by Brenda Hiatt
THE END
Table of Contents
SAINTLY SINS
by Brenda Hiatt
PROLOGUE
London—September, 1808
"Promise me you'll do your best, William, and mind your teachers." Twelve-year-old Sarah Killian pressed her lips together as soon as she finished speaking, determined not to cry in front of her little brother.
"I said I would, didn't I?" he replied with a scowl that made him look fiercer than any eight-year-old should look. "And don't call me William."
Sarah gave him a quick hug, careful not to crush either her new clothes or his, the first either of them had had since running away from the workhouse two years ago. He endured it without struggling, which told her he wasn't as confident as he pretended.
"Flute, then," she amended.
Though the nickname had begun as teasing —the older lads making fun of young William's high, piping voice —he'd adopted it as his own after proving his worth by fighting —and besting —his tormentors, most near twice his size. Surely such a scrappy boy would be able to fend for himself at boarding school?
"An' you take care o' yourself, too," he said when she released him, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I still think it's a stupid idea, y'know, goin' to school when we're making a good living here."
Sarah set her jaw stubbornly in anticipation of yet another argument over the decision she'd made last week. "You won't be able to work as a climbing boy much longer —you're gettin' too big. And won't you like never having burns on your feet again?" His chimney-sweep master often used hot irons to prod the boys more quickly through the narrow flues.
"I s'pose. But I been talking to Twitchell's lads, and they say I'd make a bang-up pickpocket with a bit o' training, and—"
"No!" Sarah cut him off. "That'd be dishonest —and dangerous." She'd picked her own share of pockets for Twitchell, in fact, but she refused to let her brother follow that path. He was her responsibility, had been since their parents died within a week of each other, almost three years ago.
"Besides," she continued, "if you don't go to school, I won't —and I'm really wanting to. 'Specially after Mrs. Hounslow was kind enough to make the arrangements and all."
Flute nodded, though he still looked skeptical. "Long as this so-called grandfather of ours don't change his mind about paying, I'll go. For a while, anyways."
Sarah wasn't sure he'd fully understood Mrs. Hounslow's hints of what would happen if she stayed with Twitchell's gang —what happened to most comely young girls on the streets once they reached a certain age. At least, she hoped he hadn't understood.
"A pretty thing like you?" the charitable woman had said, tears standing in her eyes. "In a year or less, you'd be forced to trade your virtue for your keep. I want to spare you that, my dear."
It had been enough to convince her to accept the woman's help, for both herself and her brother. In a few minutes she would board the mail coach for Cumberland, in the far north of England, to attend Miss Pritchard's Seminary for Young Ladies. Two hours later, Flute was to board another, bound southward to Westerham School in Kent.
At the insistence of Mrs. Hounslow, who was known about the streets of London for her charity to orphans, a grandfather they'd never seen had agreed to pay for their schooling —even though he'd cast off their mother and wanted nothing else to do with them. Sarah didn't much care, as long as the man's money got her brother and herself off the dangerous London streets. Since escaping the brutal workhouse, she'd seen more than a dozen children die of want, violence, or at the hands of the so-called law.
With a rumble and a clatter, the mail coach rounded the corner of the inn-yard where they waited. Quickly, Sarah grasped her brother's shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye.
"I'm goin' to be the best student Miss Pritchard ever had," she assured both him and herself. "They'll turn me into a real lady there. Then I c'n get me a good job, send you to university —make a real life for the both of us. I promise."
She prayed he'd believe it, despite the fact that their mother, a "real lady," had failed to provide much of anything for them. To her relief, he nodded, his eyes glistening again.
"C'mon, lass, we've a schedule to keep," barked the coachman, tossing her small valise into the boot of the coach and opening the door to the already-crowded interior.
Sarah gave her brother one last hug. "Be good, William. I'll write you!"
Before she could cry, she clambered into the mail coach and wedged herself between a fat farm wife and an elderly parson in rusty black. As the coach rattled away, she felt a sharp pang of loss at leaving the only person in the world who mattered to her.
