Rogue's Honor (11 page)

But where would she have gone? Back to the
household she'd left? Or might she even now be wandering the
streets of London, seeking fruitlessly for a new position? With her
looks, the odds of someone taking advantage of her innocence seemed
high.

But no. He reminded himself that she was not
at all the simple girl she had first pretended to be, but was in
fact a very intelligent young woman, presumably with a decent
education. And that, of course, must be why she had fled. She had
correctly judged that Luke would not force himself on a girl of
meager intellect. But what had he done, the moment he knew the
truth?

Luke tried to tell himself that it was for
the best that she was gone—best for him, best for her. At his side,
little Argos whined, and he leaned down to scratch the dog between
the ears.

"I miss her too, lad. But where else can we
look?" Sinking down on an overturned whisky crate, he tried to
recall every word of their conversations, seeking for clues.
Instead, he found himself remembering the lovely expression of her
vivid blue-violet eyes, the way her body had felt against his, the
indescribable bond he had sensed when they kissed . . .

No! He had to think. She was from Oaklea, if
she'd told the truth, but she wouldn't have attempted traveling all
the way back there alone, surely. He recalled other things she'd
said, though little of it had been personal. She'd admitted—
defensively —that her mother was a gentleman's daughter.

Perhaps her mother —or she herself? —was the
byblow of some gentleman, or even a nobleman. That might explain
her evasiveness. Perhaps she even felt unworthy of him due to her
illegitimate birth. That was laughable, of course, but he couldn't
discount the possibility.

With a deep breath, he made a sudden
decision. Whatever the truth, wherever she was, he owed it to Purdy
—and to himself —to make certain that she was safe. And once he'd
done that, well, he'd just let fate take its course —his as well as
hers.

If he was to effectively search for Purdy
among the houses of the
ton
, he'd have to move among them as
one of their own—which meant it was time to resurrect Lucio di
Santo. Relieved to be taking action at last, he headed briskly back
toward his lodgings, already mentally composing the necessary
letter.

* * *

Pearl concealed a yawn behind her ecru lace
and ivory fan as Lady Minerva Chatham regaled her with yet another
version of the gossip surrounding her disappearance five days ago.
The dancing would begin at any moment, and Pearl was wondering
whether there was any way she could plausibly escape to one of the
anterooms instead of being trapped on the dance floor for another
interminable evening.

"Of course it all seems silly in retrospect,"
her companion was saying, "but you must confess that a possible
kidnapping, particularly by so romantic and mysterious a figure as
the Saint of Seven Dials, made for a captivating tale."

"The Saint of Seven Dials? I thought he was
only a legend, Minnie, yet you are the second person to mention
that name since my visit to poor Nanny."

The story Obelia had decreed they would tell
everyone was that Pearl had gone to visit her sick nurse for a
couple of days. The fact that her old nurse—Hettie's mother—was
neither sick nor within a day's ride of town had no bearing on the
matter.

"Oh, the Saint is very real, I assure you!"
Lady Minerva exclaimed. "You must not have been in Town for his
last rash of thefts, but the disappearance of the Mountheaths'
plate and jewels from under their very noses was quite in keeping
with his legendary audacity. Some believe he may actually be a
member of the
ton
, stealing from the wealthy to give to the
poor, like Robin Hood of old." Her fine complexion pinkened visibly
at the notion.

"Very romantic indeed," said Pearl dryly, but
her thoughts were already leaping to an incredulous guess.
Saint
of Seven Dials
. Luke St. Clair. Little Emmy had called him "Mr.
Saint." He had been at the Mountheath's that night, too, and as
eager to depart as she herself had been . . .

The strains of the opening minuet recalled
her to her surroundings in the Chatham's opulent ballroom. Glancing
up, she saw the Marquess of Ribbleton approaching to claim the
promised dance. She'd missed her chance to slip away—not that the
Duchess would have allowed her to hide for long anyway.

"I'll tell you everything else I've heard
about the Saint later," Minerva promised in a whisper as her own
partner advanced from the other direction. "It's just the sort of
adventurous tale you like."

