Rogue's Honor (17 page)

That evening he was to be Pearl's escort at a
musicale at Oakshire House itself, where all of polite Society from
the Prince Regent on down would be in attendance. When he arrived,
one glance told him that he was the most inexpensively dressed man
there. While his evening clothes were fashionable, he hadn't had
the time or the funding to have them made by one of the premier
tailors. Unfortunately, it showed.

"I'll do my best not to embarrass you," he
murmured to Lady Pearl as they moved from the receiving line into
the main hall. "This is all a bit over my head, you know."

She squeezed his arm encouragingly. "You're
doing splendidly. Your manners are better than many a titled
gentleman's, I assure you, and that is what really matters."

He couldn't help being touched by her faith
in him, though he feared it was misplaced. When he'd ventured into
great homes in the past, he'd relied on remaining inconspicuous to
get by. As Lady Pearl's rumored favorite, that would scarcely be an
option tonight.

Rather than a single musical performance at a
set time and place, the Duchess had decreed five different venues
throughout the mansion. At least one performance, therefore, was
going on at all times, and the guests were free to wander as they
chose from one to another. For several minutes, Luke and Pearl
stood listening to a particularly brilliant pianist in one of the
smaller parlors.

"Remarkable, is he not?" Pearl commented in
an undertone. She had not released his arm all evening, but Luke
did not mind in the least.

"Mmm," he responded noncommitally, as music
was something he knew very little of. He was simply enjoying
Pearl's nearness, occasionally allowing himself —unwisely —to
fantasize that things were other than they were, that he had a
chance of spending his life with her, his nights with her . . .

"Let's go see if that flutist is still
performing in the atrium," she suggested when the pianist ended his
piece with a flourish. "There's supposed to be a soprano here, as
well, who they say was the toast of Italy. Perhaps you'll have
heard of her through your uncle?"

That was impossible, of course, but Luke
merely said, "Perhaps. Did you catch her name?"

"Signora Donatelli or something like that—oh!
There is Lady Minerva beckoning to me. She'll want to meet you, I
know."

Luke obediently accompanied her to the young
lady in question, relieved that the topic of his Italian uncle had
been dropped. Lying to Pearl was becoming increasingly
difficult.

"Pearl! I vow I'm simply perishing to meet
your Mr. di Santo. I hear such
interesting
things about
him," exclaimed Lady Minerva the moment they were within earshot.
The petite blonde's beauty was only slightly marred by the avid
curiosity in her bright blue eyes.

Pearl merely smiled, answering her implied
question with an introduction. "Lady Minerva Chatham, meet Lucio di
Santo. Luke, Minnie is one of my closest friends."

"Hmph. Not close enough to have anticipated
this development, if development it is," said Lady Minerva with a
toss of her golden curls. "Mr. di Santo, pray fetch us something to
drink, so that Pearl and I may have a proper coze."

At Pearl's slight nod, he bowed. "It is my
great honor to be of service to two such exquisite ladies. Will
ratafia do, or would you prefer champagne?"

Lady Minerva tittered at the compliment and
waved her furled fan at him. "Oh, champagne! Pearl choosing a
favorite is a festive occasion, after all. But pray take your time
about it."

Luke left them to their chatter, taking a
roundabout route to the buffet tables, where champagne was in
abundance. Having no particular desire to carry the glasses longer
than necessary, he moved slowly, nodding and speaking briefly to
various new acquaintances along the way. He peered into the atrium
to discover that the flutist was indeed still playing, storing that
information to share with Pearl later.

As he finally approached the tables, his
attention was caught by an elderly dowager a few steps in front of
him. Dressed all in black silk, the woman positively dripped with
jewels, from the emerald-encrusted comb in her hair to her
diamond-studded slippers.

Speaking with an equally antiquated
gentleman, she gestured with her left hand, and a heavy ruby and
diamond bracelet nearly slipped from her wrist. She bobbed her head
emphatically at something the old gent said, then gestured again.
This time the bracelet did come free, its clasp either broken or
undone, to slide along the folds of her voluminous skirts to the
floor, where it formed a glittering puddle.

