The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  He and Lord Marcus excused themselves to fetch plates of food for themselves and the ladies. Footmen were circulating with trays of drinks ranging from champagne to lemonade.

  "Glad of this chance for a word," Lord Marcus said as soon as they were out of earshot. "I'm hoping you can meet with Luke and me later this evening. We're wanting to finally do something about Twitchell, who's become even more abusive of late."

  "Certainly," Noel agreed. The vicious thief-master was a problem he'd been hoping to solve himself.

  Other gentlemen joined them then, so the subject was dropped. When they returned to the table, the ladies were deep in conversation, but turned to greet them with smiles. The four of them talked primarily about the deplorable conditions of London's workhouses during supper.

  Rowena was animated on the topic, and Noel enjoyed watching and listening to her, though he took a smaller part in the conversation than the others. He also noticed the overt affection between Lord Marcus and his wife, a rarity among their class that they shared with Lord and Lady Hardwyck.

  It was what he wanted for himself, Noel realized, his gaze again going to Rowena. She glanced his way just then, and for a long moment their eyes locked. Hers still held a certain reserve, as well as a question —a question he dared not answer just yet.

  "Goodness, was the supper break so short at the last ball, or is it merely the company that has made the time pass so quickly?" Lady Marcus exclaimed as the orchestra began the next dance number.

  "The latter, I'm sure," Rowena replied. "I have enjoyed our conversation immensely. Now, though, I pray you will all excuse me. I made a point of committing to no dances after supper, knowing how tired I was likely to be— and so I am."

  Noel and Lord Marcus rose to help the ladies to their feet. "You plan to escape yet again, then?" Noel said to Rowena in an undertone. "Would you care for an escort?"

  "Marcus wishes to talk to Lord Hardwyck later, so we will enjoy another dance or two," Lady Marcus said. "Sleep well, Rowena. Perhaps we can go shopping together later this week."

  Rowena agreed that she would like that, then turned back to Noel. "I am quite capable of finding my room unassisted," she told him archly. Then, glancing over his shoulder, her expression changed. "However, if you would care to accompany me as far as the stairway . . ."

  He extended his arm and she took it. As they walked, he cast a quick look behind him to see Richards watching them with a frown. So, she was still eager to avoid the man. Good.

  "You do not seem so tired as you did at Friday night's ball," he commented. "Are you beginning to adjust to Town hours?"

  Her expression had been solemn, but now she smiled. "Yes, I believe I am. Still, I don't really feel equal to more dancing tonight."

  He suspected it was not the dancing she wished to avoid, however. "A ballroom can be much like a battlefield —or a chess board —I find. Campaigns are waged by matchmaking mamas and determined bachelors, by fortune hunters and aspiring peeresses, each with their own distinctive strategies."

  "Precisely," she agreed. "As well as some campaigns far more subtle than those you have listed. The strategizing can be as wearying as the dancing, I find."

  They were nearly to the stairway now, and she paused to look earnestly up at him. "I fear I may make a false move, as some of the pieces appear to be hidden. It is worse than when I played without my spectacles."

  Her wide gray eyes pleaded with him for information —and for something else. Or was he imagining that? He led her to a small alcove near the foot of the stairs, where they would be less likely to be seen by any chance passerby.

  "Please believe that I don't wish to hide anything from you, Rowena, and would not if I did not have to. Soon—"

  "Yes, so you said. Perhaps within days. But meanwhile . . ." Her voice trailed off with a sigh and he felt something inside him give way.

  Covering the small hand that rested on his arm with his own, he turned to face her within the alcove. "Rowena, I—"

  He could not even wait to finish his thought, wasn't even certain what that thought was. Her nearness overwhelmed his reason, his senses, and he found himself kissing her—and found her responding eagerly.

  With stunning force, the feelings he had experienced last night came rushing back and it was as though she were naked in his arms again, ready for the taking he so desperately wanted. Noel, who had always prided himself on his ability to sublimate emotion to cool reason, felt like a ravening beast with only one way to feed his hunger.

