by Brenda Hiatt
"Come, dress me for breakfast while we work out the details of my story so that it will not conflict with what you've already told them."
Half an hour later, again dressed in the height of fashion in a pale blue day dress, Pearl descended to the breakfast room, ignoring the openmouthed stares of the servants she passed along the way. The Duke and Duchess were already at the table when she entered and greeted them as though nothing whatsoever was amiss.
Obelia gasped, and her father leaped to his feet, rushing to encase her in a comprehensive bear hug. "Pearl! My precious! You are safe!" he exclaimed with such feeling that she suffered her first serious twinge of guilt.
Her stepmother remained seated. "Where have you been—for two days and nights?" she asked in ominous tones. "We were forced to assume the worst."
Would the worst be that she was dead, or ruined? Pearl wondered. Probably the latter. She directed her explanation to her father. "I'm so terribly sorry to have worried you so. It was wrong of me. I was distraught and did not think things through as I ought."
The Duke led her to her place at the table and signaled for a servant to bring her a plate. "Distraught?"
She nodded. "The Duchess and I had a falling out over my unwed state, and I feared— foolishly, I now realize —that she might somehow compel me to marry whether I wished it or not." She shot a glance at Obelia, but her stepmother looked not the least bit conscious.
Her father patted her hand soothingly —at which Obelia's face darkened with suppressed anger.
"I thought to go to Oakshire to compose myself," Pearl continued, "and perhaps seek Rowena Riverstone's advice." Rowena and Pearl had been friends from girlhood, as Sir Nelson Riverstone's lands adjoined the main Oakshire estate, dwarfed by it though they were. Obelia had done her best to discourage the association, deeming Rowena Pearl's social inferior, but the young ladies still corresponded. It should seem a plausible story, therefore.
The Duchess, however, was having none of it. "You haven't had time to go to Oakshire and back," she pointed out. "Nor did you take a carriage." Her fine blue eyes fairly blazed with suspicion.
Pearl sent her what she hoped was an apologetic smile, though her anger at her stepmother made it difficult. "I was escaping, you see, so my own carriage would scarcely do—it would have been too easily marked. I traveled post."
Obelia's lip curled with distaste, but Pearl continued before she could speak. "As I went along, I had time to more calmly ponder my situation, and realized I was being foolish. So after a single night on the road I decided to return rather than worry you both unnecessarily." She turned the full force of her charm on her more susceptible father.
As she'd hoped, he smiled down at her indulgently. "It was dangerous, my heart, to travel so far alone, but I am happy beyond words that you are back safe now."
The Duchess, began sputtering. "My dear, surely you are not going to simply accept this glib explanation? Think of the inconvenience she caused you, forcing you to turn back before reaching Brighton to deal with the crisis here. And a night on the road, without even her abigail in attendance? Scandalous! If it were to become known, her reputation would be in shreds!"
Pearl thought wryly that it was a very good thing her stepmother had no inkling of the truth. "I stayed at a respectable inn—the Hound and Hare." She named the place they always stopped when traveling between London and Oakshire. "Everyone there knows me, and I was assigned a maid for my stay."
She turned back to her father. "I deceived Hettie so that she could not betray where I'd gone. I feared if I brought her with me she would dissuade me from my plan. She tells me she has been dismissed, but she truly did nothing wrong. Pray tell me I may keep her on, as we deal so well together."
It pained her to lie to her father, but she felt the end justified the means. And indeed, her words had the desired effect.
"Of course, if there was nothing she could have done, then we cannot hold her accountable," the Duke said, giving her hand a loving squeeze. Pearl ignored the indignant sounds coming from across the table.
"Thank you, Father. And I truly am sorry for the worry and inconvenience I've caused. I promise it won't happen again." With that promise, the face of Luke St. Clair arose unbidden in her mind—a face she would almost certainly never see again. Feeling suddenly forlorn, she felt her smile waver.
"Happen again? I should say not!" exclaimed Obelia before the Duke could respond. "Our mission now must be to squelch whatever rumors are abroad and repair your reputation. Thank heaven I have not yet sent your regrets for the Chatham's ball Tuesday. You must make an appearance at Princess Charlotte's reception tonight, as well. If we hold our heads high, there's a chance it may all blow over."
Pearl's spirits sank lower, but she dared not protest, much as she'd have preferred her reputation unrepaired. To do so might provoke her stepmother to the point that she would check out the facts of her story, which could be damaging to others besides herself. So she nodded meekly while Obelia chattered on.
