Rogue's Honor (24 page)

"It looks like I may be, yes. But that's
neither here nor there," he added quickly, before Flute could
speak. "This earl is one of the worst of the lot, and I want to
make him pay for what he's done. Will you help me?"

Flute considered for a moment, then nodded,
his thin face breaking into an impish grin. "Aye, I'll help.
Thinking how much you done for me and others as a nobody —so to
speak —I'll trust you to do what's right and more once you've got
brass and some clout."

Luke frowned. That was too similar to what
Pearl had said for his comfort. Was he going to be pressured by
Flute as well? "I don't want to be one of them," he said
dampeningly. "I just want to give this one what he deserves. That's
all. Still willing?"

"Oh, aye." Flute sobered a bit, but his eyes
lost none of their twinkle. "Whatever you say, sir. What do we do
first?"

* * *

By the end of the next day, Luke had
everything he needed and once again stood watching Hardwyck
House.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were
a ghost myself, sir," Flute whispered. "Look! Here comes the
carriage. It'll only be a moment now."

Luke nodded, the curls of the powdered light
brown wig brushing the ruffles of his antique shirt where they
billowed out of the equally archaic coat. He felt as though he were
about to step on stage. "There he goes. Come."

They both followed the same route Luke had
used the night before. Though a light drizzle was falling, the
storeroom window was still ajar. From a dark corner of the gardens,
Luke pointed. "That's the window, there. You know what to do, if
anyone is about later?"

Flute nodded. "I'll make sure their attention
is on the other side of the house, not to worry. Two in the
morning, you said?"

"That should be enough for the first night,
yes. I'll see you then." Slipping from the shadows, Luke crept to
the house, hopped over the railing and again let himself in through
the window, taking care to leave it just as he found it.

Perhaps he should have left Flute out of this
entirely, he thought as he continued the explorations he'd begun
the night before. Certainly he could have handled this himself. But
acting as lookout made the lad feel useful, and kept him out of
more substantial trouble, as well. He'd have to give some serious
thought as to what Flute could do once this caper was over. He was
bright enough to get bored easily, and that was dangerous, as Luke
knew from long experience.

Deep in thought, making no sound in his
soft-soled slippers, he drifted around a corner and came face to
face with a young housemaid dusting a set of Grecian urns. Her
mouth formed a perfect "O" and her eyes went wide and wild. For
several long heartbeats, they stood still, staring at each other,
then she took a quick step backward.

Instinctively, Luke reached out with one hand
to reassure the terrified girl, but before he could speak, she let
out a shriek, whirled, and ran. Belatedly, he realized that
speaking or touching her would have ruined the effect. Before she
could bring any witnesses, he ducked back around the corner and
through the nearest door, into what appeared to be a
bedchamber.

He checked the wall near the fireplace,
hoping to find another hidden door to the servant passages, but
without success. Turning, he examined the room by the dim light
filtering in through the partially curtained windows, searching for
a suitable hiding place. Only as he secreted himself behind the
voluminous bed curtains did he notice the ornate initials carved on
the mahogany headboard:
JLK
. Had this been his father's room
at one time, then? Perfect.

Before he could consider how to put that
interesting tidbit to use, he heard heavy footsteps in the
corridor, coming closer.

". . . too many sweetmeats last night," came
a male voice. "Mrs. Duggin warned you about that. Dreaming, you
were."

"No! I truly saw it! From another age, he
was, floating inches off the floor, with eyes like dark fire.
Looked right through me, they did— then he reached for me, never
making a sound."

Luke smiled silently at the housemaid's
description, far better than anything he could have devised.
Imagination was a wonderful thing. The door to the chamber opened
then, and he held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. The
faint glow of a candle penetrated the heavy draperies surrounding
him.

"See? Nothing here either," said the male
voice. "If any room was going to be haunted, it would be this
one."

Luke's ears pricked at this, and he was glad
when the maid asked, "Why?"

