The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

The delay in her search for William gnawed at her a bit, but excitement helped to keep her impatience at bay. This would surely be the most magical night of her life!

  * * *

  Lord Peter winced as Harry Thatcher downed his third glass of champagne.

  "We've not been here half an hour yet, Harry," he admonished, knowing it would do no good but obliged by concern for his oldest friend to make the effort. "Do you want Lord Driscoll to have you forcibly removed?"

  Harry snorted. "Don't much care, to tell the truth. This party is boring as hell. Besides, I need some fortification after a fortnight of witnessing Jack's domestication. Poor bastard."

  The pair of them had returned only the day before from a visit with their old friend and wartime crony, Jack Ashecroft —Marquis of Foxhaven these past two years.

  "Can't imagine why you're pitying Jack," Peter said. "He and Lady Foxhaven quite obviously dote upon each other, as well as on little Geoffrey. He's happier than I've ever seen him, and that's saying a lot."

  Two weeks visiting their longtime friend at his estate in Kent, where he'd retired shortly after his marriage, had left Peter rather envying Jack his present happiness, in fact.

  Harry clearly did not share his sentiments. "Jack thinks he's happy now, but once the novelty wears off, he'll realize what he's done— shackled himself to a life of duty and domesticity, routine and responsibility." He shuddered visibly and signaled a passing footman for another glass.

  Peter managed not to frown. "You don't think your lifestyle will pall eventually? It must get old to wake up every morning— afternoon, I should say— too muzzy-headed to dress yourself."

  "That's what Brewster is for," said Harry with a shrug.

  Peter didn't pursue that topic, knowing that his friend would have difficulty dressing himself without his valet's help even if he weren't hung-over, as Harry had lost his left arm during the war. Of course, now he used that as one more excuse for getting foxed every day of his life.

  Though he'd never admit it, Harry needed a good woman —a wife—to keep him in line and give him new purpose. In fact, Peter was half-tempted to make that his project for the autumn Season. Not that such a task would be easy. Harry would have to be head-over-ears in love to overcome his deep-seated aversion to matrimony. Still, with that in mind, Peter looked over the ladies assembled at tonight's ridotto —a fair sampling of what was available.

  Miss Cheevers, standing near an archway, was pretty enough with her dark hair and eyes, but she had a streak of pettiness he couldn't like. Lady Minerva Chatham was both beautiful and properly behaved, nor had Peter even known her to be unkind. She was a bit flighty, but Harry might not mind that. His friend would certainly consider her above his touch, however.

  "Lord Peter! How nice to see you again," came a feminine voice at his elbow.

  Turning, he managed an outwardly pleasant smile. "Good evening, Miss Mountheath. The pleasure is mine, of course."

  The Mountheath sisters represented the worst of all possible worlds. He could have overlooked their lack of beauty easily enough if their characters had compensated. Alas, they did not. Both sisters were self-important, tediously banal, and undeniably ill-natured —as vindictive as their mother, who was legendary in her penchant for shredding reputations.

  He spared a quick thought that here was yet another reason to keep his investments a secret. As fourth son of the Duke of Marland, Peter was considered a respectable catch. Were it known he was rich besides, he'd likely top many matchmaking mamas' lists of eligible bachelors, inviting attention from some quarters he'd prefer to avoid.

  "Do you know whether Mr. Galloway is here tonight?" Lucy Mountheath asked now, while Fanny batted her pale, watery eyes at Harry, who managed a half-smile in return.

  "I believe he may be in the card room," Peter offered, hoping he didn't sound as eager as he felt to have the sisters move on.

  "Now, Lucy, remember what Mama said," Fanny admonished. "I certainly won't go chasing off to the card room with you, and you can't go alone." But then she smiled unpleasantly. "You can always take Miss Killian with you, however."

  With a start, Peter noticed the young lady hovering behind the Mountheath sisters —the same young lady he had encountered that afternoon, his beautiful puzzle. Clad in a fashionable gown, she was even more beautiful than he remembered —and more puzzling.

  Lucy Mountheath, however, regarded her with open disfavor. "I think not. I have no intention of going into the card room anyway."

