Gallant Scoundrel (20 page)

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Xena couldn’t seem to fall asleep. There was less of street noise here than outside Mrs. Henderson’s house, and the bed was far more comfortable, but her mind was still too unsettled to allow her to relax.

She had written a detailed letter to her steward in Yorkshire, after which she had taken a candle to survey the unoccupied bedrooms across the passage with an eye to refurbishing at least one, so that she and Harry need not occupy quite such close quarters.
 

After that she’d made lists of possibilities, for both those rooms and for her life going forward. From the evening’s conversation, it appeared Harry’s circumstances and character were as bad as she’d feared. Given that, she was more than half minded to go abroad with Theo after all, as soon as she received the promised money from Mr. Gold’s rich customer. But where, precisely? She’d written until her eyes grew heavy and the candle guttered. Yet she still could not fall asleep.

Restlessly, she adjusted the feather pillow beneath her head, then stiffened at the sound of stealthy footsteps and heavy breathing in the passage outside her door. Had Harry returned?
 

Though it should mean nothing to her either way, she slipped from under the down quilts and padded silently to her chamber door—first to listen, then to carefully open it a crack, so that she could peer into the hallway.
 

Harry, dressed in a rough-looking black coat he certainly had not been wearing earlier, was just entering his own bedchamber. When he spoke to his valet, Xena’s ears sharpened.

“Yes, yes, I know, but never mind.” He sounded out of breath, as though he’d been running. “I can fetch them tomorrow. For now, put this out of sight somewhere and for God’s sake, have someone bring up a bath. I’m all of a sweat.” The chamber door snicked shut, muffling anything further.
 

Quietly, Xena closed her own door as well, burning with curiosity. Harry must have done more tonight than play at cards or dice. He sounded as though he’d been running. Or—the thought caused an unpleasant lurch of her stomach—cavorting with a mistress? That seemed the most obvious explanation for him returning at this hour sweating and out of breath. If the woman was married and her husband returned unexpectedly, it would also account for him leaving his coat behind.
 

Resigned to at least another hour of sleeplessness, she crawled back under the covers to wait for morning, though she doubted it would bring many answers.

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The morning was well advanced when Harry awoke the next morning, no doubt due to his unwonted late-night exertion followed by a hot, relaxing bath. Even so, the first thing he did on rising was to reach under the bed for the sack he’d stashed the night before to take full stock of his haul.

It was even better than he’d originally estimated. In addition to several expensive-looking rings and jeweled fobs, he’d come away with at least twenty pounds of silver plate and nearly half that in gold guineas, as well as some eight hundred pounds in bank notes. Enough to give relief to every needy family on Flute’s current list and possibly many more for a deal of time to come.
 

Chuckling to himself, he shoved the sack deep under the bed again, then rang for Brewster. He might not be rich or titled but, by God, he was a far cry from useless.

When he went down to the breakfast parlor twenty minutes later, Xena was still at table, looking remarkably fetching in a rose and cream day dress.
 

“Good morning—though it is nearly afternoon now. I began to wonder whether you meant to come down at all.” Though she smiled, her voice held a slight edge.

“My apologies. I fear I’m not in the habit of rising early. I hope you did not wait on me to break your own fast?”

“No, I ate more than an hour since but I will have another cup of coffee to keep you company.” She motioned to the hovering footman, who immediately fetched the pot from the sideboard, where a selection of pastries and breakfast meats were still laid out.

Rather than display his awkwardness at serving himself one-handed, Harry took the chair opposite Xena and waited for the footman to bring him food as well as coffee. “What is all this?” he asked, gesturing to the pile of cards he now noticed on the table between them.

“Invitations. They began arriving only moments after I came downstairs this morning. Indeed, I’m surprised the frequent ringing of the bell did not wake you sooner.”

Harry picked up the one nearest him, for a musicale to be held at the house of Lord and Lady Wittington the following week. It was addressed to “Major and Mrs. H. Thatcher.” Glancing through a few others, he saw they were similarly addressed.

