Brenda Hiatt's
THE SAINT OF SEVEN DIALS
Smashwords Collector's Edition
including
ROGUE'S HONOR
Copyright 2001 by Brenda Hiatt Barber
NOBLE DECEPTIONS
Originally published as A Rebellious Bride
Copyright 2002 by Brenda Hiatt Barber
INNOCENT PASSIONS
Copyright 2003 by Brenda Hiatt Barber
SAINTLY SINS
Originally published as Wickedly Yours
Copyright 2003 by Brenda Hiatt Barber
All originally published by Avon Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
These are works of fiction. Though some actual historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * *
Dedication
For Keith, the inspiration for all of my heroes
ROGUE'S HONOR
PREFACE
For years, all of London has known of the legendary Saint of Seven Dials, that shadowy figure who steals from the rich to give to the poor. To the denizens of London's slums and rookeries, he is worshiped as a hero and savior, while the gentlemen of the ton curse and scowl whenever his name is mentioned. His infamous calling cards are only proof of his impudence, they say, and an embarrassment to master and servant alike when they appear in place of purloined valuables.
The ladies of London Society are torn, sympathizing with their fathers and husbands even as they sigh over the mysterious, romantic thief. What sort of man must he be, to take such risks for such a noble cause? they wonder. But though his identity is shrouded in secrecy, his fame continues to spread . . .
CHAPTER 1
London
April, 1816
"She'll marry you, never fear."
Lady Pearl Moreston froze, her hand suspended over the crystal handle of the parlor door of Oakshire House, the finest mansion on Berkley Square. How dared her stepmother make such a promise—and to whom? Instead of opening the door, which stood slightly ajar, she waited to hear what reply might come.
"But she's refused me twice already, your grace." Pearl identified the tremulous tenor as belonging to Lord Bellowsworth. "It seems clear that her wishes—"
Obelia, Duchess of Oakshire, cut him off. "Her wishes have nothing to say to the matter. Do you wish to wed the Lady Pearl or not?"
Scarcely waiting for the young marquess's stammering assent, the Duchess went on. "When you get her to Hyde Park, take one of the less frequented paths—the one leading off to the north, about a quarter mile from the entrance. You know the one? Good. No, don't interrupt. She'll be down at any moment. Go all the way to the end, to the little copse you will find there, and renew your addresses, as . . . forcefully as you can."
"Forcefully? I—I'll try. But what if—"
"I told you not to interrupt. I have arranged to have someone discover you, seemingly by chance, who will attest that he found the two of you in a most compromising situation. The Duke will be only too happy to consent to the match, whatever his daughter's wishes might be. Her hand—and her fortune—will be yours."
Pearl waited to hear no more. Breezing into the room, her head held high, she exclaimed, "A delightful plan, to be sure!"
Lord Bellowsworth started violently and began to stammer, but the Duchess merely smiled. "Lady Pearl. What a surprise. We were speaking hypothetically, of course."
"Of course you were," Pearl agreed. "A hypothesis I fear I cannot help you to prove. You'll excuse me, my lord, for feeling indisposed for our drive today."
"Of . . . of course. That is to say . . . I never meant . . . I'll give you good day, my lady, your grace." Bowing and blathering, he backed out of the parlor and fled Oakshire House.
Pearl turned to her stepmother, whose petite blonde beauty, so similar to her own mother's, even now diluted her anger with long-remembered sorrow. "I know you have been anxious for me to marry, but I confess I had not expected you to resort to such measures as these to ensure it."
The Duchess appeared more vexed than apologetic. "You leave me little choice," she said, flouncing across the room to seat herself in a high-backed chair that rather resembled a throne—her favorite. "Your father is concerned about your future, and I feel bound to make him easy on the subject."
"And, of course, the fact that the Fairbourne estate will fall to me if I am yet unwed on my twenty-first birthday has nothing to do with your solicitude." Pearl spoke dryly, hiding any pain she felt from both herself and her stepmother. Seven years ago, when her father had first remarried, she had wished-- She cut off that regret ruthlessly.
Obelia tossed her golden curls. "You'll have a substantial fortune in any event. If you marry well, you'll have no need whatsoever for that property, which by rights should go to Edward with the rest when he inherits. You cannot fault me for looking out for my son's interests."
"Edward will scarcely be paupered by my inheritance of the smallest of the seven Oakshire estates." She adored her five-year-old half-brother, currently in the country while his mother enjoyed the London Season. But even for his sake, Pearl refused to sacrifice Fairbourne, a lovely little estate in the north of Oakshire, where she had spent many happy months as a child. She had definite plans for the land and people there—plans to put some of the theories she had studied into practice.
"That is not the point. It will divide the Oakshire estate and lessen its consequence, which I cannot imagine you would wish. Besides," the Duchess continued peevishly, "that addendum to the entail was intended to provide for any eldest daughter who might prove unmarriageable. As you've had any number of offers, it clearly does not apply in your case. I believe the lawyers will agree, when I explain how matters stand."
Before Pearl could reply, her father appeared at the parlor door. "I don't hear my two favorite girls arguing, do I?" he asked jovially. "What is it this time? The color of the new draperies?"
Obelia rose to greet the Duke, ushering him to the chair next to hers. "Of course we're not arguing, my love. We both know how that upsets you." She shot an admonitory look at Pearl. "I was merely pointing out to dear Pearl the advantages of matrimony, as I have been so blessed by that state myself. I do so wish to see her comfortably settled. Don't you?"
The Duke frowned, as he always did when this subject arose—which it did all too frequently, in Pearl's opinion. "So long as she's happy, and needn't be too far away," he conceded. "I won't let my 'Pearl beyond price' go to just anyone, you know. But I leave that in your capable hands, Obelia, as I've told you often enough. And Pearl's, of course."
"Of course," echoed the Duchess, clearly less than perfectly pleased by his caveats. "You may always trust me to do what's best for both of our children, my love."
He smiled fondly at his wife, and Pearl rose abruptly. "If you'll excuse me, I have some reading I'd like to finish."
