Rogue's Honor (3 page)

She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact,
as Hettie had taught her. And, amazingly, no one seemed to notice
her. The eyes of the noble assemblage slid over her as though she
were invisible.

In the midst of her relief, she felt a sudden
pang. Did
she
regard servants—not counting Hettie, of
course—in this same dismissive way? She'd never thought about it
before.

Pearl reached the buffet table without
incident and began stacking trays, trying to cause as little
clatter as possible, hoping to avoid notice. So far, so good. As
soon as she returned to the kitchens, she would find Hettie and
leave.

She placed a final tray atop the stack, added
a few empty bottles, and headed back the way she had come.

Head down, she saw no faces, only feet. Even
so, she had to pass near one all-too-familiar pair: her
stepmother's, in the new gold-laced slippers she had exhibited with
pride just last week. How had Obelia explained Pearl's absence
tonight? she wondered.

Please, please
, she chanted silently
to herself as she slipped past. Her incoherent prayer apparently
successful, she neared the edge of the room and the safety of the
kitchens. She had almost reached the door at the top of the stairs
when a feminine voice accosted her.

"Mama wishes to have more champagne sent up."
It was Fanny Mountheath, one of the daughters of the house, a girl
Pearl had never liked, though they frequently met in company. "Pray
tell the wine steward."

Pearl nodded silently and kept moving, afraid
her voice would give her away.

"Wait!"

Her insides contracting, Pearl paused, still
not making eye contact.

"How extraordinary. You look amazingly
like—but no, how absurd. Still, I must show Lucy. Wait here. Lucy!
Oh, Lucy!" She bustled over to where her sister stood, some
distance away.

Pearl took her chance and hastened to the
door. As she struggled to open it while balancing the trays, a
bottle rolled off the top and hit the polished marble floor,
shattering with a resounding crash. Her heart in her throat, she
fled down the stairs.

"Hettie! Hettie, where are you?" Pearl called
frantically, not caring now what the servants thought of her. "We
have to leave—now!"

Dropping the trays onto the closest table,
she looked wildly about the kitchens, but still saw no sign of
Hettie. She dared not wait, however. At any moment, Fanny might
send someone after her, or even venture into the kitchens herself,
to show off the novelty of the serving girl who looked like Lady
Pearl, and then all would be discovered. She absolutely refused to
risk such humiliation.

Snatching up her kerchief and cloak, she
darted toward the back door, ignoring the cries and protests around
her. She ducked through the door and raced up the stone steps to
the kitchen gardens, then paused. The afternoon's haze had become
evening fog, and she had no clear idea of where she might go—other
than home.

"You look like you could use some assistance
again, miss."

Whirling, she saw the same serving man who
had bound up her burnt fingers earlier.

"As I'm leaving myself just now, I'd be
pleased to offer you my escort," he said, extending his arm. "Shall
we go?"

Pearl placed her hand on his arm, then
snatched it back, alarmed at the jolt that went through her bare
fingers on contact with his rough sleeve—and the very solid arm
beneath. Whoever this man was, whatever her involuntary response to
him, she didn't dare trust him far enough to go off alone with him
into the night!

The commotion in the kitchens rose to a
clamor. "Where is she?" came Fanny Mountheath's plaintive wail.

Abruptly, Pearl changed her mind, though she
didn't touch him again. "I'd be delighted to accept your escort,"
she said hastily. "Let's go—quickly."

With a grin that was perhaps a shade too
understanding, he led her through the gate and into the alleyway at
a brisk walk. As they turned the corner, shouts erupted from the
house behind them.

"Time to run," the man suggested.

Pearl nodded and hiked up her
skirts—slightly—to keep pace with him. The country lass she was
pretending to be would be used to plenty of walking, of course.
Unfortunately, she was not, constrained as she'd always been by the
dignity of her station. Still, she trotted along gamely enough.

Her rescuer sent her one approving glance,
then turned his attention to their course, leading her around one
corner and then another. "Quick! In here," he said, as heavy
footsteps approached from behind.

