The Saint of St. Giles Read online

  The Saint of St. Giles

  Saints & Sinners Book 4

  Nadine Millard

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Nadine Millard

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  For Sharina who builds me up and never stops. Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Monster of Montvale Hall

  About Nadine Millard

  Prologue

  Nicholas Fyfe, only living son and heir of the mighty Duke of Barnbury, stood quaking outside his father’s office.

  He’d never before been particularly scared of his father. Though the old duke was formidable, to Nic he was just his father. Distant, cold, and disinterested.

  At least, he had been until Nic had finished Eton.

  As soon as he’d returned to their main seat in Tipperary, Ireland, the duke had taken Nic under his wing and begun to teach him about his vast and many responsibilities. The cross of the Barnbury duchy was a heavy one to bear, and the duke expected nothing short of complete commitment from his son.

  His daughters, they all knew, weren’t of much interest to Lord Barnbury.

  They would make good matches, as all daughters of dukes did, bringing honour to the family name and coin to the coffers. Not that Barnbury needed anyone else’s money. The duchy was one of the wealthier ones in the realm, and certainly the wealthiest in Ireland.

  But his son.

  His son would carry the name, the responsibility, the honour, and the pressure of the dukedom on his shoulders one day.

  Nic had always known what was expected of him.

  And it had never bothered him. It was all he’d ever known.

  Nicholas had always been level-headed and sensible. Always responsible.

  Until recently. Until Ciara.

  And now, here he stood on the threshold of his father’s study about to tell the duke he was throwing away the life he’d been groomed for. The title, the money, all of it.

  Because Nic had fallen in love with a girl of whom his father would never approve.

  And so, he had chosen to walk away from this life of privilege to live with a young Irish maid.

  His family would never approve.

  And her family would never agree to her spending her life with an English Peer.

  So, they would be on their own. Just the two of them.

  It was daunting, but Ciara was Nicholas’s first love, and he couldn’t imagine a life without her.

  He’d first noticed Ciara when he’d returned from Eton the last summer before he left to attend Oxford.

  Returning home for Christmastide and summers in the years since, they’d fallen deeper and deeper in love.

  And now that he’d finished Oxford and was due to remain at home in Ireland and begin to take on more ducal responsibilities, it was time to confess to his father.

  Nicholas knew the duke would turn him away. But he had enough money to get Ciara and himself to England and for them to live frugally until he could find a way to support them.

  He was an educated man and wasn’t afraid of hard work. He would find a way to support them both.

  Besides, he was one of a group of four friends who he knew would stick by him through anything. Robert, James, Simon, and Nic had met at Eton. Each of them destined to be a powerful Peer. Each of them different as night and day, but closer because of it.

  A tragedy some years ago, one in which Robert’s sister had lost her life, had only solidified the close bonds of their group.

  If he needed them, Nic knew his friends would be there.

  The time had come, and Nicholas had stood outside this door long enough.

  His father had summoned Nic to a meeting. He didn’t know why. But it was irrelevant. It was providence that his father should wish to see him on the same evening that Nicholas wanted to confess.

  By tomorrow, he and Ciara would be on their way to Dublin and then sailing for England and a new life together.

  Taking one more steadying breath, Nic lifted his hand and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  A barked order.

  This was it.

  Nic strode into the room and stopped dead as he took in the scene before him. His father was seated behind the mahogany desk that had been his father’s before him.

  This wasn’t an unusual sight.

  However, Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, was a surprising addition to the room.

  Nicholas frowned in confusion as he observed his father’s black scowl and the housekeeper’s red-rimmed eyes and sickly pallor.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Nicholas, my boy, glad you could join us.”

  His father’s jovial greeting was at odds with the tense mood permeating the room.

  At odds with the housekeeper’s obvious distress.

  A cold, snake-like fear slithered along Nic’s veins.

  “You wanted to talk to me, Father,” he said, keeping his tone steady even as his heart thumped with apprehension.

  “I did,” the duke said evenly. “Why don’t you sit?”

  Nicholas took the leather chair indicated by his father and sat back to wait. He had learned at a young age how to deal with his father.

  The duke often sat across from someone in total silence, banking on their discomfort to force them into speaking.

  Nic wouldn’t be the first to break this particular silence. If his father had something to say, then he could go right ahead and say it.

  The two men faced each other across the expansive mahogany desk, one older and overbearing, one younger and desperately trying to keep his nervousness in check.