  She turned with a sniff but before they could leave, Peter said, "Won't you do us the honor of introducing your friend, Miss Mountheath?" He noticed Harry was staring at Miss Killian in bemusement and belatedly realized that this was an opportunity to further his new plan.

  Lucy grimaced but turned back. "Oh, Miss Killian is merely a connection of my mother's," she said ungraciously. "She is staying with us temporarily, until . . . that is . . . Lord Peter Northrup and Mr. Thatcher."

  The lovely Miss Killian drew her startled gaze away from Peter and bobbed a curtsey while the two sisters looked on in amusement. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen," she said, her voice as low and pleasing as Peter remembered.

  Concealing his surprise that this vision was a member of the Mountheath clan, he bowed. "Charmed, Miss Killian. I take it you are but recently arrived in Town?" He had the distinct impression that she preferred not to acknowledge their earlier meeting.

  "Yes, my lord. In fact, I arrived only today."

  Harry stepped forward with an elegant bow and took her hand. "Then let us be among the first to welcome you, Miss Killian. May I offer you some refreshment?" He seemed not at all put off by her connection to the Mountheaths. A good sign, Peter thought. Or was it?

  She looked uncertainly at the Mountheath sisters, who were both glaring in outrage. "I . . . That might be nice," she said.

  "Come, Lucy," Fanny said, turning with a sniff. "I see Miss Spence, and I simply must know whether that story about her brother and her mother's abigail is true." Without a backward glance, the Misses Mountheath abandoned their young companion.

  "Is this your first visit to London?" Harry was asking her, apparently oblivious to her startled glance after the sisters.

  "Not exactly," she replied. "I lived here as a child, but I have not been back since."

  Stepping to her left side, Harry extended his right arm with a courtly gesture. "I see. Where have you lived in the meantime?"

  After a moment's hesitation, she took the proferred arm. "In Cumberland. A few miles from Penrith."

  Peter accompanied them to the refreshment table, trying to divine whether Harry's attention to Miss Killian went beyond mere admiration for a pretty face. He was also trying to figure out her relationship to Lady Mountheath. Peter prided himself on knowing the family background of nearly everyone in the Upper Ten Thousand, but he knew nothing of this girl whatsoever. Yet.

  "Are your parents in Cumberland as well?" Peter asked.

  She shook her head. "My parents died several years ago, my lord. I merely attended school there."

  "But you're here now, and that's what matters," said Harry, with a frown at Peter's inquisitiveness. Peter frowned back.

  "Yes, it is," she said with surprising firmness. "The past is the past."

  Harry blinked, and Peter raised a brow. So, she didn't wish to talk about herself. Did she have something to hide, then? His interest quickened at this additional evidence of a mystery.

  While Harry procured her a glass of ratafia, Peter took the opportunity to examine Miss Killian more closely. That gown —it was by no means new. In fact, hadn't Fanny Mountheath worn it last winter, to the Plumfield do? Yes, and to the Chesterfield ball, as well. She must be some sort of poor relation, then.

  He recalled a recent article in the Political Register, a small but incisive newspaper, which criticized certain members of the ton for their notable lack of charity. The Mountheaths had been pilloried by the anonymous author, a regular contributor
who signed his essays "MRR." Had they taken in this girl in an effort to counteract the ensuing gossip? It seemed likely.

  But who was she? He was determined to find out. After all, he could scarcely promote a match between Harry and an unknown quantity. Besides, he needed a challenge to occupy his mind. Peter was certain those were his only motives.

  Well, almost certain.

  * * *

  Sarah accepted the glass of ratafia from the charming Mr. Thatcher with a smile, grateful that he and Lord Peter —the helpful, handsome gentleman who had intruded on her thoughts since that afternoon —had ceased their probing for the moment.

  She was also grateful that Lord Peter had not referred to their earlier meeting, particularly in front of the Mountheath sisters. They would have been certain to misinterpret it, to her detriment, and to inform their mother, who might use it as an excuse to eject the already unwelcome Sarah from her home.

  Until she found William, or at least a position somewhere that afforded her another place to live while she searched, she couldn't allow that to happen.

  Though she'd meant to halt Lord Peter's questions about her background with her last comment, the silence now threatened to become awkward. Feeling that she couldn't afford to alienate anyone else in Society, as tenuous as her position with the Mountheaths was, she cast about for something conciliatory to say.

