Rogue's Honor (2 page)

Luke hunched his shoulders and slowed his
pace, in keeping with today's disguise as an inebriated old
man—down at the heels, but not quite seedy enough to look like a
threat. He ambled in the direction of his selected target, then
stumbled just as he reached the man.

"Sorry, milor'," he mumbled, steadying
himself against the gentleman's arm to break his supposed fall.
Even as the nobleman supercilously swept aside Luke's abject
apology, his purse was liberated from his pocket.

"Be gone with you, old tippler. Keep your
distance from your betters," the haughty lord advised him with a
sneer.

Biting back an instinctive retort, Luke
managed a servile bow that made his cheap white peruke slip down to
partially conceal his face as he backed away from the man. Not
until he turned onto Haymarket Street a moment later did the hue
and cry begin.

With a chuckle, Luke straightened his wig and
quickened his pace, though not enough to draw attention. Then the
words, "Stop, thief!" rang out behind him. Ducking around the next
corner into an alley scarce wider than an arm-spread, he broke into
a run.

This was always his favorite part. Leaving
the alley for Coventry Street, he glanced back to see two dandified
bucks of the
ton
hot after him, brandishing sticks and
shouting absurd threats. Perfect.

Or not so perfect. The young gentlemen were
apparently among the more fit of their species, for another quick
glance showed them gaining. Luke put on a burst of speed, leaping
over an ashcan before sending it clattering behind him. So much for
his disguise! No description of the thief would mention an elderly
man now.

Still, he knew this part of London better
than the alley cats did. With the young sprigs hot on his heels, he
led them a merry chase toward Soho Square, taking care to trail
them through every puddle of mud or filth he could find along the
way. "That's for you, Mum," he muttered at the sound of sudden
cursing behind him.

Slipping around a corner, he then nipped into
the dark recess of a doorway, pressing his back against the wooden
panels. He managed to catch a few much-needed breaths before his
pursuers approached. As they came closer, he snaked one hand behind
him to test the door handle.

It opened easily, and he nearly fell into a
brightly lit room filled with women in various stages of
undress—actresses preparing to perform here at one of the minor
opera houses. Quickly, he shut the door behind him so that his
pursuers wouldn't hear their squeals.

"Lucio, as I live and breathe!" cooed a buxom
redhead Luke remembered well from last Season. Indignation turned
to delight as others realized who had burst in upon them.

Doffing his peruke, Luke greeted them all
with his most charming smile. "My apologies for an unannounced
entry, ladies. I won't be staying long." He'd dallied with at least
three of them in the past, taking nearly as much pleasure from the
knowledge that he was cuckolding their noble protectors as from
their more obvious charms.

The outer door opened again, and at once two
of the actresses stepped in front of Luke, who quickly ducked down
behind them. Between their skirts, he could see the dumbfounded
faces of his erstwhile hunters.

Shrilly, the women protested the intrusion,
claiming a modesty that should have provoked laughter rather than
the embarrassment the two young dandies evinced. Stammering
apologies, they quickly backed out to continue their search
elsewhere. The moment the door closed, the women again converged on
Luke, giggling and pulling at his jacket. Obligingly, he took it
off, but only long enough to reverse it and pull a cap from the
pocket.

"I am eternally in your debt," he declared to
the group as a whole. Despite their chorus of protests, he dropped
a quick kiss on the cheek of the redhead, winked at the two blondes
he'd known previously and, with fulsome compliments, took his
leave.

Peering from the doorway, he watched his
pursuers turn another corner, apparently heading toward Seven
Dials. He waited another moment or two before emerging to stroll
toward Mayfair, in the opposite direction.

Pulling the purloined purse from his pocket,
he counted his takings as he walked. Not as much as he'd hoped, but
it would pay his rent for the month and buy a new washtub and iron
for Mrs. Breitmann, who eked out a living for herself and her five
children by taking in laundry. Of course, there was still Grady
O'Malley to spring from debtor's prison in Newgate, as well as a
few things he wanted for himself. Luckily, he was headed toward the
richest part of London.

