The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  He stood, bowed, and strode quickly away, before his temper could betray him. How in hell could the chit have beaten him? She had played him for a fool, for clearly she had intentionally lost before. Never would he have believed a female brain capable of that level of play.

  Obviously Miss Riverstone was a freak of nature, possessing a man's brain in a woman's body. Because of her, he had lost not only the money, but his only hold on her brother.

  With a curt nod to his hosts, he retrieved his hat and coat and left Hardwyck Hall. Clearly, something would have to be done about Miss Riverstone. She was too clever by half, and no doubt deep in her brother's confidence, and perhaps Paxton's, as well.

  He could not allow her to threaten his plans. She would need to be eliminated, along with Paxton.

  * * *

  "Well done," Noel declared the moment Richards was out of earshot. "Now don't tell me you didn't enjoy giving the fellow his comeuppance, apart from the money."

  Rowena's smile was slightly sheepish. "I confess that his arrogance made it far easier to beat him with a clear conscience. But—I hadn't intended anyone else to know about my brother's poor judgement."

  So that was why she had appeared so distressed when Richards called Noel to witness the wager. He had to laugh. "I suspect had Richards known how the match would fall out, he would have been perfectly happy to keep Sir Nelson's secret."

  She stared at him. "Surely you do not believe he would have reneged on the wager?"

  Noel shrugged. "I believe he was concerned that you might do so. It's the only reason he would have made the terms public as he did."

  Rowena's eyes narrowed in outrage. "How despicable! But you are only surmising, of course. We don't know that was his design."

  "No, no, of course not." Noel reminded himself that Rowena had long been an admirer of Richards, however mistakenly. Her opinion would not be overthrown in an instant. "Do you feel up to another game?"

  "Oh!" She glanced down at the board in surprise. "I hadn't really considered it, but I'm willing if you are."

  "More than willing," he assured her with a warmth that made her color rise. Deftly, he reset the board, black toward himself. "This will make it easier for you to compare my play to Richards'," he explained with a grin.

  She smiled back, having apparently regained her composure. "There is no comparison —you know that. Much as I might admire his opinions on social issues, yours is the superior mind." She colored slightly again, and Noel wondered what other comparisons she might be making.

  Concealing a smile, he said, "I'm glad to hear you say so."

  For a long moment she regarded him uncertainly, then moved a pawn to open the game. "It's been clear from the first that you do not care for Mr. Richards, and now I believe I understand the reason."

  "Do you indeed?" He moved a pawn of his own. "Perhaps you will enlighten me, for I am having some difficulty narrowing my reasons down to only one."

  She raised her chin to regard him squarely. "Now that you have realized my brother cannot be the Saint of Seven Dials, you have turned your suspicions upon Mr. Richards. I assure you, however, that you are mistaken."

  "Am I?" Noel asked, not bothering to hide his amusement. "How can you be so sure?"

  "He, ah, told me where he was last night, and it had nothing to do with Lady Mountheath."

  She was clearly lying, for Noel had made certain she had no opportunity for private conversation with Richards all evening. Was it really Richards himself she was trying to protect, or the Saint of Seven Dials?

  "It is your move," he pointed out.

  With an impatient frown, she looked at the board and moved another pawn, seemingly at random. "Well?" she challenged him.

  "I don't find myself at an impasse just yet." He shot her a grin and brought a knight out onto the board, leaving her to wonder whether his words referred to the game or the Saint.

  For half a dozen moves, they played in silence. Then, casually, Noel remarked, "My inquiries indicate that the jewelry stolen last night from Lady Mountheath just happened to be that which you identified as your late mother's —and that nothing else was taken. Don't you find that intriguing?"

  "Really? How . . . how curious." Though she tried for an air of surprised curiosity, her color betrayed her.

  Noel managed not to smile. "I thought so. You'll let me know, of course, if those jewels should mysteriously turn up."

