The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  They'd been walking briskly as they talked, and now approached the grand entrance of the Plumfield mansion.

  "Hope so, for your sake, Pete," Harry said with every appearance of sincerity. "Too much time in Miss Killian's company could well overset a man's reason. And too much time in Miss Mountheath's would be enough to make one leave Town entirely!"

  Peter could not disagree with either sentiment.

  Due to Harry's earlier heel-dragging, the orchestra was already tuning their instruments by the time he and Peter were announced. The dancing would be starting momentarily.

  "There you are, my lord!" Lady Mountheath exclaimed, hurrying forward with her daughters in tow. "Poor Lucy was all a-twitter, fearing you would not arrive in time for her dance."

  "I am wounded that you would think me capable of disappointing her, my lady," he replied automatically, trying to ignore the spastic fluttering of Miss Mountheath's lashes for fear he might disgrace himself utterly by laughing.

  Just as well he would begin the evening with the Mountheath sisters, Peter reflected with an inward sigh. He'd get it over early, then be able to turn his attention to more pleasant —no, more interesting —matters. The music began and he held out his arm to his simpering partner. "Shall we?"

  Not until the opening minuet was underway did Peter spot Miss Killian, halfway down the line of dancers. She was more becomingly attired than he'd yet seen her, in a white gown with a sash of azure satin that matched her eyes —not that he could see her eyes from here. A froth of lace about the low neckline matched that at the hem and the wide sash emphasized her slender waist.

  He apparently stared too long, for Lucy Mountheath followed his gaze and remarked, "That old rag of mine looks better on my cousin than I thought it would. I all but wore it to death two seasons since, as white and blue have always been my best colors." She fluttered her lashes again.

  Peter resisted the temptation to ask whether she had something in her eye. "That yellow is very nice as well," he said instead, indicating Lucy's beribboned silk concoction.

  "Thank you, my lord," she simpered. "Mama thought it too highly ornamented, but I think all the pink and blue bows bring out my cheeks and eyes, don't you?"

  The dance parted them then, and Peter was thankfully spared from replying, as he'd have been forced to be less than truthful or hurt Lucy's feelings. Between her height and the cascading ribbons, she looked like nothing so much as a Maypole.

  A country dance followed, in which Peter partnered Fanny Mountheath and Harry partnered Miss Killian, though in different sets. He approached Miss Killian for the next dance, but she regretfully informed him that she was engaged for it—in fact, Mr. Pottinger was already at hand to claim her.

  "Have you a waltz free, by chance?" Peter asked then. "I should like a chance for some conversation." He dared say nothing clearer with Mr. Pottinger hovering, but her eyes brightened with comprehension.

  "Indeed, I have every waltz free, as Lady Mountheath has forbidden me to dance it," she said with a rueful smile. "Perhaps we might sit one out together, however?"

  The music began again as she spoke, and Peter bowed. "I will look forward to it." He resolutely turned away rather than watch Pottinger lead her into the dance. It wouldn't do for anyone other than Harry to imagine he had an interest in that direction.

  * * *

  Would the orchestra never play a waltz? Sarah wondered impatiently. Enjoyable as it was to have men clamoring to parter her, she would gladly have skipped the intervening dances to hear what Lord Peter had to say.

  "Do you know, Miss Killian, that sash exactly matches your eyes? The loveliest eyes I've ever beheld, I might add," Mr. Galloway, her current partner, said as the dance brought them together briefly.

  "I thank you sir," she replied, though he was the fourth gentleman to say something similar.

  Sarah was aware that she looked her best— indeed, the best she'd ever looked in her life. Not only had her alterations turned a dress that was ready for the dustbin into something quite fetching, but Libby, Fanny's rotund little maid, had slipped up to Sarah's room before dinner to style her hair.

  "It's a fair treat to work with hair like yours," she'd said, by way of explanation for the favor. "Plus, I knew you would appreciate it."

