Rogue's Honor (22 page)

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, more
harshly than he intended in his concern and embarrassment. "This is
madness, my lady. The risk—"

"Was worth it," she assured him, though the
joy in her eyes dimmed a fraction at his tone. "I have something to
tell you— something extremely important. Will you join me in the
carriage?"

He realized that she could hardly go alone
with him into his lodgings, with two servants watching —much as
they both might have preferred it. His body was already responding
to her nearness, interfering with his ability to reason.

"Very well," he said, caution belatedly
returning. This all seemed deucedly odd, but he could not believe
Pearl would betray him. Not knowingly, anyway.

As they descended to the carriage, he again
peered up and down the street. Was the shadow at that alley
entrance a mere trick of the light, or was someone there? Suppose
Pearl had been duped, so that she would lead the authorities to
him?

Still, he did not have the strength of will
to leave her, after being so depressingly certain he would never
see her again. Whatever followed, he would have a few moments with
her. Silently he accompanied her to the carriage, handed her into
it, reveling in her touch, then climbed in himself. The moment the
door was closed, she turned to him eagerly.

"Oh, Luke, I have the
best
news! I've
discovered who you really are, and it is far better than I ever
dared to hope!"

Distracted by her loveliness, her lips, her
scent, despite Hettie's presence in the carriage, it took a moment
for the meaning of her words to penetrate. "What do you mean?" he
asked in sudden alarm, when they did. "How could you
possibly—?"

"I had inquiries made, in the vicinity of
Edgeware. Something you no doubt could have done yourself, had you
wished to." Though her words held a rebuke, her expression was
still one of suppressed joy. "When you hear, you will wish you had
done so years ago, I assure you!"

Luke doubted that, but her excitement was
contagious. "Then tell me, do," he said with a smile. Sweet,
valiant Pearl, so much more concerned for his welfare than her own.
"And then," he added more severely, "we'll speak about the danger
you courted in coming here."

Sweeping his scolding aside with an imperious
wave of one dainty, gloved hand, she placed the other on his
sleeve. "I was able to find your old nurse, Mrs. Steadman," she
explained.

Now she had his full attention, the very name
bringing back a flood of memories he had suppressed for years. He
listened while she related to him the story of his early years,
events that predated those memories. Though she spoke with
compelling conviction, he could not seem to make the story his own.
Surely it must belong to someone else. Someone more . . .
worthy.

"So you see," she concluded, "you are no more
a commoner than I am. Indeed, your family is even older than mine,
and nigh as wealthy. You are an Earl, Luke. A peer of the
realm!"

Slowly, he shook his head. "It all sounds
like something out of a novel —and Nanna was always fond of novels,
as was my mother. I fear you have been deluded by an equally
deluded old woman."

She frowned, clearly disappointed that his
enthusiasm did not equal hers. "I am having the verifiable facts
checked, of course —the marriage and birth records, the fire. I
couldn't believe it at first either."

"Even if the circumstances turn out to be
true, it doesn't follow that they relate to me. There can be no
proof that I am who you say I am. Certainly, I possess none."

"Mrs. Steadman was your nurse, was she not?"
Pearl asked impatiently. "To whom else could they possibly
relate?"

But Luke was not convinced. The very idea
that he,himself might be one of the class he had hated all his life
was repugnant, and far too much to swallow at one bitter gulp.

"She might have read of it in the papers," he
pointed out, quite reasonably, he thought. "She is old—her mind may
not be what it was. She may have woven this pretty fiction from
that story to comfort herself with the idea that she was once
someone important."

"From what you've told me, it doesn't seem so
terribly unlikely that your mother was a lady born. Are you
unwilling to believe that of her?"

Pearl knew him far too well, he realized, her
shrewd question having just the effect she'd hoped. No, he couldn't
deny that his mother had always seemed out of place in her
situation, nor that Nanna had called her "lady" from time to time,
in private. If he had thought about it at all, he had assumed it
was merely a gesture of respect.