As London streets gave way to the unfamiliar green of the countryside, however, melancholy gave way to determination. They'd survived this long with nothing but their wits, she and William. Surely, with enough hard work, anything was possible. She would keep the promise she'd just made, or die trying.
CHAPTER 1
London—October, 1816
"Gone?" Sarah Killian asked in disbelief. "How can William be gone?"
Mrs. Hounslow, smaller than Sarah remembered, and a little bit grayer, looked as though she might cry. "Believe me, I had no idea. I sent word that your grandfather had died, as I wrote to you, and only then did the headmaster inform me that he'd run away from Westerham."
"But . . . all of those letters you sent me. You assured me William was doing well." Sarah followed Mrs. Hounslow into the tiny but very clean parlor of the little house on Gracechurch Street where she had arrived after three gruelling days on the southbound mail coach.
"I fear I was sadly deceived by the headmaster," Mrs. Hounslow replied. "I presume he did not wish to lose your brother's annual tuition. Not until the source of that tuition disappeared did he tell me the truth. I have requested an inquiry by the board of directors, you may be sure."
"Then . . . did William receive none of my letters?" Sarah couldn't quite grasp the enormity of what had happened. "He never answered them, but I attributed that to his youth —and gender."
The older woman nodded sagely. "Men, and particularly boys, do tend to be dreadful correspondents. But no, it appears William left the school before the end of his first year. I have not yet managed to locate him, as I only discovered it yesterday."
"His first— He's been missing for seven years?" Sarah gasped, a hand going to her throat. "Anything might have happened to him!"
Horrible visions rose before her eyes. Little William, at the mercy of far worse than his old climbing master, perhaps beaten, forced to— "He—he could be anywhere by now," she whispered as tears threatened to choke her. "He could even be dead."
For eight long years, Sarah's one goal had been to fulfill the promise she'd made her brother the day she had left London. That goal had supported her through her first months at what had turned out to be a harsh school in a harsh climate, established solely to educate orphans lucky enough to have benefactors.
That goal had continued to sustain her as she stubbornly learned everything possible from those teachers willing to work in that environment. Finally, that goal had driven her to apply for the post of teacher upon graduation, so that she could earn both the money and experience necessary to return to London and seek gainful employment.
Now she was here, but her goal was further away than ever— perhaps even unattainable. She took a deep breath, trying to keep panic at bay. "What of a position? Were you able to find one for me, as I asked?"
"Ah, here's Maggie with our tea. Do have a bit," Mrs. Hounslow urged, taking the tray from the middle-aged maid. She poured a cup for each of them before answering Sarah's question.
"I am sorry, my dear, but governess positions are not so easy to come by as all that. First, you must establish yourself, demonstrate that you have respectable connections. Indeed, now I see your face again, I fear it may be a trifle, ah, difficult to secure such a post."
Sarah set down her cup, untouched. "I should perhaps tell
you that I spent every bit of money I had on my fare to London, and on this dress." She fingered the brown-checked country gingham, the best she'd been able to afford after paying for her journey from Cumberland. "If not a governess position, I can work as a seamstress, or even a lady's maid —or in a shop somewhere."
"Oh, no, my dear." Mrs. Hounslow appeared shocked. "You come of a good family, whether they choose to acknowledge you or not. You are too young to be a lady's companion, so governessing is your only option. That —or marriage." She regarded Sarah speculatively. "In fact, I should say—"
Sarah interrupted this flight of fancy with a blunt question. "Then how am I to live while I search for William?"
"Search—? My dear, you mustn't do any such thing. It would be most dangerous. I shall make inquiries, and I doubt not we'll discover something of your brother's whereabouts soon enough."
"Of course I must search for him." How could Mrs. Hounslow imagine otherwise? To prevent further argument, she reverted to the other topic. "You were discussing my options for survival?"
"Oh! Yes. As it happens, I have found you a respectable place to stay—a most respectable place. One that may offer far better opportunities than a governess post."
