Rogue's Honor (5 page)

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."

He took his dismissal cheerfully. The little
dog at his heels, he disappeared into his bedchamber and closed the
door behind him. Pearl stared at the door for a moment, frowning,
then sat down to take off her shoes—the only articles of clothing
she dared remove—before stretching out on the sofa.

It was almost, but not quite, long enough for
her. If she were petite and padded, like Hettie, she'd no doubt be
comfortable enough, she chided herself. But it was curiosity about
her strange host, rather than the lumpiness of the horsehair-filled
divan, that kept her awake for another hour and more.

When she finally fell into a fitful sleep,
her dreams were disjointed. Oddly secure in the company of a man
with strong hands and a melodious voice, she floated through images
of sumptuous ballrooms superimposed on the squalor of Seven Dials.
In her dreams, she could not figure out which was more real, though
it seemed vitally important that she do so. The morning was well
advanced before she finally awoke.

* * *

"So, you like her, do you?" Luke asked the
dog tucked under his arm, as he climbed down the side of the
building half an hour after sunrise. Argos' tail thumped against
his back in reply.

Shortly after taking these lodgings, he'd
concealed handholds and footholds among the crumbling bricks, and
now used this route to his quarters nearly as often as the
stairway. Today he was using it to avoid waking his guest, who had
still been deep in exhausted slumber when he'd checked on her ten
minutes ago.

"We can't keep her, you know," he told the
terrier, who cocked his head questioningly. "You'd only get
attached to her, and then where would we be?" He feared he might
already have passed that point himself. "Of with you, then."

He set Argos down as they reached the
pavement, and the dog hurried off to conduct whatever business he
spent his days about. Luke turned aside to walk briskly in the
direction of the Covent Garden market.

Why had he not come up with some alternative
to inviting Purdy to stay with him? A woman—particularly one who
needed the level of care this one did—was the last thing Luke
needed in his life right now. His livelihood depended on his
ability to come and go unobserved and unrecognized. Her presence
would complicate his life on more than one level—which meant he'd
best take advantage of the time he had now.

At this early hour, the shops and stalls of
Covent Garden were hives of activity. Poorer people from the
surrounding neighborhood jostled with expensively dressed servants
from Mayfair to buy fresh fruits, vegetables and flowers. An
occasional burst of song or shouting from drunken revellers only
now making their way home punctuated the market bustle.

Luke stopped to purchase a bundle of tea
leaves and a few fresh-baked rolls from stalls at the outskirts
before proceeding to the fruit stands. At least he could provide
his impromptu guest with a good breakfast before sending her on her
way. As he walked, he watched the colorful, shifting crowds for one
particular face.

"'Ere you are, then," piped a clear voice
from behind him.

Luke turned with a grin. "Flute! The very man
I was looking for." He gripped the grimy hand of his sole
confederate, a scrawny lad with a shock of straw-colored hair
peeping out from under his tattered red cap.

"You have something, then?" Though he was
probably near fifteen, Flute looked no more than twelve, underfed
as he'd been by the flash house master he'd picked pockets for
until Luke had taken him under his wing two years since. Now, with
better victuals, he was beginning to fill out, though slowly.

"Aye, some plate and baubles for you to take
to the fencing ken," said Luke, falling easily into the street
cant. "After your cut, you can give enough of the ready to Mrs.
O'Malley to spring her feckless husband from Newgate, then bring
the rest to me."

He pulled from his pocket the parcel he'd
retrieved last night and handed it to the boy. Flute tweaked open
the wrapping to catch a glimpse of assorted silver and a diamond
necklace and whistled approvingly before stuffing it into his own
pocket.

"Mrs. Breitmann sends thanks to the Saint,"
he told Luke then. "Her old tub was past fixing, so the new was in
the nick o' time."

Luke resisted the urge to tousle the boy's
hair, knowing how it irritated him. "Good lad. Off with you, then."
With a quick nod, they went their separate ways, careful as always
not to spend too much time in each other's company in public.

That task settled, Luke took his time
selecting the choicest hothouse oranges. Then, on sudden impulse,
he stopped by one of the flower carts and bought two bunches of
violets and another of daisies. Perhaps they would make Purdy
smile—something he'd like to see again before she left. He wondered
fleetingly whether she'd ever received flowers before in her life.
Probably not, poor girl.

Finally he headed back. On reaching his
crumbling building, he decided to take the stairs rather than risk
crushing the flowers. He unlocked the door, then knocked softly,
not wanting to startle the girl. When there was no answer, he
cautiously pushed the door open.

Purdy was sitting bolt upright on the sofa,
blinking dazedly. "Where . . . How? I, er, did not hear you go
out."

"I didn't wish to wake you."

