Rogue's Honor (23 page)

She barely glanced at her reflection. What
did it matter, after all? "Thank you, Hettie," she said absently.
"You've done a wonderful job, as always." She headed for the door,
forcing her abigail to trot after her to toss a silver lace shawl
over her shoulders before she left the room.

The Duke and Duchess awaited her below, where
they were to have a family dinner before departing for the rout.
Both echoed Hettie's opinion that she looked particularly lovely
tonight, and she thanked them automatically. Odd that her exterior
should be so unaffected by the wretchedness within, she reflected,
picking at the lobster bisque before her.

By the time they reached the Russian Embassy,
Pearl had roused herself somewhat. She had no desire to appear so
preoccupied that people would question her about it. Therefore, she
greeted the Ambassador and his wife with the graciousness trained
into her from the cradle.

"You have outdone yourself, Countess Lieven,"
she exclaimed as she passed through the receiving line at the top
of the grand staircase. "I had no idea so many hothouse flowers
could be had in all of London so early in the Season."

"One merely needs to know whom to ask,"
replied the Countess in her beautifully accented English. "Flowers
are a passion of mine, so I have made it my business to know where
the best are to be found, at any time of year."

Unfortunately, that brought to Pearl's mind a
vision of Covent Garden market, with its masses of flowers. She
managed to refrain from asking if those she saw here had come from
that source—so close to Luke.

Moving into the main ballroom, she could not
help scanning the assemblage for the one face she knew would not be
present. Instead, she spotted the man responsible for his
absence—Lord Hardwyck, who was in truth no Lord at all. Seized by a
fit of perversity, she moved in his direction.

He saw her before she could speak, and bowed
deeply. "If this was your second choice of attire for the evening,
my lady, I must express my appreciation to your abigail for her
clumsiness," he said by way of greeting.

For a moment she was confused, then recalled
the excuse she had used to escape him and Lord Bellowsworth that
morning. "The mishap was less than I feared. Merely a torn flounce,
easily repaired," she replied easily. "Would that all injuries were
so easily put right."

As he could have no suspicion that she knew
the truth, her veiled barb had no effect.

"Indeed. And would that an unblemished gown
could make all women beauties. Though your ensemble is lovely, you
would outshine every woman here were you clad in homespun, my lady.
You are perfection itself." His dark eyes were disturbingly similar
to Luke's, but with none of the same warmth. Before she could stop
him, he seized her hand and brought it to his lips.

Vividly reminded of Luke doing the same that
very afternoon, Pearl had all she could do not to snatch her hand
away.

"Perfection surely entails more than fine
clothes or a pretty face, my lord." Her tongue nearly stumbled over
the undeserved title. "I would far rather be admired for
character—a rarer commodity."

He smiled. "Character can only be appreciated
upon closer acquaintance. I would deem it an honor to be granted
the opportunity to understand yours, Lady Pearl."

"In some cases, greater knowledge of a person
reveals rather a lack of character," she informed him. "Or even a
lack of integrity."

"Certainly it is lamentable when such is the
case," he agreed, "but I have no fear it might prove so in
yours."

The man's complacency nettled her further.
Did he feel no shame at all for what he had done years before?

"You would be equally willing, then, to open
your own character to examination?" she could not resist asking,
watching for some chink in his polished veneer.

"A dull study, no doubt, but I would never
deny you anything you deemed a pleasure, my lady. Shall we retire
into one of the anterooms to commence this closer acquaintanceship
you suggest?" He extended an arm to her expectantly.

Appalled, Pearl realized belatedly that he
had interpreted her digs as flirtation. The last thing she wished
was to be alone with this man.

"I think not," she replied icily. "I merely
spoke hypothetically. Excuse me—I believe my father wants me."

As the Duke had his back to them, it was
clearly a fabricated excuse, and therefore an insult. Lord
Hardwyck's eyes narrowed with an unpleasant glitter, but he only
said, "Later then, my lady."