"Of her, no. I am another matter, however.
And even if all of this were true, there is still the matter of
proof. Without that, my lot is unlikely to be affected by this
revelation."

She stared at him. "You sound as though you
don't
wish
to believe it is true. Are you so bent on
despising the nobility that you feel compelled to reject the very
possibility that you may be one of them?"

Again, her perception was disturbing in its
acuity. "I've never despised
you
, Pearl," he said, ignoring
the real purport of her question. "You know that."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
The eager excitement in her eyes had turned to frustration and
dismay, but he refused to share her hope. "Assuming the facts check
out, as I am convinced they will, do you mean that you will make no
attempt to reclaim your rightful place?"

"Rightful? If you knew the sort of life I
have led . . ."

She placed her gloved hand over his bare one,
distracting him again. The bond between them was as strong as ever.
"I do know, Luke. You have told me, remember?"

But he shook his head. "Only the
generalities, not the specifics." Even now, he writhed inwardly to
remember some of the things he had done. "I'm no hero, Pearl,
believe me—nor even a fit object for your pity."

"Pity?" She released his hand as though it
burned her. "Do you think that is what I feel for you? Pity? That
I'm doing this out of some sort of charitable concern for the poor,
misunderstood Saint—?"

She broke off, apparently remembering
Hettie's presence, though the maid made no indication that she
heard the slip. Eyes downcast, she seemed to be doing her best to
appear invisible and uninterested, but Luke was sure she was
absorbing every word. How much had Pearl told the girl? He had
Flute's safety as well as his own to consider.

"I think you are grateful that I was able to
assist you when you made your ill-advised foray into the back
streets of London," he said dampeningly. If her abigail did not
already know of their liaison, she would not discover it from him.
"You thought this would be a fitting way to repay me, and I thank
you. But it is up to me what I do with the knowledge."

Pearl swallowed visibly. Unshed tears
glittered in her eyes, tearing at his heart. He wanted to kiss them
away, to fold her in his arms and assure her that she was the most
precious thing in the world to him. Instead, he steeled himself
with the reminder that he was in no way worthy of her, even if her
unlikely tale turned out to be true. The choices he had made put
her forever out of his reach.

"Surely you cannot wish to continue in a life
of . . . of the sort you have been leading?" Her voice quavered,
but did not break. "What of poor Flute? And what of your uncle,
enjoying his ill-gotten gains at the expense of your father's death
and your mother suffering? If anyone merits your vengeance, surely
he does."

He felt his resolve beginning to waver. But
was it because of the strength of her reasoning or the strength of
his feelings for her? "I'm sorry Pearl," he forced himself to say.
"I must go—and so must you. You are not safe here."

Not safe from the inhabitants of Seven Dials
. . . or from him. Before he could change his mind, he stepped out
of the carriage.

Pearl extended a pleading hand. "Luke,
please—"

"Farewell, my lady." He took her outstretched
hand and lifted it briefly to his lips, then turned quickly and
walked away, not even caring what direction he took.

For a moment he feared that she might follow
him, but he heard no sound of pursuit, neither footsteps nor
carriage wheels. Still, he quickened his pace. He needed time to
think, to decide, perhaps to plan a course of action, away from
Pearl's intoxicating presence.

* * *

Pearl sat for several long moments in stunned
disbelief. She had been so certain Luke would forget his prejudices
upon learning he was himself a peer. His difficulties —their
difficulties —would be solved. He could return to her world . .
.

Yes, she now had to admit what she had
managed to conceal from herself before. Her motives had never been
entirely selfless. She wanted Luke to come back to her, to become a
part of her life. To experience again—

But he had rejected that life. Rejected
her
. Suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of her failure,
she covered her face with her hands and wept.

"Oh, my lady, pray do not cry," Hettie
exclaimed, putting a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder. "He's not
worth it—no man is. An ungrateful wretch, that's what he is, after
all you tried to do for him."