  She swallowed. "Of—of course." Barely glancing at the board, she reached for her black bishop. Before she could touch it, however, Noel covered her hand with his own. Her eyes flew to his face in sudden alarm.

  "It is my move," he said gently.

  She snatched back her hand as though he had burned her. "My apologies. I am not usually so inattentive."

  "Yes, I know. Not unless you are letting other gentlemen win, at any rate."

  A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "You are not going to let me live that down, are you?"

  He shrugged. "I was never one for holding grudges." That was not quite true, he realized. He'd held one against the Black Bishop for years —but that was different.

  "I'm happy to hear that," she said softly, almost wistfully.

  Though her hand now rested on the table beside the board, he again covered it with his own. "We are not really on opposite sides, Rowena. I wish you would trust me."

  This time she did not pull her hand away. "As you trust me?" she asked with a raised brow. "When did you mean to tell me that your sister was married to the heir to a dukedom?"

  "I didn't think —that is, it never seemed something to introduce into a conversation. Why should it matter, anyway?" They both knew, though, that it did.

  Instead of answering, she asked another question —a more difficult one. "Tell me, what evidence do you have against Mr. Richards?"

  "I cannot do that," he replied, though in truth he wished he could. Surely, if she knew what crimes the man was guilty of, she would never want to see Richards again.

  "Because you do not trust me not to warn him?"

  "Would you?" he asked, trying to read her expression. To his disappointment, she would not meet his eyes.

  "Perhaps you are wise after all not to trust me," she confessed after a long pause. "It is still your move."

  Frustrated that she had shut him out, and equally frustrated that he could not tell her the truth —all of the truth— Noel removed his hand from hers and turned his attention back to the game. Or, at least, he tried to.

  Separated only by the small table, he found Rowena's nearness thoroughly intoxicating —the curve of her face, the shimmer of her hair, the smoothness of her skin, her faint, feminine scent. He thought back to the first night he had met her and found it incomprehensible that he had not known at once that she was unique, the missing piece of his own soul.

  Wanting to hear her voice again, he finally broke the silence with a topic sure to interest her. "The new Political Register is out today. Have you seen it?"

  "I, ah, was able to glance at it this afternoon, though I have not read it thoroughly yet," she replied. "Mr. Cobbett's essay on the weavers was most interesting, I thought."

  "Yes, most interesting," he agreed. But not disturbing, particularly —and Rowena suddenly seemed quite disturbed. "I was more taken by the anonymous Mr. R's latest offering, however," he said, watching her.

  Her eyes were on the board, so he was still unable to divine her emotions. "Were you?" she asked with careful indifference, as she took his remaining bishop with a knight. "In what way?"

  "I thought he pilloried the aristocratic class quite effectively, using both humor and truth to point up the hypocrisy one often sees at gatherings such as these. I believe it may be his best essay yet. Not, of course, that I agree with his premise that the lower classes are more honest."

  "Do you not think so? I have never heard my maid, for example, speak in such a two-faced manner as some of the high-born ladies I have met since coming to Town."

  He surveyed
the board, carefully positioning a rook to defend his queen before replying. "Your maid no doubt has learned her values primarily from you, so that does not surprise me."

  She blushed charmingly at the implied compliment. "You do not think her typical, then?"

  "I imagine that I have had more opportunity than you to observe the lower classes in their more depraved moments," he said. "Believe me, there is dishonesty enough to go around for all classes. If anything, the aristocracy is frequently constrained by Society's expectations from descending to true viciousness."

  "That all depends on how one defines viciousness," she argued. "Not many dukes resort to highway robbery, I'll grant you, but is that not because they have no need to do so? Is it any less vicious to tax a man to the point of destitution than to take valuables from a wealthy man to supplement an inadequate income?"

  Though she attracted him more than ever in her passionate defense of the downtrodden, her championing of this particular essay nettled him— particularly since he suspected she knew that Richards had written it.