Luke paused at the edge of Berkley Square in
the gathering dusk, gazing at one of the finest mansions in Town.
Yes, that one would do nicely—or perhaps that one there, two houses
down. He'd wander through the mews and discover which one might be
having guests in tonight. That would make his job easier.

He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt for
what he was planning. These people had more wealth than they could
ever use, and deserved none of it. With the exception of the close
circle of friends he'd made at Oxford, in his experience every
member of the
ton
was arrogant, self-absorbed, and
completely unappreciative of his or her privileged state.

Smiling to himself, he again considered the
fine mansions before him. Gilded cages, that's what they were. He
far preferred his life of unfettered freedom to one of
circumscribed luxury with no thrills, no challenges, no worries
whatsoever . . .

* * *

"Are you sure you want to go through with
this, my lady?" Hettie asked anxiously as Pearl closed the gate at
the back of the kitchen gardens, emerging into the alleyway behind
the great houses of Berkley Square.

Her escape accomplished, Pearl let out her
breath and faced her abigail. Tucking a stray strand of hair into
the tight bun she now wore, she checked the fit of her borrowed
rags. Well, not rags precisely—a much-worn work dress of Hettie's,
with the hem let out to cover the much taller Pearl's ankles.

"Of course I'm sure. And it's 'Purdy,'
remember? If you call me 'my lady,' we'll be found out at once."
Slipping out of the house unseen had been difficult enough, despite
the commotion surrounding the Duke's departure. She had never quite
realized what an army of servants her family employed.

"Oh, look at that poor cat, trying to pull a
fish from that crate there," she said then, her attention diverted.
"Do you suppose it has kittens somewhere?"

Hettie chuckled. "It looks sleek and fat
enough to me, my—Purdy. Stuffed on mice from Lord Tinsdale's
stables, no doubt, not to mention scraps from his kitchens. A cat's
not likely to starve in Mayfair."

"Oh. No, I suppose not."

Hettie glanced away, but not before Pearl saw
the combination of worry and merriment in her eyes. No doubt she
believed that Pearl was merely amusing herself with her play
acting. But of course Pearl had a far higher purpose.
Think of
Fairbourne!

"Eh, there!" A rough, masculine voice
accosted them. "Be either of you wenches looking for a job
t'night?"

Pearl turned indignantly, ready to blast the
footman—for that's what he appeared to be—for calling them wenches,
but Hettie placed a restraining hand on her arm.

"What sort of job?" she asked the man. "We'll
do nothing unsavory, I assure you."

Pearl had to admire Hettie's command, putting
the man in his place without betraying them. She herself would have
botched it, but Hettie knew this world as Pearl did not—yet.

The footman dipped his head respectfully,
rather to Pearl's surprise. "No, nothin' like that, ma'am. Just
some extra brass, is all. Lord Mountheath be hiring on extra help
for the evening. So if you've the night off and wishing a bit on
the side . . ."

"Just a moment," said Hettie, and pulled
Pearl aside. "Well, my lady?" she whispered. "It's a chance to put
your plan to the test—but it's risky."

Risky indeed! Pearl herself was expected at
Lady Mountheath's ridotto tonight, and nearly everyone she knew who
was currently in Town was likely to be there.

"Do you think it would be possible for me to
work only in the kitchens, or somewhere else out of sight of the
guests?" She'd never liked the Mountheaths, and suspected their
servants would like them even less. If she really wanted to see
firsthand the hardships of the working class, this seemed a
heaven-sent chance.

"I'm sure they can find you a dirty job
somewhere—Purdy." The twinkle in Hettie's eyes told her that her
abigail expected her to back down, which only stiffened her
resolve.

"I'll do it," Pearl said with a determined
nod. "Though I'd very much prefer it not involve chamber pots," she
added hastily, hoping she would not live to regret this mad, if
noble, scheme.

Hettie turned back to the footman. "What
positions are they hiring for?"

An hour later, Pearl found herself in the
Mountheaths' kitchens, transferring tray after tray of tiny
pastries from the enormous oven to glittering crystal platters.
This wasn't turning out at all as she'd expected, she decided, as
she burned her fingers for the third time. Kitchen maids did not
wear gloves, of course—which she now realized was foolish. Surely
they needed them far more than did any lady in a drawing room.

