The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "She had no suspicion of what we were going to say," she said with a spiteful laugh. "Mr. Galloway had been paying her an excessive amount of attention until he learned where her fortune originated. But then she seemed to lose her charm for him— did she not, Fanny?"

  Peter let the sisters' chatter flow over him, paying only enough attention to nod in appropriate places. He was finding them more distasteful than ever, but couldn't bring himself to leave while Sarah was imprisoned upstairs. Surely there must be some way he could help her?

  Other callers were announced, allowing him to withdraw further from the conversation. His attention was caught, however, by Mr. Pottinger's inquiry after Sarah. Though he received the same response Peter had, he was not so willing to drop the subject.

  "Might I send word up to her, my lady? She must be having a dreary time of it, stuck in her room all day. Perhaps I could send a few books over this afternoon, to help her while away the time."

  "You are too kind, Mr. Pottinger," Lady Mountheath said coldly. "But I assure you that Miss Killian has plenty to occupy her. She has been accustomed to work, you see, so I have made certain she is given some task to do each day."

  Mr. Pottinger's courage was not equal to Lady Mountheath's quelling glance. "I . . . I see. That is, er, thoughtful of you, my lady."

  Peter listened in growing indignation, his suspicions again confirmed. "Surely you are careful not to weary her, my lady, when she is already feeling unwell?" he could not help asking.

  Lady Mountheath's lips thinned. "Of course. Her health is in no danger, I assure you."

  Fearing that if he remained longer he might be driven to outright rudeness, Peter rose. "I see I have exceeded my quarter hour. I give you good day my lady, Miss Mountheath, Miss Fanny."

  He bowed and retreated from the parlor with a vague plan of asking the butler to take a message up to Sarah, but the hall below was empty at the moment. He cast a glance toward the back of the house, then blinked. Sarah herself was peering through the servants' door at the far end of the hall.

  "Miss Killian?" he whispered.

  She blinked, just as he had, then put a finger to her lips. He started toward her her, then paused to listen at the panels of a door midway down the hall.

  "Quickly —in here," he whispered, opening the door. The room proved to be a library, surprisingly thin of books, and deserted.

  "I don't dare stay more than a moment," she said softly as they retreated into the room. "Lady Mountheath thinks me locked in my room in the attics."

  "Then she does lock you in your room?" He felt the stirrings of the strongest anger he'd felt in some time.

  She shrugged, a smile playing about her lips. "I have the means to escape when necessary." Reaching inside her drab gray gown, she pulled out a key. "I pilfered this from another room my second day here."

  "Very resourceful," he said with a quiet chuckle. "But why does she wish to keep you prisoner? Why today?"

  Now Sarah sighed, a sound that struck him, most inappropriately, as erotic. "Lady Mountheath has decided that she erred in allowing me into company in the first place, and vows not to repeat her error after tonight."

  "But why?" he asked. "Surely not for the reason she gave last night, that it would hurt your chances of employment?"

  "In fact, it appears she was quite right. Lady Winslow refused me a position upon learning I had been out in Society. As you may imagine, Lady Mountheath is quite eager to dispense with her charity on my behalf— almost as eager as I am for her to do so." She smiled as she spoke, but Peter was able to detect the anxiety beneath.

  "I am certain other options will present themselves," he said carefully, powerfully tempted to offer her a permanent solution.

  "No doubt," she agreed lightly. "Though the option Lady Winslow feared is not one I could ever accept."

  At his questioning look, she continued, "Sir Lawrence seemed far too pleased at the prospect of my teaching his sister for his mother's peace of mind."

  Peter was startled by the red rage that suddenly threatened to obscure his very sight —a rage he hadn't felt since the battlefield. "Did Sir Lawrence make you an improper offer?" he grated through his teeth, striving to bring the anger he'd thought never to feel again under control.

  She glanced up at him in surprise. "No, of course not. But I believe it is what his mother feared— though no doubt she would disapprove of a proper offer even more strongly." This was said with a wry self-awareness that nearly undid him in a completely different way.

