The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  * * *

  After a third person glanced warily his way, Peter realized that he was muttering angrily to himself as he walked. He turned his recriminations inward, but could not stop them. What a useless blockhead he was!

  He hadn't expected to be allowed to speak privately with Sarah, but he should never have left before giving Lady Mountheath the set-down she deserved for her vile aspersions on Sarah's character. "Loose ways," indeed!

  It did no good to tell himself that defending her might have rebounded on Sarah's head. He had been cowardly to leave rather than speak— afraid that he would lose control entirely. He would master his anger in such circumstances. He must, if he were to help Sarah escape her situation.

  Harry was just finishing the breakfast to which he'd invited himself when Peter returned to the house on Grosvenor Street. "You're about early," he remarked, then sharpened his gaze. "What has you in a lather already?"

  "It's not early. It's nearly one o'clock," Peter snapped. "Most people have been up for hours already."

  But Harry only grinned. "Don't take it out on me, whatever it is. Miss Killian still leading you a merry chase, is she?"

  Peter glared at his friend, in no mood for his banter. "Miss Killian is none of your concern. But if you hear anyone slinging her name about, tell me at once so I can call the blackguard out."

  "Lining up duels now, are you? What, has she done something to tarnish her reputation? Or is it something you've done? No wonder you were on edge last night."

  "Don't make me erase that smirk from your face, Harry," Peter warned. He'd tried to forget his violence at the club the night before, a reminder of the risk he ran if he followed his chosen course. "It's that damned Lady Mountheath, making insinuations. Foul-mouthed fishwife! I should have—" Peter made a convulsive motion of his arm.

  Harry's eyes widened. "Glad to see you've got over your tendency to overreact. Clearly the harpy needs to be exterminated. Should I see to it, by way of repayment for your championing me last night?"

  The absurdity of the suggestion brought Peter up short. "You're right. It seems I can't safely form an attachment. My reason goes right out the window."

  "Attachments are overrated." Harry shrugged. "Tumble the girl and the madness will pass. Best way to get a wench out of your system, I've found."

  "How dare you—?" But then Peter realized Harry was still baiting him. "It's not that easy, at least for me. Not that I would —or she would— Damn it, Harry, don't start me thinking along those lines." But he'd already been thinking along those lines for some time, without Harry's help.

  "Figure a way to get her away from the Mountheaths, then," Harry suggested. "If she's not being put upon, you won't feel a need to spring to her defense. There must be others willing to take her in."

  Most of them male, thought Peter sourly. Then he remembered Mrs. Hounslow. "I need to go out again for a bit. Try to stay out of trouble."

  Peter had the carriage brought round, and a few minutes later he was on his way to Gracechurch Street. Once there, he made an inquiry or two and was soon directed to Mrs. Hounslow's small house. His knock was answered by the same maidservant he had tended a week ago.

  "Good afternoon, Maggie," he said, sweeping her a bow. "How is your ankle?"

  Though she must have been near sixty, Maggie blushed. "It's fine, sir, thank you for asking. But how—?"

  "I was hoping I might speak with your mistress. Would you tell her that Lord Peter Northrup has come to call?"

  The maid's eyes widened. "Lord— Yes, yes, I'll tell her. Do come in, my lord." Leaving him to enter the house on his own, she scurried off.

  A moment later, Mrs. Hounslow entered the tiny hall. "Come into the parlor, do, Lord Peter. I am delighted to have this opportunity to express my gratitude again for your kindness last week. Dare I hope that you have seen Miss Killian, the young woman who was with me, in company since then?"

  Peter blinked, but followed the still-chattering woman into a small, neat parlor and took the seat she indicated. Maggie bustled back in with a tea tray, curtsied, then backed out of the room, her eyes wide.

  "It is Miss Killian about whom I have come to speak with you, Mrs. Hounslow," he said when she finally paused for breath. "I fear her situation with the Mountheaths is far from ideal."

