The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "I tried. Flute seems to have disappeared, and Stilt doesn't know where he's gone —a matter of some concern to me."

  "Do you think this bogus Saint may have spirited him away?" Marcus asked with a frown. "Or— forgive me, Luke— could Flute himself be our man?"

  "That was my first thought as well, actually," Luke said, "but Stilt insists he can't be. In addition, Flute apparently left a note for this new 'Saint' before he disappeared, which may have explained where he was going. The note was, alas, delivered unread."

  "Delivered?" Noel asked sharply. "By whom? To whom?"

  Luke shrugged. "That's the difficulty. Stilt doesn't know the ultimate recipient, and the lad who does isn't telling. This latest Saint appears to have inspired loyalty in at least one follower already."

  "Are you sure we need to do anything, then?" Marcus asked. "If he's carrying on the work properly, does it really matter who he is?"

  "I'd say not, except that I'm not at all certain he is doing the thing properly, as you say. Stilt says that Flute did give money to one poor family after the first known robbery, as well as a bit to some of the lads. But there have been thefts since then, with no apparent delivery of the proceeds."

  "Then you think this new fellow may be using the name to line his own pockets?" Noel asked.

  "It's a possibility," Luke said. "Not that I have a problem with that, so long as he shares with the poor as well—I did the same, when it was my only means of survival. But apart from his motives, and the question of Flute's whereabouts, I find myself seized with a consuming curiosity as to his identity." He grinned at the others.

  Marcus grinned back. "Then the question becomes, how do we catch him? Noel? You're our expert there."

  Though he snorted, Noel knit his brow for a long moment, then nodded. "A line of communication is already in place. We simply need to make use of it."

  "To set a trap, do you mean?" Luke's dark eyes brightened.

  "Exactly," Noel replied. "What would this fellow find irresistible?"

  "An easy haul," Marcus suggested. "Preferably in cash. According to the papers, the last robberies were all in notes— pockets picked at a ball and a deal of money taken from the house next door. That seems to be his new preference."

  "Then we may not have much time," Noel said.

  Luke and Marcus exchanged startled glances. "Why do you say so?" Luke asked.

  "He may be trying to amass enough money to leave Town, or even England, and then live comfortably," Noel explained. "Perhaps he began with the intention of helping the poor —or perhaps that was merely a deception. Now, however, it sounds as though his purpose has altered."

  Luke nodded now. "It could be that he's realized what kind of risk he's running, what with all of this publicity, and it's scared him. I can remember walking that line once or twice."

  "But you always came down on the side of the poor," Marcus pointed out. "You're right —we need to catch this fellow and, ah, redistribute his recent takings. We don't want the Saint's reputation besmirched, after all."

  They all chuckled, then Luke asked, "Noel, do you still have that flat on Long Acre, near Bow Street? Good. I have an idea."

  * * *

  For more than three hours, Peter and Sarah discussed types of wood, styles, fabrics, colors—but nothing more personal. Peter knew, with a sick certainty, that Sarah was still keeping secrets from him. As long as she was unwilling to trust him with the truth, it was clear that he could not trust her, either. Perhaps this marriage had been the mistake she had insisted it was from the first.

  "Can it be delivered by the end of the day?" he asked the salesclerk who had been following them about the Sheraton warehouse. They had already selected a few Hepplewhite pieces and a Chippendale or two from one of the nearby antique stores.

  "Certainly, my lord," the man answered, ducking his head deferentially.

  Peter gave him the direction of the house on Curzon Street, then turned almost reluctantly to Sarah. "That should be sufficient for a beginning, don't you think?"

  She was looking rather dazed, much as she had on Bond Street. "Yes, more than sufficient," she replied.

  Despite his his inner conflict, Peter could not deny a stab of concern. "Come, let us stop somewhere for ices, and perhaps some chocolate," he suggested. "That will put you back into curl."

  "I'm not— Thank you, my lord." Her smile seemed to take some effort. "As you know, this sort of thing is rather outside my range of experience, but no doubt I shall grow accustomed to it."