  Rowena seemed to sense his urgency, his need— perhaps even to share it. Her arms came about him, pulling him more tightly against her until his arousal pressed against the firm softness of her belly.

  Summoning his last vestige of reason and every ounce of his self-control, he broke away from her to stare, panting, into her eyes. She appeared as shocked as he, her soft lips parted, swollen with the ferocity of that kiss. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly as she stared at him, one hand to her flushed cheek.

  "I—I didn't think—"

  "Nor did I," he said, managing a half-smile. Raw passion still simmered just beneath the surface. "In fact, I have a difficult time thinking at all when I'm with you, Rowena."

  Her helpless nod told him he affected her similarly. She reached toward him with one small hand, and he took it instinctively, though he now knew the risk he ran in doing so.

  If he went up those stairs with her tonight, they would not stop until she was his completely, and he hers. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. His whole body tightened in anticipation and he took a step forward.

  "There you are!" Lady Hardwyck's voice shattered the private world of passion they had woven together. As one, they swung around to face her.

  Her eyebrows rose as she looked from Rowena to Noel. "Well. It appears I may have found you just in time, from the look of things. Rowena, I believe you'd best go up to bed. We'll talk later."

  Noel tried to convey both apology and longing in his glance, but Rowena only met his eyes for an instant before turning away —too brief an instant for him to decipher the mix of emotions he saw there. "Goodnight, Miss Riverstone," he said softly.

  She paused, but did not turn around. "Good night," she whispered. He watched her mount the stairs, unable to take his eyes from her, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, her waist, one glimpse of ankle— remembering what lay beneath those skirts.

  "Mr. Paxton."

  With a start, he remembered Lady Hardwyck's presence. "My lady?"

  "Perhaps I should talk with you, as well as with Rowena. I would not have her hurt. However, it is my husband who wishes to speak with you just now. He and Lord Marcus are in the library."

  Her blue eyes were filled with concern for her friend. He wished he could reassure her, tell her that he meant to make Rowena an offer in form, but until this business with the Black Bishop was concluded, he dared not—any more than he dared tell Rowena plainly that he loved her.

  The next few days would be as dangerous as any he had faced, and it would be wrong to bind Rowena to him unless he could promise her a future together. But had Lady Hardwyck not arrived when she did, he realized, he would have done just that.

  "Thank you," he said, meaning more than her message. He suspected, from the look she gave him before turning back to the ballroom, that she understood.

  Luke and Marcus both turned to greet him when he entered the study a moment later.

  "I thought it was time all three Saints put our heads together to solve a persistant problem," Luke said with a grin, then became serious again. "You've both mentioned wanting to do something about that blackguard Twitchell. Earlier today a lad from his flash house was found, beaten unconscious. If Stilt hadn't found him, he'd no doubt be dead now."

  "Twitchell beat him?" Noel asked.

  At the same moment, Marcus said, "Who was it?"

  "Tig," Luke replied, nodding in response to Noel's question. "He roused enough to tell Stilt
that Twitchell caught him holding back part of his takings —money that I, in fact, had given him so that he wouldn't have to steal."

  Noel felt a cold rage edging out his earlier, warmer feelings. Tig was the lad who had been his go-between, bringing messages from Stilt via Squint, the footman. A plucky, cocky lad with delusions of grandeur —and no more than ten years old.

  "That bastard!" Marcus exclaimed, his voice low with a similar rage. "Where is Tig now?"

  "Here in this house, in the servants' wing. I've already had a physician attend him, and it appears he will recover." Luke looked at each of them. "Then we are in agreement that it's time Twitchell was removed?"

  They both nodded, but Noel said, "Or perhaps replaced? With Twitchell gone, will not the remaining lads simply move to Ickle's flash house —or an even worse one?"

  He had recruited a lad or two from Ickle's group when trailing Lord Marcus as Saint earlier this summer, and knew those boys received their share of hard knocks from their master as well.

