Rogue's Honor Read online

  He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt for what he was planning. These people had more wealth than they could ever use, and deserved none of it. With the exception of the close circle of friends he'd made at Oxford, in his experience every member of the ton was arrogant, self-absorbed, and completely unappreciative of his or her privileged state.

  Smiling to himself, he again considered the fine mansions before him. Gilded cages, that's what they were. He far preferred his life of unfettered freedom to one of circumscribed luxury with no thrills, no challenges, no worries whatsoever . . .

  * * *

  "Are you sure you want to go through with this, my lady?" Hettie asked anxiously as Pearl closed the gate at the back of the kitchen gardens, emerging into the alleyway behind the great houses of Berkley Square.

  Her escape accomplished, Pearl let out her breath and faced her abigail. Tucking a stray strand of hair into the tight bun she now wore, she checked the fit of her borrowed rags. Well, not rags precisely—a much-worn work dress of Hettie's, with the hem let out to cover the much taller Pearl's ankles.

  "Of course I'm sure. And it's 'Purdy,' remember? If you call me 'my lady,' we'll be found out at once." Slipping out of the house unseen had been difficult enough, despite the commotion surrounding the Duke's departure. She had never quite realized what an army of servants her family employed.

  "Oh, look at that poor cat, trying to pull a fish from that crate there," she said then, her attention diverted. "Do you suppose it has kittens somewhere?"

  Hettie chuckled. "It looks sleek and fat enough to me, my—Purdy. Stuffed on mice from Lord Tinsdale's stables, no doubt, not to mention scraps from his kitchens. A cat's not likely to starve in Mayfair."

  "Oh. No, I suppose not."

  Hettie glanced away, but not before Pearl saw the combination of worry and merriment in her eyes. No doubt she believed that Pearl was merely amusing herself with her play acting. But of course Pearl had a far higher purpose. Think of Fairbourne!

  "Eh, there!" A rough, masculine voice accosted them. "Be either of you wenches looking for a job t'night?"

  Pearl turned indignantly, ready to blast the footman—for that's what he appeared to be—for calling them wenches, but Hettie placed a restraining hand on her arm.

  "What sort of job?" she asked the man. "We'll do nothing unsavory, I assure you."

  Pearl had to admire Hettie's command, putting the man in his place without betraying them. She herself would have botched it, but Hettie knew this world as Pearl did not—yet.

  The footman dipped his head respectfully, rather to Pearl's surprise. "No, nothin' like that, ma'am. Just some extra brass, is all. Lord Mountheath be hiring on extra help for the evening. So if you've the night off and wishing a bit on the side . . ."

  "Just a moment," said Hettie, and pulled Pearl aside. "Well, my lady?" she whispered. "It's a chance to put your plan to the test—but it's risky."

  Risky indeed! Pearl herself was expected at Lady Mountheath's ridotto tonight, and nearly everyone she knew who was currently in Town was likely to be there.

  "Do you think it would be possible for me to work only in the kitchens, or somewhere else out of sight of the guests?" She'd never liked the Mountheaths, and suspected their servants would like them even less. If she really wanted to see firsthand the hardships of the working class, this seemed a heaven-sent chance.

  "I'm sure they can find you a dirty job somewhere—Purdy." The twinkle in Hettie's eyes told her that her abigail expected her to back down, which only stiffened her resolve.

  "I'll do it," Pearl said with a determined nod. "Though I'd very much prefer it not involve chamber pots," she added hastily, hoping she would not live to regret this mad, if noble, scheme.

  Hettie turned back to the footman. "What positions are they hiring for?"

  An hour later, Pearl found herself in the Mountheaths' kitchens, transferring tray after tray of tiny pastries from the enormous oven to glittering crystal platters. This wasn't turning out at all as she'd expected, she decided, as she burned her fingers for the third time. Kitchen maids did not wear gloves, of course—which she now realized was foolish. Surely they needed them far more than did any lady in a drawing room.