Pearl smiled her thanks, then turned to greet
Lord Ribbleton. It was quite true that she enjoyed the occasional
novel of derring-do to lighten her otherwise serious reading. But
fiction was one thing, and a real-life criminal something else
entirely.

Still deep in thought, she took her place
opposite the Marquess, murmuring something appropriate in response
to his fulsome compliments on her appearance.

As the evening progressed, Pearl's thoughts
returned again and again to Luke and the puzzle he presented. After
her brief taste of another sort of life, her own felt more
artificial and hollow than ever, and not nearly as interesting. For
two nights and a day, she had been more alive than at any other
time in her whole sheltered, pampered life.

"You are unusually pensive tonight, my lady,"
commented Lord Harrowby as he led her from the floor after a
country dance. "Still concerned about your old nurse, are you?"

"What? Oh, yes. Poor Nanny," Pearl responded
absently, noticing that Lord Harrowby's hair was almost the exact
same shade of brown as Luke St. Clair's, though he was not so
tall.

Glancing up at Sir Cyril Weathers, who met
her at the edge of the floor to claim the next dance, she decided
that he was of approximately the same height as her Luke, though
slighter in build. Mentally, she shook herself. What was the matter
with her, trying to see bits and pieces of Luke St. Clair in every
man present? Sternly she marshalled her thoughts. He was not "her"
Luke!

"What think you, Sir Cyril, of the result of
the Corn Laws, now that the wars are over?" she asked, to distract
herself.

Though clearly surprised that a lady would
broach such a subject, Sir Cyril expounded at length on his views,
which Pearl quickly realized came exclusively from a particular
editorialist in the
Times
. All too soon, her mind was
wandering again.

As the dance ended, she noticed yet another
man who reminded her strongly of Luke— height, hair color and
general build were all the same. He walked toward the buffet table,
and she mused that he even moved in much the same way, though of
course she should not be noticing such a thing about any man.

Pearl accepted Sir Cyril's thanks for the
dance, then turned back to watch the man she had noted. As soon as
he turned, of course, she would realize who it was and laugh at
herself for her fancies. But until then, she unwisely allowed
herself to imagine Luke St. Clair in her world —what they might
speak of, the things they might do together.

No man had ever affected her like this
before, she knew. Could one kiss—one very heated kiss!--be enough
to send her into such infatuation? Or was it more than that? Luke
had spoken of fate . . .

She and Sir Cyril reached the edge of the
floor, and already her next partner was approaching. Summoning up a
polite smile for Lord Edgemont, Pearl took one last glance at the
gentleman who had reminded her of Luke. At that precise moment he
turned, and it was all she could do to suppress a gasp.

Could it be only her imagination, or was he
indeed the very image of Luke St. Clair? Scarcely hearing Lord
Edgemont's greeting as he bowed over her hand, she finally pulled
her gaze away to respond.

"I find myself quite thirsty, my lord." Her
voice sounded high and strained to her own ears. "Would you mind
terribly if I took this opportunity to refresh myself with some
lemonade and a cake or two?"

At once Lord Edgemont offered to procure for
her whatever she desired, but that did not suit Pearl's purpose at
all. She needed to get a closer look at the gentleman near the
buffet tables.

"We'll go together," she told her escort. "I
wish to look over the selection myself. I also perceive that there
are a few guests to whom I have not yet been introduced."

Completely oblivious to whatever reply Lord
Edgemont might make, or even whether he was following her, Pearl
headed toward the tables and the man who looked so disturbingly
familiar, an impossible hope beginning to form in her breast.

"So there are no young ladies here of an age
to have a governess?" Luke asked the footman refilling the tray of
lobster patties. "I was certain my aunt said that her protégé
worked for the Earl of Chatham."

The footman shook his head. "Lady Minerva
hasn't had a governess for nigh on two years, since she turned
eighteen," he offered. "Could be one of the maids will have heard
of this Purdy, though."

"Thank you." This was the third great house
where Luke had made inquiries, though without much hope. Purdy had
mentioned a connection to Oakshire House, but an invitation there
was rather above his touch.

