by Brenda Hiatt
Sarah tried to think quickly. As she'd guessed would happen, they did not assume that she, a woman, could be carrying out these thefts herself. "'E's the Saint, right enough," she gasped out, using her street accent in a wild hope that might help somehow. "Why'd ye think 'e's not? An' I give me oath I'd not betray 'im."
All three men chuckled grimly and Sarah felt a cold chill run up her spine. Were these Bow Street Runners, then, who knew that the real Saint had been arrested? What if they somehow connected her to William?
"Why should we think he's not?" one of them echoed. "You might say we're all intimately involved with the real Saint of Seven Dials."
This reinforced her suspicion, though they sounded more like gentlemen than the one or two Runners she'd had brushes with in her youth. "Then ye'll know he don't work wi' women," she retorted, still trying to brazen it out.
"Not usually," said the familiar voice, with a hint of laughter. "At least, I never intended to."
Sarah gasped, forgetting to disguise her voice. "Do you mean . . . you're the Saint of Seven Dials?" If Peter was right, and the Saint was a traitor, her life was now in grave danger. Had he escaped?
Then the first man spoke again, and she realized it was even worse than she'd imagined. "In fact, you could say that we are all three the Saint. But tell us—who are you?"
CHAPTER 20
Peter stepped from the landing into the second story hallway, struggling against disbelief. To avoid being seen he'd had to rely more on sound than sight, but it appeared that Sarah actually had a key to this apartment —which must mean she was a frequent visitor. The location also meant she definitely wasn't visiting an indigent younger brother who lived on the streets.
Softly, he moved to the door and heard the unmistakeable sound of voices within —an adult male voice, then Sarah's. Though he could not decipher the words, the tones were not precisely loverlike. Then he heard another male voice, distinctly different from the first, then Sarah again. She sounded frightened.
In an instant he forgot his suspicions, his heartache, everything but Sarah's safety. Wishing he'd thought to bring along a pistol, he kicked open the door, hoping surprise would be advantage enough.
That the occupants of the room were surprised was evident, for all of them wheeled round to face him. Three men, two holding Sarah —that much he could distinguish by the dim light from the hallway. With a roar, he launched himself at the one on Sarah's right. If she'd been hurt, he would kill him— kill them all.
"It's him!" one shouted.
"I knew it!" cried another. "Hold him!"
Then they were all engaged in a melee of fisticuffs, Peter drawing on every bit of his nearly-forgotten skill. He knocked his first target to the floor and sensed rather than saw that Sarah had broken away from the other man holding her. As that man turned to pursue her, Peter lashed out with a foot, tripping him.
"Run!" he gasped at Sarah as the third man grappled him from behind.
She started for the door, but before she could reach it, the first man Peter had tackled lunged to his feet and slammed it shut. At the same time, the man he had tripped rose to help the one behind him pinion his arms to his sides. He lashed out again with his foot, connecting with the man's shin, but though he grunted, he did not go down. The two men forced him into a chair.
"A light!" one of them shouted. "Someone strike a light!"
There was a scraping sound, and a moment later a match flared, followed by the steady flame of a candle. By its light, Peter saw the faces of all three men: Lord Hardwyck, Noel Paxton and . . . Peter's own brother, Lord Marcus Northrup.
"Peter?" Marcus asked in obvious amazement, releasing him. "Never tell me it was you?"
"Marcus? What the devil—?" Peter said at the same time.
Lord Hardwyck, the one who had lit the candle, stared around at the stunned faces. "Now this is interesting," he said. "Lord Peter, I take it you know this woman?"
Peter blinked, then looked at Sarah— frightened, bewildered, disheveled, but still beautiful. "She is my wife," he said. "But why she is here —why any of you are here —I haven't a clue."
"Then you are not this most recent Saint of Seven Dials?" Marcus asked, glancing curiously from Sarah back to Peter. "I'm relieved, as it would seem completely out of character for you, Brother."
Lord Hardwyck moved to light more candles, then said, "I suggest we all sit down and figure this out. Lady Peter, you take the sofa —and please accept my most profound apologies."