  "The former, at least, is less likely to result in loss of life or limb for either party." His voice was perhaps sharper than he had intended.

  "So you do support theft by the government? That strikes me as the very height of hypocrisy!" She made a sweeping movement with her hand to underscore her point, accidentally knocking a few pieces from the board to the floor. "Oh! I did not mean—"

  Noel retrieved the pieces, but did not set them back in their places. "Neither of us seem to be playing our best just now anyway. What say we abandon the match until another time?"

  "Very well," she agreed with a rueful nod. But then she glanced up at him mischievously. "Do you also concede the point I was making?"

  "You vixen," he said with a chuckle. "I concede neither the game nor the argument. I perceive, however, that most of the guests appear to have left. Perhaps we might continue the latter in more private surroundings?"

  She regarded him uncertainly. "Private? How private?"

  "Nothing scandalous," he assured her, though his thoughts were definitely tending that way. "I had in mind the parlor." The parlor where he had stolen an extremely sweet kiss that afternoon.

  That she also was remembering was evidenced by her agitation. "I—that is—do you not wish to return to your lodgings soon?"

  He shook his head. "I am staying here again. I realized that where I am lodged makes little difference in how I carry out my investigation, so it seemed churlish to spurn the Hardwycks' hospitality."

  Luke's expression had been far too knowing when Noel had requested his room back, using the same excuse. His true motive was to keep a closer eye on Rowena, to prevent Richards from somehow using her, and to prevent her from telling Richards too much. At least, he was fairly sure that was his true motive.

  "Oh," she said faintly. "I see. Yes, I suppose we can repair to the parlor —but only briefly, as it is growing quite late." She nodded in the direction of a tall clock in the corner of the ballroom.

  "I know I teased you earlier for leaving off your spectacles," Noel said, "but now I rather regret you wearing them, for now I cannot pretend it is earlier than it is."

  "Why?" Rowena asked as they rose. "I mean, why do you tease me when I don't wear my spectacles?"

  He took her hand and placed it on his arm so that he could escort her to the parlor and was pleased when she did not resist. "Because I prefer you to wear them in public."

  "Why?" she asked again. "Why should it matter to you?"

  They moved out of the ballroom and down the passage to the parlor, which was still lit by numerous candles, though it was empty. Just inside the doorway, he stopped to look down at her, his expression serious.

  "Because I don't want other men realizing how lovely you are, Rowena. I had hoped to keep that knowledge to myself."

  Rowena stared up at him, her heart pounding in slow, heavy strokes. "Do you really think I'm pretty?" she asked, then immediately wished she could snatch the question back, lest he think she was fishing for compliments when it wasn't that at all.

  "Don't sound so disbelieving," he chided her gently. "Your own glass must tell you that— assuming you can see it without touching your nose to it." A wink took any insult from his words.

  "But I recognized your beauty even before you turned yourself into a Society miss," he continued, to her amazement. "I rather enjoyed thinking I was the only one to perceive it, beneath your severe gowns and hairstyle —and your spectacles. But now it is revealed for all the world to see."

  Rowena felt as though she would melt on the spot, but made an effort to rally herself. "You fear the competition, do you?" She forced herself to speak lightly, though she very much wanted to hear his answer.

  "Craven as it sounds, I believe I do," he replied. "The thought of you becoming as— friendly —with another man as you've been with me is almost unsupportable."

  "It is?" The words escaped her like a sigh.

  He nodded, gazing deep into her eyes, and then she was in his arms, as easily and naturally as though she belonged there. When his lips touched hers, she knew she had been waiting for this moment all evening —ever since their last kiss, in this very room. Rather than satisfy, his kisses seemed to create in her a hunger for more —and more.

  His hands roamed up and down her back as he explored her mouth, her throat, her ears, with his lips. Incapable of thought, Rowena gave herself up to his caresses, reveling in the sensations he produced in her. Tentatively, she ran her fingers along his jaw, rough now with a day's growth of beard. Why that should excite her, she had no idea.