Her father waved her away with an indulgent smile—he'd always been proud of her academic turn of mind—but Obelia arched one delicate brow. "Your bluestocking tendencies make my task more challenging, Pearl, but I shall prevail, never fear." Her look, which escaped the Duke's notice, made her words into a threat that Pearl now understood only too clearly.
Since Pearl's sixteenth birthday, Obelia had been throwing her in the way of every eligible male she could find. This Season she had redoubled her efforts, bringing in the most exclusive French modistes and coiffeuses to enhance her stepdaughter's slim figure and honey-colored tresses, and planning lavish entertainments. Now she seemed determined on stronger measures.
Pearl left the parlor, but not before she heard Obelia say to her husband, "I know dear Pearl's future worries you, Clarence, but fear not. By the time you return from Brighton, all will be settled. I have everything well in hand."
"I know you'll do your best for her, my dear," the Duke responded with an indulgent chuckle.
Pearl bit her lip. She had forgotten that her father was to leave within the hour. Without his support, she would have to rely solely on her own wits to evade Obelia's determined plotting. By the time she reached her opulent lilac sitting room, she had the beginnings of a plan.
Her abigail, folding the Mechlin lace shawl Pearl had earlier rejected, looked up in surprise at her entrance. "My lady? Did I forget an item in your toilette?" Dark, perky and petite, Hettie swept her mistress with a critical eye, clearly finding no fault until her gaze reached her face. "Something has happened." It was a statement, not a question.
Despite her anger at Obelia's machinations, Pearl could not suppress a smile. Hettie knew her better than any person living. "I'm afraid so," she replied. "And I need your help." Quickly, she related what had happened downstairs.
The daughter of Pearl's nanny, Hettie had known her mistress since they were both in the nursery, and enjoyed far more intimacy than was customary between a lady of the upper Quality and her abigail. When Pearl concluded, Hettie's indignation equaled Pearl's own. "You, marry that mealy-mouthed young popinjay? What can her grace be thinking?"
Pearl shrugged. "She wants me wed, and he is the most malleable of my current crop of suitors." She waved a hand toward the dozen or so bouquets displayed about the room, from the gilt mantelpiece to the exquisite inlaid mahogany tables, in testimony of their numbers. "But her reasons don't matter. Now that I know to what lengths she will go, I must put myself out of her reach—for a few days, at least. Until my father returns."
"Out . . . out of her reach? What do you mean?"
"I'm leaving."
Hettie gaped, her usual cleverness not in evidence at the moment. "For Oakshire, you mean? Without informing his grace or—"
"No, she'd only fetch me back to Town, or take advantage of my journey to compromise me somehow, if not with Bellowsworth, then with some other young lord whose ambition outstrips his integrity—any one of them, in other words. I mean to disappear entirely, right here in London. Will you help me?"
Hettie's brown eyes recovered a measure of their customary shrewdness. "I'll not do anything to put you in danger, my lady. I'll go tell his grace the Duke first. This start of yours—"
"It's no start, I assure you." Even as she spoke, Pearl's nebulous plan took on more clarity. "It's an idea I've toyed with for some time. One day I'll have the management of Fairbourne and be responsible for hundreds of people. I've studied agricultural, economic, and social reform, but what is that but theory? I've been coddled and protected my entire life. Even my charitable projects have been strictly chaperoned and supervised, so that I never have any actual contact with those less fortunate."
Hettie still looked doubtful, so Pearl tried another tack. "I've been perched on a lofty, confining pedestal, first by my father and then by every man aspiring to my hand. If I don't escape it, I may begin believing all they say about me and become the most conceited, arrogant, autocratic woman who ever lived."
Hettie chuckled. "With her grace putting you in your place ten times a day? Not likely."
"I suppose I do have something for which to be grateful to her after all." Ignoring Hettie's snort, she hurried on. "How would you like it if every man who paid you court was interested only in your money and connections, never in yourself?"
"Don't forget your looks, my lady," Hettie added dryly. "Those violet eyes of yours aren't exactly in the common way."
It was Pearl's turn to snort. "All part of the package of externals. I'm one of the best-educated women in England, but no one cares about that. Never has one of my suitors asked my opinion on any political or economic issue, or on philosophy, science, or anything else. All they can see is a glittering ornament that would add to their own consequence, and I'm sick to death of it!"
At this appeal to her romantic nature, Hettie nodded with sympathy, and Pearl began to relax.
"I wish to experience life without the trappings of rank," she continued. "To see how the common folk live. Perhaps even to work with my own hands. I'm certain it will be of benefit to me."
Though she still looked doubtful, Hettie only asked, "What do you want me to do?"
Pearl smiled in relief. "First, help me out of this dress."
* * *
Whistling cheerfully, Luke St. Clair strolled along Jermyn Street as the cool of early evening turned the afternoon's haze to tendrils of mist. Casually, he scanned those entering and exiting the gaming houses, looking for an easy mark. His gaze slid over one well-dressed man and then another. No, obviously merchants. Ah! That middle-aged man alighting from a crested carriage. Clearly one of the ton. He'd do nicely.
Luke hunched his shoulders and slowed his pace, in keeping with today's disguise as an inebriated old man—down at the heels, but not quite seedy enough to look like a threat. He ambled in the direction of his selected target, then stumbled just as he reached the man.
"Sorry, milor'," he mumbled, steadying himself against the gentleman's arm to break his supposed fall. Even as the nobleman supercilously swept aside Luke's abject apology, his purse was liberated from his pocket.
"Be gone with you, old tippler. Keep your distance from your betters," the haughty lord advised him with a sneer.
Biting back an instinctive retort, Luke managed a servile bow that made his cheap white peruke slip down to partially conceal his face as he backed away from the man. Not until he turned onto Haymarket Street a moment later did the hue and cry begin.
With a chuckle, Luke straightened his wig and quickened his pace, though not enough to draw attention. Then the words, "Stop, thief!" rang out behind him. Ducking around the next corner into an alley scarce wider than an arm-spread, he broke into a run.
