by Brenda Hiatt
Myself. Peter realized he'd nearly said it aloud. How would she respond if he did? The temptation to find out was strong, but this was hardly the time or place for a declaration.
"Lord Ribbleton is not so old, but he's undoubtedly richer, and not nearly so bright as Lord Glinnon was in his prime. He should stupify nicely as he ages. And he's a marquess."
Sarah turned to look at Ribbleton, giving Peter an opportunity to admire the purity of her profile —and to question his own judgment. Had his head been turned by mere beauty?
"But he cannot be much above forty," she objected. "I'd not have control of his fortune for decades, perhaps. If I settle for a man so young, he must at least be exceedingly handsome, to make the wait less tedious."
No, there was definitely more to her than beauty! Peter laughed. "What exacting standards you do have, Miss Killian. It's a pity His Royal Highness is already married, and with at least one mistress as well. But perhaps he is not handsome enough for you, either."
She laughed with him, but her color rose and he realized it had been clumsy of him to mention Prinny's mistresses. Surely she didn't think he was suggesting—?
"Is it not a charming coincidence that the Saint of Seven Dials may have struck at the very ball we attended last night, on the heels of our conversation about him?" he asked, in his desperation to change the subject.
To his surprise, she pinkened further. "Charming indeed. Now he will doubtless be on everyone's lips and I will learn as much of the Saint as I could ever have hoped." Her smile seemed strained. "But if, as you say, he was arrested as a traitor, it can't really have been the Saint, can it?"
"I don't see how. My father did say the authorities doubt it was the actual Saint, and he has a formidable information network. Often he seems to know things almost before they happen." Though this had often irritated him in the past, now Peter took comfort from it. Otherwise, he'd have to believe that the Black Bishop had escaped —or that his surmise had been completely wrong.
"Still, it had to be someone," he continued aloud. "Shall we try to guess who the thief might be? Let's go over last night's guest list." He was determined to divert Sarah's mind from the subject of mistresses.
Did he imagine the alarm in the look she shot him? But if she guessed his purpose, her words did not betray it. "There were dozens of active young men present, as I recall. Any of them might have stolen— whatever was stolen."
"Dozens indeed, and you danced with many of them." Peter was pleased with his control, which allowed no edge whatsoever to creep into his voice. "Did any of them act suspiciously?"
Her complexion had returned to its normal hue. It appeared his distraction was working. "Hmm. Mr. Orrin repeated the same compliment three times, but I attributed that to a mere lack of imagination."
"As the Saint —or this pretender —clearly does not lack imagination, that would seem to clear rather than accuse Mr. Orrin."
She laughed, her earlier discomfiture apparently forgotten, much to Peter's relief. Just then, however, they were interrupted by one of their earlier figures of fun, Lord Ribbleton.
"How delightful to see you here, Miss Killian," he said with a bow. Straightening, he gave Peter a look that was clearly intended to dismiss him.
Peter ignored the hint, saying, "Lady Mountheath suggested I introduce Miss Killian to some of the luminaries here tonight." Something about Ribbleton had always set his teeth on edge.
"I fancy I am better acquainted with most of them than you are, Lord Peter," he said condescendingly. "I would be honored to take over your office." He extended an arm to Sarah, who glanced from him to Peter and back.
"Rather unsporting of you to force the lady to make a choice, Ribbleton," Peter pointed out. "Now she must choose between slighting someone of superior consequence by refusing, or abandoning her original escort."
Sarah's brows rose. "I will thank both of you to cease speaking of me as though I am not present. Lord Peter, I have monopolized too much of your time already, I fear." Releasing his arm, she took Lord Ribbleton's. "Who do you feel it is important I should meet, my lord?"
Stunned, Peter watched as she walked away in company with the marquess. Had he offended her after all? Or— insidious thought —was there a modicum of truth to her earlier banter about snaring a wealthy husband? Frowning, he turned away, only to be accosted by Lucy Mountheath.