Before she could protest, he seized her by
the arm and pulled her after him into an empty stall in some
nobleman's stables. He touched a finger to her lips to check her
indignant exclamation, and the shock of the sensation startled her
speechless. Though he withdrew the finger at once, her lips
continued to tingle. She had to fight the urge to lick them.

Footsteps—several sets, by the sound of
them—passed by outside. Her companion waited a minute, though it
seemed far longer in the warm, intimate darkness, then slipped back
out of the stall, motioning for her to follow him.

Though he was only an inch or two above
average height, the man was powerfully built, Pearl noticed. That
made her feel somehow vulnerable—an unfamiliar sensation, and one
she didn't particularly care for. For a second or two she held a
fierce debate with herself, but then hurried after him. What else
could she do, under the circumstances?

Leading her back the way they had come for
the length of two houses, he turned up another alleyway, then
another. By a circuitous route, he led her farther and farther from
the Mountheath's house and then from Mayfair itself, until they
were in a part of London totally unfamiliar to her.

As they progressed, the streets became
narrower, darker, and dirtier, and Pearl's misgivings mounted.
Smells she had never experienced before assaulted her nostrils
unpleasantly. Mounds of garbage and other, nastier refuse lay
uncollected in stinking corners, while rats skittered out of the
way at their approach.

When it was clear there was no longer any
danger of pusuit, they stopped in a squalid alley no more than four
feet wide. Her companion did not appear to be out of breath, but
Pearl gulped in lungfuls of the fetid air after such unaccustomed
exercise. When her mind finally began working again, she turned
curiously— and cautiously—to her savior.

"Thank you," she panted. "But . . . why did
you help me?"

He grinned across the meager width of the dim
alleyway and her breathing accelerated again, though not from
exertion.

"I was leaving anyway, and you appeared in
rather urgent need of help. Never let it be said that Luke St.
Clair would turn his back on a damsel in distress." He regarded her
for a long moment then, in a deeper voice, asked, "Might I have the
honor of knowing whom I have rescued?"

Pearl hesitated, wondering whether she'd
betrayed herself already. "My name is Purdy," she said at last,
making an effort to speak in a less cultured accent. "I'm . . . no
one special. I only wished to make some extra money on my night
off." She realized as she spoke that the words sounded
rehearsed.

He placed a hand on her arm, its warmth
comforting even as it flustered her. "Don't discount yourself so
easily," he said, with gallant sincerity. "You're far more special
than you believe." His low, melodious voice was as warm as his
touch, his eyes alight with interest, if not suspicion. "What were
you taking a night off from? What do you normally do?"

Oops. She and Hettie hadn't worked out that
detail of her story yet. "Er, actually, I've just come to London
from the country. I—I have no regular position as yet. My friend,
Hettie, was going to help me find one."

His raised eyebrow told her he was well aware
that she was hiding something, but he merely said, "I see. Then
pray allow me to escort you back to wherever you are staying,
before Hettie becomes concerned about you. Was she also at the
Mountheath's house tonight?"

Something in the timbre of his voice set up
an answering vibration within her, a response she could no more
define than control. Between that and her acute awareness of his
touch, she had to force herself to focus on the sense of his
question.

"Yes. Yes, she was," she finally responded.
"But . . ." She paused to choose her words carefully. "But I was
not actually staying with her, yet. I—I fear I do not know where
she lives, exactly."

An almost imperceptible change came over his
manner, and he dropped his hand from her arm, leaving Pearl feeling
oddly bereft. "Then to wherever you wish to go. You must be staying
somewhere." He spoke slowly now, as if to a child.

Obviously, he had concluded that she was
simple, as the Mountheath's butler had. Not that she could blame
either of them. She suppressed the urge to correct his assumption,
realizing that it might afford her a modicum of protection.

"No, I'm . . . I'm not staying anywhere,
really. That is . . ." Pearl twisted her apron between her hands,
trying without success to recall whether Hettie had ever mentioned
any relatives in London. Her mother, Pearl's old nurse, still lived
in Oakshire. They hadn't discussed where they would stay after
their stint at the Mountheath's. No doubt Hettie had believed Pearl
would be ready to return home after a few hours of honest work.