  The only sounds were the occasional sniffle from the housekeeper that the duke seemed to have forgotten, the crackle and hiss of the fire in the hearth, and the ormolu clock on the mantel.

  After eons, the duke finally sat forward, leaning on his desk and pressing his fingers together in a steeple.

  “A maid, Nicholas?” he said softly, and Nic’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
<
br />   “What?” he asked through white lips.

  “Don’t misunderstand,” his father continued. “I don’t begrudge you a dalliance with the help. In fact, I consider it a rite of passage.”

  Nicholas clenched his fists as his temper flared.

  “But for God’s sake, did you really think I’d sit idly by while you threw your life away for a servant?”

  Nicholas’s mind was jumping from one panicked thought to the next. He shot to his feet, his heart racing, his mind whirring.

  “How did you – why did –” He took a steadying breath, though it did him no good. “What exactly is going on here?”

  His father, in contrast to Nic’s outrage, was as calm as ever and remained seated, an amused smirk on his face.

  “A loyal servant came to me with concerns about your behaviour with the little nobody.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Nic warned through gritted teeth.

  His father remained unperturbed by the censure and warning in Nic’s tone.

  He continued as though Nic hadn’t even spoken. “And Mrs. Jenkins here was able to fill in the gaps.”

  Nic’s eyes flew to the housekeeper’s. Mrs. Jenkins had always been kind to him, always good-natured and jolly.

  Now, she looked devastated and terrified. Nic knew without question that his father had bullied any information he had out of the poor woman.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat before turning his gaze once more to his father’s.

  “I’m sorry you found out like this,” he said as evenly as he could manage.

  After all, he had intended to confess this evening anyway, so his father knowing in advance only saved Nic a difficult conversation. Why then, did it feel like he’d walked into some sort of trap?

  “But I love Ciara, and she loves me, and nothing you do can come between us. We’re leaving tomorrow, and we will be married. If you cannot accept that, then this will be goodbye for us.”

  Nic expected his father to rant and rave, to call him foolish and selfish, and remind him of how privileged his life had been. Even point out to him just what he was giving up, as though Nic weren’t aware of that.

  When the duke’s icy calm remained in place, Nicholas grew even more concerned.

  His father had never allowed anyone to question, disagree with, or doubt his authority. So, to remain calm in the face of his son and heir defying him? That gave Nic a worse sense of foreboding than anything that had come before.

  After an age, his father spoke.

  “Sit down, Nicholas,” he said icily.

  Nic remained standing. No longer would he bow to his father’s every wish.

  “I’m leaving, Father,” he repeated. “We are leaving.”

  He turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

  “But she’s already gone.”

  The softy spoken words slithered along Nic’s veins, freezing his blood and halting his movements.

  He turned slowly, and his heart skittered in fear at the smug look upon his father’s face.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.

  The duke climbed slowly to his feet, peering down his nose at his only son, his face a mixture of self-satisfaction and disgust, no doubt at his son’s actions.

  “The maid,” he enunciated carefully, as though speaking to a dimwit. “I packed her off last night.”

  Nic’s eyes flew to the housekeeper’s, and he knew from the despair on the woman’s face that his father spoke the truth.

  Ciara hadn’t met him at their usual haunt this morning, but Nic had thought nothing of it. She couldn’t always get away from her duties.

  His mind began spinning as a feeling of nausea threatened to choke him.

  “What did you do?” he managed to rasp.

  “I’ve already told you, Nicholas,” his father said coldly. “I was informed by a concerned member of staff that you were growing – attached to the girl. So, I had her removed.”

  “Yet you only questioned Mrs. Jenkins about it today,” Nic interrupted as his temper flared. “What if your informant had been mistaken?”

  His father merely shrugged.

  “She’s a maid, Nicholas,” he drawled. “Hardly irreplaceable.”

  “She’s irreplaceable to me,” he bellowed. Still, his father remained unmoved. “I’m going to find her.”

  He turned to leave again, but his father’s derisive snort stopped him once more.

  “Good luck trying to find her now,” he scoffed.

  Nicholas’s heart was hammering; he was struggling to get his breathing under control.

  He felt as though his world were crumbling down around him.

  “She can’t have gone far,” he spat, spinning back around and storming toward the desk, but even he could hear the desperation in his voice.

  “My men were under strict instructions, Nicholas,” the duke said calmly, as though they were discussing the weather. “She was put on a boat to England this morning.”