"Lord Peter! You must tell me what His Royal Highness had to say about this latest robbery by the Saint of Seven Dials. I declare, I shall not feel safe even in such an assembly as this without a strong gentleman by my side."
Stifling a sigh, Peter forced a smile and began to relate the latest news about the legendary —but doubtless counterfeit —thief.
* * *
Had she done the right thing? Sarah wondered as Lord Ribbleton droned on about how highly he was regarded by various important personages. Her defection had clearly startled Lord Peter, but his talk about last night's theft had been making her exceedingly nervous and she had seized Lord Ribbleton's offer as an opportunity to escape his too-perceptive scrutiny.
As well, there was the added embarrassment of Lord Peter's mention of mistresses, which he had too-obviously regretted. Despite his assurances of her "worthiness," she wondered if that might have been his gentle way of telling her that such a role was the best to which she could reasonably aspire.
The idea stung quite sharply.
She had another problem, as well. If the authorities doubted that the Saint had committed last night's theft, surely William must as well —in fact, he'd hinted at just that, earlier. Should she attempt another robbery here, tonight, however risky it might be, to convince them all that the Saint had indeed returned?
"Have you been introduced to anyone here tonight, or did Northrup keep you to himself?" Lord Ribbleton's question was a welcome interruption of such uncomfortable thoughts.
Still, Sarah did not care for the dismissive way he spoke of Lord Peter. "Indeed, he introduced me to his father, the Duke of Marland, as well as his eldest brother, Lord Bagstead. Oh, and His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent."
She had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Ribbleton's eyes widen slightly, marring his habitually bored expression —though only for a moment.
"I see," he drawled after a brief hesitation. "A good start, I suppose. I presume you have not yet met the Princess Esterhazy, wife to the Austrian ambassador?"
Sarah was forced to shake her head.
He smiled. "An important connection, as she is one of the patronesses of Almack's. I will undertake to introduce you to her, and to the Countess Lieven, another patroness and wife of the Russian ambassador."
Though Almack's did not hold its vaunted subscription balls this time of year, Sarah had heard enough mention of it to realize the importance of acceptance there to anyone with serious social aspirations. Lady Mountheath spoke of it frequently.
Her anxiety returned as Lord Ribbleton led her across to where the two ladies mentioned stood conversing. She felt nearly as unequal to meet them as she had to meeting the Prince Regent. "Are you certain—" she murmured as they drew close, but he ignored her.
"Princess, Countess, may I present Miss Killian, ward of Lord and Lady Mountheath. Miss Killian, the Princess Esterhazy and the Countess Lieven."
Sarah sank into yet another deep curtsey —she was becoming quite practiced at it tonight —then rose to greet the two ladies with appropriately downcast eyes.
"Charming," said the plump, pretty princess. "Quite charming."
"I must scold Lady Mountheath for failing to bring you to our attention," agreed the countess, a thin, exotic-looking woman.
"I am honored, Your Highness, my lady," said Sarah demurely, wondering what price the countess's diamonds might fetch on the street.
Though the princess smiled kindly, the countess seemed disinclined for further talk, so with another bow, Lord Ribbleton led Sarah away— before she could concoct any sort of plan to obtain those diamonds. She would simply hav
e to keep her eyes open for any other opportunities that might present themselves for the balance of the evening.
"Lady Jersey seems not to be in attendance," Lord Ribbleton said as they retreated, "but I see Lady Castlereagh over there, with the Foreign Office crowd. She is yet another patroness and a valuable person to know."
Though this was only her fourth foray into high Society, Sarah found herself developing a distaste for its artificiality. "Is there anyone . . . nice . . . to whom you might introduce me?"
Lord Ribbleton lifted a quizzing glass to regard her, eyebrows raised. "Nice? As in pleasant? What has that to do with anything?"
Sarah smiled and gave a half-shrug, glancing away from him. "Nothing, I suppose." Except that the Saint would not target such a person— assuming any existed.