  "No doubt." The warmth in his voice surprised him. What was it about Sarah that stirred him to such protectiveness even when he did not trust her? She stirred him in other ways as well. "Come. We'll go to Gunter's, and then to Curzon Street so that we may supervise the placement of the first deliveries."

  By late afternoon, their new house was furnished enough for livability. The library boasted four Hepplewhite chairs, the dining room a polished mahogany table with Adams-style detailing, the parlor several light Sheraton chairs and small tables. There were also new oaken bedsteads and matching wardrobes in two adjoining rooms on the second floor, along with small writing desks in each room and a lovely rosewood dressing table with a built-in glass for Sarah.

  "We still need a hall table and a desk for the library, a pier glass or two upstairs, and chairs for the ballroom, among other things," Peter said, surveying said ballroom on the first floor. "And, of course, we've no servants beyond your maid and my valet. We will remedy that tomorrow."

  "Can we stay here tonight?" Sarah asked, gazing around with wide eyes. "It's . . . it's so beautiful."

  Peter felt his heart contract. He wanted to give her so many beautiful things, to give her every happiness she could desire. If only— "I'm afraid we really can't. Not only have we no cook as yet, but the feather mattresses for our beds won't be delivered until tomorrow. I don't fancy sleeping on bare boards."

  She shrugged, still smiling. "I've slept on worse. But I suppose you are right." She turned away from the ballroom with a small sigh. "Tomorrow, then."

  As they drove back to Grosvenor Street, Peter reminded himself that she'd had little reason in her life to trust others. Or was he merely making excuses for her? He didn't know anymore.

  "We were beginning to wonder whether you meant to return at all," Quinn greeted them on their return. "Come, Sarah, you must tell me every detail of what you have bought, and tomorrow I insist on seeing your house for myself." She led Sarah to the sofa and the two were soon chatting comfortably together.

  Peter watched them for a moment, remembering when he and Sarah had been able to talk like that— before they were married. Would they ever recapture that easy comraderie?

  "You seem pensive," said Marcus, at his shoulder. "Care to talk about it?"

  "I seem to recall you rebuffing my attempts to advise you early in your own marriage," Peter replied with an attempt at a grin.

  Marcus' grin was more genuine. "Ah, but you were a bachelor at the time. Now, however, I have the advantage of you, with four months of married life to draw upon. Perhaps I can offer some sage wisdom from my vast experience."

  "I doubt it. My situation is rather unique."

  "So was mine," Marcus said. "Yet something you said at a critical juncture proved helpful. Something about mutual respect and kindness being necessities for a happy marriage."

  Peter blinked, trying to recall having said such a thing. Marcus and Quinn had always seemed so happy . . . but no, during their first few days of marriage, there had been a definite constraint between them, as there was now between himself and Sarah. The cause, however, had surely been quite different.

  "I was quite the meddler, wasn't I?" he said, remembering how he'd tried to force his advice on Marcus at the time.

  Marcus shrugged. "I thought so then, but I know now you had our best interests at heart. As I do for you and Sarah."

  Stifling a sigh, Peter nodded. "I know you do, Marcus, but I fear we will have to work out our dif
ficulties on our own."

  "So you admit there are difficulties?" Marcus was grinning again. "Sorry, old chap," he said in response to Peter's frown. "But it's rather gratifying to see that my big brother is no more perfect than I am."

  No, Peter thought, nowhere near perfect, or he wouldn't find himself in this untenable situation. And while "mutual respect" sounded well enough, how was it to be achieved when Sarah persisted in keeping secrets— perhaps criminal secrets?

  "Still—" Marcus glanced over at Sarah, still chatting happily with Quinn—"it's obvious the two of you dote on each other, so I've no doubt you'll work through whatever small problems you might have. Marriage is rather a large adjustment, but well worth the effort, I've discovered."