While Sarah moved dazedly to the sofa, Peter turned to Noel Paxton. "I thought you, at least, knew who the Saint was. Were you not responsible for the Black Bishop's arrest?"
Paxton raised an eyebrow. "Someone has been talking out of turn, I see. But yes, the traitor faces trial at the end of this month. He was not, however, the Saint of Seven Dials."
"Then," Sarah said shakily from the sofa, "you have not escaped from prison? But you said—" She turned toward Lord Hardwyck.
"That we were all Saints," he concluded. "But not traitors, my lady. Never traitors."
Sudden understanding broke upon Peter. "You acted as the Saint to catch the Black Bishop!" he exclaimed to Paxton. "That is why there were no more thefts after his arrest."
Paxton nodded. "I've always known you had a formidable intellect, Lord Peter. It rather amazed me, in fact, that you never suspected Marcus during his brief stint as the Saint."
Now Peter turned to his brother in amazement. "You? I recall when Paxton was questioning you last summer, but I thought his suspicions completely absurd. You were just getting married, after all, and it didn't seem . . . that is . . ."
"Too heroic for your feckless little brother?" Marcus suggested with a grin. "I won't say it didn't complicate my life —and my marriage —for a while there. Of course, when I took over from Luke, I had no idea I'd be getting married so soon."
Peter scanned all three faces. "Then . . . Luke— Lord Hardwyck —you were the first Saint? The original one?"
He nodded.
"And Marcus, you were next?"
"Took over when Luke married," Marcus affirmed.
"And then Paxton?" Peter asked, putting the final pieces of the puzzle together. "Is there anyone else?"
"That's what we were here to determine," Luke replied. "Someone has been stealing, and has sent money to Flute —my onetime manservant —claiming it was from the Saint, or so Stilt tells me. But now Flute has disappeared and the thefts continue, though London's poor are not seeing the benefits."
Peter glanced at Sarah, who was staring at the floor, her face pale and scared.
"When you burst in here, Lord Peter" Luke continued, "I assumed it must have been you, for we set this trap specifically for the person sending messages to Flute. However—"
"It was me," Sarah quietly interrupted him. "Peter had nothing to do with it."
The others stared in amazement, but Peter moved to her side and took her hand. "Why, Sarah? Can you finally tell me why?"
Instead of answering, she looked at Noel. "You say the Saint was never a traitor? Nor any of the boys helping him?"
Noel shook his head. "Never, though I can understand Lord Peter's leaping to that conclusion. I hope no one else has."
"Not to my knowledge," Peter told him, then turned back to Sarah. "Why do you ask that?"
Now she met his eyes, her own wide and pleading. "It is why I never told you the truth before. The risk seemed too great, considering the penalty for treason —and then you told me of your personal animosity toward the Black Bishop, for what he did to your men, and—"
"And you were afraid I would never forgive you for helping someone who had helped him," he concluded, a most welcome light dawning. Unless—"But who was it? Who were you protecting? For I know you have only played the Saint in recent weeks."
"My brother," she confessed. "I know you once suspected that the boy I sought was my own brother, and you were right." She turned to Lord Hardwyck. "Flute —the boy who has been kidnapped, w
ho helped the Saint —who helped you, my lord —is my brother."
Luke blinked, but picked up on just one word of her confession. "Kidnapped?" he asked sharply.
Sarah nodded. "That is why I needed money so desperately." She sent Peter another pleading glance. "A thief-master named Ickle is threatening to turn him over to the Runners unless I give him five thousand pounds by Monday. But . . . I presume there never was any money here?"
Noel shook his head. "This flat was mine, and I still hold the lease. It was all a ruse to lure in the bogus Saint— begging your pardon, Lady Peter."
"What sort of ruse?" Peter asked, his heart seeming to expand in his sudden relief.
"I received a note tonight," Sarah said. "It said I would find a great deal of money in this apartment —that a smuggler lived here."
Luke nodded. "We had Stilt send it via Renny, who gave it to a young crossing-sweeper. A very loyal crossing-sweeper, I might add," he said with a wink at Sarah. "Renny did his best to wring your identity out of him, and tonight I offered him quite a bit of money as well, but he gave us not a clue."
