Rogue's Honor (7 page)

A stunned silence greeted his words, and Luke
nearly stopped to hear the rest. "Who?" one of the men finally
asked, as the groom seemed determined to milk the situation for its
drama.

"The Lady Pearl, daughter to the mighty Duke
of Oakshire," he said at last, just before Luke had to pass out of
earshot or become obvious for lingering. "Snatched right out of her
very bedchamber, she was! Mark my words, the Saint of Seven Dials
will hang for last night's work."

* * *

Peering out from her hiding place beside the
Mountheaths' back gate, Pearl frowned as she saw Mr. St. Clair veer
away from the group of stablehands and continue on down the alley.
Too far away to hear anything herself, she could see that the
servants were excited about something, waving their hands and
chattering to each other. Perhaps Mr. St. Clair had decided it
wasn't a good time to be asking questions.

Of course, that was just fine with her. She
much preferred to avoid anything that might link her to the
Mountheaths'. Or, worse, to the Duke of Oakshire. But now her
confederate was walking briskly in the direction of Oakshire House
itself! Had he discovered the truth about her after all?

She lingered, debating whether to wait for
him to return, or to slip away before he could, just in case. Or
she could simply return to Oakshire House and suffer the
consequences of her ill-advised flight, as she'd have to do
eventually anyway. She grimaced at the thought.

Without her father there, she'd be completely
at the mercy of the Duchess, who would doubtless be very creative
in meting out what she considered appropriate punishment—
especially when she realized that her plans for a quick match had
been overthrown. Obelia had never been susceptible to the tears and
pleading that worked so well with the Duke.

No, she wouldn't give her stepmother that
satisfaction. However, she might try to contact Hettie without
being seen . . . Backing away from the gate, Pearl glanced around.
If she could find something to write with, and on, then
perhaps—

"You weren't leaving, were you?"

The voice, directly behind her, startled
Pearl breathless. Whirling around, she found herself face to face
with Mr. St. Clair, a knowing gleam in his eye.

"How . . . ? You . . . Leaving?" she
stammered, her heart pounding. "Of course not. But where did you
come from?"

"I cut through the gardens of the next house
over and circled around. I didn't mean to frighten you, however.
Were you getting bored waiting?" He still watched her
expectantly.

Pearl quickly shook her head. Her shock had
faded, but her heart didn't slow its beat noticeably. "No, I was
going to come after you. I had an idea for contacting Hettie."

With a flash of inspiration, she realized she
could ask him to deliver a note for her. No one at Oakshire House
would have reason to connect Mr. St. Clair with her, and a note
given to one of the scullery maids, addressed to Hettie, should be
passed along without suspicion. At worst, the servants might
speculate that Hettie was carrying on a flirtation with the unknown
man.

She somehow suspected that Mr. St. Clair
would be very good at flirtation.

"You can tell me your idea as we walk," he
said, interrupting that thought. "Right now, I think we'd best be
going. It appears there was some sort of criminal activity here
last night. If we linger, we might be noticed—and questioned."

"Criminal—Oh, my!" The last thing Pearl
wanted was to be questioned by Mountheath servants in her present
guise. "Yes, let's leave, please."

As he led her away from Berkley Square, she
realized that her eagerness might be incriminating. Did Mr. St.
Clair believe
she
had done something criminal? Of course, he
had been equally eager to leave the area, just as he had been last
night. What might Mr. St. Clair be hiding? And just how safe—
physically safe—was she with him?

"I'm sorry," he said after they'd walked a
few minutes in silence. "You must be thinking all manner of
terrible things. The truth is, I owe money to one of the Mountheath
footmen. Money I don't have at this precise moment. It's why I
needed to leave last night, and why I'd as soon not draw attention
to myself today, but it's not very fair to you. I thought you
deserved to know."

Pearl's mounting tension melted away at this
entirely reasonable explanation. "Thank you. I admit I was becoming
a bit worried."

"Yes, I thought you must be." His eyes held
more than a hint of a question, however.

