The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  Even as he spoke, however, he realized it was not so. Sarah was paper-white and shaking, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Can I offer you any sort of assistance?" he asked with renewed concern.

  Lady Mountheath responded before Sarah could —not that Sarah appeared equal to speech in any case. "Miss Killian is in need of a reminder about manners, which I feel more equipped to provide her than you are, my lord," she said coldly. "She had no business making an assignation to meet you for supper, then disappearing so that the whole world would learn of it. My poor Lucy is quite mortified, I assure you."

  Unpleasant as Lady Mountheath could be, this instance went beyond the pale. "My lady, it seems clear to me that Miss Killian is unwell, which no doubt accounts for her briefly retiring from the company. And I can assure you there was no assignation. We were talking when the supper dance ended, so I invited her to join my table —that is all."

  "As you had promised that dance to my daughter, I cannot so easily acquit Miss Killian —or you, my lord —of wrongdoing." Lady Mountheath's turban quivered with the intensity of her indignation.

  "Promised—!" He had done no such thing, though he recalled Lucy Mountheath saying something about another— unspecified— dance later. He had been careful not to commit, however. "I fear your daughter may have been under a misapprehension, my lady," he said carefully, with another glance at Sarah. Her color was beginning to return, to his relief.

  "Do you dare suggest my daughter would engage in a falsehood about such a thing, my lord? I assure you, it is not in her nature."

  He swallowed, realizing that Lady Mountheath's anger would be turned on Sarah later. He needed to defuse it somehow. "Of course not, my lady! I merely meant that Miss Lucy must have misunderstood our last conversation. I will of course apologize for giving her the impression I meant to dance the waltz with her. I am certain the fault is entirely mine."

  Lady Mountheath's expression softened, but only marginally. "Yes, I think you had better do that. It pains me dreadfully to see her so distraught."

  Again Peter glanced at Sarah, who was still looking apprehensive. "Suppose I take Miss Killian in to supper, then speak to Miss Mountheath while she fills a plate?" he suggested, determined to get Sarah away from this vindictive harpy.

  "No, I think not," Lady Mountheath said, turning a gimlet eye on her ward. "I believe Miss Killian will be better served by going directly to our carriage and waiting there until we leave. It will keep her from getting into further trouble."

  "Without supper?" Peter could not keep the outrage from his voice.

  For the first time, Sarah spoke, though she did not quite meet his eye. "Thank you for your concern, my lord, but I find myself quite without appetite just now."

  Though Peter did not believe it, he could scarcely contradict her. "If you are sure—"

  "She is not your concern, my lord," Lady Mountheath informed him in no uncertain terms. "Go find Lucy, do. I'll see Miss Killian escorted to our carriage."

  "Very well, my lady." He tried again to catch Sarah's eye, to divine what was wrong and to provide her with some sort of reassurance, but she still avoided his gaze. To linger further would only anger Lady Mountheath again, so with one last glance over his shoulder, he returned to the supper room.

  Clearly he had underestimated the abuse Sarah suffered at the hands of the Mountheaths. He must keep a closer eye on her. The moment he had proof of that abuse, he would confront Lady Mountheath and remove Sarah from her care —one way or another. It was his duty as a gentleman.

  * * *

  Sarah settled into the darkened interior of the Mountheath carriage with profound relief, despite her empty stomach.

  She had been absolutely certain, when Lady Mountheath had confronted her in the ladies' withdrawing room, that her thefts had been discovered, that she would be hauled off to prison on the spot. Only when Lord Peter had inadvertently elicited an explanation for Lady Mountheath's wrath had she realized she was safe— from prison, at any rate.

  In fact, she realized, she had succeeded beyond her wildest expectations tonight, and was now free of the house, free of the chance of being caught. Relief bubbled up into euphoria, but only for a moment.

  The first step, the hardest step, was behind her. She still had to manage the next, getting the jewels to William without casting suspicion on either of them. The guineas she would keep against the possibility of Lady Mountheath turning her into the street, as she so often threatened to do.