"Dear Paddy. I don't know what I'd have done without him." A brief smile crossed Sarah's face, but then her eyes filled with tears. "But what about my brother? I have only six hundred pounds toward the ransom. Can . . . can you gentlemen lend me the rest?"
Peter tightened his grip on her hand, aching for what she had gone through, understandably afraid to trust him with her secret, trying to handle all of this alone. "Of course," he began, but Luke cut him off.
"We'll do better than that. We'll rescue Flute from the dastardly Ickle this very night. Marcus, Noel, are you with me?"
The other men nodded.
Sarah scrambled to her feet. "Let me help— please."
"And me," Peter said, standing beside her, her hand still in his. He looked down at Sarah and she gazed back, her eyes wide and grateful, a tremulous smile on her lips. That look made any risk worthwhile.
Luke frowned at them both, then shrugged. "Very well. Let's go."
* * *
If Sarah hadn't been so worried about her brother, she would have been euphoric as the group headed toward the heart of Seven Dials. Her secret was out, Peter had forgiven her, and the look in his eyes, the grip he kept on her hand as they walked, told her he truly cared for her.
"Look sharp, now," Lord Hardwyck said, bringing her abruptly back to the problem at hand. "Ickle's flash house is in the rear of that inn up ahead, the Three Larks. This area will be thick with his lads, and some of us don't exactly look as thought we belong here." He cast a quizzical look at Peter's sober but still fine ensemble.
Peter shrugged, a grin tugging at his mouth—in fact, looking more cheerful than Sarah had seen him lately. "At least I didn't wear my gold waistcoat."
The others chuckled, but quietly, as they were nearing their destination. "Around this way," said Lord Hardwyck, turning down a narrow alley one building away from the Three Larks. "Stay close together, and stay alert."
Sarah was amazed to see how well all four men— even Peter!— were able to affect a slouching, shambling walk, completely different from their usual firm, authoritative strides. In fact, had she not known otherwise, she'd never have guessed that Lord Hardwyck or Mr. Paxton, in particular, had ever lived among the wealthy, much less were members of that class themselves.
As for herself, she was able to slip back into her girlhood character. An old woman peered out of a doorway as they passed, and a younger one leaned out of a window above, but neither raised any sort of alarm. Perhaps they could carry this off after all.
At the intersection of the alley with another, they paused. "That's it, there." Lord Hardwyck motioned toward a ramshackle two-story addition to the inn. "The entrances will be guarded."
"What . . . what if this Ickle kills William rather than allowing him to be rescued?" Sarah couldn't help asking, despite the comforting pressure of Peter's hand on her shoulder.
Lord Hardwyck grinned, his white teeth flashing in the darkness of the alley. "That may be his plan, and I've no doubt he has Flute heavily guarded, as it's known I broke the lad out of Newgate last spring. However, Ickle will be expecting an attempt by one Saint, not three. Or, I should say, four." He bowed in Sarah's direction.
She was glad for the darkness, which hid her blush. "No, I was never a true Saint," she began, but Lord Marcus cut her off.
"If what I've heard is true, you merit the name as well as any of us. Sometime you must tell me how you managed Lady Beatrice's necklace."
"But not now," said Lord Hardwyck. "Come, let's lay out our plan. There are two ground floor windows and one door, if memory serves. I propose we fan out and secure all three at once. Allow no one who comes out to go back in—no alarm must be raised. Marcus, you're with me. Noel, you go with Lord and Lady Peter."
Breaking into two groups, they moved with seeming aimlessness toward the back of the inn. As they drew nearer, Sarah saw that Lord Hardwyck had been correct —there were teenaged urchins outside the window visible from this side, while an ill-favored middle-aged man lounged in the narrow doorway, picking his teeth with the point of a wicked-looking knife. Mr. Ickle, no doubt.
Lord Hardwyck and Marcus angled toward those nearest the window, laughing together and stumbling as though they were drunk. The other three veered to the far side of the narrow alley as though they meant to pass by the inn entirely.
"I'll take Ickle," Mr. Paxton breathed as they drew opposite the door and its leering guardian. "You two take the other window."