Mrs. Hounslow's hands fluttered about her as she spoke, betraying her nervousness. "I have discovered a cousin of your mother's here in Town, and I'm certain she will allow you to stay at her home until we can get you settled more, ah, permanently. When we finish our tea, I will walk you to Berkley Square. Lady Mountheath will no doubt be delighted to meet you."
* * *
Lord Peter Northrup drained the last of a well-earned pint of ale and stood. After a fortnight away, he'd had a productive morning catching up on the news, political and social. After talking with a clerk or two at the War Office, he'd concluded with a pleasant hour among friends at the Guards' Club.
"Leaving us, Colonel?" asked Tom Pynchney, a talkative fellow who still wore his regimentals despite the fact he'd done no soldiering since leaving Paris more than two years since— any more than had Peter himself.
Peter hid a wince at the designation. "Aye, I've a thing or two to do at home before readying myself for the evening," he replied, twitching the fit of his coat back to its customary perfection. The news he'd heard this morning had brought back enough unpleasant memories without additional reminders.
Lord Fernworth, already well into his third bottle of wine, guffawed from a nearby table. "Have to change to yet brighter colors, you mean? But I believe you may be losing your edge, Pete. Didn't you wear that same orange waistcoat only last month?"
Peter smiled indulgently and shook his head. "You should know me better than that, Ferny. That one was peach. This one is apricot." This drew a general chuckle, to which Peter graciously inclined his head before picking up his hat and walking stick and taking his leave.
He was used to his cronies' ribbing about his flamboyant collection of waistcoats, which defied the current fashion for sober blacks and blues. In fact, he prided himself on his unruffled calm in the face of their ridicule. This was who he was now— frivolous man of fashion, genial party guest, caretaker and conscience of his more dissipated friends.
Besides, deviating from the norm was no bad thing. He was all too aware of what atrocities were possible under the guise of uniformity. In fact, this morning's conversation with Mr. Thripp at the War Office had brought back far too much, briefly cracking his carefully-maintained veneer.
"Word is, the Black Bishop is due to hang by the end of the year," the clerk had told him.
Peter had felt a surge of satisfaction, as that traitor had been directly responsible for the incident Peter had tried hardest to forget from the war. "When was he caught? And by whom?"
Mr. Thripp shrugged. "The Foreign Office keeps to itself, so we don't get much beyond the bare facts. He was taken almost two months since, and I heard that a Mr. Paxton, a fellow working for the Bow Street Runners of all things, brought him in. Charlton saw it. Keep it under your hat, though. Everything's supposed to stay quiet until after the trial."
Peter had agreed, of course, but the conversation had given him much food for thought.
Before his marriage in August, Noel Paxton had been hot on the trail of the Saint of Seven Dials, that legendary thief who'd been stealing from London's rich and giving to the poor —and who had ceased operations precisely when the Black Bishop was arrested.
During the Congress of Vienna, Peter had suspected Noel acted as far more than a mere courier for Wellington. Therefore, he'd thought it odd that Noel would be working for the Bow Street Runners. If the Saint was actually the Black Bishop, however, it all made perfect sense.
While it was disappointing to realize that the Saint's vaunted "heroism" had merely been a ruse by a vicious traitor, Peter felt a sense of satisfaction as the missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Certainly, no punishment could be harsh enough to atone for the deaths the Black Bishop had caused. A vision of young Billy Winton's face swam before him—a private under Peter's command, not yet out of his teens, cut down before he'd lived his life. The long-suppressed rage stirred again, but Peter quickly subdued it.
No, he would think only of the future —in particular, this week's social calendar.
Tonight he would wear his scarlet and gold waistcoat, he decided, with the embroidered gold coat. His colorful wardrobe was one of the few indulgences Peter permitted himself, though in fact he could afford far greater ones. Amazing what careful investments could achieve in a relatively short time.