  And appreciate it Sarah did, for now her pale gold curls were as stylishly arranged as any lady's here. And her dress—

  She glanced down at her handiwork with a certain amount of pride. Lucy stood a full head taller than she, so she'd removed one lace flounce, cut several inches off of the hem and worked the lace of the flounce into the neckline, which had been sadly frayed. She had then fashioned the extra fabric from the hem of the blue satin underskirt into a sash, effectively concealing a nasty port wine stain near the waistline.

  Still, she must not let the compliments go to her head. Just as well Miss Pritchard had cautioned her charges against silver-tongued men. Take Mr. Galloway, for example. Once he'd learned she had no fortune, his comments —and glances —had subtly changed from respectful to suggestive. Clearly he now saw her as an object of something less than matrimony, but continued his pursuit.

  "May I get you a glass of something?" he said now. "We can go onto the terrace to admire the moon while we refresh ourselves."

  To her vast relief, just then the orchestra played the opening strains of a waltz. Finally! "I'm sorry, Mr. Galloway, but I've already promised this dance to Lord Peter Northrup. Here he comes now, to claim it."

  "My dance, I believe, Miss Killian?"

  Lord Peter was resplendant tonight in sapphire blue, with a matching waistcoat richly embroidered in silver, making him several shades more colorful than the other gentlemen present. Sarah decided she quite admired his independence in matters of dress.

  Taking polite leave of Mr. Galloway, she allowed Lord Peter to lead her to the very terrace she had eschewed a moment earlier. It was all she could do to wait until they were out of earshot of other guests to ask, "Well? What did you discover?"

  Lord Peter's smile warned her to mute her eagerness if she wanted to keep her secret. "I did indeed obtain news of your friend's brother, though I have not spoken with him myself." He gestured to a stone bench and they both sat down.

  "He is well, then? My friend will be relieved." The brief delay allowed Sarah to inject what she felt was a commendable detachment into her tone. "Have you his direction, so that she may write him?"

  To her disappointment, Lord Peter shook his head. "If he has a fixed address, Renny either didn't know it or was unwilling to disclose it. According to him, this Flute has taken over the leadership of a group of boys in Seven Dials. It seems the boys were thieves and pickpockets under a master of some notoriety, but that master was recently forced to leave England."

  "Twitchell?" Sarah asked without thinking, then wished she'd bitten her tongue instead.

  Lord Peter, however, only raised a brow. "Your friend must have followed her brother's career more closely than you first indicated. Yes, that was the name. Flute is now attempting to find the boys more, ah, legitimate employment."

  Though she had a hard time imagining her little brother in such a leadership role, she couldn't help but be proud of him. "Very commendable, to be sure," she said with forced lightness.

  "Would you like me to try to speak with him, let him know his sister is concerned, or perhaps take a message?"

  Sarah hesitated. Though that would undoubtedly be the safest way for her to communicate with her brother, she worried that William might give her away to Lord Peter before reading any note she sent. What might this fine gentleman think if he learned she herself had once been an urchin of the streets?

  Gazing at Lord Peter's kind, handsome face, she knew instinctively that he wouldn't condemn her. Still, she couldn't quite bear to have his opinion of her so radically altered —nor would it be safe for a gentleman like him to venture into Seven Dials.

  "Not yet," she finally said. "Let me write to my friend and discover what sh
e wishes to do. She may well send me a message that you—or Renny —can pass along to him."

  He regarded her for a long moment before nodding. "As you wish. But now, what can you tell me of this friend of yours? How does it happen that she is in a school for young ladies while her brother roams the streets of London?"

  At Sarah's glance of surprise, he smiled apologetically. "I thought you might appease my curiosity in repayment for my finding the lad, that's all."

  "That is more than fair, my lord," she admitted, wondering frantically how much she could safely tell him. He was no fool, and would spot any falsehood unless she was extremely careful. "I will tell you what I can, without betraying my friend's confidence."

  "I would not wish you to do that, of course," he said. "I won't ask her name. Puzzles always intrigue me, however, and this one has been preying on my mind."

  Something in his gaze hinted at a deeper meaning, and for a moment Sarah wavered. Did he suspect—? But surely he wouldn't be regarding her so kindly if he thought she had been lying to him all along. She wished she dared to tell him the whole truth.

