Rogue's Honor (4 page)

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."

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.