“How the devil can they all know about us already?” he wondered aloud.

Xena raised an eyebrow. “Precisely what I’d planned to ask you, given that last night we agreed to keep the matter as private as possible. Certainly
I’ve
had no opportunity to tell anyone who might—” She was interrupted by the sound of the front bell. “That will be yet more, I imagine.”
 

A moment later, however, Lord Peter Northrup was announced.
 

“I’m glad I caught you both still at home,” he greeted them jovially. Helping himself to coffee and a pastry, he joined them at the table without ceremony. “Ah, I see invitations have already begun arriving. Excellent.”

Harry frowned at his friend. “Clearly you are far less surprised about it than we are.”

“Yes, well, that would be because I was the one to send word round to the papers yesterday. Then I realized you likely hadn’t arranged for deliveries yet after Marcus had them suspended, so I brought a few with me.” He drew several folded newspapers from inside his coat and set them on the table.
 

Snatching up the
Times
, Harry thumbed to the Society news. There, among various betrothal announcements and recountings of last night’s notable entertainments, he found the item Peter referred to.
 

“A Story Book Ending to a Star-Crossed Romance,” he read aloud. “A battlefield wedding ended in apparent tragedy several years ago when Major Harry Thatcher’s new bride, the former Xena Maxwell, was reported killed aboard a frigate sunk by Napoleon’s forces. Mrs. Thatcher, who had sailed upon a different ship, was unaware that her husband believed her dead, so had not yet sent word to disabuse him when she read of his apparent death during the battle at Salamanca. Both Major and Mrs. Thatcher believed themselves widowed until unexpectedly encountering each other at a reception hosted by the Duke of Wellington four nights since. One can but imagine their surprise and subsequent joy at the discovery they are both alive! The happily reunited couple are currently residing at—”
 

Harry broke off with an oath. “What the deuce were you thinking to send out such romantical tripe without consulting either of us?”

“Knew you’d find it wearisome to keep repeating the same explanations over and over, so hit upon this idea to spare you the trouble.” Peter grinned, not the least bit abashed. “Now, instead of the awkwardness you no doubt anticipated, you will be in demand as the novelty of the season, coveted by every hostess in Town—as you already perceive.” He waved a hand at the invitations scattered across the table.

Xena finally spoke, her voice slightly higher than normal. “I’m sure it was very kind of you, Lord Peter, but I must agree that you would have done better to speak with us before taking such a step.” She exchanged a glance with Harry, her face reflecting his own dismay at this turn of events.
 

“Yes, yes, I suppose I should have done,” Peter said airily. “Now it’s out there, however, I advise you both to take full advantage of the amusements offered. Which reminds me of the other reason I called. Sarah and I wish you both to accompany us to the theatre tonight, if you’ve no other engagement as yet. We thought you might prefer such an outing, with friends, to ease you into Society in your new roles before being pitched in headfirst by some of these ambitious hostesses.” He nodded again at the accumulated invitations.

Though Harry’s first instinct was to refuse, Xena’s quick intake of breath stopped him.

“The theatre?” Eagerness had replaced her dismay. “Tonight?”

Peter nodded. “
Othello
” is being performed at Drury Lane. Are you familiar with the works of Shakespeare?”
 

“I certainly am,” she replied, her eyes now fairly sparkling.
 

Harry’s protest died on his lips. No matter how little he looked forward to providing all his acquaintances fodder for endless hilarity at his expense, he could not deny her the chance to see her beloved Bard played out on stage.
 

“What time shall we meet you there?” he asked, wondering what it would be like to see that eager, happy expression turned upon him. There were those occasions in Portugal, then Spain… He hastily pushed such thoughts away before his body could visibly betray him.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner beforehand in Curzon Street so we can go there together? Sarah will like that above all things. Let us say half past six?” Peter stood.

Harry did likewise. “I’ll see you out.” He accompanied Peter to the front door before saying in an undertone, “Tell Flute I’ll be stopping by the Seven Dials flat within the next hour or two. I have something to give him for, er, distribution.”