  Peter followed his brother's gaze, carefully concealing his surprise. Marcus thought Sarah doted on him? Would that it were true. Even watching her from across the room, he felt his pulse accelerate, his vitals tighten. Dishonest or not, she meant the world to him.

  But would she ever let him enter fully into her world? He hoped so, because he would never settle for half measures again.

  * * *

  Sarah found that attending an entertainment as one of a party made her far less conspicuous than attending with only Peter —or perhaps it was simply that Society had already moved on to newer gossip than their abrupt wedding.

  In any event, Quinn and Marcus were amusing companions and their chatter helped to distract her from the awkwardness that had sprung up between Peter and herself —an awkwardness of her own making, but which was beyond her power to undo.

  "Lady Ribbleton certainly has outdone herself," Quinn commented, gazing around the large ballroom. "Do you suppose she is mimicking the mamas of debutantes with this ball, hoping to marry off her son?"

  "I should think most women would be too intimidated by the dowager to dream of taking her place as hostess here," Sarah replied, trying to stifle a sudden memory of the money she'd stolen from Lord Ribbleton two nights ago.

  "Perhaps that is her intention," Peter said. "I have heard that she is unfailingly critical of any lady in whom Lord Ribbleton shows the slightest interest. She watches his dancing partners like a hawk, alert for any error." The glance he sent Sarah showed that he, too, had that theft on his mind.

  She quickly looked away. "I'm glad I didn't know that before, or I'd never have dared accept his invitation to dance," she said. Peter had still not questioned her in any detail about the money she'd taken that night, though she knew he must want to.

  "Oh, I'm sure she is not so critical when he partners a married lady," Quinn said reassuringly. "She would not see you as a threat to her position, Sarah. Still, Lord Ribbleton is rather off-putting, is he not?" She glanced over at the marquess, still in the receiving line, with an odd little grimace.

  Sarah nodded, remembering his remarks to her before she married Peter. "I confess I do not much like him. I find him both arrogant and pompous."

  "That, too," Quinn agreed. "Have you met the Misses Melks yet? No? Come, I will introduce you."

  The evening seemed endless to Sarah, though if she and Peter had been on easy terms no doubt she would have enjoyed it. As it was, he stayed close, watching her constantly, though never engaging her in private conversation. He insisted on dancing more than half the dances with her, and for those where she partnered other men, managed to be in the same set.

  Raising William's ransom had seemed an impossible task before, but now, with Peter alert to her every move, she would never have opportunity to add to the six hundred pounds she had accumulated so far.

  "The supper dance is mine, I believe," Peter said then, moving to her side as the previous set finished and a waltz began.

  "When tomorrow will we move to our new house?" Sarah asked after several moments of silent dancing, merely for the sake of saying something.

  "As early as you like," he replied with the same stiff reserve he'd used toward her all night.

  Sarah longed to thaw that reserve, but saw no way to do so—or no safe way. Only a complete understanding between them would heal the breach that divided them now, and it seemed impossible that such understanding could ever be. Perhaps she could reclaim one aspect of intimacy, however.

  "Can we leave after supper again tonight?" she asked, a hint of seductiveness in her voice.

  He glanced at her, surprise and a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "Are you tired again?"

  She winced, for he had not been able to keep a trace of sarcasm from his tone —not that she could blame him.

  "No. I wish to be alone with you," she replied, refusing to look away, even as she felt her color rising.

  "I can't . . ." He broke off whatever he'd been about to say with a frown. "Very well, Sarah. We may leave early if you like."

  But as Quinn and Marcus accompanied them home after supper, Sarah had no opportunity to gauge Peter's feelings or give him a hint of her own. As at supper, the conversation was general, touching mainly on social news. Sarah's attention wandered to the line of Peter's jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, concealed beneath his burgundy coat and rose waistcoat.

  "—did you, Sarah?" Quinn asked, making her start.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Quinn's smile was indulgent, implying she guessed the cause of Sarah's abstraction. "I was merely asking whether you had noticed how foolish Lucy Mountheath appeared tonight, mooning after Mr. Galloway —who was pursuing Miss Cheevers."