  "Please, Miss Killian, do not underestimate yourself, even in jest," he said earnestly. "You are worthy of a far more exalted position than governess —or even Sir Lawrence's wife."

  She regarded him quizzically. "How can you say so, my lord? You know nothing of my antecedants."

  "I consider myself an excellent judge of character," he said, ignoring the fact that she was right. "Will you tell me about your parents?" The more he knew, the better able he would be to help her. "How old were you when they died?"

  For a long moment he thought she would not answer, but then she said, "My father's name was Kenneth Killian, originally from Ireland. My mother's name was Mary— Mary Severn. According to Lady Mountheath, my father was her tutor, and she eloped with him, after which her father cast her off. I was but nine when they died, so they never told me such details."

  "Understandable," he said, filing away the name Severn. Orphaned at nine, unacknowledged by her mother's family —how had she lived? What sorts of hardships had she endured? His heart ached to imagine, but he still trod cautiously.

  "And you went to school what— three years later? How did you live in the interim?"

  When she did not answer, he glanced down to find her color again high. "I, ah . . . You remember Mrs. Hounslow, my lord, that first time we met, on the street? She is a most charitable woman, a member of the Bettering Society, and she helped us—me— enormously."

  "I see." Perhaps he would have a talk with this Mrs. Hounslow. She might be able to fill in a few blanks about Sarah's background —and Sarah's mysterious brother. "So she took you in, then arranged for your schooling?"

  Sarah nodded, though he noticed she did not meet his eye. Recalling their conversation at the Plumfield ball— the one about her fictitious "friend," Peter thought he understood why. She had known of Mr. Twitchell's gang of thieves, perhaps even been connected with them in some way. He'd meant it when he'd said a child of that age could not be held accountable, but clearly she saw things differently.

  "And what is your relationship to the Mountheaths?" he asked then, ready to fit the last piece into the puzzle.

  Again she hesitated, then gave him a wry smile. "Lady Mountheath has asked me not to say, but I don't much care now. My mother was her cousin —the black sheep of the family, of course."

  "And so she mistreats you, resenting her charitable duty." The anger began to stir again. "Are you quite well today? Did you ever get anything to eat last night?"

  She shook her head, though she was still smiling. "I can't claim to like the Mountheaths, but this is the grandest place I've ever lived, and it's not as though they beat me. As for food, that is why I crept downstairs. The kitchens, as at school, are well stocked and unguarded. But please, my lord, you should go. It would not do for us to be found here."

  Peter admired her courage under adversity more than ever, but only said, "Very well. I will look to see you tonight at the embassy reception. Goodbye, my—" He turned away before he could say more than was wise and took a step toward the door.

  Then, just as quickly, he turned back and closed the distance between them. Without a word, he took her in his arms and kissed her, quite thoroughly. She melted against him for a moment, returning his kiss with a sudden passion of her own, but then she stiffened. He released her at once, of course, though he could not— quite— regret his action.

  "Footsteps," she hissed, and she was right. A measured tread was heard outside the library, and then up the stairs. Anoth
er visitor must be arriving.

  Peter stood still, his hand still on her shoulder, willing the desire that threatened to overset his common sense to subside. "My apologies again," he murmured as the footsteps receded. "Clearly it is not safe for me to be alone with you."

  Though she blushed charmingly, her expression was by no means condemning. "So it would seem, my lord. And this after you already put me on my guard. I clearly did not take your warning to heart as I ought."

  "Let this be a sterner lesson to you, then," he said with mock seriousness. "Never relax your guard with a gentleman —any gentleman. We're a feckless lot, and not to be trusted."

  "So I perceive." A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. "And now, my lord, you really must go."

  CHAPTER 9

  Sarah smiled to herself as she listened at the library door until the front door opened and closed. For the first time since her parents had died, she felt cared for. Protected. Lord Peter was aptly named, she reflected, for he was surely her own rock, the one she could turn to if she found herself in real trouble.

