The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

"You're welcome to anything that'll help give Lester what he deserves, the blackguard. Just make sure everyone knows his character flaws aren't my fault. It's all in the blood —that damned French blood."

  "Of course." Noel was more than ready to take his leave of this bitter and bigoted old man. "Good day, sir."

  Tucking the letter into his breast pocket, he retrieved his hat and went out to the waiting carriage.

  "We'll make a quick stop at the inn for a bite, then be on our way," he told the young coachman. The lowering clouds promised more rain, which would slow his return, but he should still reach London early this evening.

  With luck, the Black Bishop would be in custody by nightfall.

  * * *

  Answering her letters was not proving quite the distraction Rowena had hoped. For one thing, she was too tired to concentrate properly, having spent a nearly sleepless night imagining every possible thing that could go wrong for Noel. Suppose Mr. Richards had followed him, attacked him? Might he even now be lying in a ditch somewhere?

  With daylight her fears had receded somewhat, but not her agitation. As he had described his mission, it should have taken little time. Shouldn't he be back by now? She set down her pen and glanced at the clock above the fireplace in her chamber. Four o'clock.

  The rest of the letters could wait, she decided, rising. She would go downstairs and find Pearl. Perhaps she or Lord Hardwyck would have news of Noel.

  As she neared the parlor, she heard voices and her heart quickened. She listened, hoping against hope to discern Noel's voice among them, but before she could do so, the door opened wide.

  "Here you are, Rowena," Pearl exclaimed. "I was just going to send a maid upstairs for you. Won't you join us?"

  "I'd love to. I was growing weary of my own company, I confess." Trying not to look too eager, she peered past Pearl to see who else was present. She saw three or four ladies she had previously met, but not Noel. Even as her heart sank with disappointment, a male figure moved into her line of sight.

  Lester Richards.

  "Well met, Miss Riverstone," he said, bowing smoothly. "I know we agreed to drive out at five o'clock, but with the uncertain weather, I had hoped I might persuade you to leave early, while the rain is in abeyance."

  Rowena struggled mightily to allow none of the sudden panic she felt to show in her expression. "Of . . . of course," she stammered, mentally chastising herself for such a show of nervousness. "Let me run up to my chamber to fetch my parasol."

  He bowed again, and she fled— though she hoped it did not look like a flight to anyone else. She desperately needed a moment alone to think. Hurring up the stairs and into her room, she shut the door behind her.

  Whatever should she do? If she refused to go driving with Mr. Richards, he might well suspect that she knew the truth. He was a very clever man. He might even realize that Noel was the source of her new knowledge.

  If he figured out that Noel was on to him, what might he do? He had murdered before, Noel had told her— and though it had seemed incredible at the time, now she somehow had no trouble believing it. If he felt Noel was a danger to him, he would try to eliminate that danger.

  No, she could not put Noel at such an additional risk.

  But what of her? Sternly calming herself, she tried to think. They would go for a drive, and she would listen to all he had to tell her of the Spenceans. She would ask questions, drawing him out. Perhaps he would slip and tell her more than he intended of his plans—plans she could share wiht Noel when he returned.

  Yes, that would be best. Mr. Richards would scarcely attempt to harm her in an open carriage—especially when it was known she had left with him.

  And whether he would attempt it or not, she owed it to Noel to do all she could to avoid arousing his suspicions. If she was successful, she should be in no danger whatsoever. Her decision made, she picked up her parasol and left her room.

  As she went down the stairs, her alarm began to subside. Whatever secrets he held, Mr. Richards was still the same man she had talked with and played chess with. As her rational mind took over, the idea of him doing her violence seemed unlikely in the extreme.

  By the time she reached the parlor again, she was able to greet him with perfect calm. "I am ready, sir. Shall we go?"

  * * *

  As Noel had feared, so much rain had made the roads a morass of mud. The coach seemed to crawl toward London despite his eagerness to put this whole sordid business behind him and embark on his future with Rowena. Irritably, he shifted in his seat and pulled Richards' letters to his father out to read them through again.