Pearl's head snapped up. "You do not know
him. Don't pass judgement on him."

Hettie blinked, and at once Pearl apologized.
"I do appreciate your concern, Hettie, but I shall be fine." That
quick burst of anger had not been without effect, however, for it
had supplanted her despair. Now she could think again—and plan.

Opening the panel on top of the carriage, she
directed the coachman to drive back to Oakshire House. Luke St.
Clair was much mistaken if he believed Lady Pearl Moreston would
admit defeat so easily. She could be every bit as stubborn as
he.

* * *

Luke walked the streets for hours, but when
he returned to his lodgings to find Pearl's carriage gone he was no
closer to a decision than he had been when he left— except one. If
what she claimed was true, and the man styling himself Lord
Hardwyck was really responsible for his father's death and his
mother's poverty, then that would have to be repaid somehow.

But how? After sending Pearl away so
brusquely, would he ever know the truth? She had admitted she had
no proof beyond Nanna's word as yet, and it was entirely possible
no such proof existed. Even if it did, and Pearl obtained it, she
would see no point in telling him now.

Flute opened the door before he could fit the
key into the lock. "I'm glad you're back, sir. Something
havey-cavey is going on. Not ten minutes ago, this was slipped
under the door." He handed Luke an envelope. "I reckon the Runners
must know we're here."

Turning the envelope over, Luke read the
one-word inscription and smiled. "No, not the Runners, but someone
every bit as persistent." He broke the seal, as recognizable as the
hand that had written his name, and read through the letter
twice.

Pearl had already obtained the proof she
sought, corroborating Mrs. Steadman's story. Amazing what wealth
and influence could do to speed the wheels of bureaucracy, he
thought cynically. Had he requested the same information, it
doubtless would have taken weeks, had it been granted at all.

According to the letter, Pearl now had in her
possession documents attesting to the marriage of James Knox, Earl
of Hardwyck, and Lady Dorothea Sinclair, daughter of Earl Sinclair.
Also records of the birth and baptism of one Luke Hartwood Knox,
their son, and heir to the earldom.

Luke closed his eyes. As though it were
yesterday, he could hear the dreaded middle name on his mother's
lips, letting him know yet another childhood escapade had been
discovered. The birth date listed was his own.

It was true, then. He really was a member of
the very class he had despised all his life. If he could find a way
to prove his identity, he would have wealth, influence, even a seat
in the House of Lords. He could become as vain, pompous, proud and
shallow as any of them. Or he could throw this letter away and
pretend nothing had changed at all.

But then he though about his mother, and the
father he had never known. What kind of life might he have led, if
both had lived? His mother —and Pearl —were proof that blue blood
did not preclude strength of character. Would he have been able to
rise above a privileged state and become a worthwhile human being?
He would never know. The chance had been denied him—by one man.

"Should we escape out the window?" asked
Flute worriedly. "Or do you think they'll be watching for that? Are
we done for, sir?"

Brought back to the present, Luke smiled
grimly. "Not yet, Flute. Not quite. But if I have anything to say
to it, someone else may be. What do you know about the Earl of
Hardwyck?"

Flute blinked in confusion. "Not much, sir.
Only that he's one of the richest swells in England. Wouldn't know
him to look at, though. Why?"

"Then he no doubt lives in one of the biggest
houses in London. Let's find out which one. It would seem I have a
score to settle with him."

Pearl had not the slightest desire to attend
the Countess Lieven's rout, but knew Obelia would never believe the
excuse of another headache. Besides, if she stayed home she would
only give herself a real one, stewing over Luke's short-sightedness
that afternoon and her own thwarted desires. Better to get out and
distract herself as far as was possible.

"My lady, you are a vision. That color
particularly becomes you," Hettie informed her as she handed Pearl
a pale green fan that perfectly matched her gown. "See for
yourself." She positioned the pier glass so that Pearl could
observe her entire ensemble at once.