  Cautiously, she emerged from the library and floated toward the servants' stairs again, her thoughts happily occupied. Since that first quick kiss on the street yesterday, Lord Peter had dominated her thoughts —and her dreams last night —even though she had tried to tell herself the kiss meant nothing.

  Now, however, she knew yesterday's kiss had been a mere taste of the real thing. What she— they?—had experienced just now had been something more, something profound. It had seemed to promise greater delights to come. She both longed for and dreaded her dreams tonight, knowing that her imagination would tantalize her with wicked images of what those delights might be.

  Humming softly to herself, she pushed open the servants' door and nearly bumped into Lord Mountheath who waited there, a broad smile on his thick lips.

  "Well, well, Miss Killian. I see you are feeling much more the thing. Let me congratulate you on your recovery."

  Before she knew what he was about, he seized her by the shoulders and planted a wet kiss on her mouth. She shrank away from him, but he followed her until he had her trapped against the wall, one arm on either side of her.

  "Come, now, don't be so shy. I can do you a great deal of good, you know, if you will only be nice to me." He brought his face close to hers again.

  Frantically, Sarah shook her head, pushing against his chest with both hands. "Please do not, my lord!"

  "No? Why not? You may find it more pleasurable than you imagine," he whispered.

  "I . . . I shall scream," she warned him, both angered and sickened that the lovely memory of Lord Peter's kiss was now sullied by the the disgusting sequel of Lord Mountheath's.

  To her surprise, he chuckled. "If you do, my dear, I will tell my wife that you have been entertaining gentlemen callers in the library and then tried to entice me—and that you only screamed when I refused to match whatever sum young Northrup offered you. Who do you suppose she will believe?"

  Sarah stared at him, her heart hammering with fright as she realized he was right. She had not thought him so vile as this. His expression, however, was not angry, but merely lustful —and weak. She opened her mouth to plead with him again, when a step came on the kitchen stairs.

  Abruptly, he straightened, shot her a warning glance, then disappeared through the door to the front hall without another word. Sarah took a deep breath and continued to the kitchen, mustering a shaky smile when she passed the scullery maid who had unwittingly rescued her.

  Luxurious though it might be, this house was anything but a safe haven. She must leave it soon —one way or another.

  * * *

  Peter walked briskly, resisting the urge to go back and make sure that his tryst with Sarah had not been discovered, that she would suffer no additional punishment because of the brief kiss they had just shared.

  Brief, but not insignificant, he thought, turning his face up to the thin midday sunshine. Far from it, in fact. The first time he'd kissed Sarah it had been an impulse, a weakness. This time it had been a decision and a question —one she had answered, though he wasn't certain she realized it.

  He knew now that she felt something for him, that the bond between them was real. He also knew that he could not ignore it, or convince himself that he only wished to help her out of some high-minded sense of duty. No, unwise as it might be, he was well on his way to being head over ears in love with Sarah.

  Harry was waiting for him when he returned to Grosvenor Street. "Glad you're back, Pete!" he exclaimed before he could so much as put off his hat. "This came while you were out, and you'll want to deal with it at once." He held out a small, sealed note.

  Brought back to earth against his will, Peter broke the seal and scanned it. Nothing terribly urgent, actually —just a note from his father's man of business saying his quarterly allowance was available at his convenience.

  "You know, I find myself a bit short of funds at the moment," Harry said with studied casualness. "Wondered if you might see your way clear to a small loan, just until my Army cheque comes, don't you know."

  With a piercing glance at his friend, Peter turned the note over and checked the seal he'd just broken. "You perfected certain skills far too well in Vienna, I perceive. Didn't think you'd use them to read the correspondence of friends, however."

  "Nor do I," said Harry, clearly affronted. "Knew your quarterly was due, that's all, and thought that might be notice of it. Seen the Duke's footmen deliver 'em before, you know."