Almost without her volition, her eye sought out Lord Peter. Lucy Mountheath clutched his arm, chattering away determinedly. Though he was almost certainly bored, he hid it admirably, smiling and nodding as she droned on and on.
Society might not place much value on kindness, but Sarah could not imagine caring for a man who lacked that trait. It ranked higher than wealth or a title, in her estimation —and seemed far less common a commodity.
Lord Ribbleton followed her gaze. "Miss Killian, I feel obliged to put you on your guard."
She glanced up at him questioningly.
"I fear Lord Peter may be raising false, ah, expectations in your pretty breast."
Though she felt herself flushing with embarrassment that her feelings should be so transparent, Sarah attempted nonchalance. "Whatever do you mean, my lord?"
He smiled down at her indulgently. "You would not be the first to mistake Northrup's general affability for romantic interest. However, as a fourth son, he has no need to marry. And even if he wished to, unless he has recently come into a deal of money, he would need to look for a woman of means."
Which Sarah plainly was not. Though her cheeks still burned, she looked up at Lord Ribbleton defiantly. "I assure you, my lord, that I have formed no expectations whatsoever with regard to Lord Peter —or anyone else."
"Yes, Lady Mountheath told my mother that you are looking for a governess position?"
Sarah nodded.
"I confess, I can't imagine any woman of sense hiring you, Miss Killian. Beautiful as you are, however, it is possible you'll find a man of means willing to wed you. If not, there are other options, far more lucrative than governessing." His smile now reminded her uncomfortably of Lord Mountheath's.
Sarah felt a cold weight in the pit of her stomach at this unmistakeable affirmation of what Lord Peter had merely implied. "I am interested only in honest employment, my lord," she said stiffly.
"Of course, Miss Killian, of course. And I do wish you all luck in finding it."
Humiliated, Sarah would have preferred to leave the party that instant, but Lord Ribbleton continued to escort her about the room as though they had discussed nothing of more emotional import than the weather. She could scarcely make a scene, so she smiled and nodded as he made her known to any person who might benefit her socially.
As they moved from one supercilious group to another, Sarah couldn't help taking note of dangling jewels and other ostentatious displays of wealth. At the same time, her conviction grew that there must be more to life than this.
For years she had fantasized about what it would be like to move in such circles, to afford such baubles, but now that she was here, she realized that these people, for all their wealth, seemed no more happy than the urchins of the street —less so, in many cases.
Nor would most of them suffer unduly by the removal of a modicum of that wealth.
Finally, unable to bear another moment in Lord Ribbleton's stuffy, hypocritical company, she made use of the same excuse that had served the night before and retired to the ladies' withdrawing room. It was crowded, offering no chance to slip through a back door, nor did an opportunity such as Lady Beatrice had presented last night occur.
Sarah dawdled for a few minutes, then emerged to scan the hallway leading back to the large assembly room. Several doors opened off it, most of them open. Slowly, she meandered along, glancing into the rooms she passed.
A few gentlemen were playing cards in one anteroom. From another, with door half closed, a cloud of smoke told of the cigar smoking within. The next room along appeared to be a study —and it was empty. She paused. Two women hurried past her, talking together animatedly, then vanished into the ladies' room. Alone in the hall for a brief moment, Sarah slipped into the study.
The room was small, furnished only by a desk, two bookshelves and a few chairs. Her back to the door, so that no chance passerby could see what she was doing, she examined the desk, still unsure of what she meant to do. At first glance, the drawers and cubbyholes yielded nothing beyond paper, pens and ink.
Searching further, she found a ten pound note tucked into the back of a drawer. Almost without thinking, she slipped it into her pocket and put one of her Saint cards in its place. Not much, but it was something.
Heading back toward the assembly, she realized that she had finally abandoned her foolish dreams of a fairytale marriage. Instead, she would control her own destiny —and safeguard William's —by fully assuming the role of the Saint of Seven Dials.
* * *
From the opposite side of the room, Peter frowned, watching as Sarah emerged from the alcove leading to the various anterooms. She'd been gone so long, he had begun to worry as he had last night. Perhaps she had some health problem she was reluctant to discuss? That might explain her furtive expression, he supposed.
