Gallant Scoundrel (29 page)

During the dark watches of the night, the dreadful sight of Harry covered in blood had repeatedly recurred, disturbing her sleep with thoughts of what could have happened had his wound been more serious. Thus, it was increasingly difficult to restrain herself from popping into his chamber to assure herself he was merely asleep.
 

Finally giving into temptation, Xena crept through both dressing room doors as quietly as possible. On finding him sleeping peacefully, his breathing slow and even, she was startled and dismayed by the rush of relief she felt. When had he come to mean so much to her?
 

Reminded of the similar anxiety she’d felt during Theo’s bout of scarlet fever the previous year, she realized this was a perfect opportunity to see her son again without arousing Harry’s suspicions. After cautioning Brewster to let Harry sleep as long as possible and to discourage him from too much activity when he finally awakened, she called for the carriage.
 

As it went along, she several times glanced behind her, wondering whether Harry might still be having her followed. She noticed no one suspicious but the very idea sparked a renewal of the indignation she’d felt last night. They still had quite a bit more to discuss once he was recovered.

On her return to Grosvenor Street two hours later, she immediately inquired after Harry only to be told he had gone out half an hour before. Disgruntled at having missed him, Xena asked to have tea brought to the drawing room, where she sat down at the desk to sort through a few more invitations. She’d scarcely begun, however, when the young butler, Chambers, appeared in the doorway.

“Lady Foxhaven and Lady Peter Northrup to see you,” he announced.

Welcoming the interruption, Xena rose with alacrity to greet them. “How nice to see you again, Lady Peter.”

“Sarah, remember? And I’ve brought someone who very much wished to meet you—Nessa, Lady Foxhaven.”

 
The newcomer took Xena’s hand, her brown eyes warm. “As your husband and mine are such close friends, Mrs. Thatcher, it is my hope we might become so as well—particularly as, from what Sarah tells me, you are likely dealing with some of the same challenges I faced in the early days of my marriage.”

Xena’s interest quickened. “Sit down, do,” she said, ringing for more tea. “To what challenges do you refer, Lady Foxhaven?”
 

“Nessa, please. Perhaps I should begin by telling you that I first met Jack, Lord Foxhaven, at a masquerade—one I should never have been attending in the first place, but I was simply dying for some excitement after the dull life I’d led to that point.”
 

She laughed. “By marrying Jack, however, I got rather more than I’d bargained for. He had every bit as rakish a reputation as your Harry, whereas I’d lived so sheltered I was quite taken aback by evidence of his former, er, activities. Having spent time in army camps, you are doubtless more difficult to shock, but I’m sure gossip can be hurtful all the same.”
 

Xena was by no means convinced Harry’s rakish days were all behind him, but did not say so. “Er, yes, I suppose it can. I take it Lord Foxhaven mended his ways after he married you?”

“He did, though I confess I doubted for a while—mainly due to the backbiting of a former, ah, flame or two. That led to a few misunderstandings early on, but once we got those sorted our marriage became an exceedingly happy one. He has turned out the best father to our son I could have imagined and seems as eager as I that this next one might be a girl.” She patted her middle confidingly.

“Oh! I hadn’t realized—”

“No, we’ve made no announcement as yet, but we are both quite excited—though already I find sleeping more difficult than usual. Which reminds me, did either of you hear shots fired last night?”

The other two shook their heads, though Xena’s interest was caught. “When would that have been?” she asked.

“Near midnight, I should say. I’d gone to bed early, still tired from traveling, and they woke me. Jack thought they might have come from Green Park or even Hyde Park Corner.”

“A duel, perhaps?” Sarah suggested. “Or someone defending himself against footpads?”

Nessa shuddered delicately. “I don’t like to think of them so close to Mayfair, but I hear that unsavory sorts frequent the parks at night.”

Xena said nothing, remembering the bullet she’d taken from Harry’s side last night. He’d said it happened in a fight—a duel?—over cards, but she was aware of no gaming establishments near Hyde Park. She would insist upon more details when she spoke with him next.