  Though he did not have any of the Black Bishop's letters here for comparison, he was certain the handwriting was the same. Surely his superiors—

  A sudden sharp report interrupted his analysis —the all-too-familiar sound of a pistol shot. The coach swayed to a stop as the horses sidled in alarm. Highwaymen? Unlikely.

  Swiftly, Noel tucked the letters back into his breast pocket and checked his own pistols, tucking one into the pocket of his coat. Then he crouched on the floor of the coach, his other pistol leveled at the door. He heard shouting, and then the door was wrenched open to reveal a masked figure.

  Noel did not hesitate for an instant, but discharged his pistol before his assailant could react. Impossible to miss at such close range, the man fell backward into the mud, a bloodstain spreading across his shoulder. He lay still, apparently unconscious.

  Dropping his now-useless pistol, Noel pulled the other from his pocket and listened for any other sounds outside the coach. When he heard none, he cautiously emerged.

  "'Ere, now!" came the coachman's voice. "What've you done?"

  Though Noel suspected this was no random attack, he saw no point in alarming Johnny unduly. "I've shot a highwayman, of course," he said. "I'll search him for any clues to his identity, and then we can be on our way. We'll alert the authorities when we reach the next village."

  He knelt to examine the unconscious man on the ground.

  "Nay, I don't think so," Johnny said behind him. "Just get back in the coach calm like, and we'll wait here a bit."

  Startled, Noel turned to find the young man pointing an ancient blunderbuss at him with shaking hands. "I allus keep this by me, just in case," he said, his voice now shaking as badly as his hands. "I'd rather not use it if I don't have to, though."

  Noel's confusion lasted only an instant. "You are in Lester Richards' pay." It was a statement, not a question.

  "He didn't tell me his name, but he paid me handsome. Said you was a traitor to the crown, but he could use this journey to keep you from doing whatever it is you plan. I mean to help him, money or no."

  "Richards is the traitor, not I," Noel said, keeping his voice calm and rational, even while he marveled at Richards' cleverness. "You would serve England by helping me, not him, I promise you."

  Now doubt clouded the young coachman's eyes. "That might be just what a traitor would say, begging your pardon, sir. How do I know which one of you is telling the truth?"

  "I suppose you don't. Nor do I have time to debate the matter, if Richards knows of my errand. I'm sorry to do this, Johnny."

  With a swift, fluid motion, he brought up his pistol and fired, knocking the blunderbuss out of the young man's hands but only grazing his arm. While Johnny clutched his arm and shook his head in dazed confusion, Noel leapt up to the box and pulled him down.

  "I'll drive the rest of the way. You and Richards' other cohort can sit inside."

  Noel picked up a coil of rope he had noted earlier without divining its intended purpose—no doubt to tie him up for delivery to Richards. He tied Johnny's hands behind him, pushed him into the coach, then bound his feet. He then bound the unconscious masked man hand and foot and heaved him into the coach as well.

  Before closing the door of the coach, he pulled off his assailant's mask. He didn't know the man, but he looked vaguely familiar. Searching his memory, he realized he had been at the gaming hell on
Jermyn Street when he was questioning Willie last week. Clearly, Richards had more spies than he had realized.

  Which meant that he might know about Noel's meeting with Rowena in Green Park yesterday. Even if he didn't, he certainly knew of Noel's attraction to her, which made her a potential weapon —and put her in considerable danger.

  Vaulting back onto the box, he picked up the reins and urged the horses forward through the thick mud, cursing the sticky miles that still lay between him and Rowena.

  * * *

  "Where are we going?" Rowena asked as Mr. Richards drove the slightly battered curricle past the gates of Hyde Park, heading north on Park Lane.

  "You said yesterday that you wished to know more about current efforts to make Thomas Spence's dream come true. I am taking you to meet some of his adherants." His voice was calm and unruffled, but Rowena felt a flare of alarm.

  "I see," she said, careful to keep her own voice light and unconcerned. "That should be most interesting. Where is the meeting to be?"

  He slanted an enigmatic look at her and her apprehension increased. "A place we have secured for this purpose, a short distance east of Mayfair. Why?"