This was always his favorite part. Leaving the alley for Coventry Street, he glanced back to see two dandified bucks of the ton hot after him, brandishing sticks and shouting absurd threats. Perfect.
Or not so perfect. The young gentlemen were apparently among the more fit of their species, for another quick glance showed them gaining. Luke put on a burst of speed, leaping over an ashcan before sending it clattering behind him. So much for his disguise! No description of the thief would mention an elderly man now.
Still, he knew this part of London better than the alley cats did. With the young sprigs hot on his heels, he led them a merry chase toward Soho Square, taking care to trail them through every puddle of mud or filth he could find along the way. "That's for you, Mum," he muttered at the sound of sudden cursing behind him.
Slipping around a corner, he then nipped into the dark recess of a doorway, pressing his back against the wooden panels. He managed to catch a few much-needed breaths before his pursuers approached. As they came closer, he snaked one hand behind him to test the door handle.
It opened easily, and he nearly fell into a brightly lit room filled with women in various stages of undress—actresses preparing to perform here at one of the minor opera houses. Quickly, he shut the door behind him so that his pursuers wouldn't hear their squeals.
"Lucio, as I live and breathe!" cooed a buxom redhead Luke remembered well from last Season. Indignation turned to delight as others realized who had burst in upon them.
Doffing his peruke, Luke greeted them all with his most charming smile. "My apologies for an unannounced entry, ladies. I won't be staying long." He'd dallied with at least three of them in the past, taking nearly as much pleasure from the knowledge that he was cuckolding their noble protectors as from their more obvious charms.
The outer door opened again, and at once two of the actresses stepped in front of Luke, who quickly ducked down behind them. Between their skirts, he could see the dumbfounded faces of his erstwhile hunters.
Shrilly, the women protested the intrusion, claiming a modesty that should have provoked laughter rather than the embarrassment the two young dandies evinced. Stammering apologies, they quickly backed out to continue their search elsewhere. The moment the door closed, the women again converged on Luke, giggling and pulling at his jacket. Obligingly, he took it off, but only long enough to reverse it and pull a cap from the pocket.
"I am eternally in your debt," he declared to the group as a whole. Despite their chorus of protests, he dropped a quick kiss on the cheek of the redhead, winked at the two blondes he'd known previously and, with fulsome compliments, took his leave.
Peering from the doorway, he watched his pursuers turn another corner, apparently heading toward Seven Dials. He waited another moment or two before emerging to stroll toward Mayfair, in the opposite direction.
Pulling the purloined purse from his pocket, he counted his takings as he walked. Not as much as he'd hoped, but it would pay his rent for the month and buy a new washtub and iron for Mrs. Breitmann, who eked out a living for herself and her five children by taking in laundry. Of course, there was still Grady O'Malley to spring from debtor's prison in Newgate, as well as a few things he wanted for himself. Luckily, he was headed toward the richest part of London.
Luke paused at the edge of Berkley Square in the gathering dusk, gazing at one of the finest mansions in Town. Yes, that one would do nicely—or perhaps that one there, two houses down. He'd wander through the mews and discover which one might be having guests in tonight. That would make his job easier.
He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt for what he was planning. These people had more wealth than they could ever use, and deserved none of it. With the exception of the close circle of friends he'd made at Oxford, in his experience every member of the ton was arrogant, self-absorbed, and completely unappreciative of his or her privileged state.
Smiling to himself, he again considered the fine mansions before him. Gilded cages, that's what they were. He far preferred his life of unfettered freedom to one of circumscribed luxury with no thrills, no challenges, no worries whatsoever . . .
* * *
"Are you sure you want to go through with this, my lady?" Hettie asked anxiously as Pearl closed the gate at the back of the kitchen gardens, emerging into the alleyway behind the great houses of Berkley Square.
Her escape accomplished, Pearl let out her breath and faced her abigail. Tucking a stray strand of hair into the tight bun she now wore, she checked the fit of her borrowed rags. Well, not rags precisely—a much-worn work dress of Hettie's, with the hem let out to cover the much taller Pearl's ankles.
"Of course I'm sure. And it's 'Purdy,' remember? If you call me 'my lady,' we'll be found out at once." Slipping out of the house unseen had been difficult enough, despite the commotion surrounding the Duke's departure. She had never quite realized what an army of servants her family employed.
"Oh, look at that poor cat, trying to pull a fish from that crate there," she said then, her attention diverted. "Do you suppose it has kittens somewhere?"
Hettie chuckled. "It looks sleek and fat enough to me, my—Purdy. Stuffed on mice from Lord Tinsdale's stables, no doubt, not to mention scraps from his kitchens. A cat's not likely to starve in Mayfair."
"Oh. No, I suppose not."
Hettie glanced away, but not before Pearl saw the combination of worry and merriment in her eyes. No doubt she believed that Pearl was merely amusing herself with her play acting. But of course Pearl had a far higher purpose. Think of Fairbourne!
"Eh, there!" A rough, masculine voice accosted them. "Be either of you wenches looking for a job t'night?"
Pearl turned indignantly, ready to blast the footman—for that's what he appeared to be—for calling them wenches, but Hettie placed a restraining hand on her arm.
"What sort of job?" she asked the man. "We'll do nothing unsavory, I assure you."
Pearl had to admire Hettie's command, putting the man in his place without betraying them. She herself would have botched it, but Hettie knew this world as Pearl did not—yet.
The footman dipped his head respectfully, rather to Pearl's surprise. "No, nothin' like that, ma'am. Just some extra brass, is all. Lord Mountheath be hiring on extra help for the evening. So if you've the night off and wishing a bit on the side . . ."
"Just a moment," said Hettie, and pulled Pearl aside. "Well, my lady?" she whispered. "It's a chance to put your plan to the test—but it's risky."
Risky indeed! Pearl herself was expected at Lady Mountheath's ridotto tonight, and nearly everyone she knew who was currently in Town was likely to be there.