  Mrs. Hounslow clicked her tongue. "Truly, I thought after that wickedly accurate portrayal in the Political Register last month, Lady Mountheath would leap at a chance to appear philanthropic. But perhaps it is simply not in her nature. What, my lord, do you mean by 'far from ideal?'"

  "It is clear that the Mountheaths spend nothing on her clothing, forcing her to wear castoffs. I suspect Lady Mountheath keeps her in her room much of the time, and on at least one occasion she was denied supper. In addition, Lady Mountheath speaks . . . rudely of her." The list of grievances that had roused him to such indignation on Sarah's behalf sounded rather petty when spoken aloud.

  "I see." Mrs. Hounslow's expression might have been called calculating in a face less kindly than hers. "Then you have spent a deal of time in Miss Killian's company, my lord?"

  Peter shifted in his chair. "Not a great deal of time, no, but I have an observant nature. Is there no one else who might be induced to take her in?"

  Mrs. Hounslow shook her head. "With the decease of her grandfather, the Mountheaths are her nearest relations —which is why I brought her to them. I'd have had her with me, but I've no room. Nor can I offer her the opportunities the Mountheaths can."

  "What of when she was first orphaned?" he asked then. "Didn't she live here before she went away to school?"

  "Alas, no," the kind lady replied. "The poor dear escaped from a workhouse and was living on the streets when I discovered her. I shudder to think what would have become of her, had I not convinced her grandfather to send her to school."

  So that was when Sarah must have learned to pick pockets —while fending for herself as a mere child. Again, his heart twisted within him to think of what she must have endured, at the mercy of the London streets and predators like that thief-master she had once mentioned.

  "I'm very glad you found her," he said as he stood to take his leave. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hounslow. Shall I give your regards to Miss Killian when I see her next?"

  "Please do, my dear boy." She took his hand with a grandmotherly smile. "And thank you for keeping an eye on her. I hope you will continue to do so, as you are in a much better position to protect her than I am. She is quite alone in the world —poor, sweet dear."

  Though chagrined that she had read him so well, Peter nodded. "You may trust me to do so, ma'am." In fact, he intended to keep a far closer eye on Sarah than he'd done thus far.

  * * *

  This had been one of the longest Sundays Sarah could remember, and it was by no means over yet. As Lady Mountheath had commanded, she had spent the afternoon and evening in her room, her solitude enlivened first by more mending and then by an assortment of brasses she was required to polish.

  Now she picked at her dinner, a plate of cold chicken, regretting not at all her banishment from the dining room. The continuous jibes from the Mountheath ladies and the unctuous courtesies of Lord Mountheath tended to steal her appetite, quite apart from her need to think and plan alone.

  The family would be staying home tonight, but she had hopes that they might retire early. Pushing away her plate, she penned the letter she meant to enclose with her next parcel for William. Now she had only to wait for the household to retire, and she would be ready for her next foray as Saint of Seven Dials.

  Wishing in vain for a novel, she passed the time concocting various housebreaking plans and the excuses she would use should she be caught. Finally, she stretched out on her bed for a nap. She would need to be alert and well rested for the night ahead.

  * * *

  Sarah jerked awake with a start. How long had she slept? Her room boasted no clock, so she stepped softly to her door to discover it had already been locked for the ni
ght. The family must be abed then. Donning the same cloak and shawl she'd worn for her foray to Seven Dials, she picked the lock and peered into the hallway, to find it dark and silent.

  Creeping into the hallway, she made her way out of the house just as she'd done twice before. Her plan was to find an unlocked door or window nearby, slip inside, and find a few things to sweeten the package she meant to send to William. She assuaged her conscience by telling herself that nearly every wealthy person she had met thus far merited the Saint's attention.

  She would stay well away from Lord Peter's residence, of course.