  She shrugged, looking past him at the passing scenery, fearing what he might read in her eyes. "I was simply curious. I did tell Lady Hardwyck I would be gone only an hour."

  "And she will— what? Send you to bed without supper, if you are late?"

  Rowena managed a laugh, but it sounded forced to her own ears. "Of course not. I do not wish to worry her, however, or arouse her curiosity, since I presume you would not want me to tell her about this meeting."

  "Of course." His voice was bland but pleasant, and she could tell nothing from it.

  She summoned her courage with an effort. "You were going to tell me about the Spenceans and their plans, were you not?"

  "I believe I will let you see for yourself, instead," he replied. "You will find it all most fascinating, I am certain."

  They drove in silence then, turning east along Oxford Street, then continuing on for a mile or more, following the curve to High Holborn. Rowena was growing increasingly nervous, but dared not question him again, for fear of arousing his suspicions. She tried to convince herself that he could have nothing to gain by harming her, and much, possibly, to lose.

  Finally, Mr. Richards turned the curricle north again, along a narrow street Rowena had never seen before, unfamiliar as she was with any of London outside of Mayfair. "We're almost there now," he said reassuringly.

  But she felt anything but reassured. The street grew even narrower, and more and more dirty as they moved away from High Holborn. They passed a group of huddled children dressed in rags who pointed, laughed and scattered at their approach. A beggar in a doorway rattled a cup at them, his sightless eyes covered by a filthy strip of red cloth that matched his ragged uniform.

  "Is . . . is this area entirely safe?" Rowena couldn't help asking, not much caring now how nervous she sounded. Any rational person would be nervous in such surroundings, she was sure.

  "For those who know it well," Mr. Richards replied. "For those who don't belong here, however—" He pulled the curricle to a stop, leaving his unfinished sentence hanging ominously in the air between them. "Come, I'll escort you inside."

  Rowena hesitated. "I . . . I'm not really sure—"

  "It makes no difference whether you are sure or not." His voice was no longer bland, but hard and commanding. "Come."

  When she still hung back, he seized her arm and roughly pulled her to her feet, forcing her out of the curricle. Thoroughly frightened now, Rowena cried out and tried to pull away from him, but he was far stronger than he looked. Inexorably, he led her to the door of one of the crumbling buildings that hung over the alleyway.

  Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed her inside. Releasing her, he then shut the door again, plunging them both into darkness.

  "There is no meeting, is there?" she whispered.

  "Not yet." She heard a scraping sound, and then a candle flared to life, lit by the tinderbox he held. "Others will join us shortly, however."

  Why had she ever agreed to go with him, knowing what he was? Because of Noel, an inner voice reminded her. The thought strengthened her somewhat.

  "What others?" she managed to ask. "The Spenceans you told me about?"

  His face looked weirdly evil in the light of the candle he held between them. "One of them is a Spencean, yes. The others have helped my cause without knowing precisely what it is. I've found gold does an admirable job of silencing awkward questions."

  Rowena swallowed. Was she to be silenced as well, in a far less pleasant manner? "What . . . what are you going to do with me?"

  He smiled, a distinctly unpleasant smile. "That depends on what my informants tell me when they come. For now, we wait."

  CHAPTER 22

  It was past five when Noel finally reached London. His first stop was by necessity the Foreign Office, where he relieved himself of the two men in the coach.

  "The younger one seems to have no real knowledge of this business," he told Under-Secretary Hamilton as the two men were conveyed to a secure room for questioning. "Richards paid and duped him. The other, however, may yield something useful."

  "We'll have to have a surgeon take a look at that shoulder first," Hamilton replied with a stern glance at Noel. "You still believe Richards is the Bishop, then? Have you any more proof than you offered me before?"

  "I have this." Noel pulled the letter Richards' father had given him from his breast pocket. "I have also discovered that Richards' movements during the war dovetail remarkably well with those of the Bishop."

  "Then he is your mysterious essayist after all?"

  Noel shook his head. "No, but following that trail led me to him anyway, via a more circuitous route."