She cast about for an equally plausible
reason for her own flight last night. "I have no wish to encounter
a particular servant there, either. He made . . . improper advances
to me last night, and became rather insistent when I refused."

His brows drew down alarmingly. "What kind of
a man would force himself on—Who was it?"

His protectiveness warmed her, even as she
had to hide a spurt of amusement. Again he'd almost called her an
idiot to her face. "It was the butler," she replied, her resentment
of that autocratic man who'd been her undoing overcoming her
judgement for the moment. "I don't know his name."

"Hodge," he said through gritted teeth. "I
should have known."

Nervously, Pearl wondered what she'd done.
She couldn't have Mr. St. Clair risking himself on her
behalf—especially for an insult she'd invented. "No harm was done,"
she said hastily. "I'd simply prefer to avoid him in future, that's
all."

With a visible effort, he brought his sudden
anger under control. "Yes, of course. I understand. You needn't
worry I'll challenge him to a duel— much as I might like to."

They veered south, taking a different route
from before, but Pearl barely noticed, startled by his words. She'd
assumed dueling, though illegal, was restricted to the upper
classes, where the law was willing to look the other way. It
appeared she was wrong.

That this man, who had only met her last
night, would even consider taking such a risk on her behalf stunned
her. Certainly, she was getting the education of her life!

He led her around another corner, into
sudden, bright sunshine. Before them lay a large open square, as
large as any of the grand squares of Mayfair, simply crammed with
carts, small shops and wide expanses of bunched flowers of every
description, color and scent. To Pearl's dazzled senses, it was
like a wonderland dropped down into the heart of dirty London.

"Covent Garden market," he said when she
paused. "I thought to buy a few things for our dinner."

Feeling a bit foolish, she nodded. Odd that
she'd never wondered before where the flowers and fresh produce
came from that made their way into Oakshire House every day. Her
servants surely knew this place well. She breathed deeply of the
mingled scents that rose up to greet them, briefly envying those
servants.

"Have you fought duels before?" she asked
then, recalling her earlier surprise. She felt an urgent need to
know what Mr. St. Clair's life was like, to understand him.

He grinned, making her heart flutter, then
offered her his arm and started forward again, threading their way
between the market stalls. "Only two or three, in my hotheaded
youth. And with swords rather than pistols. Thus the risk was less,
as was the chance of discovery by one of the masters."

"Masters? Do you mean at school?"

"Yes, at school," he said with a grimace, as
though he'd let information slip that he'd have preferred to keep
to himself. "I was . . . able to attend for a few years, before my
circumstances were reduced."

That explained his cultured speech, about
which Pearl had been curious from the start. Perhaps he was not so
far removed from her world after all. "You've had a gentleman's
education, then?"

"It was my mother's dearest wish. Much as it
galled me to submit myself to the whims of my supposed 'betters,' I
felt obligated to see it through."

Again, that animosity toward the upper
classes. Curious, but minding her own accent, she asked, "Why do
you dislike the nobility so? They've always been, ah, kind to
me."

He paused at a cart filled with vegetables
and herbs, looking over the selection, before answering. "You've
been fortunate, then. Or perhaps you simply haven't had much
experience with them."

To hide her amusement at his assumption, she
buried her nose in a basket of mint and thyme perched on the edge
of the cart and inhaled deeply. "Perhaps."

"I have. Or at least my mother did, enduring
their insults and ill-treatment, even as she did the work they
wouldn't deign to do with their own hands—for my sake."

"You mother raised you alone?" Her amusement
abrubtly gone, Pearl found that she preferred not to dwell on the
shortcomings of her class after all.

He nodded. "My father died when I was very
young. He must have been poor, for he apparently left my mother
nothing, or very little. In any event, she was forced to work to
support us both."

"Until you were old enough to help?" Pearl
tried to imagine what it must have been like for the poor woman and
her son—now this magnetically enigmatic man beside her.

