Gallant Scoundrel (7 page)

“Not a bit of it,” Peter replied with a broad smile and a glance at the others in the room. “Allow me to introduce the second and fourth Saints of Seven Dials. No doubt you’ll meet the first and third once they return to London.”

Harry blinked. “Second and—?
You
, Pete? And never say this young fellow managed some of the exploits I’ve read about?” He pointed at Lady Peter’s brother.

“Nay, guv, though I wanted to give it a go—and might yet, someday.” He shot a frown at his sister, who frowned back.
 

Peter laughed. “Wrong on both counts, old chap.”

Now Harry was even more confused. “But surely—”

“That’s why I acted the Saint,” Peter’s wife astonished him by saying. “To keep William from doing so. But for barely more than a week, so perhaps I should not be counted among the actual Saints.”

“Certainly you count,” Marcus declared, grinning as broadly as his brother at Harry’s stunned expression. “Was it not your activities that reunited the three previous Saints a few days after your wedding? I’d say you proved yourself more than capable, both before we caught you and afterward, during our joint rescue of young Flute, here.”

“Flute?” Harry echoed.

The boy, who looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, nodded. “Aye, it’s what I’ve gone by ‘most all my life. It’s only Sarah here what calls me William.”
 

“So you were a Saint of Seven Dials as well?” Harry asked Marcus directly, determined to be perfectly clear this time.

“The second, as Peter said. I took over after Luke—Lord Hardwyck, that is—retired his mask, so to speak. Not that he literally handed that over. Only a card, so I could copy it to create my own.”

Harry had met Lord Hardwyck on multiple occasions when he was plain Luke St. Clair, as he and Lord Marcus had been close friends from their school days onward. Remembering a few things that had come out when Luke had claimed his title, Harry found it rather easier to believe that
he
had acted as the legendary thief.

“And the third Saint?”

“Noel Paxton,” Peter said. “He hounded both Luke and Marcus in the mistaken belief that the Saint and the Black Bishop—you remember that traitor?—were one and the same. When he discovered his error, he asked their help in becoming the next Saint that he might use the role to track down the real culprit. He gave it up once he brought the villain to justice.”

Slowly, Harry nodded, as various perplexing events from the past year or so fell into place. “And you, Flute. You’ve been associated with the Saints as well?”

“Aye, along with a few other boys. But I was the first, helping Lord Hardwyck almost from the start. I’m the only one that knew who the first Saint really was.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “Used to be, I’d sniff ’round Seven Dials, see who was needing some brass sharpish like and pass the names along. Then I’d fence whatever booty the Saint nicked and dole it out in his name. His main accomplice I was, starting when I was no more’n twelve or thirteen. If anyone can show you the ropes on how to become the next Saint it’s me!”

“So it would seem.” Apparently the boy was a bit older than he looked. “How do we start?” Now that Harry had made his decision, he was eager to get on with it.

Peter grinned. “By getting you a bit stronger. Meanwhile Flute here can start filling you in on the history and requirements for the job. Once you’re ready, I’ll turn you loose with your new tutor.”

Flute blinked at the title, then grinned. “Got some ideas already, I have. Lord Peter here says you’re already a dab hand at picking locks and such?”

Harry shot a glance at his friend. “I did a bit of espionage work while in Vienna, yes. Didn’t know it was common knowledge.”

“Common? Hardly that,” Peter assured him. “Doubt anyone but Wellington and I actually
knew
and few would have guessed, given your usual state between missions.”

“I was bamming most of that, to put off suspicion.”

“Most?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“All right, some of it.” While it was true Harry had done more than his share of carousing during the Congress of Vienna, he’d never let drink cloud his wits when serving his general. “What other skills will I need?” he asked the boy Flute.

“Why don’t we leave you both to it?” Peter suggested, rising. The others did likewise. “Don’t keep him up too late, however,” he cautioned his young brother-in-law. “I imagine his head’s still a bit sore, among other things. He’ll need his rest if he’s to be ready to pick up the Saint’s mantle by year’s end.”

Harry was determined it would be much sooner than that, however—by week’s end, if he had anything to say in it. Without ready funds for his usual pursuits, he was increasingly keen to try this new one.

