Gallant Scoundrel (30 page)

His words had a rehearsed sound, and no wonder. He’d undoubtedly been practicing them for the past two hours.

“You truly persist in denying you were anywhere near Hyde Park Corner or St. James’s Park last night?”
 

A muscle in his jaw twitched but he still did not look at her. “As I said before, I was well East of Mayfair at that time last night. Guess I know well enough where I was shot. Would you like me to take you there and show you? I can even point out the horse trough I fell into afterward.”

The conviction in his voice might have given Xena pause if not for her other bit of evidence.

“What of our first night in Grosvenor Street? I told you I was unable to sleep, but not that I saw you arriving after your supposed evening of gaming. You were dressed in completely different clothing than you’d worn on your departure and out of breath besides.”

He swallowed visibly, then gave a mirthless laugh. “Believe what you will, then. If you cannot see the absurdity of my attempting housebreaking or gate-climbing or pocket-picking, handicapped as I am, I know not how to convince you.”

Xena glared at him but said nothing else for the remainder of the drive, instead planning her next assault—for she was determined to force a confession from him. Once their cloaks were removed and they’d mounted to the first landing, she turned to him with a smile.

“Would you care for a glass of something in the library before bed?”

Clearly startled, then suspicious, he shook his head. “Though I thank you for the invitation, I’m feeling a bit pulled. Perhaps another night.”

Eyes narrowed, Xena followed him up the stairs. Once in her own chamber, she allowed Gretchen to help her change for bed but as soon as her maid had gone, she put on her wrapper and marched through first one dressing room door and then the other.

Harry, already clad in nightshirt and dressing gown, stared at her in surprise, as did his valet, who was in the act of brushing Harry’s dinner jacket. “Xena, what—?” Harry began.

“I wish to examine your wound so as to be certain no inflammation is setting in. Brewster, you may go.”

Though Harry’s brows drew down as though he might countermand that dismissal, his man departed without a word.
 

“As I told you, I feel fine. There’s no need—”

“I have reason to believe my medical knowledge is superior to yours, so I will be the judge of that. Come, sit here on the edge of the bed and let me have a look.”

Warily, he did as she asked, pulling the folds of his Banyan across his lap in a way that made Xena smile. Had he already forgotten she’d seen him in the altogether only last night?
 

“If it will help to preserve your modesty, you may arrange your attire in such a way as to expose your injury and little else. I’ll even look away while you do so.”

Harry’s sheepish expression acknowledged her hit, but he still waited until she averted her eyes to adjust his nightwear to accommodate an examination.
 

Not even attempting to hide her amusement, Xena let her gaze rove about Harry’s chamber, alert for any other bit of evidence she might find to assist in forcing an admission from him that he was indeed the Saint of Seven Dials. Not that he was likely to have left anything in plain sight, but—
 

Her gaze lingered a moment on an object she recognized from their army days, a small wooden clock carved in the shape of an elephant—a gift, he’d once told her, from his grandfather the Earl when he was a boy. The clock was rather more battered now, but still keeping time. On recalling something else about that clock, she took two quick steps toward the fireplace and plucked the clock from the mantel.

“Here!” Harry protested, surging to his feet. “What are you doing?”
 

Instead of answering, Xena turned the clock over and pressed the cunningly hidden catch on the bottom to expose the hollow cavity within—a cavity formerly used to conceal small articles of a valuable or incriminating nature.
 

Such as the handful of cards residing there now—cards etched with a numeral seven topped by a gold-ink halo.

H
ARRY
STEPPED
forward in alarm but before he could intervene, Xena turned with a triumphant smile, holding one of Harry’s Saint cards aloft between her fingers.
 

“Oho!” she cried. “Do you still protest your innocence?”
 

Scowling, Harry snatched his momentarily-forgotten dressing gown off the floor and pulled it back on. “I should have known better than to believe you came here out of concern for my health. It appears your intent was quite the opposite.”