The conversation moved on to more general topics then and Xena was happy to find neither of her new acquaintances seemed prone to gossip. By the time the two women left, she felt she could indeed become close friends with both of them…not that she planned to remain in London after fulfilling her bargain with Lord Peter.

January would no doubt see her returning to Yorkshire—a strangely dreary thought.

*
       
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*

After sleeping well into the afternoon and partaking of a hearty, belated breakfast, Harry felt very nearly himself again. On learning that Xena had gone out, he waved away Brewster’s protests and headed to Tattersall’s, where he’d yesterday agreed to offer his input on a pair of carriage horses Jack was considering. It would be unwise, he reasoned, to go into hiding after last night’s incident and perhaps invite suspicion.

He and Jack stopped by the club afterward but even when they were joined by other old army comrades, Harry limited himself to a single pint of ale. Hoping for another evening at home with Xena so that he could make another attempt to learn her secrets, he returned to Grosvenor Street in good time for dinner only to learn they were committed elsewhere.
 

“Would you rather we cry off again?” she asked when he frowned at hearing he’d barely have time to change before leaving. “How are you feeling, by the bye?”

“Well enough, but I’d as lief be spared cavorting about a ballroom just yet.”

“It’s only dinner at Lord and Lady Plumfield’s. We were invited to Lady Tinsdale’s ball tonight as well, but given your recent injury I assumed we would give that a miss. Should we call in a proper physician? If you still—”

“No,” he said quickly. He’d prefer no one else learn of his injury, as he had no way of substantiating the tale he’d given Xena last night should awkward questions be asked. “That is, I can’t imagine any London physician giving me better care than you, my dear.”

She continued to regard him for a long moment, brows now skeptically raised. “Very well. But you must tell me at once if your side grows warm or more painful.”

“Of course. I, ah, suppose I’d best go change.”
 

As Brewster helped him into his evening clothes, Harry chafed at the delay before he could question Xena further about her contradictory words and behavior last night. After all but admitting she was seeing Wellington on the side, she’d later denied it, then essentially threatened to do so anyway unless
Harry
promised to be faithful. What did it all mean?
 

As it happened, he’d not been with another women since learning Xena still lived—nor, oddly, had any particular desire to do so. Still, it was one thing to parrot the words in a wedding ceremony and another to give Xena his word now, years later. If he did so, he’d feel honor-bound to keep it—but could he? Few husbands did, he well knew. Jack and Pete were anomalies, and likely only because they were so recently wed.
 

Harry was still wrestling with such thoughts when he handed Xena into the carriage for the short ride to Lord and Lady Plumfield’s house. Her first words once they were underway, however, effectively drove the matter from his mind.

“Lady Peter brought Lady Foxhaven to call today and she mentioned hearing shots fired last night near Hyde Park Corner. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

Caught off guard, Harry hesitated, striving to remember just what he’d told Xena last night. “Ah, no, I’m afraid not. The gaming establishment where my, er, incident occurred was well East of here, quite in the opposite direction.”

“No matter,” she said, though he thought the look she gave him still held a hint of suspicion. “I was simply curious, as you hadn’t mentioned where the fight that wounded you took place—nor much else about it. Was it an actual duel?”

“Certainly not a formal one.” Relaxing slightly, he began embroidering his story. “Fellow was cheating, as I said, and when I called him on it he challenged me. Everyone around us was keen to see us fight on the spot—I fear most of us had been drinking more than was wise—so we stepped out into the street. Then, instead of waiting for someone to count off paces, the blackguard pulled a pistol and shot without warning. Luckily for me, he was in too great a hurry to make his escape to aim properly. Fired wild and ran for it.”

“You’d have been luckier still had he missed entirely,” she pointed out. “At least you admit drinking was partially to blame. Let that be a lesson to you in future.”
 

Rather than protest her sermonizing as he would with Pete, he congratulated himself that she seemed to accept his account of last night’s events. Unfortunately, his complacency was shattered mere moments later.

“I’ll not believe it ’til they actually find his body,” Lord Blenny was saying as they entered the parlor where the Plumfields’ guests were gathered before dinner. “The fellow is slippery as an eel, everyone knows that.”