Unfortunately, the male servant did not
explain, but merely said, "If no one's told you the story, it's not
my place to do so. Come, let's go back to the kitchens. I'll have
Mrs. Duggin fix you a cup of something to calm your nerves, and you
can work downstairs for the rest of the evening."

The door closed, leaving Luke in darkness and
little wiser than he'd been before. Now he was sure, though, that
this had been his father's room. And it appeared that at least some
of the Hardwyck servants knew his death had been untimely, if not
unnatural. He smiled grimly.

This first encounter had been accidental, but
had turned out exactly as he might have wished. No doubt the
housemaid would tell the story of what she'd seen to every other
servant in the house. They'd be on the lookout now, but they would
also be predisposed to terror —just the atmosphere he needed to
carry off his plan.

A more thorough search revealed a hidden door
on the wall opposite the fireplace, leading into the servant
corridor. Deciding he'd done enough for one evening, Luke waited
half an hour, then made his way back to the storeroom and out of
the house. Flute was surprised to see him so soon, but he quickly
explained that they'd be back the next night —and the next.

"For how long, sir? You're sure to be caught
eventually if you keep breaking into the same house."

"For as long as it takes," he replied. "But
less than a week, I hope. I'll simply play it by ear. Meanwhile, I
have a different task for you. I need to find out what the servants
are saying about their ghost, and how far and how fast the rumors
spread."

"Can do, sir!" Flute exclaimed eagerly.
Ferreting out information had always been a specialty of his, and
he took pride in it.

"Good man. Now, let's rest up. We've got
several interesting nights ahead of us."

* * *

After her last encounter with Lord Hardwyck,
Pearl would have preferred never to see the man again. But chance,
or fate, seemed to have other ideas. Two days since, she had nearly
bumped into him while shopping on Bond Street. Last night he had
attended the same two functions at the same times she had, though
she had avoided any interaction beyond a nod of greeting.

And now, tonight, Obelia had joined with
perverse fate by actually inviting Hardwyck to accompany them to
the theater. Conversation with him would be virtually impossible to
avoid. Pearl whetted her tongue, determined to say and imply only
what she intended this time, as they approached Covent Garden.

The environs reminded her vividly of Luke,
though this was a different theater. His lodgings, however, were
only a few streets away. Four days had passed since she had spoken
with him, sent her letter. What had he been doing all this
time?

"I give you good evening, my lady," Lord
Hardwyck greeted her as she stepped from the ducal carriage. Was it
her imagination, or did the man appear on edge—even nervous?

"Lord Hardwyck." The very name on her lips
seemed a betrayal of Luke. She stepped back while he exchanged
greetings with the Duke and Duchess, then reluctantly placed her
fingertips on his outstretched arm to follow them into the
theater.

"I apologize if I somehow offended you a few
nights since, my lady," he said quietly as they walked. "It was
unintentional, I assure you."

She slid a sideways glance at him. "Your
offense to me was but trifling," she said. "Far worse things are
done by man to fellow man every day, or so I hear."

Now there was no mistaking his nervousness.
"You hear? What do you hear, my lady?"

"Rumors. Only rumors," she replied lightly,
though she watched him closely now. He appeared to realize he was
staring at her intently, for he shifted his gaze away.

"Rumors can be oddly distorted, especially at
a distance of years," he murmured, so low she barely caught the
words. "I try not to put stock in them, myself."

Something had brought his old crimes to mind,
that was clear. Might that something have been Luke? "A wise policy
for one's peace of mind, no doubt," she responded
noncommitally.

He shot a sharp glance her way, but said
nothing more, instead quickening his pace to close the gap with the
Duke and Duchess, who were now some way ahead.

With what Pearl could only consider true
poetic justice, the play they had come to see was
Hamlet
.
Though Hardwyck made only the idlest of conversation, seeming to
prefer now to speak with Obelia rather than herself, Pearl could
not help watching him closely as the play progressed.