"Do you think it would be possible for me to work only in the kitchens, or somewhere else out of sight of the guests?" She'd never liked the Mountheaths, and suspected their servants would like them even less. If she really wanted to see firsthand the hardships of the working class, this seemed a heaven-sent chance.
"I'm sure they can find you a dirty job somewhere—Purdy." The twinkle in Hettie's eyes told her that her abigail expected her to back down, which only stiffened her resolve.
"I'll do it," Pearl said with a determined nod. "Though I'd very much prefer it not involve chamber pots," she added hastily, hoping she would not live to regret this mad, if noble, scheme.
Hettie turned back to the footman. "What positions are they hiring for?"
An hour later, Pearl found herself in the Mountheaths' kitchens, transferring tray after tray of tiny pastries from the enormous oven to glittering crystal platters. This wasn't turning out at all as she'd expected, she decided, as she burned her fingers for the third time. Kitchen maids did not wear gloves, of course—which she now realized was foolish. Surely they needed them far more than did any lady in a drawing room.
In addition to her lofty social goals, Pearl had wished to discover how people might respond to her without the aura of the Duke of Oakshire surrounding her. So far, she was simply being ignored. She burned her fingers yet again, this time more severely. With a yelp, she dropped the hot tray, scattering its dainties over the kitchen floor. Muttering an apology, trying to ignore the mutterings of "clumsy wench," she knelt to sweep up the ruined pastries.
"Here, I'll help you with that."
Glancing up in surprise at the masculine voice, she found herself face to face with one of the serving men. Though his brown hair and regular features were not much out of the ordinary way, there was something compelling, even magnetic, about the intelligence—and intensity—of his dark, dark eyes.
"Thank you," she murmured. "I'm . . . not normally so fumble fingered."
He took her bare hand in his much larger one—also ungloved—and turned it over. An alarming tingle shot through her at his touch—perhaps the first time in her life a male hand had touched hers, skin to skin. She nearly snatched her hand away, a stinging rebuke for his impertinence on the tip of her tongue, but remembered just in time that the servant "Purdy" must not react the way Lady Pearl would.
"You should put something cool on that before it blisters." His voice was rich, deep, and surprisingly cultured—not at all what she'd expected of a below-stairs servant. He held her gaze as securely as her hand, and something unfamiliar stirred deep within her.
Vainly, she reminded herself that this man was not of her class at all. "Thank you," she repeated, gently disengaging her hand. "I'll do that."
She rose, but already he had whisked a damp dish towel from a nearby table. With a smile and a too-familiar twinkle in his eye, he wrapped it around her damaged fingers, reestablishing that disturbing flesh-to-flesh contact.
"'Ere, now! None o' that!" exclaimed the head cook's assistant. Pearl released the serving man's hand guiltily. "Back to work, both of you, if you're wanting to get your shillin' for the evening." She thrust a filled tray into the man's hands. "Take this out to the buffet tables, then hop it back here for another."
With a ghost of a bow in Pearl's direction, he complied, his eyes still twinkling.
Pearl watched him go, a curious frown pulling her brows together. No, he didn't act like a servant at all. But then, what did she really know of how servants behaved toward each other?
"You there! Purdy! Get the rest of those crab puffs onto trays. We're falling behind in here."
With a start at her assumed name, Pearl quickly turned back to her task, taking more care for her fingers, which still seemed to tingle—though not from the burns. She filled tray after tray, gaining confidence in the task. This wasn't so hard.
"More servers!" the butler called down the kitchen stairs. "We still need more servers out here." He followed his words into the kitchen and glanced haughtily around at the hired drudges—a motley group, to be sure. "You there!"
Cautiously, Pearl glanced over her shoulder at the butler, to find him staring straight at her. "M-me?"
He gave a single, supercilious nod. "You appear the most presentable of this lot. You'll do." With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should follow him.
Pearl froze. She couldn't go out there! If she were recognized, the scandal would be . . . well, more than she cared to imagine. Wildly, she glanced around the kitchen for Hettie, but she was nowhere to be seen.
"This instant, missie, if you please." Pearl had met royalty who exuded less authority than this man. Mechanically, she moved to obey, hoping a solution might magically present itself.
"Clear away the empty trays and bottles from the buffet tables and bring them back here," he said carefully, having apparently decided she was a half-wit. "Mrs. Mann will tell you what to do next. And you won't need this." Before she could stop him, he whipped off the kerchief she'd been wearing to conceal her hair.
Again she stopped, but by now the attention of the entire kitchen was focused on her, so she meekly followed the butler up the stairs. Emerging at the top, she quickly surveyed the glittering ballroom, thronged with people, nearly every one of whom knew her. She should have quit on the spot rather than risk this, she realized belatedly. What was a shilling, after all? A single button on one of her fine gowns was worth more than that.
She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, as Hettie had taught her. And, amazingly, no one seemed to notice her. The eyes of the noble assemblage slid over her as though she were invisible.
In the midst of her relief, she felt a sudden pang. Did she regard servants—not counting Hettie, of course—in this same dismissive way? She'd never thought about it before.
Pearl reached the buffet table without incident and began stacking trays, trying to cause as little clatter as possible, hoping to avoid notice. So far, so good. As soon as she returned to the kitchens, she would find Hettie and leave.
She placed a final tray atop the stack, added a few empty bottles, and headed back the way she had come.
Head down, she saw no faces, only feet. Even so, she had to pass near one all-too-familiar pair: her stepmother's, in the new gold-laced slippers she had exhibited with pride just last week. How had Obelia explained Pearl's absence tonight? she wondered.
Please, please, she chanted silently to herself as she slipped past. Her incoherent prayer apparently successful, she neared the edge of the room and the safety of the kitchens. She had almost reached the door at the top of the stairs when a feminine voice accosted her.
"Mama wishes to have more champagne sent up." It was Fanny Mountheath, one of the daughters of the house, a girl Pearl had never liked, though they frequently met in company. "Pray tell the wine steward."