  In addition to her lofty social goals, Pearl had wished to discover how people might respond to her without the aura of the Duke of Oakshire surrounding her. So far, she was simply being ignored. She burned her fingers yet again, this time more severely. With a yelp, she dropped the hot tray, scattering its dainties over the kitchen floor. Muttering an apology, trying to ignore the mutterings of "clumsy wench," she knelt to sweep up the ruined pastries.

  "Here, I'll help you with that."

  Glancing up in surprise at the masculine voice, she found herself face to face with one of the serving men. Though his brown hair and regular features were not much out of the ordinary way, there was something compelling, even magnetic, about the intelligence—and intensity—of his dark, dark eyes.

  "Thank you," she murmured. "I'm . . . not normally so fumble fingered."

  He took her bare hand in his much larger one—also ungloved—and turned it over. An alarming tingle shot through her at his touch—perhaps the first time in her life a male hand had touched hers, skin to skin. She nearly snatched her hand away, a stinging rebuke for his impertinence on the tip of her tongue, but remembered just in time that the servant "Purdy" must not react the way Lady Pearl would.

  "You should put something cool on that before it blisters." His voice was rich, deep, and surprisingly cultured—not at all what she'd expected of a below-stairs servant. He held her gaze as securely as her hand, and something unfamiliar stirred deep within her.

  Vainly, she reminded herself that this man was not of her class at all. "Thank you," she repeated, gently disengaging her hand. "I'll do that."

  She rose, but already he had whisked a damp dish towel from a nearby table. With a smile and a too-familiar twinkle in his eye, he wrapped it around her damaged fingers, reestablishing that disturbing flesh-to-flesh contact.

  "'Ere, now! None o' that!" exclaimed the head cook's assistant. Pearl released the serving man's hand guiltily. "Back to work, both of you, if you're wanting to get your shillin' for the evening." She thrust a filled tray into the man's hands. "Take this out to the buffet tables, then hop it back here for another."

  With a ghost of a bow in Pearl's direction, he complied, his eyes still twinkling.

  Pearl watched him go, a curious frown pulling her brows together. No, he didn't act like a servant at all. But then, what did she really know of how servants behaved toward each other?

  "You there! Purdy! Get the rest of those crab puffs onto trays. We're falling behind in here."

  With a start at her assumed name, Pearl quickly turned back to her task, taking more care for her fingers, which still seemed to tingle—though not from the burns. She filled tray after tray, gaining confidence in the task. This wasn't so hard.

  "More servers!" the butler called down the kitchen stairs. "We still need more servers out here." He followed his words into the kitchen and glanced haughtily around at the hired drudges—a motley group, to be sure. "You there!"

  Cautiously, Pearl glanced over her shoulder at the butler, to find him staring straight at her. "M-me?"

  He gave a single, supercilious nod. "You appear the most presentable of this lot. You'll do." With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should follow him.

  Pearl froze. She couldn't go out there! If she were recognized, the scandal would be . . . well, more than she cared to imagine. Wildly, she glanced around the kitchen for Hettie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  "This instant, missie, if you please." Pearl had met royalty who exuded less authority than this man. Mechanically, she moved to obey, hoping a solution might magically present itself.

  "Clear away the empty trays and bottles from the buffet tables and bring them back here," he said carefully, having apparently decided she was a half-wit. "Mrs. Mann will t
ell you what to do next. And you won't need this." Before she could stop him, he whipped off the kerchief she'd been wearing to conceal her hair.

  Again she stopped, but by now the attention of the entire kitchen was focused on her, so she meekly followed the butler up the stairs. Emerging at the top, she quickly surveyed the glittering ballroom, thronged with people, nearly every one of whom knew her. She should have quit on the spot rather than risk this, she realized belatedly. What was a shilling, after all? A single button on one of her fine gowns was worth more than that.

  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.

  CHAPTER 2

  "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?"