"No," Sarah whispered on sudden inspiration. "I have an idea." Not waiting for a reply, she stepped from beneath Peter's protective arm and headed boldly toward Ickle himself. She heard a furious whisper behind her, quickly hushed, but did not look back.
Already the pock-faced man in the doorway had noticed her, his leer becoming more pronounced. He looked sturdily built but not overlarge, she noted with relief. Praying that Peter would not act prematurely, Sarah threw back her hood to reveal her golden curls and sauntered forward.
"Gorblimey! An' what 'ave we 'ere?" Ickle growled, a wolfish grin splitting his ugly face.
"Come on," Noel hissed as Peter stopped, aghast, to watch Sarah approaching their nemesis.
Belatedly, he realized Noel was right and followed him to the corner of the building before glancing back again. They dared not draw attention to themselves yet.
"You're out of his line of sight here," Noel whispered then, "so you can stay in the shadows and keep an eye on her. I think I know what she has in mind. I'll secure the other window."
Peter nodded, not taking his eyes from Sarah as she reached out with one delicate, ungloved hand and touched the foul Ickle's shoulder.
"Folks 'ereabouts call me Sally," he heard her say in an accent as rough as Ickle's own. "I 'ear tell you're a man worth cultivatin', Mr. Ickle."
The thief-master's grin widened in a manner that made Peter's fists clench. Slipping his dagger into a pocket, Ickle put a filthy finger against Sarah's face. "Aye, that I am, Sally lass. I'm in a position to be real nice to them what please me."
Peter was about to throw caution to the winds and burst from hiding when he noticed Sarah's hand sliding caressingly down Ickle's arm— and into his pocket. "Oh, I think I can please you," she said, her hand reemerging with the knife.
From behind him, Peter heard the sounds of a scuffle and a quickly-muffled shout. Noel must have dispatched the guardian at the window. Unfortunately, it appeared Ickle had heard it as well.
"Eh? What's that?" he said, turning his head. Peter shrank into the shadows before he could be seen.
Sarah dropped the knife into her cloak pocket and slid her hand back up the man's arm. "Prob'ly those sots I was with. They was arguin' over me and I told 'em neither could hold a candle to you, and sent 'em on their way. Like as not they're fightin' now."
Ickle nodded. "Mebbe so, but I'd best have a look. Man in my position can't be too careful, you know." He took a step
toward Peter, but Sarah blocked his way. "You're goin' to walk away from me, then?" she asked with a convincing pout.
Not convincing enough, apparently. Ickle's thick brows drew down in a sudden frown. "'Ere, I know this game! Staged it meself enough times, I have. You're shillin' for them fellows while they bust into me place!" Grasping her roughly by the arm, he turned back to the door.
Recognizing his cue, Peter leaped forward, cutting Ickle off. "I don't think so," he said smoothly.
Quick as a snake, the man wrapped an arm around Sarah's neck, while thrusting his other hand into his pocket. If he hadn't been so worried for Sarah's safety, Peter would have found his expression when he discovered the knife missing comical.
"Looking for this?" Sarah gasped, pulling the dagger from her pocket. Before Ickle could snatch it from her, she tossed it to Peter, who caught it neatly by the handle.
"Ye lying bitch!" Ickle roared. "I'll snap yer neck." He tightened his strangle-hold on Sarah, turning whatever retort she tried to make into a breathless squeak.
Suddenly, Peter was back on the battlefield, a life he'd been charged to protect in the balance. Without hesitation, he closed with his enemy, his training telling him exactly where to strike. As the knife slid between the villain's ribs, Ickle's hold on Sarah suddenly slackened. With one surprised grunt, he slumped to the ground.
Peter spared him scarcely a glance, but gathered Sarah into his arms. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently.
But she was staring at the man at their feet. "He would have broken my neck in another instant," she rasped, her voice hoarse. "You killed him . . . to save me. I'm sorry, Peter. I should never have put you in such a position, after—"
"Shh! Don't talk now. Let's see if the others need help." Oddly, Peter felt no remorse for what he'd just done, despite the vows he'd once made never to use violence again. Sarah had been in danger and his course had been clear. It was as simple as that.
They rounded the corner to see Noel gagging one lad while another already lay bound at his feet. "Everything under control, then?" Peter asked.