Walking briskly up Dover Street toward Grosvenor, where he was temporarily staying at his brother Marcus's house, he reflected that it was just as well his friends remained in ignorance of his assets. Ferny, for one, would be continuously hounding him for money. He would refuse, of course, but others might be harder to deny. His best friend Harry, for instance.
"Pardon, guv'nor, 'ave ye a penny to spare?" a bedraggled urchin broke into his musings.
Smiling down at the lad, Peter reached into his pocket and flipped him a shilling. "Put it to good use, now," he admonished the delighted child.
"Aye, guv, I will, guv!" the lad exclaimed, then scurried off, no doubt to boast to his mates about his successful begging.
Peter sighed. Yes, he was far too soft a touch. Still, it wasn't something he wished to change about himself. Not after— Again, his thoughts shied away from the past.
Life was good now, and he was more than content to play the gallant dandy with a reputation for knowing everything about everyone. His time— and thoughts —were well occupied looking out for his friends and for any unfortunates who crossed his path.
He rounded the corner to Hay Hill and nearly collided with a trio of women near the railings, two of them hovering over the third, who appeared to be in some distress.
"My pardon, ladies!" He swept off his hat and bowed. "May I be of some assistance?"
The youngest lady looked up and he was forcibly struck by the beauty of her wide blue eyes and heart-shaped face, only partially obscured by her close-fitting bonnet. "Thank you, sir," she said in a cultured voice that belied her rustic clothing. "Maggie here appears to have strained her ankle."
With an effort, Peter turned his attention to the injured woman, clearly a servant by her dress. "Let's have a look."
"Come, Maggie, have a seat on the stoop here and let the gentleman help you," urged the older woman, no doubt the beauty's mother. "I told you it was too far for you to walk so soon after that nasty sprain you had last month. Perhaps you'll listen to my advice in the future."
While she lectured on, Peter managed a quick examination of the affected ankle. He'd had far too much experience with injuries during the war, but this one, thankfully, was minimal.
"It's a bit swollen, but nothing a day or two of rest won't cure," he said after a moment's probing. "I'll get you a hackney."
This effectively stopped the older woman's chatter. "Oh! Thank you, sir, but I fear a hackney is a bit beyond o
ur means."
The younger woman nodded. "Indeed, there is no need, sir, though we thank you. I was just offering to walk back to Gracechurch Street and send someone —a neighbor —for Maggie. It's only three miles each way."
Peter's brows rose, though he refrained from commenting on the novelty of such an undertaking for the sake of a mere servant. Instead, he raised a hand to hail a passing cab. "Pray allow me this small indulgence. It's not often I get to play the hero."
He smiled at the daughter as he spoke. Working class or not, no healthy male could fail to enjoy having such a pretty face regard him with gratitude. Besides, he could never resist helping damsels in distress.
He assisted the injured maid into the hackney, then turned to the others and held out his hand. To his surprise, the beauty shook her head.
"I thank you, sir, for your kindness to poor Maggie, but Mrs. Hounslow and I have business to conduct in this part of Town."
Not the older woman's daughter after all, then. As he paid the coachman the fare to Gracechurch Street, he reordered his original assumptions and made a few new ones. For the first time, he noticed that the younger girl clutched a small valise.
"Anything with which I can be of help?" he asked, reluctant to leave them. Peter loved a puzzle as much as he enjoyed playing the rescuer. "May I offer my escort, at least?"
He reached out to take her burden from her, but she backed away, glancing at the older woman, who said, "You are very kind, sir, but it is only a step. However, I do thank you again —I thank you very much indeed!"
Though he would very much have liked to fill in the blanks of what appeared to be an intriguing story, he could hardly insist in light of this dismissal. He therefore bowed, murmured that he would always be at their service, and took his leave of them.
Glancing over his shoulder as he continued on his way, he saw the two women turning onto Berkley Square. For a moment he debated following at a distance, but regretfully decided it would be unwise. The nameless beauty was almost certainly not of his world, so what could he do beyond persuading an impoverished but respectable young woman to trade her virtue for his protection? Not his style at all.