The two octogenarians moved on, oblivious,
leaving Luke to stare at the sparkling bit of temptation in his
path. Only for an instant, however. With the nonchalance of long
practice, he moved forward without breaking his stride, seeming to
focus on the table ahead while surreptitiously ascertaining that no
one else had noticed the old lady's accident.

Drawing level with the bracelet, he paused,
facing away from it, and pulled out his handkerchief. He touched it
to his nose, then moved it back to his pocket, dropping it at the
last moment so that it landed nearly atop the fallen bracelet.
Swiftly he knelt, scooping up the jewels along with his
handkerchief.

This bauble would pay for a new wardrobe from
Weston himself, unless he missed his guess, perhaps with enough
left over to buy a pretty trinket for Pearl. He was just tucking
the handkerchief-wrapped bracelet into his pocket when a strong
hand gripped his wrist.

"And what might you have there, sir?" The
Oakshire House head butler, radiating outraged sensibility, peered
at him down a hooklike nose.

Luke froze, groping for a glib explanation.
The last thing he could afford was a scene! He cleared his throat,
his mind working frantically.

"Oh, darling, you found it!" Like a vision in
shimmering peach, Pearl swept between Luke and the butler, deftly
taking the bracelet from him before the butler could. "I was
certain I'd dropped it in the atrium. How clever of you to retrace
my steps and find it here!"

The butler's demeanor changed at once, and he
backed away with a respectful bow. "My apologies, sir! My lady, if
I can be of any service?"

"Thank you, Upwood. I'll certainly let you
know," said Lady Pearl, pointedly dismissing the man.

The butler retreated, still mouthing
apologies, and she turned to face Luke. "Now, perhaps you would
care to tell me how you happened to be in possession of the Dowager
Lady Glinnon's bracelet?"

Pearl strove valiantly to keep her expression
neutral, betraying neither the shock nor the disappointment she
felt. It appeared her first suspicions had been correct after all:
Luke was clearly the notorious Saint of Seven Dials. But that he
would resort to thievery here, under her father's roof . . . !

"Why, Luke?" she asked softly.

She saw several expressions chase each other
across his face as he too-obviously toyed with various
explanations. Finally, guilt won out and he dropped his gaze. "I'm
sorry, Pearl. I've lied to you."

"I'd rather figured that out." Still, she
tried to keep accusation from her voice, tried to understand.
"Come, let's go into the library. We should be able to talk
there.

Though she half feared he would protest, he
accompanied her without a word. The library, a smaller replica of
the one the Duke maintained at his main Oakshire estate, was
deserted, as Pearl had hoped. She took a chair facing the door, so
that they could not be surprised, and motioned Luke to one close
by. Silently he took it, still avoiding her eye.

"And now, if you please, the truth—all of
it."

He frowned. "You won't like it, you
know."

"Probably not," she agreed. "But I'd rather
hear it than not. I told you everything you asked about my
unconventional behavior last week. Now it is your turn."

He took a deep breath, then looked directly
at her, his expression now candid. "Very well. The story I told you
last week was far nearer the truth than the fantasy I have woven
for Society. I really am plain Luke St. Clair, and no one
else."

Pearl blinked, unable —or unwilling? —to
understand. "But your time at Oxford? Your friends there?"

"Lucio di Santo was the identity I assumed to
attend school, using references I forged myself— documents,
correspondence, everything. Background —and blood —is at least as
important for entry as tuition. And those I fear I had to
manufacture."

"So your uncle in Italy . . . ?"

"Is completely fictitious."

"But the tuition? Someone must have—"

He shook his head. "I paid it myself. I
merely made it look as though it came from another source."

"And the money, then and now?" she asked even
more quietly. "I presume it cannot actually be credited to a
generous employer?"

For a moment, he closed his eyes, as though
waging an inner battle with himself. Then he met her gaze again,
his own still frank. "No, it is as you've guessed. All stolen. I'm
nothing but a common thief, Pearl—it's all I've ever been. I had no
right to let you believe otherwise, to let you—"

She held up a hand to stem his apologies,
ignoring the pain in her heart. "No, you did not. Still, I would
hardly call the renowned Saint of Seven Dials common."