In addition to her lofty social goals, Pearl
had wished to discover how people might respond to her without the
aura of the Duke of Oakshire surrounding her. So far, she was
simply being ignored. She burned her fingers yet again, this time
more severely. With a yelp, she dropped the hot tray, scattering
its dainties over the kitchen floor. Muttering an apology, trying
to ignore the mutterings of "clumsy wench," she knelt to sweep up
the ruined pastries.

"Here, I'll help you with that."

Glancing up in surprise at the masculine
voice, she found herself face to face with one of the serving men.
Though his brown hair and regular features were not much out of the
ordinary way, there was something compelling, even magnetic, about
the intelligence—and intensity—of his dark, dark eyes.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I'm . . . not
normally so fumble fingered."

He took her bare hand in his much larger
one—also ungloved—and turned it over. An alarming tingle shot
through her at his touch—perhaps the first time in her life a male
hand had touched hers, skin to skin. She nearly snatched her hand
away, a stinging rebuke for his impertinence on the tip of her
tongue, but remembered just in time that the servant "Purdy" must
not react the way Lady Pearl would.

"You should put something cool on that before
it blisters." His voice was rich, deep, and surprisingly
cultured—not at all what she'd expected of a below-stairs servant.
He held her gaze as securely as her hand, and something unfamiliar
stirred deep within her.

Vainly, she reminded herself that this man
was not of her class at all. "Thank you," she repeated, gently
disengaging her hand. "I'll do that."

She rose, but already he had whisked a damp
dish towel from a nearby table. With a smile and a too-familiar
twinkle in his eye, he wrapped it around her damaged fingers,
reestablishing that disturbing flesh-to-flesh contact.

"'Ere, now! None o' that!" exclaimed the head
cook's assistant. Pearl released the serving man's hand guiltily.
"Back to work, both of you, if you're wanting to get your shillin'
for the evening." She thrust a filled tray into the man's hands.
"Take this out to the buffet tables, then hop it back here for
another."

With a ghost of a bow in Pearl's direction,
he complied, his eyes still twinkling.

Pearl watched him go, a curious frown pulling
her brows together. No, he didn't act like a servant at all. But
then, what did she really know of how servants behaved toward each
other?

"You there! Purdy! Get the rest of those crab
puffs onto trays. We're falling behind in here."

With a start at her assumed name, Pearl
quickly turned back to her task, taking more care for her fingers,
which still seemed to tingle—though not from the burns. She filled
tray after tray, gaining confidence in the task. This wasn't so
hard.

"More servers!" the butler called down the
kitchen stairs. "We still need more servers out here." He followed
his words into the kitchen and glanced haughtily around at the
hired drudges—a motley group, to be sure. "You there!"

Cautiously, Pearl glanced over her shoulder
at the butler, to find him staring straight at her. "M-me?"

He gave a single, supercilious nod. "You
appear the most presentable of this lot. You'll do." With a jerk of
his head, he indicated that she should follow him.

Pearl froze. She couldn't go out there! If
she were recognized, the scandal would be . . . well, more than she
cared to imagine. Wildly, she glanced around the kitchen for
Hettie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"This instant, missie,
if
you please."
Pearl had met royalty who exuded less authority than this man.
Mechanically, she moved to obey, hoping a solution might magically
present itself.

"Clear away the empty trays and bottles from
the buffet tables and bring them back here," he said carefully,
having apparently decided she was a half-wit. "Mrs. Mann will tell
you what to do next. And you won't need this." Before she could
stop him, he whipped off the kerchief she'd been wearing to conceal
her hair.

Again she stopped, but by now the attention
of the entire kitchen was focused on her, so she meekly followed
the butler up the stairs. Emerging at the top, she quickly surveyed
the glittering ballroom, thronged with people, nearly every one of
whom knew her. She should have quit on the spot rather than risk
this, she realized belatedly. What was a shilling, after all? A
single button on one of her fine gowns was worth more than
that.