  Nic felt his entire body go cold.

  Ciara had nothing. No money, no education to speak of.

  To find herself dragged from the only home she’d ever known and dumped on a boat to England?

  Nic’s stomach roiled as he thought about what could happen to her, alone for days travelling, and worse, what could happen to her, penniless in a land she didn’t know.

  He sprang at his father, reached over the desk, and grabbed the older man by the lapels of his jacket.

  “How could you do this?” he growled whilst the housekeeper watched wide-eyed.

  Lord Barnbury reached up and pulled his son’s hands from his jacket, shoving at Nic’s chest.

  “How could I not do it?” he countered, his temper finally flaring to life. “You were going to throw it all away. Become a laughingstock. Drag this family’s name into disgrace. For a maid, who couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

  Nic lunged for his father again, but the duke wisely stepped back out of his reach.

  “You’ll forget about her,” the duke insisted now. “Once you’ve grown up a bit, you’ll realise I did this for your own good. For the good of this family.”

  Nicholas wanted to pound his fists against his father’s flesh, but what would be the point? The old blackguard wasn’t worth it. The only thing that mattered now was finding Ciara.

  Taking a steadying breath, he looked his sire in the eye.

  “If I don’t find her,” he promised, deathly quiet now, his anger having hardened to stone. “I will never see or speak to you again.”

  He turned once more and swiftly moved to exit the room.

  “There isn’t a chance in Hell of you getting her back,” his father called. “Her or the bastard she was carrying.”

  Chapter One

  Ten Years Later

  Nicholas frowned at the missive in his hand.

  Ordinarily, he would be thrilled to hear from his lifelong friend, the Duke of Montvale.

  Especially since Rob was writing to say that he was on his way to Town for the Season.

  Only a few years ago, Robert would have died rather than come anywhere near London during the Marriage Mart.

  But as with so many things from this last couple of years, Robert had changed.

  His marriage to Abigail Langton, James’s cousin from America, had altered Rob in a way that none of them had thought possible. Abby was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed tearaway. But she’d brought Robert back to life, and for that she would have Nic’s eternal gratitude.

  Inevitably, as soon as Nic’s thoughts turned to Abby, they hopped right to the reason he was frowning instead of smiling at the news that his friend was coming.

  Alison Langton.

  His heart sped, much to his annoyance, at the memory of Alison Langton.

  Abigail’s younger sister had arrived last year from the Americas to stay at Montvale Hall, the main seat of Rob’s duchy.

  Instead of going to Montvale however, they had travelled to Liverpool at the beh
est of Simon, the Earl of Dashford.

  When Simon had requested the presence of them all at a house party, Nic had thought the earl’s years of debauchery and drinking had finally addled his brain for good. Simon was the last person on earth who would voluntarily host members of the ton in his home.

  Curiosity and loyalty had driven them all to attend, with James postponing his honeymoon after his marriage to Senna Baker, in order to attend.

  As it had turned out, it wasn’t debauchery that had driven Simon demented, but love. He had fallen hard for the beautiful bluestocking Amelia Linchfield. Nic couldn’t help his grin as he remembered what a match the feisty Amelia had been for the Devil of Dashford.

  Nic had been happy for his friend, all his friends. He was happy when Abby had brought sunshine back to the Monster of Montvale. He was happy when Senna had shaken up the unshakeable Angel of Avondale. And he was happy when Amelia had sent the Devil demented.

  What he absolutely, categorically was not happy about, was the fact that he’d have to see Alison Langton again.

  She unsettled Nic in a way that nobody ever had before.

  Not even Ciara.

  Nic’s heart twisted with familiar regret.

  He’d come to terms with his past a long time ago. It didn’t define him. Didn’t trap him in grief as Rob’s had done.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t relive it every now and again, that he didn’t sometimes think about what could have been, if only he’d been able to find her on time.

  Nobody knew the secrets of Nic’s past. Not even his closest friends.

  After that fateful night at Barnbury, Nic had fled to London as fast as was possible.

  Mrs. Jenkins had confirmed what his father had said was true. Ciara was with child. Nic’s child.

  So, he’d dashed after her. But he’d been too late.

  By the time he’d arrived in Dublin, the ship carrying Ciara and their babe had already left.

  For years he’d scoured the length and breadth of London. Had sent men searching every corner of England for Ciara. Ireland, too, in case she’d managed to somehow find her way home.

  It had been futile, of course. She had disappeared without a trace.