  Once out the garden gate, she stuck to the mews, sizing up each great house as she passed it. Some still had lights blazing, attesting to ongoing social events. Though doors would doubtless be unlocked, she didn't quite have the brazenness necessary to enter one of those. Instead, she focused on the dark houses, where the inhabitants were either abed or away.

  She was about to slip into the back garden of one such house, only three doors down from the Mountheaths,' when a soft whistling alerted her to a stable lad in a building behind her, filling buckets with grain. Trying to appear as though she were on some sort of errand, she continued on her way.

  The next house was dark as well, and this time she carefully glanced around before proceeding. For a moment she thought she saw a shadow in the direction she'd just come but it slipped aside before she could focus on it. After a tense moment, she convinced herself it was likely a cat, magnified by the fog—or perhaps some other person on secretive business that had nothing to do with her.

  Silently, she unlatched the gate and made her way to the back of the house to try the doors and ground floor windows. All, unfortunately, were locked. Disappointed, she tried her purloined key in the back door, but it was far too small, nor did she have any particular lock-picking skills. She'd have to try elsewhere.

  Slipping back into the mews, she continued along the remainder of that side of Berkley Square. The next house was lit. The one after that, the last one backing onto the mews, appeared dark, but halfway across the garden she saw firelight and movement from the kitchen windows. Increasingly frustrated, she retreated again. Surely there must be an easy target somewhere nearby?

  She emerged onto Mount Street, which was distressingly well lit by streetlamps despite the fog, and which further boasted a watchman making his rounds only a short distance away. Sarah lurked in the shadows until the watchman's back was turned, then used the clatter of a passing carriage to disguise any sound she might make hurrying across the street.

  An alley led to the mews between Mount and Grosvenor Streets, where she continued her quest for an easy mark. The second house along the mews was dark, and again she crept across its back garden to discover whether she might be able to gain entrance.

  The kitchen door was locked, as was the garden door from the ground floor. She was just turning away with another stab of disappointment when she noticed a ground floor window that was open an inch or two. Finally!

  The casement was stiff, which perhaps explained why it had been left open. Five minutes of tugging yielded results, however, and at last she was able to clamber through the opening with an inch or two to spare.

  Once inside, she stood motionless until her eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness, the window behind her letting in only the merest glimmer of light from Mount Street. The room appeared to be a library or study with a desk, a couple of large chairs, and shelves lining at least one wall.

  Cautiously, fearful of knocking over something in the dark, she moved to the desk. Though she opened drawer after drawer, she found nothing but pens, ink and writing paper. Perhaps the owners of the house were away from Town and had taken everything of value with them? Stifling a sigh, she crossed to the door and slowly pushed it open, cringing when the hinges uttered a faint squeal.

  She froze, but when several fearful heartbeats later there was no other sound, she stepped into the hall. Assuming this house was laid out like most others she'd seen, this floor would contain the dining room, while upstairs would be a parlor or two, along with the bedrooms.

  She had no real assurance that the house was truly empty— indeed, the open window argued against it—so she crossed to the dining room door rather than risk the stairs. Inside she found the usual table and sideboard, gleaming faintly in the dim light from the tall windows.

  Sarah smiled. Here, finally, was her reward for the frightening hour she'd just spent. The table was set for the next day's meal, with silver and crystal for six. In addition, the sideboard held several silver serving pieces. Unfolding one of the heavy linen serviettes, she rolled as many pieces of silver as would fit into it, ensuring that they would not clink together.

  She did the same with the other five serviettes, then placed one of her Saint cards on the sideboard before carrying her bundle back to the library. There she pulled out the oilcloth and twine she'd pilfered from the Mountheath pantries, and wrapped the whole lot into a tight parcel, her note to William inside. Perfect!

  Breathing a sigh of relief that this stage of her evening's adventure was over, she went to the window and dropped her parcel through, then climbed after it herself. As she did so, however, her skirts caught on the sill inside, catching her halfway through, her legs dangling outside while her head was still in the library. What a mercy she was alone, she thought, for she surely looked quite ridiculous.