  "My thought exactly, Noel," Luke said with an approving nod. "And I believe I have just the fellow. You may remember Flute, my erstwhile valet? I believe you were rather anxious to have a word with him at one time."

  Noel chuckled. He'd been certain that young man would be the key to proving Luke was the Saint —and he might well have been, had Noel's own agenda not changed drastically upon learning that Luke was not the traitor he really sought. "He should be safe enough in Town now," Noel agreed.

  "Which is why I've sent for him from Knoll Grange, one of my smaller properties, not far from London. He should arrive tomorrow. I'll brief him on the situation, and assuming he's willing to shepherd the boys, I'll confront Twitchell and give him a choice— between the gibbet and the colonies."

  "And you'll want us to watch your back, I presume?" Marcus asked.

  Luke nodded. "It seems prudent. And Noel, perhaps you can convince someone at Bow Street to ensure for us that he takes ship."

  "That should present no problem." Noel thought for a moment, weighing his other plans, then said, "I have a favor to ask of you, as well."

  "Of course." Luke waited for him to proceed, which he did after another long pause.

  "I will be engaged tomorrow, and perhaps the next day, conducting some necessary research on that matter I told you about."

  "And what matter is this?" Marcus asked curiously.

  Noel had not previously mentioned the Bishop to Marcus, on the theory that the fewer people that knew, the fewer would be at risk. Now, however, he quickly outlined the traitor's career, then added his suspicion that Mr. Richards might be the man he sought.

  "I need proof, however. I discovered today that Richards' father lives in the country a few hours from Town, an invalid. I'd like to question him as soon as possible."

  "So you want us to keep an eye on Richards while you are away?" Luke asked.

  Noel nodded. "If he suspects that I am on to him, he may attempt to leave Town —or do something desperate. I, ah, would particularly like you to keep him away from Miss Riverstone, if possible. She may be at some risk from him."

  Both men stared, and Noel felt his neck heating with embarrassment. "It's not what you think," he explained. "Yes, he has behaved as though he has a romantic interest in her, and I won't deny that I do myself. But certain things he has said, and done, indicate a darker purpose. Already she is dazzled by his highflown revolutionary rhetoric and . . . she believes he is the Saint of Seven Dials."

  At this, both men started to laugh. "How that must rankle!" Marcus said with a grin. "To have her admiring another man for your daring exploits. I believe I can sympathize."

  "If Richards really is the traitor you seek, he may attempt to inveigle Miss Riverstone into some scheme, or use her as a hostage against your moving against him," Luke said, sobering. "As she is a guest in my home, I feel honor bound to prevent him doing so."

  "Thank you." And Noel meant it from the bottom of his heart. Without that assurance, he would have to remain close enough to protect her himself— and after tonight, he couldn't deny that he himself posed a substantial risk to Rowena's future, if not her life. He had to conclude this case, and quickly.

  "What explanation do you intend to give Miss Riverstone for your absence?" Marcus asked then. "We would not want to inadvertently contradict it."

  Noel frowned. He knew it would be safest not to see her again —not yet. "Can you simply tell her that my duties require me elsewhere?" he asked Luke. "I hope to be able to explain everything soon enough."

  "Everything?" both men asked together.

  "Your wives both know, do they not?" They nodded. "As it is my hope that once this business is settled I can persuade Miss Riverstone to marry me, it seems only fitting that she know all."

  "Then London will need a new Saint— again," Luke commented with a wry grin. "But time enough to think on that later. I recommend an early night, gentlemen. We all have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

  * * *

  Rowena stared into the dark, sleep as far away as ever. Noel would not come to her tonight, she knew, not after Pearl had discovered them. He would consider the risk to her reputation too great— though she cared not a fig for that.

  She did care about Pearl's good opinion, however. Unwilling to face her best friend's censure until she had sorted out her wildly conflicting feelings, she had feigned sleep when Pearl had peeked into her room half an hour since. There would be time enough for a scold in the morning.