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Who told
you that?"

She gave a mirthless little laugh. "What, do
you still have so little faith in my abilities? I admit I was slow
on the uptake, or tried to be, though all of the evidence was
before me. Did I not see you helping the denizens of Seven Dials
myself?"

He shook his head and tried to speak, but she
hurried on.

"I heard little Emmy Plank call you 'Mr.
Saint' with my own ears. Then, of course, there was the theft at
the Mountheath house, combined with your eagerness to leave it on
the very night it occurred."

Whatever he had been about to say in protest,
he abandoned with a sigh. "I admit, once I discovered that rumors
of my existence had spread to your social circle, I feared you
might make the deduction on your own. I only wish I had told you
the truth beforehand. Before you ever had a chance to consider me a
fit companion, to introduce me to your parents—"

"Or to talk you into a counterfeit
courtship," she concluded, tears suddenly beginning to prick behind
her eyes. "Did you agree only to afford yourself better means to
steal? Shall I find one of your calling cards about the house?"

His shock appeared sincere —or perhaps she
only wanted to believe that.

"Of course not! I agreed only for . . . for
the reasons you laid out— though against my better judgement, I
confess. I knew I hadn't the resources to extend my stay. That was
why I had already told you I must leave. That's the truth, on my
honor."

She understood, or hoped she did, though
knowing he was right gave her little comfort. "A rogue's honor,"
she murmured, but then saw the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry. Had I
known what I was forcing you to, I would never —That is—"

"No!" He spoke urgently now, the intensity
that drew her like a moth to a flame very much in evidence. Even
knowing what she did, her wayward body ached for him. "You are in
no way at fault. I'll make it clear to the authorities that you
were completely blameless throughout."

"The authorities?"

"Do you not mean to call them? The Saint of
Seven Dials is a wanted man, you know."

It was her turn to be appalled. "Of course
not! How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"Why not?" He seemed honestly curious.

She stared at him, even in this extremity
noticing the sweep of his dark hair, the masculine line of his jaw,
his noble—yes, noble—forehead.

"You need to ask? You did me a great service
last week, thinking me nothing but a simple serving maid. If you
think I would repay that kindness with betrayal, then you must
truly consider me no better than the worst of my class after
all."

His expression became tinged with something
like awe. "But I have betrayed
you
, lied to you. I can't
imagine any woman, of any class, overlooking such a thing."

"Perhaps I am not just any woman," she
replied with a shaky smile, trying to salvage what remained of her
pride.

"No, that you certainly are not." His eyes
were admiring, but held a shadow of pain, as well.

Uncomfortable at being credited with more
virtue than she felt she possessed, Pearl forced a light tone. "In
any event, it would be far too ironic to have you arrested for
stealing Lady Glinnon's bracelet, as it is undoubtedly paste."

He blinked. "Paste?"

"Quality paste," she allowed, amusement at
his expression distracting her for a moment from her own despair.
"She loses things constantly, so her family has had all of her
jewels replaced with exact replicas. It's well known that she never
wears the real ones in public. In the morning I'll return the
bracelet, saying I found it after the guests left, and no one will
think a thing of it."

Shaking his head, he chuckled. "It appears I
have lost my touch already." But then, sobering, "You understand,
though, why I must leave?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "I do. But . . ."
she paused, suddenly remembering her alternate plan. It was
madness, of course —worse than madness. Her heart pounded at the
very thought. Quickly, before she could dissuade herself, she
continued. "But I have a favor to ask of you first."

"Another favor?" He looked wary, and she
couldn't blame him. Nor was her request likely to reassure him.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she hurried on.
"Several times it has occurred to me that the one foolproof way to
evade the Duchess' machinations would be to render myself
unmarriageable." She couldn't quite meet his eye, as she continued,
"I'd like you to ruin my reputation — irretrievably —before you
go."