Pearl nodded silently and kept moving, afraid her voice would give her away.
"Wait!"
Her insides contracting, Pearl paused, still not making eye contact.
"How extraordinary. You look amazingly like—but no, how absurd. Still, I must show Lucy. Wait here. Lucy! Oh, Lucy!" She bustled over to where her sister stood, some distance away.
Pearl took her chance and hastened to the door. As she struggled to open it while balancing the trays, a bottle rolled off the top and hit the polished marble floor, shattering with a resounding crash. Her heart in her throat, she fled down the stairs.
CHAPTER 2
"Hettie! Hettie, where are you?" Pearl called frantically, not caring now what the servants thought of her. "We have to leave—now!"
Dropping the trays onto the closest table, she looked wildly about the kitchens, but still saw no sign of Hettie. She dared not wait, however. At any moment, Fanny might send someone after her, or even venture into the kitchens herself, to show off the novelty of the serving girl who looked like Lady Pearl, and then all would be discovered. She absolutely refused to risk such humiliation.
Snatching up her kerchief and cloak, she darted toward the back door, ignoring the cries and protests around her. She ducked through the door and raced up the stone steps to the kitchen gardens, then paused. The afternoon's haze had become evening fog, and she had no clear idea of where she might go—other than home.
"You look like you could use some assistance again, miss."
Whirling, she saw the same serving man who had bound up her burnt fingers earlier.
"As I'm leaving myself just now, I'd be pleased to offer you my escort," he said, extending his arm. "Shall we go?"
Pearl placed her hand on his arm, then snatched it back, alarmed at the jolt that went through her bare fingers on contact with his rough sleeve—and the very solid arm beneath. Whoever this man was, whatever her involuntary response to him, she didn't dare trust him far enough to go off alone with him into the night!
The commotion in the kitchens rose to a clamor. "Where is she?" came Fanny Mountheath's plaintive wail.
Abruptly, Pearl changed her mind, though she didn't touch him again. "I'd be delighted to accept your escort," she said hastily. "Let's go—quickly."
With a grin that was perhaps a shade too understanding, he led her through the gate and into the alleyway at a brisk walk. As they turned the corner, shouts erupted from the house behind them.
"Time to run," the man suggested.
Pearl nodded and hiked up her skirts—slightly—to keep pace with him. The country lass she was pretending to be would be used to plenty of walking, of course. Unfortunately, she was not, constrained as she'd always been by the dignity of her station. Still, she trotted along gamely enough.
Her rescuer sent her one approving glance, then turned his attention to their course, leading her around one corner and then another. "Quick! In here," he said, as heavy footsteps approached from behind.
Before she could protest, he seized her by the arm and pulled her after him into an empty stall in some nobleman's stables. He touched a finger to her lips to check her indignant exclamation, and the shock of the sensation startled her speechless. Though he withdrew the finger at once, her lips continued to tingle. She had to fight the urge to lick them.
Footsteps—several sets, by the sound of them—passed by outside. Her companion waited a minute, though it seemed far longer in the warm, intimate darkness, then slipped back out of the stall, motioning for her to follow him.
Though he was only an inch or two above average height, the man was powerfully built, Pearl noticed. That made her feel somehow vulnerable—an unfamiliar sensation, and one she didn't particularly care for. For a second or two she held a fierce debate with herself, but then hurried after him. What else could she do, under the circumstances?
Leading her back the way they had come for the length of two houses, he turned up another alleyway, then another. By a circuitous route, he led her farther and farther from the Mountheath's house and then from Mayfair itself, until they were in a part of London totally unfamiliar to her.
As they progressed, the streets became narrower, darker, and dirtier, and Pearl's misgivings mounted. Smells she had never experienced before assaulted her nostrils unpleasantly. Mounds of garbage and other, nastier refuse lay uncollected in stinking corners, while rats skittered out of the way at their approach.
When it was clear there was no longer any danger of pusuit, they stopped in a squalid alley no more than four feet wide. Her companion did not appear to be out of breath, but Pearl gulped in lungfuls of the fetid air after such unaccustomed exercise. When her mind finally began working again, she turned curiously— and cautiously—to her savior.
"Thank you," she panted. "But . . . why did you help me?"
He grinned across the meager width of the dim alleyway and her breathing accelerated again, though not from exertion.
"I was leaving anyway, and you appeared in rather urgent need of help. Never let it be said that Luke St. Clair would turn his back on a damsel in distress." He regarded her for a long moment then, in a deeper voice, asked, "Might I have the honor of knowing whom I have rescued?"
Pearl hesitated, wondering whether she'd betrayed herself already. "My name is Purdy," she said at last, making an effort to speak in a less cultured accent. "I'm . . . no one special. I only wished to make some extra money on my night off." She realized as she spoke that the words sounded rehearsed.
He placed a hand on her arm, its warmth comforting even as it flustered her. "Don't discount yourself so easily," he said, with gallant sincerity. "You're far more special than you believe." His low, melodious voice was as warm as his touch, his eyes alight with interest, if not suspicion. "What were you taking a night off from? What do you normally do?"
Oops. She and Hettie hadn't worked out that detail of her story yet. "Er, actually, I've just come to London from the country. I—I have no regular position as yet. My friend, Hettie, was going to help me find one."
His raised eyebrow told her he was well aware that she was hiding something, but he merely said, "I see. Then pray allow me to escort you back to wherever you are staying, before Hettie becomes concerned about you. Was she also at the Mountheath's house tonight?"
Something in the timbre of his voice set up an answering vibration within her, a response she could no more define than control. Between that and her acute awareness of his touch, she had to force herself to focus on the sense of his question.
"Yes. Yes, she was," she finally responded. "But . . ." She paused to choose her words carefully. "But I was not actually staying with her, yet. I—I fear I do not know where she lives, exactly."
An almost imperceptible change came over his manner, and he dropped his hand from her arm, leaving Pearl feeling oddly bereft. "Then to wherever you wish to go. You must be staying somewhere." He spoke slowly now, as if to a child.