  She dared not venture into Seven Dials with the jewels on her. Her last visit had nearly ended in disaster because she had underestimated how conspicuous she would be. The inhabitants knew each other well enough that they would spot a stranger in their midst at once, however well she disguised herself.

  She could send word to William to meet her, but that didn't solve the problem of convincing him that the Saint, not Sarah, had stolen the jewels. Considering how protective her little brother had been the other night, it was vital he not suspect the truth.

  No, she must send the jewels to him by way of someone else, with a note saying they'd come from the Saint. By the time the Mountheaths returned to their carriage more than an hour later, she had what she felt sure would be a workable plan.

  * * *

  Sarah presented herself at Lady Winslow's house at precisely ten o'clock the next morning, armed with her credentials and references. She felt she looked every inch a governess in the high-necked gray gown, her hair scraped into a tight, unbecoming bun. As the door was opened by a starchy housekeeper, she hoped it would be enough. Given Lady Mountheath's continued animosity, any employment would be preferable to another day in that house.

  "Lady Winslow awaits you in the drawing room," the housekeeper informed her, leading the way.

  Lady Winslow rose with a smile as she entered the room, taking in Sarah's appearance with shrewd gray eyes. The smile dimmed slightly. "Miss Killian? Lady Mountheath informs me that you have been trained to perform the duties of governess?"

  "Yes, my lady." Sarah kept her voice low and meek. "I am qualified to teach arithmetic, grammar, French, geography, history, drawing and music." She proferred the letter Miss Pritchard had reluctantly given her, detailing her marks as a student and experience as a teacher.

  After reading it through, Lady Winslow nodded. "This appears acceptable. Lady Mountheath tells me this will be your first post as governess and that therefore you will be willing to work for six pounds per annum."

  Sarah blinked, as this was but half the usual wage for a governess, though almost twice what she'd been paid at Miss Pritchard's. Nor had she agreed to any such thing. "My . . . my lady?" she said uncertainly, wondering if she were expected to bargain for her wages.

  Lady Winslow raised a brow, but at that moment a bustle was heard in the hall, and a moment later Sir Lawrence advanced into the room. Alarmed, Sarah was careful not to meet his eye.

  "Give you good morning, Mother, but I see that you are occupied. I'll just —Miss Killian?" He stared at Sarah in disbelief. "What do you here, in that get-up? Never say you're to be Claudia's new governess? Is that the employment you mentioned last night? How perfectly famous!"

  Sarah could hardly refuse to look at him now, though she tried to convey with her expression that he was doing her cause no good. "It's nice to see you again, Sir Lawrence," she said coolly.

  Undeterred, he walked over and seized one of her hands. "It will be delightful having you here," he rambled on, while Sarah glanced nervously at Lady Winslow's gathering frown. "When you're not occupied teaching Claudia, I can show you the sights. Won't that be—"

  His mother finally cut him off. "Lawrence! You will please leave us alone. I have not yet hired Miss Killian."

  "Oh! Oh, certainly. A thousand apologies." Then, turning back to Sarah, he said in a loud whisper, "We'll talk later."

  Lady Winslow waited until his boots were heard ascending the stairs, then turned back to Sarah. "Lady Mountheath did not mention that you had bee
n in company —or that you had met my son."

  "She was, ah, kind enough to allow me to accompany her daughters to a few of the entertainments they have attended since my arrival in Town," Sarah said carefully. "I believe she felt exposure to the highest strata of Society would give me experience valuable in a governess."

  She knew Lady Mountheath had considered no such benefit, but hoped the explanation might allay Lady Winslow's obvious concern. There was no knowing when another chance at employment might present itself, and she absolutely did not wish to do more stealing.

  "I see," said Lady Winslow after a pause. "Commendable of her, no doubt, but I fear I do not agree. In my experience, tasting a higher society than a person's own sphere tends to make that person discontented with her lot. I'd as soon not employ a governess for my daughter who is continually on the lookout to better her position —perhaps inappropriately."