"Hettie and I were on our way to her . . .
her cousin's home when we accepted tonight's employment," she
improvised haltingly, feeling like the fool he now took her for.
"Until I find Hettie, I have nowhere to go."

Mr. St. Clair regarded her with thoughtful
concern. "I cannot leave you here in this alley. I'd offer to take
you back to the Mountheath's, but I assume you had good reason for
wishing to leave?"

"No! I can't go back there, not just now. But
. . . I suppose I must, later. After the ridotto is over. To find
Hettie."

"Later, then." Still enunciating his words
carefully, he continued, "In the meanwhile, we should get off the
streets. This is not one of the safer parts of London."

Pearl blinked. "Oh. Oh, I see. I hadn't
thought—" She realized belatedly that it should have been obvious.
Certainly, they were well outside her accustomed environs. "Where
do you suggest we go?"

"My lodgings are just a short walk from here.
You are welcome to stay there until I can find your friend for
you."

She stared, momentarily aghast. Go with this
man, this servant, to his
lodgings?
How dared he insult her
so? She opened her mouth to give him a blistering set-down before
the reality of her situation intruded. He was attempting to help
her, after all, and had no idea who she really was.

Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded. Careful to
use short, uncomplicated sentences, she said, "Thank you, Mr. St.
Clair. I must accept your kind offer. But only until we can find
Hettie."

He offered her his arm with a gallantry that
would have done credit to a titled gentleman and she gingerly took
it, trying to appear unaccustomed to such courtesy. Leading her out
of the alleyway, he turned to the left. Though this street was
wider, it was no less squalid. From somewhere in the fog above them
came the sound of a man and woman arguing, then a splintering
crash. Pearl winced.

"Where are we, exactly?" she asked her
escort.

She thought he hesitated for a moment before
answering, "This part of London is known as Seven Dials."

Pearl started. "Seven Dials! What . . . what
a curious name," she concluded lamely, remembering in time that she
had just claimed to be unfamiliar with London. "Why is it called
that?"

"Because of the way seven streets converge,
like the spokes of a wheel," he explained, but Pearl was not
listening.

Seven Dials! This was one of the most
notorious rookeries of London, home to thieves, prostitutes,
murderers, and other sorts that she was not even supposed to know
existed. But though her physical existence had been sheltered,
Pearl had read widely enough that little about London—or the rest
of the world—was truly unknown to her. Intellectually, at
least.

Though initially horrified to discover where
she was, now her natural curiosity reasserted itself. Had she not
begged her father to allow her to witness such places, when first
she had learned of them? The nobility owed it to themselves and to
England to learn all they could about the condition of the common
man, she had insisted. How else could they hope to alleviate the
sufferings of those hit hardest by the economic downturn caused by
the end of the wars with France and America?

Her musings were interrupted by Mr. St.
Clair's announcement that they had reached his building. "It's
three flights up, I'm afraid, but not quite so sordid as its
surroundings might suggest."

She regarded the steep, narrow stairs
dubiously, her earlier doubts resurfacing. But really, what choice
did she have? Trying to regard her predicament in the light of an
adventure rather than a disaster, she followed him up the rickety
stairway.

When they reached the third story, a small
brown and white terrier scurried forward to greet Mr. St. Clair,
its tail wagging with delight. Then it turned to sniff at Pearl
suspiciously.

"This is Argos," he said, scratching the dog
between the ears. "A plausible scoundrel, but my closest friend.
Argos, this is Purdy. Make her feel welcome."

At his words, the dog's attitude instantly
transformed, and he greeted Pearl almost as enthusiastically as he
had his master.

"What a sweet little dog!" she exclaimed,
kneeling to fondle him. "Hello, Argos. I hope we will be friends,
as well." As a child she had been allowed dogs as pets, but since
her father's remarriage, animals had been forbidden from every
house. She'd missed them.