Obviously, he had concluded that she was simple, as the Mountheath's butler had. Not that she could blame either of them. She suppressed the urge to correct his assumption, realizing that it might afford her a modicum of protection.
"No, I'm . . . I'm not staying anywhere, really. That is . . ." Pearl twisted her apron between her hands, trying without success to recall whether Hettie had ever mentioned any relatives in London. Her mother, Pearl's old nurse, still lived in Oakshire. They hadn't discussed where they would stay after their stint at the Mountheath's. No doubt Hettie had believed Pearl would be ready to return home after a few hours of honest work.
"Hettie and I were on our way to her . . . her cousin's home when we accepted tonight's employment," she improvised haltingly, feeling like the fool he now took her for. "Until I find Hettie, I have nowhere to go."
Mr. St. Clair regarded her with thoughtful concern. "I cannot leave you here in this alley. I'd offer to take you back to the Mountheath's, but I assume you had good reason for wishing to leave?"
"No! I can't go back there, not just now. But . . . I suppose I must, later. After the ridotto is over. To find Hettie."
"Later, then." Still enunciating his words carefully, he continued, "In the meanwhile, we should get off the streets. This is not one of the safer parts of London."
Pearl blinked. "Oh. Oh, I see. I hadn't thought—" She realized belatedly that it should have been obvious. Certainly, they were well outside her accustomed environs. "Where do you suggest we go?"
"My lodgings are just a short walk from here. You are welcome to stay there until I can find your friend for you."
She stared, momentarily aghast. Go with this man, this servant, to his lodgings? How dared he insult her so? She opened her mouth to give him a blistering set-down before the reality of her situation intruded. He was attempting to help her, after all, and had no idea who she really was.
Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. Careful to use short, uncomplicated sentences, she said, "Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. I must accept your kind offer. But only until we can find Hettie."
He offered her his arm with a gallantry that would have done credit to a titled gentleman and she gingerly took it, trying to appear unaccustomed to such courtesy. Leading her out of the alleyway, he turned to the left. Though this street was wider, it was no less squalid. From somewhere in the fog above them came the sound of a man and woman arguing, then a splintering crash. Pearl winced.
"Where are we, exactly?" she asked her escort.
She thought he hesitated for a moment before answering, "This part of London is known as Seven Dials."
Pearl started. "Seven Dials! What . . . what a curious name," she concluded lamely, remembering in time that she had just claimed to be unfamiliar with London. "Why is it called that?"
"Because of the way seven streets converge, like the spokes of a wheel," he explained, but Pearl was not listening.
Seven Dials! This was one of the most notorious rookeries of London, home to thieves, prostitutes, murderers, and other sorts that she was not even supposed to know existed. But though her physical existence had been sheltered, Pearl had read widely enough that little about London—or the rest of the world—was truly unknown to her. Intellectually, at least.
Though initially horrified to discover where she was, now her natural curiosity reasserted itself. Had she not begged her father to allow her to witness such places, when first she had learned of them? The nobility owed it to themselves and to England to learn all they could about the condition of the common man, she had insisted. How else could they hope to alleviate the sufferings of those hit hardest by the economic downturn caused by the end of the wars with France and America?
Her musings were interrupted by Mr. St. Clair's announcement that they had reached his building. "It's three flights up, I'm afraid, but not quite so sordid as its surroundings might suggest."
She regarded the steep, narrow stairs dubiously, her earlier doubts resurfacing. But really, what choice did she have? Trying to regard her predicament in the light of an adventure rather than a disaster, she followed him up the rickety stairway.
When they reached the third story, a small brown and white terrier scurried forward to greet Mr. St. Clair, its tail wagging with delight. Then it turned to sniff at Pearl suspiciously.
"This is Argos," he said, scratching the dog between the ears. "A plausible scoundrel, but my closest friend. Argos, this is Purdy. Make her feel welcome."
At his words, the dog's attitude instantly transformed, and he greeted Pearl almost as enthusiastically as he had his master.
"What a sweet little dog!" she exclaimed, kneeling to fondle him. "Hello, Argos. I hope we will be friends, as well." As a child she had been allowed dogs as pets, but since her father's remarriage, animals had been forbidden from every house. She'd missed them.
She glanced up at Mr. St. Clair, to find him regarding her with an odd half-smile that made her feel she'd just climbed far more than three flights of steps. Catching her eye, he quickly turned away and cleared his throat. "It's getting chilly. We'd best get inside," he said gruffly.
Fitting a key into the door, he entered quickly to light a few candles, then reemerged to invite her in. "It's not much," he said apologetically, "but I call it home."
Swallowing hard and bracing herself for she knew not what, Pearl followed him into the apartment—then halted, amazed. Elegance, even luxury, surrounded her. On the floor, a thick carpet that could only be Aubusson covered most of the bare, splintered boards. The peeling plaster of the walls was substantially concealed by rich tapestries and paintings by masters she recognized. The furnishings—sofa, chairs, tables, ornaments—were both tasteful and sumptuous.
"My goodness!" If she didn't look too closely at what lay behind the trappings, she could easily imagine herself in a wealthy gentleman's sitting room.
He smiled at her surprise. "I've done my best to counteract my surroundings. My last employer was exceedingly generous in his will, which made it easier for me to do so."
She nodded, accepting his glib explanation. As she was playing the part of a numbwit, she could not very well ask why he remained in such a neighborhood when he clearly had the resources to leave it. Obviously there was more to Mr. St. Clair than met the eye, as she had suspected from the moment he first spoke to her.
"It's—very nice," she said inadequately. "May I sit down?"
Immediately he was full of concern. "Of course! I'd forgotten how exhausted you must be. Here, this is the most comfortable chair. I'll stir up the coals in the grate, and you'll be warm in no time."
Pearl sat, noticing with some irritation that she was indeed tired and a bit sore from their recent exertion. She must make more of an effort to get regular exercise while in Town, or she would end up running to fat. In the country she at least rode regularly.