“Hardly that. I do wish to check on your wound but I’ll admit I hoped to persuade you to tell me the truth in the process. Then I saw the clock and recalled how we used to hide…things…inside it.” Primarily secret missives from Xena herself, once their relationship had progressed to the point of assignations

“Now,” she continued, “suppose you tell me the whole story while I have a peep beneath those bandages?”

Finally admitting defeat, he nodded. “Very well, I’ll tell you. But there’s little point now in worrying about this bullet hole festering. Once the world knows the truth I’ll be swinging at the end of a rope anyway.”
 

Xena blinked. “The world—? Why should anyone else guess you are the Saint?”

“There is a sizable reward for my arrest, you know,” he pointed out. “Far more money than you’re like to receive from the sale of your father’s trinkets, or even from whatever gallant is buying you dresses from Madame Fanchot’s. My execution would also secure you permanent freedom from the inconvenience of a husband.”
 

“I am not a monster, Harry,” she snapped. “No matter how foolishly you have behaved, do you really imagine I would turn in my own husband for money?” Her vehemence implied he’d not only startled but offended her—a hopeful sign.

“Even were I so inclined,” she continued after a moment, “which I most certainly am
not
, it would do me little good. Do you not realize that if you are exposed as the Saint, my property will be forfeit along with yours?”

Confused, Harry stared at her. “What the devil do you mean? I’ve no property to forfeit. And what has yours to do with it?”

“In the eyes of the law, my property became yours upon our marriage,” she explained, clearly surprised he would not know that. “Indeed, I have wondered why you never attempted to put in a claim after you returned from Spain if you truly believed me dead.”

“Never even occurred to me,” he admitted truthfully. “Was never much of a legal scholar, you know, unlike you, always crusading about such things. Shame, really. If I’d known, we might both have discovered our error years ago.”

*
       
*
       
*

Xena blinked at his words, then swallowed. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we would have.”
 

She couldn’t quite keep the wistfulness from her voice, realizing the fault was at least as much hers. Had she not been too stubborn to write to him directly after returning to England, he would have learned at once that she had not died. She likely would have been informed he’d survived Salamanca early on, as well. Harry could have met Theo while he was still a toddler. They might have become a real family…

 
“Now, do let me examine your wound, as I suggested,” Xena said with forced briskness. There was no point dwelling on such regrets now.
 

Resuming his place on the edge of the bed, Harry lifted his Banyan and nightshirt to expose the bandages still wrapped around his body, though Xena noticed he was careful to keep his lap and left shoulder discreetly covered.
 

“Very well. Take a look, if you must.”

“Thank you.” Carefully, she unwound the bindings and lifted the cloth pad covering his wound. Already the shallow gash was scabbing over and the edges of the deeper cut where she’d removed the bullet were clean. “Hm. It looks well enough so far, though it will be another day or two before the danger of infection is past. And now, if you don’t mind, I should very much like to hear the story of how you evaded General Wellington’s battle-trained servants last night.”

As she replaced the pad with another, cleaner one and retied the strips holding it in place, Harry began his tale from the point where he was spotted behind Apsley House, then described his pursuit through two parks before finally being shot from behind.

“Luckily for me, I learned to swim quite well underwater as a lad. Never expected to need that particular skill again, but it stood me in good stead last night.”

Rapt, Xena listened in silence to every word, still absorbing the remarkable fact that Harry,
her Harry
, was the fabled Saint of Seven Dials! Yes, she’d suspected it immediately on hearing the details of the legendary thief’s near-demise, but she hadn’t quite
believed
it. It seemed so completely unlikely, given the sort of man he’d become.
 

Over the past week she’d begun to doubt anything remained of the brash young lieutenant she’d once known. Full of grandiose plans for fame and fortune, if not as a soldier, then after the war, he’d borne little resemblance to the drunken gamester she’d recently observed. Now, hearing Harry tell of swimming for his life—with but one arm!—in freezing water, while already wounded… Yes, this was indeed the man she remembered.