  Sarah's cheeks burned at the implication, but she bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. "I assure you, my lady, that should you engage me to teach your daughter, I would have only her interests at heart." Even as she said it, she knew it was not true. Her brother's interests must come first with her, always.

  Though Lady Winslow's mouth firmed to a prim line, her eyes held what appeared to be genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry, my dear. Knowing what I do of the Mountheaths, I have no doubt you are eager for a position, but I must think of my daughter first —and my son. I believe you would be better suited elsewhere." She rose, signaling the end of the interview.

  Pride prevented Sarah from making another attempt to change Lady Winslow's mind. Pride, and the reluctant realization that she was probably right.

  "Thank you, my lady, for agreeing to see me," she said, rising. "I hope you will find someone perfectly suited to both your daughter and your household."

  "And thank you for understanding, Miss Killian. Please believe that I wish you all the best."

  Sarah did believe her, but it did her little good. Lady Mountheath would surely blame her for failing to secure the position, using it as an excuse to be even nastier to her.

  On leaving the Winslow house, Sarah realized she had at least half an hour before she would be expected back— just enough time to implement her plan for getting last night's valuables to William. She'd brought them along in hopes that such an opportunity might occur.

  Holding tightly to her plain leather reticule with its precious contents, she turned left instead of right, heading for the intersection where she'd first met the young crossing sweeper, Paddy, who had directed her to Lord Peter's house.

  To her relief, the lad was again there. As she watched, he swept the dust and debris from before an elegantly dressed couple, then doffed his cap as they rewarded him with a penny. She waited until he was alone, then cautiously approached him.

  "Paddy?" she said. "Do you remember me?"

  A wide grin split the boy's face. "Oh, aye, miss! I ain't like to forget a face like yours. Did you find your friend, that Flute fellow?"

  "I did, thanks to you. I wished to reward you, as I promised—and to ask another favor of you."

  The lad looked down at his battered shoes, his ears reddening. "Ain't no need for no reward, miss. I be glad to do it, and anythin' else you might need."

  "You're a generous lad, Paddy," Sarah told him. "But I insist, particularly since this favor is a bit more involved."

  He glanced up eagerly. "I'll do it, miss. Is it dangerous, like?"

  "Not dangerous," she said, hiding a smile, "but very important. I need you to deliver something to my friend Flute, through Renny, but it's vital that you not tell him where it came from."

  "Aye, miss, that's easy enough." He nodded, his eyes shining. "I see Renny regular-like anyway. Not a bit o' trouble to drop 'round and give him— what is it I'm to give him?"

  Sarah pulled the small packet from her reticule —the jewels, securely wrapped in brown paper, a carefully worded letter to Flute tucked inside. "Just this little package. It's— something he needs."

  He put it into his pocket, nodding again. "I'll take it to Renny now. And mum's the word on where I got it."

  "You needn't leave your job here at once, as long as you can get it to him sometime today," she said. "Oh, and here's the reward I promised." Reaching back into her reticule, she extracted one of the gold guineas she'd taken from the Duchess of Wickburn's chamber last night.

  Paddy's eyes widened. "'Cor, miss, you don't mean to give me all that, do you?"

  In truth, she had little choice, as these were the only coins she possessed, but she hoped the amount would ensure that he would do as she asked rather than open the package himself.

  "You've done, and are doing me, a great service, Paddy," she said, "and I may need your help again in the future. I'm also hoping this will remind you how important it is that you keep my secret, no matter how curious Renny might be."

  He clutched the guinea tightly, as though fearing it might vanish, and looked up at her adoringly. "Anything you need, miss, ever, you just ask," he said. "Paddy'll be here to do your bidding."

  "Thank you, Paddy. And bless you." Then, feeling she'd done all she could for the moment, she reluctantly turned her steps toward Berkley Square.

  Lady Mountheath took Sarah's news quite as poorly as expected. "I doubt not you intentionally botched the interview," she exclaimed angrily, her daughters looking on in frowning agreement. "Put on airs, did you? Or made unreasonable demands as to salary?"