  "That's a very striking waistcoat," was the first thing that occurred to her.

  Lord Peter glanced down at the gold-embroidered scarlet with a smile, though Mr. Thatcher stifled what sounded like a laugh. "Thank you, Miss Killian," Lord Peter said. "It's one of my favorites."

  Now there was no mistaking Mr. Thatcher's amusement. "What, you're actually admitting you've worn it before? You must know, Miss Killian, that Pete here is renowned for his unending succession of gaudy garments. His clothespress looks like a tropical garden."

  Sarah now recalled that this afternoon Lord Peter had been wearing a pale orange waistcoat. At the time, she'd had no idea it was not in keeping with current fashion, but now she realized that the other gentlemen present were all clad in shades of blue, brown and black. Lord Peter seemed not at all put out by his friend's teasing, however.

  "I find it rather refreshing," she offered.

  "Again, I thank you, Miss Killian," Lord Peter said with a half bow. "It's true that I try not to repeat myself too often, but I haven't worn this since June. Three months seems a reasonable interval."

  "How do you keep track?" Mr. Thatcher asked with a chuckle. "An elaborate cataloguing system, no doubt. I prefer to spend my time on more pleasurable pursuits." He winked at Sarah, and she smiled back uncertainly.

  But Lord Peter only laughed. "I've no need for a system. I keep it all in my head. In fact," he said, with a glance at Sarah, "I have a tendency to remember everything anyone has worn to any function I've attended over the past year or more. A waste of brain space, I suppose, but there it is."

  Sarah felt the color creeping up her neck at this oblique reference to the old gown of Fanny's she wore, which he clearly remembered. But then she realized that every lady here tonight doubtless knew her gown was not in the latest stare of fashion. She surely had less to fear from Lord Peter than from most of them.

  "A formidable talent indeed," she said now. "Surely, such a memory for detail is something to be envied, not disparaged."

  "You've found yourself a champion, Pete!" Mr. Thatcher exclaimed before Lord Peter could respond. "A moment." He paused to exchange his empty glass for a full one as a footman passed with a tray. After a long draught, he continued.

  "Aye, Peter here is a walking Debrett's, Miss Killian— remembers everything about everybody. A memory like no one I've ever known, except perhaps Wellington himself. In fact, the Iron Duke put Peter's abilities to good use in the Peninsula, and again in Vienna."

  Sarah looked at Lord Peter with new respect, only to discover him frowning at his friend. "Do stopper it, Harry. We don't want to bore Miss Killian with war stories her first evening in Town."

  "I'm not bored in the least," she assured him, wondering why he appeared so ill at ease. "Did you both fight in the wars, then?" She would never have guessed that the dandyish Lord Peter had been a soldier. How interesting.

  Mr. Thatcher grinned broadly. "War heroes, the pair of us," he assured her. "I lost my arm at Salamanca, then went on to fight another year on the Peninsula. The gratitude of those we fought to defend makes it all worthwhile, however." He gave an exaggerated sigh and waggled his eyebrows.

  Sarah had to laugh at this obvious bid for sympathy and adulation. "Very commendable, Mr. Thatcher. You see me duly impressed —and grateful."

  "Ah, but how grateful?" he asked, sidling closer.

  She was fairly certain he was teasing, but said, "I see you are quite adept at parlaying your heroism into an advantage with the ladies. I am not so easily manipulated, however." She glanced at Lord Peter and found him grinning at her response.

  Mr. Thatcher chuckled as well, clearly not the least bit upset. Following her gaze, he clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Now Pete, here, can claim even greater deeds, though he hasn't my badge of honor to show for them. Why at Vittoria—" he began, but Lord Peter cut him off.

  "That's enough, Harry," he said with an authority that startled Sarah. "Miss Killian, it's time we restored you to the Mountheaths. It won't do for Lady Mountheath to see you spending your evening with the likes of us."

  Mr. Thatcher frowned, but on encountering Lord Peter's eye, he stifled whatever protest he might have made— rather to Sarah's surprise. Lord Peter extended his arm and she gingerly took it, acutely aware that it was the first time in her life she'd been escorted by a lord— even if it was only across the room.