"I never had the chance, actually. She died
before I was twelve, of a fever she contracted while caring for
some titled dame's child. The fine lady wouldn't risk contagion in
the nursery herself, of course. And she never so much as inquired
after my mother while she was ill."

Pearl bit her lip. No wonder Mr. St. Clair
despised the upper classes. She wished she had stories of
compassion and caring to relate, to counteract his own experiences,
but she couldn't think of a single one at the moment. More than
ever, she was determined to keep her true identity from him. She
didn't think she could bear to see that loathing in his eyes turned
upon her.

"Would you like to take that basket of herbs
with you?" he asked her then.

Belatedly, she realized she was still
touching the basket, half turned from him in her confusion. "Ah,
no. But it does remind me . . ." Turning to the man tending the
cart, she asked, "Have you any mallow, or angelica root?"

The man, a burly fellow with a shapeless
black felt hat that partially obscured his blunt features, frowned.
"Mallow I gots, miss, right here." He lifted a few sprigs of the
familiar plant. "No roots, though. You might try Mistress Wiggan's
patch, across the way." He pointed to another, smaller cart, heaped
with carrots, potatoes and other roots and tubers.

Luke paid for the mallow as well as a sack of
peas, then led her across to the other cart without a word, though
she knew he was watching her curiously. "Mistress Wiggan," she
called out as they approached it, "Do you—ah, there, I see it. May
we have some of that angelica root, please?"

The crone, her tattered yellow skirts
swirling about her, turned to them with a toothless grin. "Ha'penny
a bunch," she replied.

As before, Luke paid for the roots without
question, handing them over to Pearl. Not until they were on their
way again did he ask, "I presume you have a particular plan for
those items?"

She nodded. "I'd like to stop and check on
little Mimi, if you don't mind. These may help in her
recovery."

* * *

A few minutes later, Luke knocked on Mrs.
Plank's door. Though there were several questions he'd have liked
to ask along the way, he kept them to himself for the moment,
merely watching to see what this girl of mystery might do.

Certain now that she was anything but
simple-minded, he found his original attraction to her reviving
with redoubled force. He was determined to unravel her secrets —and
perhaps other things, as well. He would have to tread carefully,
though. If she suspected that he knew, she might leave before he
had the chance.

"Good day, Mrs. Plank," he said when the
woman opened to them. "We wished to inquire after Mimi."

The mother smiled, her tired face brightening
until he could see the traces of what might once have been
prettiness. "She's still sleeping, but her breathing is regular
like. Again I thank you—both of you."

Purdy spoke up then. "We won't come in and
risk waking her, Mrs. Plank, but I've brought something that may
speed her back to health." She held out the roots and herbs. "If
you will boil these together in water, with a teaspoon or two of
vinegar, the resulting tea may prove beneficial."

The woman glanced from Purdy to Luke, who
gave her a nod and a smile. "Why, thank you, miss. I'll do as you
ask, of course. Your mother raised you right, I must say. Was it
from her you learned the herb lore?"

Luke thought she hesitated before replying.
"She instructed me when I was young, yes, along with the . . . er,
another woman. Together, they knew quite a lot about such
things."

Again Mrs. Plank thanked her profusely as
they bade her farewell. Walking back toward his lodgings, Luke
decided to risk probing a bit. "I rather doubt you induced the dogs
on the farm to drink medicinal teas. I presume you've treated
people before, as well?"

Her fair skin pinkened deliciously. "I . . .
my mother did, and I was always with her. I suppose I learned more
from her than I realized at the time."

His eyes did not leave her face, even though
he knew his gaze was making her uncomfortable. "You said your
mother had passed away. How long ago was that?"

"Ten . . . I mean, two years ago. But she
was, er, ill for several years before she died." She didn't meet
his eyes, and it was obvious to Luke, long studied in reading
people, that she was lying. But why?

"And the other woman you said taught you
about herbs and healing?" he prompted.

She swallowed, reddening further. Lying she
might be, but she was not nearly as practiced at the art as he was.
"Mrs., um, Horrigan. A . . . neighbor, skilled in the healing
arts."