"Purdy? Miss?"
Abruptly, she realized she had not heard his question. "I . . . I beg your pardon?"
Again speaking slowly, he repeated, "I was asking whether you would like a glass of wine to fortify you. That and ale are all I have at hand, I'm afraid, though I can go out to bring something else back, if you'd prefer it."
"Wine, thank you," she said hastily, unwilling to be left alone here. Though why she should feel safer with him than without him, she wasn't quite sure.
The little dog, Argos—whose very name implied its master had a classical education—came to lie next to her, its head on her foot, while he went to the sideboard to fill two glasses. She took the one he handed her and sipped. Again she had to restrain herself from exclaiming, though her brows rose. How had this apparently lowly servant developed such expensive tastes?
"Will . . . won't you be missed at the Mountheath's?" she asked, in an indirect attempt to obtain an answer—and to hear his voice again.
"I doubt it," he replied. "I was only hired on for the evening, as you were. I'm . . . between positions at the moment myself, as it happens."
Whether he intended it or not, his words reminded her that she had secrets of her own to keep, and therefore would be advised not to probe into his. "How long should we wait, do you think, before going back to look for Hettie?"
He thought for a moment. "How would this serve? You wait here, and I'll go back there now and take a look about. If you can describe her to me, I'll endeavor to have a quiet word with her and let her know where you are. I'll even bring her here myself, if she can get away."
Haltingly, mindful of her ruse, Pearl described her maid. "This is very kind of you," she concluded. Though she still felt nervous about staying alone in Seven Dials, even in this sumptuous apartment, he had offered her the perfect solution. As far as she knew, no one had seen them leaving together.
Again he gave her that odd half-smile, and again she was startled by her visceral response to it. "Kindness isn't so difficult, when the object is worthy. There is bread and cheese in the sideboard, should you feel hungry. I should be back in an hour or so—with Hettie in tow, with any luck." Tossing off the remainder of his wine, he rose.
"Argos, you stay here and take care of the lady," he instructed the dog, who lifted his head and thumped his tail in apparent understanding. With a respectful salute, he left the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
At the sound of the key turning in the lock, Pearl started to her feet in alarm. He was making her a prisoner here! She took two strides toward the door, then noticed Argos regarding her curiously. She relaxed, feeling suddenly foolish. Of course he had locked the door, in a neighborhood such as this one. Doubtless he'd done it to ensure her safety, not for any nefarious purpose.
Laughing at her misplaced fears, she sat down again. "Some adventurer I'm turning out to be," she said to the dog. "All of my daring plans to institute social reform, and here I am, completely unnerved by merely witnessing a poorer section of London. I'm as big a ninny as Mr. St. Clair thinks I am."
Argos agreeably wagged his tail and placed one white paw on her knee.
"Feel free to contradict me," she told him. "It's the polite thing to do, when a lady speaks ill of herself."
The dog declined to respond, so Pearl rose again, to explore her temporary quarters. Her first estimation had been correct. The furnishings and artworks were of the very highest quality. Her curiosity about Mr. St. Clair increased.
Going to the mahogany sideboard, she found the bread and cheese he had mentioned and cut herself a generous slab of each. She had not eaten since luncheon, she suddenly realized. Didn't the Mountheaths feed their hired help? Indignation further bolstered her courage.
Returning to her chair with her simple supper, she amused herself by sharing the occasional morsel with the dog, who obligingly sat up, extended a paw, or rolled over on command. Pearl was charmed. Thus occupied, the hour of waiting passed relatively painlessly.
* * *
Luke had misgivings about leaving Purdy alone in his rooms, but aside from his perfectly plausible plan to find her friend, he needed to get away from her, to firmly remind himself that she was off-limits. The truth was, he was finding himself far more attracted to the lovely simpleton than was decent.
He chuckled sourly as he descended the stairs to the foggy alley below. When had considerations of decency ever constrained him? Still, he'd never stooped so low as to take advantage of a child, and for all her beauty, Purdy was little more, due to her limited understanding.
The shock of disappointment he'd felt on realizing that, after the instant connection they had seemed to share, had actually been physical in its intensity.
He refused to dwell on it now, though. This was his opportunity to retrieve the evening's haul from its hiding place outside the Mountheath house. By searching for Purdy's friend at the same time, he could kill two birds with one stone. Three, counting this most necessary separation from his delectable guest.
Alone, it took him half the time to reach Mayfair that it had taken him to lead Purdy to Seven Dials. In less than fifteen minutes, he emerged from the mews behind Berkley Square. The Mountheath house was brightly lit, the entertainment clearly still in full swing, with no sign of any disturbance yet. Good.
Casually, so that it would look as though he were merely taking the air if he was seen, Luke angled into the small garden behind the house. Alert for anyone venturing out of the servants' entrance, he knelt to move aside a pair of bricks near a large rosebush, still in bud. There, in the depression he'd located before beginning his night's work, was the cloth-wrapped parcel, right where he'd left it.
He tucked the bundle inside his shirt and slid it around to the back of his waist, where the bulge would be less noticeable. It would be risky venturing back into the house with the goods on him, but he had no choice if he was to find Purdy's friend.
The kitchens were still bustling, though by this late hour the activity was less frantic than it had been when he'd left. Assuming a slack-jawed expression, he approached the cook's assistant.
"You!" she exclaimed. "And where 'ave you been this hour and more? Tipplin' his lordship's wine, by the look of you."
"Nay, nay, t'was me own gin, missus," drawled Luke with an injured air. "I'll last for a bit, now."
She glared at him. "Off with you! We want no sots working here."
He blinked fuzzily. "What about my shillin'? And I won't leave without my sister Hettie."
Grumbling, the woman sent a maid in search of Hettie, wherever she might be, and counted out sixpence into Luke's outstretched palm. "I'm giving you but half, and may it be a lesson to you."
"Half?" He argued with her, since it would have looked suspicious otherwise, but only until the maid returned to report she'd found no such person as Hettie.