  "When my friend left London to come to school, her brother went to school as well. However, it seems he ran away from his school shortly thereafter, and my friend only recently discovered it. As you may imagine, she has been anxious to know what became of him."

  "Of course. Is she, like yourself, without parents?"

  Sarah nodded. "Our school is partly supported by charity. Most of the girls there are orphans." Was that telling him too much? Lady Mountheath had insisted that Sarah conceal her parentage because of the scandal her mother's elopement had caused all those years ago.

  "You say she went to the school from London. I take it she knew of this Twitchell fellow then?"

  "I, ah, yes, I suppose so. She told me once about a thief-master who preyed upon London orphans, and the name stuck in my memory." They were on dangerous ground now, but she forged ahead. "She feared her brother might fall under his power if he returned to London after running away from school."

  "A reasonable worry. Did your friend have contact with this Twitchell herself, then?"

  Sarah fought down her sudden alarm, striving to keep her voice calm. "I don't believe so, though perhaps she would not have told me if she had."

  Lord Peter nodded. "No, perhaps not. I can see where she might want to conceal such a thing, though if she were but a child at the time, it should be no source of shame to her."

  Was this for her? Should she tell him—? No, safer to play it through. "Perhaps it is a memory she would as soon forget," she suggested.

  "Understandable." He stood, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. "I perceive that our waltz is ending, and no doubt you have some gallant waiting to claim you for the next dance. It was unsporting of Lady Mountheath to forbid you to waltz, though it worked to our advantage in this case."

  Sarah couldn't suppress a grin. "I let her think I was disappointed, but in fact I couldn't have waltzed anyway. It was not taught at school, as our headmistress deemed it scandalous."

  "So you ceded a point already lost," he said with a chuckle. "Well done, as Lady Mountheath strikes me as the sort who must always have the last word."

  "Indeed she is. Nor will she appreciate me depriving her daughters of the chance of a waltz with you, my lord, should she learn of it." She paused on the threshold of the ballroom, scanning for that lady's chartreuse turban.

  "Not to worry. I called in a couple of favors to ensure that both sisters had partners for this particular dance."

  Sarah looked up at him in wonder. "Did you? That was quite foresighted, my lord, and very kind— though perhaps not to your friends." That was uncharitable, but Fanny and Lucy had been extremely unpleasant to her at dinner.

  "They owed me," he said with an answering grin. "There. Lady Mountheath has her back to us, so let us slip into the crowd before she turns."

  They did so, walking quickly, but not so quickly that they would be marked. Sarah turned to thank him again, only to see Sir Lawrence Winslow approaching to claim her for the cotillion just forming.

  "You'll let me know if your friend wishes me to take a message to her brother?" Lord Peter whispered.

  She nodded, then turned to face Sir Lawrence. It would be all she could do to keep her mind on the dance for the remainder of the evening, she knew. For as soon as the Mountheaths were abed this night, she intended to venture out again, this time to visit Seven Dials —and William himself.

  CHAPTER 5

  This, surely, was the riskiest thing she had ever attempted, Sarah thought as she again slipped out of the Mountheath's garden gate, a threadbare gray cloak and shawl over her old gray dress.

  Stealing food from the kitchens at school to supplement her and her classmates' too-meager diet had been nothing to this. Nor was her last escape from the house, when she had barely left the safe confines of fashionable Mayfair. Tonight she was heading for one of the most dangerous areas of London: the notorious Seven Dials, home to beggars, thieves and worse.

  Home to Sarah herself, eight years ago.

  At first she worried that after so many years she might have forgotten the way, but as she hurried along the nearly-deserted streets she recognized one familiar landmark after another. There was the old pump at the corner of Golden Square, on Silver Street, where she and her friends had washed grubby faces and hands. Further along, she saw the same narrow archway where she'd picked her first pocket. Oddly, the memory of how frightened she'd been then gave her confidence now.

  She hurried along Litchfield to St. Martin's Lane, then turned north. The last semblances of gentility fell away as she entered Seven Dials proper, with its narrow, dirty streets and alleyways. Now what?