  "I assure you I did not, my lady. It was learning that I had been in company that appeared to decide Lady Winslow against employing me—as you predicted," Sarah confessed, hoping satisfaction at being right might mute Lady Mountheath's anger.

  "And how, pray tell, did she learn of that? For I know she attended none of the entertainments we did. She rarely goes out. I see how it is, missie —you do not wish to leave your easy existence here for honest work."

  Though she knew it would do no good, Sarah felt obliged to defend herself. "I assure you, I told her nothing about it, for I am indeed quite eager to obtain a position." Any position, if it will get me away from you, she added silently. "It was her son, Sir Lawrence, who brought it to her notice."

  Lady Mountheath snorted. "Clearly I have been far too indulgent from the first, allowing you to meet so many of your betters. I should have guessed that your forwardness would damage your chances of respectable employment."

  Sarah stared. "My forwardness?"

  "Not another word, miss. You will go to your room at once, and remain there until we leave for the embassy reception this evening —the last event you will attend with us. Meanwhile, I'll see that Grimble finds plenty to keep you busy."

  Biting back a retort, Sarah took a step toward the staircase.

  "No, use the back stairs. I am expecting callers at any moment, and they mustn't see you dressed like that."

  In truth, Sarah was more amused than irritated by Lady Mountheath's hypocrisy, her spirits still buoyed by the certainty that William would soon be abandoning his risky plan. As she mounted the stairs, however, her stomach growled. She would wait a bit, then creep down to the kitchens for something to eat— just as she used to do at school.

  * * *

  Peter prepared to call at the Mountheath house with mingled anticipation and dread. He had successfully smoothed Lucy Mountheath's ruffled feathers last night, but at what he feared was a terrible cost. She was more convinced than ever that he meant to pay his addresses to her, despite his diplomatic attempts to persuade her otherwise.

  However, reluctance to face the simpering Miss Mountheath could not overshadow his eagerness to see Sarah again, and to assure himself that she suffered no lingering ill effects from whatever had ailed her last night.

  "No, never mind the mathematical," he said distractedly to Holmes, who was working Peter's cravat into an intricate arrangement. "It takes too long. Just tie it up any old way."

  Though clearly startled, his valet nodded. "As you say, my lord." Deftly, he
knotted the neckcloth into a simpler —but still elegant —design. "Will that do?"

  Peter did not even glance into the pier glass. "It's fine. I'll return before dinner time."

  Walking the short distance to Berkley Square, Peter wondered at the change in himself. Not since returning to England after the fall of Paris had he neglected any detail of dress. Now such frippery seemed, well, frivolous.

  "You are in good time today, my lord," Lady Mountheath greeted him complaisantly when he was announced. "In fact, you are the first caller to arrive. Come, sit by Lucy, do."

  Lucy Mountheath smirked up at him with a complaisance matching her mother's. "Good day, my lord. I knew you would not disappoint me again." This was said with a significant look at her sister, who tittered obediently. Sarah was not in evidence.

  "I hope I find all of you well today," Peter said with a bow before seating himself in the indicated chair. "Miss Killian's indisposition was not contagious?"

  "Indisposition?" Fanny echoed.

  Lady Mountheath overrode her. "No, it was merely something she ate," she said, in defiance of the fact she'd sent Sarah out to the carriage before supper last night. "I recommended she remain in her room today, to avoid the possibility of a relapse."

  How convenient, thought Peter sourly, disappointment settling like a stone in his stomach. "Then she will not be attending the embassy reception tonight?"

  "She will be there," his hostess replied with a frown that told him he was showing far too much interest in her ward. "The Duke of Wickburn particularly requested her presence. He seems to feel I would be better served to marry her off than find her employment —assuming anyone will have someone of her background."

  Peter burned to ask about that background, but he didn't dare risk alienating the Mountheath ladies by more questions about Sarah —not yet. "It would be a more . . . permanent solution, I suppose," he agreed with careful blandness.

  Clearly weary of talk about her cousin, Lucy Mountheath claimed his attention then with a rendition of how she and Fanny had mortified Miss Peterson last night by revealing her father's dabbling in trade the year before.