  Torn between panic and an hysterical urge to laugh, she pulled herself partly back through the window so that she could uncatch her skirts, then finally made her way awkardly to the ground. She stooped to retrieve her parcel, then froze. A watchman, either the same she'd seen before or another, was sauntering down the mews, his lantern swinging as he called out the time— half past one— and the state of the weather.

  Vainly she recalled how little she and the other street children had feared the Watch, how inept the old "charleys" seemed to be. She had far more at stake now, and to be caught would be disastrous. A vivid vision arose of Lady Mountheath answering the door in her nightcap to be confronted by Sarah in the grip of the watchman —and then ordering that she be clapped in prison.

  Crouched in the shadows, she bit her lip as he paused at the very garden gate through which she had come and peered in her direction, his lantern now held high, a luminous sphere in the fog. "Hoy! Who goes there?" he called out.

  Knowing no other recourse, Sarah stayed still as a mouse, closed her eyes tightly, and prayed.

  "You there! Watchman!" The shout roused her from her huddling terror. "One of your fellows needs assistance on Berkley Square."

  "Eh? What?"

  The other man repeated his news. "A group of young ruffians," he added. "Two of you should be enough to disperse them."

  The watchman thanked the unseen man in the quavering tones of the elderly, then shuffled back the way he'd come. Sarah remained frozen, hoping the newcomer would not notice her, trying to convince herself she'd only imagined she recognized his voice.

  But then, unmistakeably, she heard Lord Peter say, "You may come out now, Miss Killian. He's gone."

  CHAPTER 12

  Peter would have laughed at the expression on Sarah's face as she came toward him if not for the knot of disappointment and worry in the pit of his stomach. Up until the moment she'd gone through that window twenty minutes since, he'd tried to convince himself that she had some honest reason for creeping about back gardens in the dead of night.

  Not that he'd really believed it.

  "What . . . what are you doing here?" she asked, stopping just the other side of the gate.

  "Trying to keep you out of trouble," he said, "though with indifferent success, it seems. Now, suppose you tell me exactly what is going on?"

  Sarah bit her lip, staring down at the bulky bundle she held for so long that he was afraid she would not answer. Then, with a little shrug, she met his eyes squarely. "Trust me, my lord, you would be far better off not knowing."

  "I'll decide what is best for
myself, I believe. But come. This is no place to talk." He held the gate open for her just as though they were at some polite gathering rather than skulking behind a house that did not belong to either of them.

  After another, briefer hesitation, she passed through the gate to stand at his side. "Where do you wish to go?"

  He considered, but there was really only one answer, improper as it seemed. "My house. It's just around the corner."

  "I know," she said softly. "But—"

  "No one will see us enter, and I'll take care no one sees us leave. Can you think of any place safer?"

  She shook her head.

  "Nor can I. Here, let me carry that for you." He reached for her bundle. Not surprisingly, she clung to it.

  "It's . . . it's not heavy. Besides—"

  "It's only fitting that you carry the burden of your sins yourself?" he asked.

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally nodded again. "Something like that."

  Sarah balanced the parcel against one hip and Peter tucked her other hand into the crook of his arm. Why he persisted in behaving as though she were merely a lady on an unorthodox outing, he didn't know. Was he still trying to delude himself?

  They crossed Grosvenor Street and a few moments later reached Marcus's house. A glance up and down the street showed no one within sight. "I told the footmen not to wait up," Peter explained as he unlocked the front door himself.

  Sarah preceded him into the hallway, and he then showed her into the library, which somehow seemed the best setting for an inquisition. She took the seat he indicated while he stirred the embers on the hearth back into flame. Then, seating himself opposite her, he simply said, "Well?"

  "I don't suppose you would believe me if I said I was merely retrieving a . . . er, a cloak that Lady Mountheath accidentally left at that house?"