"Are you sure?" he asked, not having to feign his alarm. If the woman couldn't be found, he'd have no choice but to keep Purdy with him overnight. He wasn't at all sure his self-control was equal to that. "She's about this tall—" he held up his hand—"with dark, curly hair. A few years younger'n me."
One of the scullery maids allowed that she'd seen someone of that description earlier, but no one had noticed her for the past hour or more, and no one recalled anyone by that name.
"Likely went looking for her wastrel brother," the cook's assistant told him dampingly. "Ought to be ashamed, you ought, worrying her so. Now that's three hirelings who've took off before their shift was done, counting you. You didn't see that blonde wench outside, did you? The one you was flirting with early on?"
This was dangerous ground. "Blonde? Flirting?" He furrowed his brow as though trying to remember.
"Ah, you're all alike. Begone with you!"
Shrugging and grumbling, Luke headed back to the mews. Not until he was out of sight of the house did he straighten his shoulders and quicken his steps. When the silver inside his shirt clinked, he pulled it out and shoved the bundle in his pocket. At least he'd made a good haul, and from one of the most undeserving households he'd ever met. He'd love to see that arrogant butler's face when his calling card was discovered where the silver had been.
But what the devil was he going to do about the girl?
When he reentered his lodgings a few minutes later, she looked up with a hopeful smile, Argos at her knee. He'd spent most of the walk back convincing himself that she held no attraction to him, that he'd always preferred intelligent women, but his body made a liar of him the moment he saw her again.
Her smile faltered as she looked beyond him, then back at him, questioningly.
He shrugged. "Hettie wasn't at the Mountheath's, though someone matching her description was noticed earlier. It appears she wasn't going by the name of Hettie, however."
Purdy bit her lip, looking both alarmed and charmingly confused. Luke felt an almost overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and comfort her. He suppressed it ruthlessly, but not before his wayward imagination wondered what she would feel like, pressed against him.
The helpless expression in her eyes as she gazed at him helped to cool that inappropriate surge of desire. "I . . . I thought surely you would find her there," she stammered. "Without Hettie, I have no idea where to go."
"Perhaps in the morning we'll have better luck," Luke offered soothingly.
"In . . . in the morning?" She seemed not to understand.
Taking a deep breath, he spoke the words he feared he would live to regret. "Unless you can think of somewhere else to go, I see no alternative to your spending the night here."
CHAPTER 3
Pearl gasped. "Spend the night?" She had intended a tone of imperious outrage, but what came out was more of a squeak.
"You'll be quite safe, I assure you." Mr. St. Clair's fine, dark eyes were as intense as before, but with kindness, she thought, rather than desire.
Still, she shook her head. "No, I really mustn't." In fact, it was unthinkable. Why had he not found Hettie?
The abigail to the daughter of the Duke of Oakshire might be well known in servant circles, she supposed. Perhaps Hettie had used an alias, just as Pearl had. They hadn't discussed it, and had been separated the moment they entered the Mountheath house.
It suddenly occurred to her that Hettie had most likely gone back to Oakshire House to hunt for her after she disappeared. Her father's men might even now be combing London for her!
The obvious thing, of course, was to give up her entire scheme and return to Oakshire House before a full-blown scandal erupted. Hettie had been right, much as it galled her to admit it. She grimaced at the thought of what her stepmother would have to say to her. The very idea of humbling herself to Obelia was abhorrent.
Mr. St. Clair was regarding her with sympathy mingled with more than a hint of exasperation as she hesitated. "Please believe me, you'll be in no danger whatsoever. The door is quite stout, and I myself would never take advantage of . . . such a situation."
Of a simpleton, he means, she thought with a spurt of amusement. She'd best keep up that fiction for as long as possible—an ironic necessity, considering how proud she'd always been of her intellect. With the lightening of her mood, her thoughts cleared.
Despite her strange attraction to this man, it would surely be safer for her to remain here than to venture back out into the streets of Seven Dials at midnight. Even now, she could hear drunken singing and the occasional shriek from the alleys below. She'd heard tales of young gentlemen venturing here on a bet or a dare, or in fits of drunken bravado. And tales of some never being seen again. She didn't want to think what might happen to a lady in those same streets.
Safety, at least, demanded she remain here in this apartment. However, should the merest breath of a whisper of this night ever get out, her reputation would be irretrievably ruined. And that would be . . . would be . . .
The answer to all of her difficulties, she realized abruptly. If she were ruined, her myriad suitors would scatter like rabbits, thwarting Obelia's plans and safeguarding Fairbourne for good. Why had she not considered that solution before? All she had to do was stay away for a night or two, then return with no good explanation for her absence. It was perfect!
Pearl realized she'd been staring blankly at her handsome host while thinking all of this through, no doubt strengthening further his assessment of her intellect. "I . . . Yes. I suppose I must. Stay here, that is." Amazing how stupid she could sound without really trying.
"Good girl," he said approvingly. "I've an extra set of sheets—clean ones—that we can spread here on the sofa for you. I'd offer you my bed, but—"
"Oh, no! The sofa will be perfectly fine," she said hastily, alarmed at the image that suggestion conjured—and even more alarmed by the way that image set her nerves tingling again. Still, as he went to fetch the sheets, she eyed the hard sofa doubtfully, thinking with longing of her feather mattress at Oakshire House. She was mortally tired. Remember Fairbourne!
He returned a moment later, and with a deftness that convinced her he was used to doing such tasks himself, he spread the sheets over the divan. "You will let me know if you need anything else?"
She nodded, resolutely ignoring the effect his voice had on her. "Thank you. You're being far kinder than . . ."
"Than you expected? Are used to? If you've been about the houses of the so-called upper crust, I don't doubt it. But you're most welcome. Not all Londoners are as callous as the Mountheaths and their ilk."
His evident animosity toward the upper classes startled her. Did all the working class feel this way toward her own? Did Hettie? Surely not. She nearly asked him, but realized how odd such a question would sound from a supposed servant. "I . . . suppose not," she said instead. "Good night, then."