  Perhaps she should simply tell Pearl everything, and ask for her advice. From occasional comments between Pearl and Lord Hardwyck, she had the impression that their own courtship had been a rather bumpy one. The need to unburden herself, to get a more objective opinion, was strong.

  Not nearly as strong as her need for Noel, however. He was all she really wanted at this moment —his voice, his face, his kisses . . . his body. Was this obsession?

  No, she realized, this was love.

  Though she had resisted both her feelings and the admission of those feelings to herself, she could no longer deny either. Not only was this love, it was the sort of love that drove the poets to ruin. An all-encompassing and all-too-likly tragic love, given their differences and her betrayal of Noel's mission.

  All her life she had both doubted the existence and fantasized about the possible reality of love. Secretly, she had always hoped to find it for herself —to find that one man who would fill the empty spaces in her heart, who was her other half, who could make her whole, even as she made him whole. Now, she knew beyond doubt she had finally found that man.

  Rowena cried herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 18

  Noel was up before daybreak, determined to accomplish all that was necessary in time to be in the country by noon. His first order of business was at Bow Street, where he arranged for one of the Runners to make certain Mr. Twitchell boarded a ship for the New World within the week, with orders to arrest the thief-master if he did not leave London in that time.

  By then, Sir Nathaniel had arrived, so he requested a private conference to explain his own proposed absence over the next day or two, implying that he was close to capturing the Saint but hinting that even more important matters were at stake. It was a measure of Sir Nathaniel's trust in him that he did not require more information than Noel was prepared to share.

  By this time, he knew that the offices of the Political Register would be open, so he went there next, to discover whether any response had yet been received from Mr. R.

  "I was hoping you'd be by," the sympathetic clerk greeted him, nervously pushing up his spectacles. The motion reminded Noel sharply of Rowena.

  "You have something, then?" he asked, firmly pushing such distracting thoughts from his mind.

  The clerk nodded. "Came yesterday." He rummaged in his desk while Noel waited impatiently. "Here it is," he said at last. "He wants us to leave the letters in Green Park, behind a specific rock near the entrance."

  "When?"r />
  "Today. He plans to retrieve them this afternoon, he says. I was planning to wrap them in oilskin and put them there myself, later this morning." He handed the note to Noel.

  Reading through it, Noel fought to tamp down his sudden excitement. Today! He had not expected results so quickly. The Black Bishop was nearly in his grasp! His trip to the country to question Richards' father would have to wait. In fact, it might not even be necessary, if all went as he hoped.

  "Yes, that sounds like a good plan." He handed back the letter. "And thank you. You have done England a great service, Mr. Bell. If all goes well, I'll see that you are recognized for it."

  But the clerk shook his head. "I'd just as soon not, thanks, given Mr. Cobbett's politics. Being a hero might be nice, but I'd rather keep my job."

  Noel chuckled, his spirits irrepressibly high, even thought the job wasn't done yet, not by a long shot. "Your choice, of course. But you have my gratitude, nonetheless."

  Whistling, he headed for Seven Dials, where he was to meet Luke and Lord Marcus for the bearding of Mr. Twitchell.

  * * *

  Sunshine often serves to chase away mental as well as physical darkness, as Rowena discovered for herself the next morning. What had seemed hopeless in the dark watches of the night now seemed less so.

  Noel had told her he cared for her, and he was nothing if not an honorable man. Now that their indiscretion was no longer secret, he would likely make an offer in form.

  And she was very nearly resolved to accept him.

  "The periwinkle cambric, Matthilda," she told her maid once she had washed. It was her most flattering day dress, brightening her hair and eyes. She wished to look her best for what might prove to be the most important day of her life.

  Marrying Noel Paxton might well mean abandoning active pursuit of her more radical goals, but surely what she would gain in exchange would be worth it. Leisurely discussions of every topic imaginable, long walks, games of chess . . . and the promise of physical pleasures she could scarcely even imagine.