She looked absolutely adorable with her
honey-blonde hair half-tumbled from its bun and her expression
charmingly confused. Adorable and delectable. It was a crying shame
she was . . .

"I brought breakfast," he added, cutting off
that line of thought. "And some flowers for the table." He produced
them with a flourish.

She brightened at once. "Oh, how very
thoughtful!"

The smile he had hoped for flashed out, and
again Luke felt that odd warmth surge through him at her eager
pleasure at small kindnesses. What a difficult life she must have
led. "Come, have a seat while I serve it up."

She complied hesitantly as he pulled tea
leaves, rolls and oranges from his sack. He handed her a knife so
that she could peel her orange while he set water to boil, but when
she fumbled ineffectually with it he took it back, afraid that she
might cut herself.

"Have one of these rolls," he suggested,
deftly peeling her orange for her. "They're still warm."

Her cheeks pinkened with embarrassment, but
she mutely accepted his help and his suggestion, taking a big bite
of the sweet bread. "Oh, this is very good," she exclaimed in
evident surprise, making him wonder what she'd had to subsist on
before.

"Where did you say you were from?" He spoke
casually, not wanting her to suspect how curious he was about
her.

Still, her expression became wary. "Near
Oaklea," she replied after a hesitation that came either from
caution or a spotty memory. "To the north of London."

Two days' ride north, in fact. Oaklea was
barely more than a village, but Luke knew his geography well. "Did
you travel to London by stage, or with friends?"

Again she looked confused for a moment before
replying. "Hettie's father is a farmer, and let us take his gig. We
traveled slowly, so that we would not have to change horses."

All the way to London in a farm gig? More
like five days, then. Luke restrained himself from asking about
their accomodations along the way, or what kind of father would let
two young women—one of them of childlike intellect—come so far
alone. "Did you live on the farm, too?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "Near, but
not on it. I . . . I lived in a cottage near the village until my
mother died. Then I decided to come to London to find work."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said softly,
but she averted her gaze—no doubt to hide tears.

"Thank you," she murmured, before devoting
her attention to the now-peeled orange, clearly wishing to drop the
subject.

Luke respected her feelings, though there
were a dozen more questions he'd have liked to ask. Instead, he
watched as she took a bite of the orange, then had to avert his own
eyes rather than risk revealing the sudden surge of desire that
shot through him. He simply had to get his unruly passions under
control before he frightened her.

A moment later, Purdy asked a question of her
own. "Have you always lived here? In London, I mean?"

Trying not to notice the way her pink tongue
licked the juice of the orange from her perfect lips, he responded,
"Near London, anyway. I grew up just outside of Edgeware."

He recalled the tiny hovel he and his mother
had shared, and the abuse she had endured—always for his sake—at
the hands of the upper classes, whose sewing she took in and whose
great houses she helped to clean.

"What brought you into London?"

The question caught him off guard, though he
should have expected it. Impossible to tell the truth—that he'd
been lured here as a lad to learn thievery after his mother's
death. That after escaping that life, he had later returned to
revenge himself on those he considered responsible for that death.
That only here could he simultaneously embarrass the
ton
and
help those who were even more reduced by circumstances than his
mother had been.

"There was no living to be had elsewhere," he
said at last. "Probably much the same reason you came to London
yourself."

She blinked, then apparently decided against
further questions for the moment, again applying herself to her
breakfast. Luke wasn't sure whether he was relieved or
disappointed.

* * *

Though her curiosity about her rescuer was by
no means sated, Pearl needed to think through her own circumstances
before pushing further. How much did she dare tell him? As little
as possible would be safest.

Still, this was a far better opportunity than
she had expected, aside from the chance to free herself from her
stepmother's matchmaking plans. She had wanted to see how the
common people lived, and those in Seven Dials were the very
commonest of the common—with the exception of Mr. St. Clair, who
seemed most uncommon indeed.

She had hoped, upon awakening, that she had
merely imagined the effect the man had on her, but if anything it
was stronger than ever today. His voice flowed over her like warm
silk, dizzying her senses in a way she could not call
unpleasurable. His eyes, far more intelligent than she'd have
liked, also stirred up odd longings she couldn't quite decipher.
Hastily, she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

While it pained her to think how Hettie must
be worrying, wherever she was, she hadn't the faintest idea how she
was to find her, or even get a message to her, without giving
herself away. By now she was sure to have returned to Oakshire
House, and Pearl was by no means ready to go back. Not yet. But was
spending the next few days in Seven Dials—in Mr. St. Clair's
disturbing company—really a viable option?

Her ingrained sense of propriety—and, yes,
her pride—recoiled at the thought, useful as it would be for her
purposes. Yet the reformer in her exulted at this chance to educate
herself in a way few of her class ever had—and, perhaps, the chance
to do some actual good among the wretched poor of London's
slums.