  She looked apprehensively at a pair of beggars leaning against a tumbledown wall, at another man in rags shuffling out of a nearby doorway, at the heaps of refuse giving out that foul smell she'd managed to forget over the years. How was she ever to find William? Her only safety lay in remaining inconspicuous, in appearing as poor as the others here.

  Poor she certainly was, but even her old school things were far too fine for this setting, she now realized. And she'd spent eight years cultivating her accent —now the wrong accent. To survive this night, she needed to unlearn much of what she'd learned —and quickly.

  A boisterous group of men and women spilled out of a doorway a short way ahead. Sarah shrank against the wall of the closest building, listening carefully to their speech. Yes, she could still do this.

  Hurrying forward, holding her shawl so that it concealed part of her face and all of her hair, she approached one of the women. "'Scuse me, mum," she said.

  The woman turned to look at her. "Well?" she said impatiently.

  "I be lookin' for me brother, mum. Ha' ye seen a lad name o' Flute hereabouts?"

  "Brother, eh?" The woman gave a vulgar laugh. "Oh, aye, and I'm 'is granny." She glanced after her companions, who were continuing on their way, no doubt to another drunken revel.

  "Do ye know where he be?" Sarah asked again, afraid the woman would grow bored and leave without giving her the information she needed.

  "Back over that way." The woman pointed down a narrow alley. "Up the stairs on yer left." She squinted at Sarah's face. "Aye, he'll thank me for sendin' ye on, I'm thinkin'. Tell 'im Maudie sent ye."

  "Thankee, Maudie, I will."

  Sarah waited until the woman had hurried after her friends before turning down the alley, her heart pounding. She'd been so afraid she'd give herself away—

  "What 'ave we 'ere, now?" A rough voice shattered her relief. "I ain't seen you about these parts afore."

  Pulling her shawl even closer, Sarah glanced frantically at the stairs Maudie had mentioned, only half turning toward the voice. "Give ower —I'm in a 'urry," she said, but instead of the gruffness she'd tried for, the last word came out as a squeak.

  The man stepped out of the shadows, grinning. He seemed enormous in the dim light. "I'll make it
quick, then. Flip up yer skirts, gi' me what I want, an' you can be on yer way."

  Sarah backed away, swallowing. She didn't dare scream. Not only would it bring more ruffians, her brother might hear her. She would not be responsible for getting him hurt.

  "I'm afraid you don't understand," she stammered, forgetting to use street cant. "I'm on my way to visit a . . . a sick friend."

  "Yer friend'll still be sick when I'm done." Leering, the man lunged for her.

  Sarah ducked, narrowly evading him. "Leave me alone!" She infused her voice with every ounce of authority she could muster, but it had no effect. The man lunged again.

  Abruptly losing her nerve, Sarah turned and ran, only to trip over an upturned bucket. Her attacker was on top of her at once, pinioning her arms behind her.

  "Stop it! Don't!" she cried, forgetting her earlier concerns as the man began fumbling under her skirts. "Let me go!"

  "C'mon, missie, I ain't—"

  "The lady said to stop, Bert," came a cold voice from above them. "I suggest you do so."

  Bert scrambled to his feet, hauling Sarah up with him. "An' 'oo are you to suggest anythin' to me? The lads hereabouts may answer to ye, but I don't."

  He started to turn back to Sarah with a gap-toothed grin that disappeared abruptly when the other man's fist struck him full in the face.

  "Blimey! Ye've broke me nose!" Releasing Sarah, he swung at her rescuer.

  Scrambling backward, she was able to see that the newcomer was much smaller than Bert. That didn't seem to inhibit him, however. Nimbly, he ducked under Bert's large paw and swung a leg around behind the big man's knees. Bert fell heavily, hitting his head on the cobblestones with a resounding crack that appeared to knock him senseless.

  "Are ye all right, miss?" the victor asked, extending a hand to help her up.

  Shakily, Sarah took it and he pulled her to her feet. "Th-thank you." Finally getting a good look at him, she realized that though he stood a full head taller than she, he could not be out of his teens. In fact, there was something markedly familiar about him . . .