  "Oh. Ah, no. I fear I did not, though I have observed her interest in the past, despite her mother's objections."

  Indeed, Sarah had noticed little beyond Peter tonight. She feared she was in danger of becoming rather obsessed with her husband —an obsession that could put more than her peace of mind at risk. The carriage rolled to a stop and her pulse quickened at the thought of what surely lay ahead.

  None of the four seemed inclined to linger below, so they all made their way upstairs and said their good nights. Marcus and Quinn disappeared into their chambers, and Sarah turned toward her own, trying to frame an invitation before Peter could disappear.

  "I'll join you in a moment," he said before she could speak.

  Her heart suddenly far lighter than her circumstances should warrant, she nodded. Whatever lay ahead, at least she would have tonight.

  "No, not the flannel," she told Libby when the maid had divested her of her ballgown and held up a nightrail. "Just the lavender wrapper, I think. Then you may leave me."

  With a knowing wink that Sarah scarcely noticed, Libby draped the lace and silk confection about her, then silently departed. This wrapper, Peter's first gift to her, was a reminder of their first blissful night— before Ickle's note had arrived to shatter Sarah's world. Perhaps, wearing it, she could recapture some of that former magic.

  For a moment she considered the problem she still faced, of somehow coming up with the rest of William's ransom. She would have to slip out again somehow, though she wouldn't attempt it until much later. Perhaps when Peter returned to his chamber, after—

  A tap came at the dressing room door and her breath caught, every other thought fleeing. "Come in," she called softly.

  Peter stepped through the door, utterly gorgeous in his midnight blue dressing gown. Sarah felt her heart accelerate, her nerves tingling with anticipation. She took a step toward him, reaching up to untie the ribbons of her wrapper.

  "I've been looking forward to this all evening," she confessed, letting her love for him show in her eyes.

  He reached for her, but only to cover her fingers with his own, halting them. "That's not why I'm here, Sarah. We both know you have not been entirely honest with me. Until you are, I believe it is best we refrain from activities intended for couples who enjoy each other's full trust."

  Sarah took a step back, feeling as though he had dashed cold water on her. He released her hands at once. "But I . . ." No, she would not compound the problem by reiterating the lie she'd told him last night. The truth, however, was out of the question.

>   "Yes?" he prompted, and there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes— hunger for her confidence as well as her body. But while she was willing —eager —to give him the latter, she did not dare surrender the former.

  "I'm sorry, Peter," she finally said. "I have told you all I can. I'll . . . I'll see you in the morning."

  Perhaps it was for the best, she thought. It was almost a relief to have his lack of trust in the open, along with her admission that she merited it. At least that much was honest. And without him here, it would be much easier for her to slip away, to do what she must to save her brother.

  But he was shaking his head. "I'll be staying here, Sarah— though not in your bed. Whether you'll trust me with the truth or not, I mean to protect you, even from yourself. I won't allow you to leave the house again tonight."

  CHAPTER 19

  The alarm, quickly concealed, that flared for an instant in Sarah's eyes told Peter she had intended to do exactly that. Again he felt the bitter bite of jealousy. Who was it she wished to meet? He simply could not believe she planned to steal again. He had proven how unnecessary that was, no matter what the cause.

  "Who are you protecting, Sarah?" he asked urgently. "Why won't you tell me?"

  She stared at him helplessly, lovely in her sheer wrapper, her golden curls loose on her shoulders. "Oh, Peter, I wish I could." Her beauty clouded his mind, making him desperately want to believe her.

  "If you want to, you can," he insisted. "I told you about the darkest moment of my past. Surely this can be no worse? You haven't murdered anyone, have you?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then are you protecting a murderer?"

  "No." She did not meet his eye as she spoke the word, however. He must be getting close to the truth.

  "Then you can tell me without fear, Sarah. It cannot be worse than that, can it?" What had this Flute, whom he believed to be her brother, done?