*
       
*
       
*

Several days later Xena resumed her mission, this time clad in a gently-used but fashionable gown she’d obtained for ten shillings from a stall in Soho. Confident that she now looked, if not her best, then at least respectably well-off, she opened the door of the next shop on her list.
 

“D. Gold & Sons, Dealers in Unique and Unusual Treasures” appeared a similar establishment to the first few she’d visited, if rather dustier. The white-haired man behind the counter looked up as Xena entered, then favored her with a kindly smile.

“You’ll have lost your way, surely, miss? The ladies’ shops are mostly in the neighborhood of Bond Street.”

Xena bit back the retort that rose to her lips. Back in Yorkshire, gentry, merchants and farmers alike knew better than to patronize Mistress Maxwell but not so, here in London.
 

“No, this is the shop I want,” she said firmly. “Might you be Mr. Gold?”

One white brow went up. “I am.” His voice held a trace more respect than before, but only a trace. “Have you been commissioned to purchase something in particular, madam?”

“I am not here to purchase today, Mr. Gold, but to sell.” She stepped forward to peer through the glass fronting the long display cabinet beneath the counter. “It appears you deal in just the sort of antiquities I can provide.”

As she’d done at the previous shops, Xena set her wooden box on the counter and opened the lid to reveal its carefully stored contents. “This you may recognize as having come from Persia, dating to the second century.” She lifted out a small ceramic leopard.

Now both eyebrows went up. “Ah! May I?” Gingerly, Mr. Gold took the tiny, priceless statuette from her and turned it this way and that, examining it minutely, all the while making small, happy sounds in the back of his throat. Then, setting it carefully on the counter, he peered into the box. “And what else have you here? Surely this is not a genuine Caligula denarius, and in such fine condition?”

“It is, indeed. I see you are well versed in ancient artifacts, sir. Might these be the sort of items you would be interested in purchasing for resale?”

Mr. Gold now leaned away to take a better look at Xena herself while thoughtfully stroking his scanty beard. “Do you mean to say you have more?”

“I do. My father left an extensive collection—his life’s work. Some of the pieces are duplicates, however, with which I am willing to part. For the right price.”

The shopkeeper nodded, still peering at her over his half-moon spectacles. “It’s possible I’d be willing to take some of those items off your hands, Mrs—?”

“Maxwell.”

“Very well, Mrs. Maxwell, why don’t you send your father, or your husband, to discuss the particulars with me? I’d not want it said that I took advantage of a lady in such matters.”

Xena bristled. “I have neither father nor husband, Mr. Gold, but I assure you I am more than capable of handling these or any other affairs myself. If you are not willing to deal with me directly, however…” Letting her words hang, she picked up the Persian figurine and placed it back in the box.

“Now, now, miss, no offense meant,” said the man quickly—though still patronizingly, Xena thought. “But you must admit it’s not usual, nor seemly, for a pretty young lady like yourself to come alone on such a mission, and to this part of London.”

“Seemly or not, if you have an interest in the items from my father’s collection, you will deal with me, Mr. Gold, for there is no one else I trust to negotiate on my behalf. Now that my father is gone, no person alive knows his collection as I do.”

There was no mistaking the increased respect in Mr. Gold’s watery blue eyes now. “So it would seem. Very well, Miss Maxwell, let us see if we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement, shall we?”
 

Pulling a dusty ledger book, pen and ink from beneath the counter, he smiled. “Now. If you would be so kind as to describe some of the items you are looking to sell?”

Forty-five minutes later Xena emerged from the shop, her velvet-lined box empty and her purse rather satisfyingly plumper than it had been an hour earlier. In addition to what he’d paid outright for the items she’d brought with her, Mr. Gold had agreed to take on consignment the rest of the objects now residing in a chest in her rented bedchamber.
 

Unless she missed her guess, the money he estimated she would eventually receive should cover nearly all necessary repairs at Moorside Grange as well as a few needs in and around the village that looked to it.
 

She was tucking her purse into the pocket of her cloak when an unshaven man in a threadbare coat blocked her way on the narrow pavement.