Inclining her head when she would have
preferred to cut him entirely, Pearl moved away, silently resolving
to be more careful in the future. She should have known that a man
who could cold-bloodedly plan the murder of his brother,
sister-in-law and infant nephew would be impervious to any verbal
slings she could cast his way. After more than twenty years, he
must feel so secure in his position that he feared no
retribution.

Surely, now that he had her letter detailing
the proof, Luke could not allow those crimes —crimes against his
parents as well as himself —to go unpunished?

She would give Luke a few days to do the
right thing, she decided, difficult as it might be to refrain from
taking a hand in things herself. But she was determined that the
false Lord Hardwyck should not profit from his crimes for longer
than that. If Luke would not act, she would—whatever the personal
cost.

* * *

Luke stood outside the glow cast by the
numerous lamps leading up to the entrance of his uncle's mansion
and gazed at the impressive edifice. On the very edge of Mayfair,
with a view of Green Park, Hardwyck Hall dominated an area replete
with grand houses.

For a moment, Luke could not help thinking
that this magnificent place might well be legally his. He tried to
imagine what it would be like to be master of such a place, and
country estates besides —and failed utterly.

The very idea of such wealth, combined with
the overwhelming responsibility that accompanied it, oppressed him.
No, he wanted to make the owner of all of this pay for what he had
done, but he had no wish to take his place.

"Stay here and watch the street," he
instructed Flute. "I'll go around to the back and find a way in.
Give the usual signal if you have any reason to believe I've been
detected." Flute could do an admirable impression of a screech
owl.

Just now, though, the lad clearly had
reservations. "I thought we weren't going to be stealin' no more,
sir. And we ain't never tried breakin' a place as grand as this.
There'll be guards and such, surely?"

"I'm touched by your concern, but don't
worry. I'm not planning to steal anything this time —just do a bit
of exploring." Before Flute could ask the obvious question, Luke
left him, to slip around the corner of the walled sweep of lawn
fronting the street.

The back of the house held the usual gardens,
mews and stables, if on a rather larger scale than most Town
houses. At this hour, no one was about but a stableboy, whistling
noisily as he scoured an oat bucket. The master of the house was
likely out for the evening, and probably wouldn't be back for
several hours, from what Luke knew of
ton
habits. With any
luck, the servants would be taking it easy.

He flitted around the far side of the
stables, then along the edge of the back gardens until he reached
the house itself. Pausing in the deep, fragrant shadow cast by an
apple tree in blossom, he examined the lowest windows on that side
of the house —the ones leading to areas only servants would
inhabit. The late April evening was warm, and more than one
ground-floor window stood open, as did most of the upper ones.

He chose the window nearest the corner. It
was open, dark, and its iron-fenced well was amply screened by
shrubbery. Moving silently, he hopped over the low iron railing and
crouched in the window well to peer inside. All he could see was a
slit of faint light from a doorway on the far side of whatever room
this was. Good enough. The window was just large enough to admit
him with a squeeze.

Dropping into the dark room, he identified
bags and crates by feel. A storeroom, then, probably close to the
kitchens. Peering through the slightly opened door, he saw a dimly
lit hallway, deserted for the moment. Quickly he slipped out of the
storeroom and crept to the stairway at one end. A smaller set of
stairs led off to one side, and he took those, hoping they might
lead to a secret panel in one of the upper rooms, as the servants'
stairs in Oakshire House had done.

They did. The first panel-door he found led
into an ostentatious dining room with a brilliantly polished table
that would easily seat twenty people. Nothing here interested him,
however, so he closed the panel and moved on. Next he came to the
library. A quick check of the desk revealed only writing paper and
pens— nothing of a personal or business nature. Glancing around at
the hard leather chairs and undisturbed bookshelves, he concluded
that Hardwyck rarely used the room.

Going up another flight of stairs, Luke tried
another panel. This one led into an elegant parlor, revealed only
by exterior lamplight filtering in through the tall windows. Tired
of this hit-or-miss exploring, he crossed the room and cautiously
cracked open the door. A large passageway, well-lit by sconces set
at intervals along the walls, stretched in either direction.