“Corporal Mainwaring insisted to The Courier he scored a direct hit,” Mr. Cheevers countered. “And half a dozen others of Wellington’s men claimed he spoke truth. Just because there hasn’t been time to dredge the canal, doesn’t mean—”

“I hope you’re wrong, Papa, and Lord Blenny is right,” Miss Cheevers cried, clearly distraught. “’Twould be a great loss to us all if the Saint of Seven Dials were killed.”

Her father snorted. “A loss to some of the riffraff in the slums, perhaps, but not to the rest of us. Can’t think why you ladies insist on romanticizing the scoundrel.”
 

Harry tensed but before he could think of a way to redirect the topic of conversation, Xena spoke.
 

“I fear I have not seen this evening’s Courier. What happened?”

“The Saint of Seven Dials attempted to burgle the Duke of Wellington’s house last night,” their hostess, Lady Plumfield, informed her. “Only imagine, how brazen! But some of his servants saw him before he gained entry and gave chase. One of the men claims to have shot him as he fled across the bridge in St. James’s Park. He tumbled off into the water and they believe he must have drowned. They searched for some time after but the men found no sign of him. ’Twas dark, of course, but they insist he could not have escaped without their seeing him. The Bow Street Runners are talking of having the canal dredged to confirm it.”

“Indeed!” Xena shot a glance at Harry, who felt he did a creditable job of looking only politely interested in the conversation while carefully avoiding her eye. “A friend did mention hearing shots fired in the vicinity of Apsley House late last night.”
 

Lord Blenny hmphed. “Only means Wellington’s men chased and fired at the rascal, not that they succeeded in killing him. They’ll not get any reward before that’s proven.”
 

“If they did not catch him, what makes them believe it was the Saint of Seven Dials?” Xena asked then. “Could it not have been some other housebreaker?”

“Not likely,” Mr. Cheevers declared. “According to the article, on returning to the Duke’s residence the men examined the window he’d been attempting to force and found one of the Saint’s distinctive cards wedged between sash and frame. For myself, I believe we’ve finally seen the end of that bounder.”

His wife and daughter gave twin sniffs into their handkerchiefs.
 

“I suppose we must hope so.” Xena again looked pointedly Harry’s way while he focused his attention on the precise fall of his cravat, adjusting it slightly.
 

Xena was no fool. The details matched far too closely for her to fail drawing the obvious conclusion. All he could do now was put her off as long as possible in hopes that inspiration might come to him before she had opportunity to confront him privately.

*
       
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*

The topic of the possible demise of the Saint of Seven Dials continued to dominate conversation during dinner.
 

Xena could think of only one way to account for the similarities between the newspaper story and Harry’s return home at midnight, soaking wet and nursing a bullet wound besides. No wonder he’d seemed uneasy in the carriage earlier when she’d mentioned shots fired near Hyde Park Corner—then spun that elaborate tale about a fictitious duel.
 

Nor was it difficult to guess why Harry had selected that particular target, given his assumption about the Duke of Wellington and herself. Though a week ago she’d dismissed the idea that Harry could be the Saint, it now appeared confirmed beyond reasonable doubt.
 

If any additional evidence were needed, the assiduous way in which he avoided speaking or even looking at her during the remainder of the evening must mean he knew quite well that Xena had deduced the truth: incredible, impossible as it seemed, her husband was indeed the notorious Saint of Seven Dials!

The moment they were safely shut into the carriage for the drive back, she rounded on him. “I knew you had accumulated your share of vices over the past seven years, Harry, but I had no idea you had become an arrant fool as well. What on earth were you thinking to attempt robbing Apsley House, of all places, particularly in the state you were in last night?”

Gazing fixedly out the window of the carriage, Harry shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. Do you seriously believe a one-armed man could be capable of the exploits the Saint of Seven Dials is fabled for? I told you what happened last night. ’Tis scarcely my fault the Saint, whoever he was, managed to get himself killed at nearly the same time.”