As the spirit told Hamlet of "murder most
foul," Lord Hardwyck shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And when
Hamlet exclaimed to his father's ghost, "O my prophetic soul! mine
uncle!" he flinched visibly.

Pearl smiled inwardly. Whether or not
something had occurred previously to remind him of the events of
the past, this production was bringing it home to him forcefully,
it was clear. The moment the curtain fell for the first
intermission, he rose.

"I cannot thank you enough, your graces, for
the invitation," he said, though he spoke so absently that it
seemed he scarcely knew what he was saying. "Pray forgive me, but
it seems something I ate at dinner has disagreed with me. I fear I
must take my leave early tonight."

Obelia was all concern, recommending a
particular potion she had found effective against dyspepsia. "An
unsettled stomach is such a misery, my lord. We will hope you feel
better directly, once you reach home, will we not?" She appealed to
Pearl and her husband.

"I'm certain that will be the case," Pearl
said with a smile. "The source of the irritation will likely be
removed the moment you leave the theater."

With a frown of comprehension, barely even
waiting to acknowledge the Duke's halfheated echoing of his wife's
wish for his recovery, Hardwyck fairly fled the box.

At once, Obelia rounded on Pearl. "It's clear
you said or did something to offend him. What was it?"

Pearl stared her innocence. "I did nothing, I
assure you, your grace. I thought he seemed . . . disturbed by the
play, but no doubt it was merely the indigestion."

"Leave the girl alone, my love," the Duke
advised his Duchess. "Hardwyck always was an odd duck— never
trusted him above half, myself."

Obelia seemed about to protest this
characterization, but at that point a group of acquaintances
descended upon the box to pay their respects, effectively
distracting her. Pearl nodded and smiled as was proper, but her
thoughts were on Lord Hardwyck's strange behavior. If it wasn't
absurd, she would almost have thought he seemed frightened. What
had
Luke been doing?

* * *

Wallis Knox, Lord Hardwyck, fitted a key into
his front door with shaking fingers. The bottle of wine he had
consumed at his club after leaving the theater had not calmed his
nerves as much as he'd hoped. His phlegmatic butler, along with
most of the other servants, had given notice that morning, forcing
him to the unaccustomed task of opening the door himself.

Going to see
Hamlet
tonight had been a
mistake. He realized that now. He'd always detested the play, and
had anyone but the Duchess of Oakshire issued the invitation he
would have certainly have refused. Especially with so many old
memories recently stirred up by these ridiculous "sightings."

As yet, he himself had seen no sign of the
alleged ghost. Still, he found it hard to convince himself that
four different servants had independently conjured the same
apparition. The focus had been James' old bedroom, and the
descriptions had matched the portrait in the gallery —the one that
had been taken only a month before his brother's death.

He paused in the library for a brandy,
downing it quickly before heading for his bed. Though he had never
been a superstitious man, Hardwyck now climbed the main staircase
with dread prickling along the back of his neck.

At the top of the stairs, he turned to go to
his own rooms. Cranley, his personal manservant, would still be
here, at least. But then he paused, glancing down the hallway in
the other direction. Had he heard something there? For a moment, he
half-fancied the door to his brother's old room had just snicked
shut.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to
walk to the door of James' room. It was closed. For a long moment
he stood there, debating. He was no silly housemaid, he reminded
himself, but one of the most influential men in all England. He
turned the handle and pushed open the door.

There it stood, in the very center of the
room, just as the servants had described it—an apparition dressed
in the style of the end of the last century. As he stared, his
brain refusing to accept the evidence of his eyes, its mouth opened
and it actually spoke to him, in sepulchral tones.

"Hello . . . Brother."

The look on Hardwyck's face alone was worth
the last few nights of skulking, Luke decided. For a moment, he
thought the man might faint dead away or expire from shock, but
then he seemed to rally slightly. He opened and closed his mouth
several times before any sound emerged.