As he finished his tale, she tied off his bandage, then moved to the chair by the bed. “Why did you become the Saint of Seven Dials to begin with? And how long ago?”

“I’ve only been playing the Saint a few weeks, so most of the stories you’ve heard about his exploits don’t pertain to me, I’m afraid.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug.

“Do you mean there were others before you?” she asked in surprise.

He nodded. “At least four, to my knowledge. Er, not at liberty to say who, of course.”

“No, I suppose not.” She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “And now yet another will have to take up the mantle, for your housebreaking days are surely behind you after an incident such as this.”

“What? No such thing!” he protested, frowning. “Think you this was my first narrow escape? Far from it, though I admit it’s the first where I’ve taken a bullet.”

Xena raised an eyebrow. “I assume you hadn’t attempted any other burglaries while so deep in your cups as you were last night?”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted rather sheepishly. “But—”
 

“You cannot continue, Harry,” she insisted. “Aside from the risk to you, have I not explained that my property, my home—”
and Theo’s “—
would be forfeit if you should be caught?”
 

“I won’t be caught.” He sounded far more certain than he could possibly be. “It’s true I went off half-cocked last night but I paid the price and learned my lesson. Won’t do that again. But becoming the Saint has been the best thing that’s happened to me since I returned from Spain, maimed.”

“The best— What do you mean?”

“Sorry, should have said the best thing until finding you were still alive.”

She grimaced. “Pray don’t. You know I’ve never been one to seek compliments—especially empty ones.”

“Nor sincere ones, either. Yes, I remember.” He leaned forward to put a hand over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. “Xena, please try to understand. This—becoming the Saint, I mean—is one of the few useful things I’ve done since leaving the army. It has allowed me to believe I might still make a mark in the world, do some good, despite…” He glanced toward his left shoulder.

Her heart twisted within her as she suddenly understood that the loss of his arm had damaged his spirit far more than his body, transforming Harry from that lighthearted, devil-may-care soldier into the cynical, embittered wastrel he’d become since the war. If playing the part of a modern-day Robin Hood was the way to restoring that spirit she’d so admired—yes, perhaps even loved—how could she not support him continuing?

Xena gave a decisive nod. “Very well. If it means so very much to you, I suppose you must carry on once you are recovered enough—on one condition. I will accompany you on all future forays, in order to make absolutely certain you are not captured.”

*
       
*
       
*

Harry snatched back his hand to stare at her in outrage. “Accompany me? Are you mad?”
 

Xena raised her brows. “Not at all. Does it not make perfect sense that I should wish to have a hand in protecting my own property from seizure?”

“You can safely leave that to me,” Harry informed her. “I refuse to chance your arrest or injury. The risk should be mine alone.”

“But it isn’t, don’t you see?” She leaned forward persuasively, reminding him of how they used to fence with words as well as swords. “As long as you act as the Saint, my home, my future, is also at risk. Surely I should be allowed to assist in safeguarding it?”
 

“What makes you think I’ll even tell you when I’m planning to make my next attempt? You can’t—”

“Have you followed constantly, as you have apparently done with me?” she asked sweetly, making him frown. “Oh, but I can—and will. Even if it means discovering
other
activities of yours of which you might prefer I remain in ignorance. If necessary, I can even don male garb and follow you right into your gaming hells. You yourself mistook me for a man, once upon a time.”

“Only for a moment,” he snapped. “And that was before you’d become quite so—” He broke off but cast a glance over her body. That she caught his meaning was clear by the frowning awareness in her expression.
 

Abruptly, she stood. “I propose we both sleep on the idea for a night or two, as you are in no shape just yet to be leaping fences or clambering through windows. And now, Saint Harry, I give you good night.”
 

With a mocking curtsey, she retreated through the dressing room, leaving him to stare after her, dumbfounded.
Saint Harry?
Did she think this a joke?