  "Sorry, Harry. I should have known better." Sarah must be unsettling his wits. He knew full well that for all his faults, Harry was fiercely loyal to his friends, and honorable where it counted.

  "Then you'll float me that loan? Dear Pater has cut off my funds —for my own good, of course," he concluded in his father's sententious voice.

  "Really, though, Harry, he's right. You really must learn to live within your means. A major's half-pay isn't much, but as you're paying precious little rent for those lodgings of yours, you should be able to survive, and even save a bit." He knew he sounded pedantic, but he also meant every word. He was worried about his friend.

  Not that Harry appreciated it. "Fine one you are to talk, with your colonel's half-pay and your quarterly allowance. Not to mention that tidy bonus you invested. Are you sure there's nothing left of the bit I gave you of mine to invest?"

  Peter shook his head, quelling a pang of guilt as he did so. "You asked for it back six months after you gave it to me, remember? Pity, for I'd have likely doubled it for you by now."

  "Yes, well, I never expected to live long enough to need it," Harry said with a grin. "It'd be a real tragedy to die with money in the bank, after all."

  "A worse tragedy to live in poverty and die alone, I should think. Well, I'm off. I'll advance you five pounds when I return. You'll pay it back when you get your cheque?"

  "Of course!" Harry's shocked expression fooled Peter not at all. "How can you ask?"

  It was but a moment's walk to the Duke of Marland's house on Grosvenor Square, where Peter was shown into Mr. Fairley's office at once. "Your quarterly," said the Duke's man of business, pushing an envelope across his desk as Peter seated himself. "And now I suppose you want those figures you requested last quarter?"

  Peter nodded. "My father knows nothing of this?"

  Mr. Fairly primmed his thin, wrinkled lips. "My first loyalty is to the Duke, but as your private business interests in no way concern his, you need not fear I will betray your confidence, even should he ask. Which he has not."

  "I apologize. Where do I stand as of this month?"

  Now Mr. Fairly's lips formed something a generous person might call a smile. "Quite nicely, my lord. Quite nicely indeed. See for yourself." He passed a ledger sheet across the desk.

  Peter scanned it, then gave a low whistle when he reached the figure at the bottom. He'd known his investments were doing well, but hadn't realized just how well. "At this rate, I'll be worth half
as much as my father in another two or three years."

  "Indeed. Your suggestions have performed remarkably well. Still, you should consider putting a portion into land, which is far safer."

  "I'll give it some thought." Peter handed the ledger sheet back. "Now, what of Mr. Thatcher's account?"

  "I have it here as well." Mr. Fairley handed Peter another sheet, detailing the progress of the investments he'd made on Harry's behalf. Though the total didn't come close to Peter's own, as he'd been forced to give the principal back to Harry only six months after investing, it was still a tidy sum.

  Peter nodded, satisfied, then counted out half of the allowance he'd just been given. "Thank you, Mr. Fairley. Please add this to my own investments, as well as five pounds from Mr. Thatcher's account." Harry need not know he was borrowing from himself rather than Peter —not yet.

  Walking back to Marcus's house, Peter wondered whether he was helping or hurting his friend by keeping Harry's small fortune a secret. If Harry knew, Peter had no doubt he'd gamble and drink it all away in a month's time. But was it really Peter's place to guard it against the day Harry developed a sense of responsibility? Suppose that day never came?

  He'd give it a while longer, he decided. Harry couldn't go on as he was indefinitely.

  As for Peter's own fortune, he could no longer call it a small one. He'd known those West Indies shipping concerns would yield good returns, but they had exceeded his wildest expectations.

  More good news awaited him on his return.

  "My inquiries have finally borne fruit," Holmes informed him the moment he reached his chamber. "I would have told you sooner, but you went out again too quickly."

  "Indeed! Did those inquiries lead you to a Mary Severn?" Peter asked.

  Holmes bowed. "As usual, you are ahead of me, my lord. A Kenneth Killian wed a Miss Mary Severn in '95. It was an elopement, which her father refused to recognize."