  Finally, he lifted his head to gaze down at her again. "This wasn't supposed to happen, you know."

  "Kissing me again?" She hadn't intended it either, but—

  "Falling"—he cleared his throat —"under your spell. I've come to care very deeply for you, Rowena."

  Her breath caught, and she stared up at him, unable to speak. Surely he hadn't been about to say—? But his eyes told her that he had. She felt something inside her unfolding, expanding, like a rose bursting into bloom from the sunshine of his regard.

  Was this love? She rather suspected it was, though until this moment she had never quite believed in the romantic emotion. Should she tell him? If she said the words, would he? She found her courage not quite equal to that test.

  Watching her face, his eyes suddenly grew guarded. "I'm sorry. I should not have—"

  She interrupted him with a kiss, afraid to hear a retraction of what he had almost said, but almost equally afraid that he would speak more plainly. She felt that they both teetered on the edge of a precipice, from which there would be no returning once the words were clearly spoken.

  Though his lips made it all but impossible to think, she tried, while there was yet time, to remember the differences that divided them. Noel still pursued the Saint of Seven Dials, something she could not possibly condone. Could she?

  No, she must not compromise her principles, no matter how desperately she wanted to confess her feelings, and to hear his in return. Before she could give her whole heart to him, she must try to persuade him to her own views, convince him to give up the hunt. She could think of only one way to do so.

  "Let's go upstairs," she whispered against his lips.

  CHAPTER 15

  At first Noel felt sure he was hearing what he wanted to hear, instead of what Rowena had really said, there was so much unspoken between them already. Surely, she couldn't mean—? But already she was urging him toward the door of the parlor.

  As though in a dream, he went with her, his senses overwhelmed by her taste, her scent, the silky softness of her hair and skin. Taking him by the hand, she headed for the stairs and he followed, unable —or unwilling —to resist.

  A murmur of voices warned them a moment before Lord and Lady Hardwyck appeared on the landing before them, having just bidden the last guests farewell. Rowena released Noel's hand and he followed her lead by focusing on his hosts ra
ther than this girl who had quite definitely cast a spell over him, even if he had chosen those words to mask what he'd nearly said instead.

  "Another success, my lord, my lady," Noel said, his voice sounding odd and stilted to his own ears.

  "I thought so," Lady Hardwyck agreed with a smile that showed no trace of suspicion.

  Luke's glance, however, was more perceptive. "Ready to retire, are you? It is growing rather late. Your man should have your previous chamber ready for you, I should think."

  "I'm more than ready for my own bed," Lady Hardwyck declared. "Come, let's all go upstairs. We can discuss the relative merits of the evening's performers tomorrow."

  A glance at Rowena showed her clinging to a polite smile with evident effort, making Noel wonder if she was as frustrated by the interruption as he was. Surely, though, it was just as well?

  Though he had all but declared his love, he had made her no offer —nor had she indicated that she expected one. In fact, he recalled, now that the capacity for thought was returning, she had not mentioned her own feelings at all— not in words, anyway. He had no doubt read far too much into her seeming invitation. It would be madness to assume otherwise.

  Madness seemed to be the order of the evening, however. As they reached the upper hallway and bid each other good night, Rowena held his glance while he bent over her extended hand, and mouthed the words, "Later. Join me."

  Noel nodded slightly, then turned to bid his hosts good night, assuring himself that they had not witnessed the silent exchange. Rowena entered her chamber, then Noel entered his, while Lord and Lady Hardwyck proceeded to their corner suite at the end of the hallway.

  Kemp awaited him, of course. "Would you care for a brandy before bed, sir?" he asked as he helped Noel out of his tailored coat.

  Noel's only desire was to have the chamber to himself, so that he could think things through. Rowena knew who Mr. R was, of that he was certain. If he went to her now, could he persuade her to share that knowledge with him? Or was that a despicable motive for something he very much wanted to do anyway?