Still moving softly, wary of servants, he
traversed the corridor, peeking into rooms along the way. These
were the public rooms, and included among other things a music
room, a ballroom even larger than that at Oakshire House, and a
gallery hung with at least two dozen portraits. He couldn't resist
a quick exploration of the latter.

The first few portraits were very old, their
subjects wearing costumes from fifty, one hundred, or even two
hundred years earlier. Luke gave them only a cursory look. Even
knowing that these people might well be his own ancestors, he felt
no particular connection to them. He moved on to more recent
paintings.

And stopped, stunned.

There, staring out of a canvas halfway along
the gallery, was his mother, just as he remembered her— except for
the elaborate gown she wore. If Pearl's letter had not been proof
enough that Nanna's tale was true, this portrait convinced him
beyond doubt. Below the painting was a brass plaque which read,
"Lady Dorothea Hardwyck, 1791." One year after he himself had been
born.

He then glanced at the next portrait and
received an even greater shock. Except for the clothing and hair,
longer and lighter than his own, he might have been looking at his
own reflection! Yes, according to the plaque, this was his father,
the fourth Earl of Hardwyck, painted the same year as his mother's
portrait.

Here, then, was all the proof he would need,
should he do as Pearl wished and press his claim to the title. And
perhaps it could be the means to his revenge, as well.

For a moment he struggled with himself,
assailed by all of the advantages Pearl had put forth to him that
afternoon. But then sanity prevailed, and he again considered the
obligations that went with such a position: lands, tenants, even a
seat in Parliament. Simple Luke St. Clair, responsible pillar of
Society? Preposterous!

Even as he renewed his original decision, he
heard footsteps in the passage outside the gallery. Quick as
thought, he pressed himself into an alcove behind a piece of marble
statuary. The footsteps neared, then receded. Whoever it was had
not come into the gallery.

He waited until he heard a door open and
close, then stole back down the corridor to the parlor he had first
entered. Retracing his steps, in five minutes he was climbing back
through the storeroom window into the cooler evening air. Flute was
waiting where he had left him, across the street from the grand
front of Hardwyck Hall.

"Did you find what you were looking for,
sir?" Clearly, he still found Luke's behavior odd in the
extreme.

"I did indeed —even though I had no idea when
I went in what it was I sought." A slow smile spread over his face
as the idea that had first occurred to him while standing before
his father's portrait took clearer shape. "How would you like to
help me become a ghost?"

Flute stared at him in dismay. "Are you
asking me to turn you in for the reward money? I won't do it, sir,
and that's flat. I'd rather starve first."

Luke gave a shout of laughter, then realized
it wouldn't do to draw attention to himself. "No, no, nothing like
that, lad, I promise you. I don't mean to become a
real
ghost. Let's head back to my lodgings, and I'll explain as we
go."

Quickly, he outlined his plan, which involved
obtaining an ensemble similar to the one in the portrait. His hair
was too short and dark for the part, so he'd need a wig as well,
several shades lighter.

"If I play my part well," he concluded, "Lord
Hardwyck will either believe his house is haunted, or that he's
gone mad. Either way, I daresay I can convince him to do whatever I
wish inside of a week."

"But . . . but why, sir? Why this particular
nob? And why would he have a picture in his house what looks so
much like you? Is he some kind of kin to you?"

"I always knew you were a sharp lad, Flute.
Yes, I believe this fellow to be my uncle. Further, I believe he
may have killed my father, years and years ago." Luke debated
whether or not to tell him the rest, but Flute was already ahead of
him.

"If your uncle's a lord, then what does that
make you, sir? You're one o'
them
, ain't you?"

For the first time, Luke wished he hadn't
been quite so vocal about his hatred of the nobility. Clearly Flute
had picked up more of his attitude than he had realized over the
past two years.