exchange views with so varied a group of well-read, intelligent people. It was an exhilarating experience.
At the moment, she found herself in animated conversation with Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey and Lord and Lady Holland, of the vaunted Holland House circle. Talk of poetry had given over to politics, Rowena's particular interest.
"Then you feel the Luddites were justified?" she asked Lady Holland. "I read Lord Byron's opinion on the subject some years ago, and thought them well reasoned, though I felt the weavers should have done more to prevent violence against persons."
"Violence will undermine any cause," said Southey, "though I know not all agree with me."
This sparked another lively discussion, to which Rowena listened avidly, occasionally offering an opinion of her own. Indeed, this was the very sort of thing she had hoped to find in London.
At one point, Lester Richards was mentioned, with Mr. Hunt expressing some surprise at his absence, "—for he generally shines in a millieu such as this," he said.
"He mentioned a personal engagement of some sort," Rowena offered. "And indeed, he did express his regrets."
Mr. Southey snorted. "One of his damned Spencean meetings, I'll warrant. Stirring up the very kind of violence we discussed earlier. Of course, like Byron, Richards believes I traded my principles for position when I became Poet Laureate. But with age comes perspective, leading, I believe, to reason."
"So you feel Mr. Richards has not yet attained that degree of perspective, or reason?" Rowena had noticed the constraint between the two men Saturday evening. This helped to explain it.
"He seems the sort who would go to any lengths to further his ends— legal or illegal, peaceful or violent," Mr. Southey said with a shrug. "I have come to believe that the end does not in all cases justify certain means."
Rowena nodded uncommitally, but she was struck by a sudden thought. Might Mr. Richards' principles lead him even to theft for a good cause —as the Saint of Seven Dials? The more she considered it, the likelier it seemed.
* * *
Stealing Rowena's jewels was going to be even harder than Noel had anticipated. The Mountheaths were dining at home tonight, with another couple he had identified as Lord and Lady Plumfield. Shouldn't all of these people have retired to their country estates by now? he wondered irritably as he watched the dining room from atop the garden wall, using a small spyglass.
Lady Mountheath was wearing the jewels in question: diamond earrings, necklace and brooch with emeralds interspersed. Which meant he wouldn't be able to act until the Plumfields left. He would watch to see where Lady Mountheath placed the jewels before going to bed— and pray it would not be in her own bedchamber. He settled himself more comfortably on the wall to wait.
Presently, the ladies went into the parlor while Lord Mountheath, Lord Plumfield and a young man Noel presumed was Plumfield's son remained in the dining room over brandy and cigars. Noel was considering leaving and coming back later when the gentlemen rose and left the dining room. He jumped from the wall, making little noise in his thin-soled shoes, though his toes stung at the impact. Cautiously, he circled around to the other side of the garden, where he might have a clear view of the parlor.
Applying his spyglass again, he watched the two Mountheath girls flirt shamelessly with young Plumfield while their parents discoursed on undoubtedly boring topics. Fairly adept at lip-reading, a skill he had developed during his time as a spy, he identified such words as "drainage," "imports," and "sleeves."
Eventually, they ran out of conversation —or perhaps were as overcome by boredom as Noel was— and the Plumfields took their leave. Lord and Lady Mountheath appeared to have little to say to each other once they were gone, though Fanny and Lucy giggled together as they left the room —no doubt comparing notes on the young man.
Again Noel crept through the garden, trying to keep Lady Mountheath in his sights. The angle was wrong for viewing the upper floor, where the bedchambers would be— all he coul
d see were ceilings. No one lingered below, however, which meant the jewels had likely not been put into a safe or strong box there.
He sighed, settling in for another tedious wait until all lights in the house were extinguished. Now, finally, he could make his move. The doors and windows were locked, of course, but that was small deterrent. Plying his lock picks, he soon had the back door open and was creeping up the stairs in search of his goal.
Reaching the upper hallway, he was able to identify Lord Mountheath's chamber by the loud snores resonating behind the door. The next one along was likely to be his wife's. Slowly, he turned the door handle, only to find it locked as well. What the devil did the woman fear in her own house?
With an inaudible sigh, he again pulled out his picks, and in a moment was able to push the door open. One hinge protested, and he froze, listening for any movement from the direction of the bed. None came, so he moved forward—only to see the bristling whiskers of Lord Mountheath on the lone figure in the bed.
Noel backed out of the room as softly as he had entered, closing the door behind him. Was Lady Mountheath the snorer, then? He went back to the first door, unlocking it as he had the other. The resonant snorting and wheezing doubled in volume, nearly rattling his teeth from his head. The faint light from the window revealed a frilly nightcap on the occupant of the bed, however. He was in the right room.
Turning his attention to the dressing table, he silently examined the assorted boxes and jars cluttering its surface. Opening first one, then another, he refected that he was unlikely to be heard over the fearful din of Lady Mountheath's snoring. No wonder her husband slept in a separate room.
He had gone through almost every receptacle and drawer and was regretfully coming to the conclusion that the jewels must be elsewhere, when his fingers contacted something cold and hard at the bottom of a box of ribbons. One by one he extracted a brooch, necklace and earrings. Success!