  "But—"

  "Please, sir, I must go now, to see to the safety of someone who has helped me, and who may be in danger at Richards' hands. I will return as soon as possible."

  The Under-Secretary sighed and nodded. "Very well, I won't detain you. Lord Castlereagh will expect a full accounting when you return, however."

  "Of course." Noel hoped he could satisfy his superiors without bringing Rowena's name into the business. But more important was ensuring her physical safety.

  Leaving the muddy, driverless coach at the Foreign Office, he hailed a hackney to take him from Whitehall to Hardwyck Hall.

  He had barely given his name to the butler when Lady Hardwyck rushed down the stairs to greet him, her violet eyes wide with distress.

  "Oh, Mr. Paxton, thank heaven you are here!" she exclaimed before he could utter a word. "I knew that note we received must be false. Luke is quite cross with me, but if he had only explained everything, I should never have let her leave with him."

  Noel put up a hand to stem the outpouring, though what little he understood of her words caused him a deep foreboding. "Calmly, please, Lady Hardwyck. Do you mean to say that Miss Riverstone is gone?"

  She nodded. "She went for a drive with Mr. Richards. They were to have returned within an hour, but it has now been more than two. Then Luke returned home and said that Mr. Richards might be dangerous. If I had only known—"

  "It is not your fault, my lady," Noel assured her, though his anxiety was increasing. "Is Lord Hardwyck here? Is there somewhere we may be private?" He glanced around at the alarmed faces of the footman and butler in the hall.

  "Oh! Of course. I'm so distracted I'm not thinking clearly. Poor Rowena! To think— But come, Luke is in the library."

  Noel reached the door before she did and opened it for her. Luke was standing near the fireplace, talking to a pair of boys Noel recognized as Skeet and the footman Steven, formerly known as Squint.

  "Then Stilt should be back soon with word?" Luke was asking the pair, who responded with nods.

  "He took over at Oxford Street when I couldn't keep up," Skeet said. "Traffic was heavy, so he most likely won't have lost '
em."

  Noel stepped forward. "What's this? Did Stilt follow Richards and Miss Riverstone?"

  "Aye," said Steven. "Lord Hardwyck said as how I should keep an eye out for the rotter, 'specially if he came sniffing 'round Miss Riverstone, so when she left with him, I set Skeet after them and ran to get Stilt, as he's the biggest."

  Lady Hardwyck rounded on her husband. "You told these boys, but didn't tell me?"

  "I'm truly sorry, Pearl," he said, and looked it. "I thought I had. I've been so busy, it must have slipped my mind."

  "What time did they leave?" Noel asked, pulling them back to the matter at hand.

  Luke turned to him. "Don't look like that, man! I'm sure she will be all right."

  Noel realized he must look as stricken as he felt, and made an effort to tame his features. "What time?" he repeated.

  "Four o'clock, perhaps a bit earlier," Lady Hardwyck replied, her hands tightly clasped before her. "He said he was taking her driving in the Park."

  "Nay, drove right past it, he did," Skeet said. "Didn't seem like she tried to make him stop, but I was a fair bit behind by then. It was a good job Stilt caught up when he did."

  Noel frowned. "Do you think she never intended to go to the Park either?"

  The boy shrugged. "I can't rightly say. She was talkin' to him, but I couldn't hear nothing. She didn't seem put out, though."

  Surely, Rowena couldn't have— "You mentioned a note?" Noel said abruptly to Lady Hardwyck.

  "Yes. Yes, here." She handed him a folded slip of paper.

  Dear Pearl, it read in a stilted feminine hand, I have eloped with Noel Paxton, with the aid of Mr. Richards. Please do not be angry with me. Your friend, Rowena Riverstone

  "It doesn't sound at all like her," Lady Hardwyck said as Noel frowned over the scrap. "Though it looks rather like her hand."

  "Does it?" He had never seen Rowena's undisguised hand, he realized. This could well Richards' forgery, however. That would be ironic, considering how many times Rowena had disguised her own hand to look like Richards'. "When did you receive this?"