Peter quirked a knowing eyebrow. “I somehow thought you might. I’ll let him know.” With a parting nod, he departed, leaving Harry to wonder how he could have already guessed about last night’s successful foray.

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Xena picked up the nearest of the newspapers Lord Peter had brought as he and Harry left the breakfast parlor, her momentary excitement over attending the theatre subsiding as her earlier dismay reasserted itself. She’d hoped to keep her marriage to Harry relatively quiet, if only for Theo’s sake, but it seemed that was no longer an option. Determined to learn the full extent of the damage, she began skimming through the articles about them.
 

Though the wording varied from paper to paper, each one carried essentially the same story Harry had read aloud, complete with their direction and sentimental hopes for the future of the supposedly ecstatic couple. The
Morning Chronicle
even went on to say, “A tale such as this is bound to revive the romantic spirit of even the most jaded soul. May it turn everyone’s thoughts more hopefully toward the future, now that England is finally at peace.”

Her marriage with Harry was to be held up as a symbol for the future happiness of the entire realm? Her coffee tasted suddenly bitter, for a more unlikely symbol could scarcely be imagined.

To distract herself from that thought, she turned the page of the paper she held to read something else and a moment later was engrossed in an entirely different story.

“Damned interfering nodcock,” Harry muttered, rejoining her at table after Lord Peter had gone. “He claims to mean well, but—”

“Did you see this?” Xena interrupted him, feeling no need to hear yet again how very little Harry appreciated being saddled with her. “I recall hearing about this Saint of Seven Dials a few months ago, back in Yorkshire, but I had no idea he was still in business, so to speak.”

The flare of alarm in Harry’s eyes startled her. “What? I, ah, he’s mentioned in the papers?”

Watching his face curiously, she nodded. “It seems he ransacked the house of some Irish peer last night and made off with a great deal of money and other valuables. Some servants and even the Watch gave chase, but claim he eluded them as if by magic.” She glanced down at the paper again. “The robbery occurred quite near here, on Berkley Square. I daresay the pursuit may have come right by this house.”

“More like he ran back to Seven Dials, as that’s where he’s said to be based.” Harry shrugged, now appearing utterly uninterested—though Xena had an odd sense he was exaggerating that. But why?

“You were out rather late last night,” she commented, pretending to pick at a pastry while gauging his expression from the corner of her eye. “You didn’t happen to witness any of the commotion, did you?”

Again, she detected a quick frown of concern before Harry shook his head. “Not a thing. I hope I didn’t wake you, coming in at such an hour?”

“No, you were quite stealthy.” She chose the word deliberately and was rewarded by another flash of apprehension in his expression. “It took me an unusually long time to fall asleep, so when I heard your voice in the passage I was still awake.”

He again affected complete indifference—and this time she was sure it was an act. “I didn’t mean to stay at the tables quite so long but as I was having a particularly good run of luck I couldn’t bring myself to leave sooner. Should I be out so late again, I’ll endeavor to be quieter upon my return. If you continue having difficulty sleeping, ask Mrs. McKay for a draught. Pete says she brews a capital one.”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” she murmured, letting the subject drop, though she continued to think back over what she’d heard and witnessed last night.
 

Harry, in what could well have been a disguise, and out of breath, as though he’d been running…as the Saint of Seven Dials must surely have done to escape pursuit. Was it conceivable that
Harry
…? Surely not!

Still, when Harry went out a short time later, Xena couldn’t resist going into the library to peruse the months’ worth of newspapers and magazines she found carefully stacked there, eager to learn a bit more about the mysterious Saint of Seven Dials. Though there were no papers from the past week or so, previous ones detailed his more daring exploits, or those involving particularly highly-placed members of Society.
 

Several stories mentioned the widely-held belief that the famed thief gave the majority of his ill-gotten bounty to the poor—thus the “Saint” moniker and frequent comparisons to the legendary Robin Hood. Though popular opinion hailed him as a hero, various authorities doubted more than a tithe of what he stole actually left his own pockets.