“‘Ere now, missy, whyn’t you just hand that over, eh?” He held out a grubby paw.

Startled, Xena took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“I said, give me yer purse—and that box, too, while yer at it.”
 

Instead, she shoved the box into her pocket after the purse. “I’ll do no such thing. Get out of my way.”

The rough-looking man laughed. “My, ain’t you a feisty one? But I’ll have yer brass all the same.” One hand shot out and grasped Xena’s arm.

Though there were people about, it did not occur to her to call for assistance. Not when she had bested trained soldiers in contests of arms, once upon a time. Raising her newly-purchased secondhand parasol, she whacked her assailant smartly on the ear.

“Oi!” he exclaimed, releasing her. “What—?”
 

Before he could finish, she gripped the handle of the parasol as though it were the hilt of a sword and thrust it at his chest. With a yelp, he scrambled backward into the street and was nearly run down by a passing dray. Xena took a step toward him, still wielding the parasol menacingly, but he’d had enough. With a strangled cry, he turned and ran away.

“Well done, miss!” exclaimed a portly businessman, hurrying up just then. “Was coming to offer my help, but you can obviously handle yourself.”

“My thanks anyway,” she told the well-meaning merchant with a smile. “Good day to you.”

“And to you!” Tipping his hat, he bowed.

Heartened by the encounter—and the first bit of real excitement she’d had in years—Xena continued on her way. Reaching into her pocket, she patted her purse with renewed satisfaction, anticipating her son’s excitement when she told him they might indeed remain in London for the winter.

A
BARE
week after learning the identities of the former Saints of Seven Dials, Harry felt ready to take on the role himself. He was completely recovered from his attack, save a half-healed scar over his right eyebrow and a slight limp that was improving daily.

At Flute’s suggestion, he’d removed from his lodgings in Swallow Street to Lord Hardwyck’s old quarters in the heart of Seven Dials. Despite the crumbling building’s unprepossessing exterior, the flat itself proved perfectly livable.
 

“Lived here m’self, till Sarah insisted I stay with her,” the boy had explained on their arrival there two days since. “More convenient for you to operate from here and easier to convince the other lads to accept you as the new Saint, too. Might even cozzen ‘em into thinking you’re the original, come back again.”
 

Under Flute’s tutelage, Harry had now successfully managed a few smaller thefts—pockets picked, an unattended package purloined from an empty carriage, that sort of thing—but tonight would see his first attempt at house-breaking.

In time he hoped to equal such fabled Saintly exploits as the filching of Lady Jersey’s diamonds from her very neck while she hostessed a ball. First, however, he’d need to work his way back into the heart of Society, as he’d drifted rather to the fringes since returning from Vienna last summer.

To that end, Peter promised to include him in any likely invitations on condition Harry cut back on his drinking. Not counting the one spree to celebrate his first night out from under Peter’s roof, he’d done so. Most of the time he felt the better for it, too, though it occasionally made sleeping difficult when those imaginary pains from his missing arm recurred.
 

“Ye’ll do, guv’nor,” Flute said as he put the finishing touches to Harry’s costume. Brewster, his valet, had been sent off to visit his widowed mother in Surrey for a few days rather than risk his implication in any crimes while Harry was still learning the ropes. “Don’t forget to slouch, mind.”
 

“Right.” Here in Seven Dials, Harry went about disguised as one of the many beggars infesting the area. His missing arm lent authenticity to the ruse, as a disturbing number of those beggars were indeed wounded soldiers who’d come home from the wars only to find little in the way of tangible assistance from the country they’d served.

Luckily, Harry had practiced similar deceptions during his time in Vienna, in order to infiltrate coteries that would never have welcomed someone known to be associated with Wellington.

“You have the direction of tonight’s target?”
 

“Aye, it’s not far. Just off Golden Square on Carnaby Street.” Flute gave Harry’s homespun shirt a tweak. “A cheat of a shopkeeper what turned Skeet off without reference or wages two weeks back,” Flute continued. “A customer dropped a pot and broke it but the owner made like Skeet done it rather than blame the lady, then beat him for good measure. Skeet’s better off away from him, but there’s no denying the bloke’s deservin’ of the Saint’s attention.”