  "My apologies for Harry," her companion said with another quelling glance at his friend. "When encouraged by a lovely lady's smiles, he has a tendency to run on, though he knows I prefer not to dwell on the past —any more than you do, Miss Killian."

  Sarah looked up at him curiously, struck by the anomaly of his strong, handsome profile and almost foppish attire. "I should think most war heroes would enjoy reliving the days of their glory."

  For the barest moment a grimace of what might have been pain crossed Lord Peter's face, but he converted it so quickly to a smile that she thought she must have imagined it. "Far better to live in the present, in my view," he declared lightly. "Give me fashionable London any day over the blood and mud of war."

  Before she could voice her agreement, they reached Lady Mountheath.

  "Good evening, my lady." Lord Peter swept her a bow that contrived to be both respectful and flamboyant. "I thought you might wish to have Miss Killian restored to your care."

  As Sarah had feared, Lady Mountheath spared barely a glance for Lord Peter before turning a censorious gaze on herself. "Thank you, my lord," she said, glaring at Sarah. "My apologies if Miss Killian has made a nuisance of herself. She has yet to learn how to go on in polite society."

  "Nuisance!" Lord Peter exclaimed. "Not a bit of it. In fact, Mr. Thatcher here was hoping for your permission to take Miss Killian driving tomorrow. Weren't you, Harry?"

  If Mr. Thatcher was startled, he hid it admirably. He had been lagging behind, but now stepped forward. "Indeed I was, my lady. I would be honored to show Miss Killian the Park and other sights."

  Lady Mountheath's eyebrows ascended into her turban. "I should say not, Mr. Thatcher! Your reputation precedes you, though I will assume Miss Killian is too new to Town to know of it—or how improper it was of her to speak with you gentlemen at all." The look she sent Sarah implied she believed her quite capable of deliberately inviting the attentions of a rake.

  "We were quite properly introduced by your daughters, my lady," Lord Peter told her. "Indeed, I thought Miss Mountheath and I might make it a foursome tomorrow," he added.

  "Oh? Oh!" As if by magic, Lady Mountheath thawed. "I'm certain Lucy would like that very much, Lord Peter. And with you along, I need have
no fear that Miss Killian's reputation will be at any risk. Oh, Lucy!" She beckoned to her daughters.

  Sarah shot a grateful glance at Lord Peter, wondering whether he were making a sacrifice for her sake or if he actually wished to spend time with Lucy Mountheath. Not that it mattered. It would get her out of the house, perhaps affording her an opportunity to make a discreet inquiry or two about William.

  He returned her glance with a slight smile that told her nothing, though it caused her heart to flutter slightly. Really, she was being most foolish, she chided herself. This man was a lord and a war hero. She mustn't misinterpret his kindness as any sort of romantic interest. He'd only just met her.

  "Yes, Mama?" Lucy Mountheath came up to them just then, her sister in tow.

  "Lord Peter has invited you for a drive tomorrow," her mother informed her. "I wished you to assure him yourself that you have no other plans."

  Lucy flushed an unbecoming shade of red but turned at once to Lord Peter with a simpering smile. "Of course, my lord, I should love to drive out with you!" She shot a triumphant glance at Fanny, who managed to pout and cast flirtatious eyes at Mr. Thatcher simultaneously.

  "Until tomorrow, then." Lord Peter bowed briefly over Lucy's hand, then he and Mr. Thatcher moved away.

  "I don't see why I can't go too," Fanny said before they were quite out of earshot. "His friend could come along and we could all be quite cozy together."

  "Mr. Thatcher and Miss Killian will be going," her mother told her. "I hope you have not been romanticizing that man's reputation, Fanny! He's the veriest scoundrel, not to mention maimed by the war. I would never allow a daughter of mine to receive his attentions."

  Though Fanny still pouted, Lucy smirked. Clearly she had caught the implication that such a man was good enough for their poor relation. Sarah barely noticed the insult in her effort to conceal her outrage that Lady Mountheath should hold Mr. Thatcher's heroic injury against him.

  "Shall I wear this dress again, my lady, or the one I arrived in this afternoon?" she asked, rather than voice her thoughts.