But then, as he watched, Lord Mountheath approached Sarah and spoke to her. She shook her head, and he put a hand on her arm in what seemed to Peter a far too intimate manner —a perception reinforced when Sarah flinched away.
He started across the room, determined to come to Sarah's aid should she need it, but just then the Mountheath sisters joined their father, who quickly took a step away from Sarah. The sisters appeared to scold Sarah, who listened in silence, and then all three Mountheaths moved away, leaving Sarah alone again.
She glanced after the trio with a grimace that made Peter chuckle, then made her way along the perimeter of the large room. It almost appeared as though she were looking for something —or someone.
A feminine voice interrupted his observations. "You seem quite lost in thought, Lord Peter." He turned to find Miss Cheevers regarding him flirtatiously.
"Merely gathering my resources before launching myself back into the fray," he replied.
She took his arm. "Come, then— we'll brave the crowd together."
Though he'd have preferred to continue watching Sarah, he could scarcely refuse without rudeness. "Very well. Would you care for something from the refreshment table?" Sarah had been headed in that general direction.
"Indeed, I am quite parched, it is so hot in here. I can't help thinking the guest list should have been more exclusive. There are some here with only the most tenuous of ties to the diplomatic circles." She made a moue of distaste at a passing couple Peter knew to be distant connections of Lord Castlereagh's.
On reaching the refreshment table, where footmen ladled out punch and poured glasses of champagne to accompany the delicate biscuits laid out on crystal platters, Peter caught sight of Sarah again. She had been accosted by Sir Cyril Weathers, who was chattering most animatedly —and, Peter suspected, drunkenly.
Indeed, as he watched, Sarah seemed to stifle a yawn, though she still smiled up at Sir Cyril. Then, turning slightly, her eyes met Peter's across the table. He felt an almost physical connection with her, as though a cable stretched between them. He smiled and her color deepened slightly.
"I believe I should like a glass of that punch," Miss Cheevers said then, gripping his arm more tightly. "If you wouldn't mind?"
Reluctantly withdrawing his gaze from Sarah's, Peter nodded. "Of course." He procured two glasses, extricating his arm in the process. As they both
sipped, he glanced back toward Sarah, to see that she had moved away from Sir Cyril to stand near the cart holding the extra crystal and silver.
A black-clad gentleman then blocked his view. "Well met, Northrup. What is that blackguard Thatcher up to this evening?"
"Ah, Lord Edgemont. How good to see you. I'm afraid I've no idea what Harry is doing tonight. You know Miss Cheevers, do you not?"
Lord Edgemont bowed over Miss Cheevers' hand and she simpered up at him, quite willing to transfer her attention to a man of greater consequence. After seeing them engaged in conversation, Peter excused himself.
Sarah was still near the silver cart, now standing in the doorway just behind it. He saw Lord Mountheath a short distance away, which might account for her attempt to remain inconspicuous. Peter rounded the table to head in her direction, but though he tried to avoid eye contact with those he passed, twice he was briefly detained by greetings.
Finally he approached Sarah, who appeared not to see him. Instead, she was looking off to her left, the direction Lord Mountheath had gone, and was backing slowly through the doorway behind her. He stepped forward to offer her another way of escape but before he could reach the door, she disappeared through it.
Peter glanced around, but no one seemed to have noticed Sarah's unorthodox maneuver. He waited a few moments to be certain he would not be observed either, then followed her into what proved to be a narrow butler's pantry. A long sideboard ran the length of the room, with cupboards above it and drawers below.
The pantry was empty except for Sarah, who stood at the far end, her back to the door. She appeared to be fumbling for something inside her dress. A handkerchief? Was she crying?
"Miss Killian? Sarah?" he said softly.
Sarah whirled at the sound of his voice, snatching her hand from her pocket to cover her mouth, her heart in her throat. With her hip, she silently pressed the silverware drawer closed. "What . . . what are you doing here?"