He was about to ask the footman whether he'd
heard of a Hettie, when he was accosted by a hand on his shoulder.
"There you are, Luke, old boy. Hobnobbing with the servants again?
Your aunt's friend will turn up sooner or later, never fear. For
now, I've got some people you must meet."

Luke turned to Lord Marcus Northrup with a
genuine smile. Among the few members of the
ton
Luke knew
personally, Lord Marcus was his closest friend. They had met at
Oxford, where they'd discovered a number of common interests,
including a delight in playing pranks upon bullying upperclassmen.
The youngest son of the Duke of Marland, Marcus had given Luke
invaluable advice based on his experience with four older brothers.
He was also as adept at gaining entry where they weren't allowed as
any professional housebreaker Luke had encountered.

Upon receiving Luke's note saying he'd
arrived in Town, Lord Marcus had immediately responded, as always,
with an invitation to stay with him in Grosvenor Street, where he
shared a house with two of his older brothers when in Town. Luke
had accepted at once, as he'd done a few times previously, when
he'd needed —or simply wanted —to move in more fashionable circles
for a while.

"Of course, Marcus. Sorry if I seem
preoccupied by this silly errand. I did promise my Aunt Lavinia,
but there's no call to be obsessive about it." Obsessed he
certainly was, but he couldn't let Marcus know that. "To whom did
you want to introduce me?"

Lord Marcus grinned, making him look far
younger than his twenty-five years. "As this is your first visit to
Town in a year, quite a few people. In fact, here comes a lady you
really must meet—a true original. Diamond of the first water,
bluestocking and philanthropist all in one, but quite influential
for all that. She could be your entrée into the highest circles, if
she finds you tolerable. Let me make you known to her."

Luke barely listened. Already he was
considering whether he could visit any other great houses tonight
in his search for Purdy. Only a few days without her, and he felt
as though a vital part of himself had gone missing. He had to find
her, and soon! Still, he pinned on his best social smile and turned
to make his compliments to the remarkable lady in question.

"Lady Pearl, may I present an old school chum
of mine, the honorable Lucio di Santo, nephew of the Conte di Santo
of Italy, though of good English stock on his mother's side. Luke,
the Lady Pearl Moreston, daughter of the Duke of Oakshire."

While Marcus nattered on, Luke stood frozen,
his gaze locked with that of the young lady in question. The room
seemed to spin about him, Marcus' voice coming from a great
distance. How could this be? It was impossible —it
must
be
impossible!

This divine creature before him, Lady Pearl
Moreston, Duke's daughter and influential pillar of Society, was
none other than his poor, lost Purdy. Though his reason protested,
his body and soul thrummed in instant recognition. What an end to
his quest this was!

Lady Pearl's heightened color and arrested
expression left no doubt she recognized him as well, and for a
moment he thought she might either faint or give him the cut
direct. But after a hesitation not quite long enough to be
considered rude, she inclined her head.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance,
Mr. di Santo. Have you been in London long?" Her eyes held a subtle
accusation that no one but he could have noticed.

"I arrived at Lord Marcus's house only two
days since," he said with perfect truthfulness. He doubted the
accusation in his own eyes was as subtle. His deception had been
nothing to hers!

Lord Marcus stepped in before unwise
questions could escape him. "Indeed, we'll have to civilize him all
over again, I fear, he's so rarely in Town. He came to us at Oxford
after being largely raised abroad, and since then he's been
splitting his time between the Continent and the countryside. It's
not often you'll find someone so cosmopolitan who is so unfamiliar
with London and its ways," he concluded with a chuckle.

Luke politely echoed the chuckle, as did Lady
Pearl —and hers sounded as forced as his own.

"I presume the cosmopolitan Mr. di Santo has
had opportunities to polish his social skills in other milieux."
Though she spoke casually, even flippantly, Luke could see the
intensity behind her gaze.

He swept her a bow that would not have been
out of place in the courts of Spain or Italy. He'd made a point to
learn that Continental flair, though of late he'd had little
opportunity to practice it. Dash, he had discovered, could
compensate for a variety of social sins.