Rogue's Honor

ROGUE'S HONOR

Brenda Hiatt

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2001 by Brenda Hiatt Barber

Originally published by Avon Books, an
imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

This is a work 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

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person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

by Brenda Hiatt

PREFACE

F
or 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 . .
.

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.