"Tomorrow we'll attend services, of course, so that you can be seen, and Monday we have invitations for both afternoon and evening. The Chatham ball Tuesday, and then our calendar begins to fill up, as the Season progresses. If all goes well, you will still have a chance at a respectable match. A quick betrothal and wedding would be just the thing, in fact."
Pearl bit back her instinctive retort and let the words wash over her, painting a picture she could only regard as bleak. Despite her regrets for causing her father needless worry, she began to regret returning even more. What might Luke be doing now? Was he searching for her, or would he be relieved that she was no longer his problem?
And why should it matter to her so desperately?
* * *
"So you have not seen her?" Luke asked, then sighed as Mme. Billaud shook her head a second time. For the past three hours he had scoured all of Seven Dials, and now had reached the last place he might reasonably look in this part of London. No one Purdy had met during her brief stay had seen her today.
He thanked the woman, listened to her effusions about young Christophe's improvement, then bade her good day. What now?
At first he'd hoped Purdy had merely gone out for a breath of air, or perhaps to the market, but now he had to admit that she had left entirely—and that it was doubtless his own fault. He'd frightened her with his advances, even if she'd denied it. Perhaps she had even been frightened by her own eager response, which he had certainly not imagined.
But where would she have gone? Back to the household she'd left? Or might she even now be wandering the streets of London, seeking fruitlessly for a new position? With her looks, the odds of someone taking advantage of her innocence seemed high.
But no. He reminded himself that she was not at all the simple girl she had first pretended to be, but was in fact a very intelligent young woman, presumably with a decent education. And that, of course, must be why she had fled. She had correctly judged that Luke would not force himself on a girl of meager intellect. But what had he done, the moment he knew the truth?
Luke tried to tell himself that it was for the best that she was gone—best for him, best for her. At his side, little Argos whined, and he leaned down to scratch the dog between the ears.
"I miss her too, lad. But where else can we look?" Sinking down on an overturned whisky crate, he tried to recall every word of their conversations, seeking for clues. Instead, he found himself remembering the lovely expression of her vivid blue-violet eyes, the way her body had felt against his, the indescribable bond he had sensed when they kissed . . .
No! He had to think. She was from Oaklea, if she'd told the truth, but she wouldn't have attempted traveling all the way back there alone, surely. He recalled other things she'd said, though little of it had been personal. She'd admitted— defensively —that her mother was a gentleman's daughter.
Perhaps her mother —or she herself? —was the byblow of some gentleman, or even a nobleman. That might explain her evasiv
eness. Perhaps she even felt unworthy of him due to her illegitimate birth. That was laughable, of course, but he couldn't discount the possibility.
With a deep breath, he made a sudden decision. Whatever the truth, wherever she was, he owed it to Purdy —and to himself —to make certain that she was safe. And once he'd done that, well, he'd just let fate take its course —his as well as hers.
If he was to effectively search for Purdy among the houses of the ton, he'd have to move among them as one of their own—which meant it was time to resurrect Lucio di Santo. Relieved to be taking action at last, he headed briskly back toward his lodgings, already mentally composing the necessary letter.
* * *
Pearl concealed a yawn behind her ecru lace and ivory fan as Lady Minerva Chatham regaled her with yet another version of the gossip surrounding her disappearance five days ago. The dancing would begin at any moment, and Pearl was wondering whether there was any way she could plausibly escape to one of the anterooms instead of being trapped on the dance floor for another interminable evening.
"Of course it all seems silly in retrospect," her companion was saying, "but you must confess that a possible kidnapping, particularly by so romantic and mysterious a figure as the Saint of Seven Dials, made for a captivating tale."
"The Saint of Seven Dials? I thought he was only a legend, Minnie, yet you are the second person to mention that name since my visit to poor Nanny."
The story Obelia had decreed they would tell everyone was that Pearl had gone to visit her sick nurse for a couple of days. The fact that her old nurse—Hettie's mother—was neither sick nor within a day's ride of town had no bearing on the matter.
"Oh, the Saint is very real, I assure you!" Lady Minerva exclaimed. "You must not have been in Town for his last rash of thefts, but the disappearance of the Mountheaths' plate and jewels from under their very noses was quite in keeping with his legendary audacity. Some believe he may actually be a member of the ton, stealing from the wealthy to give to the poor, like Robin Hood of old." Her fine complexion pinkened visibly at the notion.
"Very romantic indeed," said Pearl dryly, but her thoughts were already leaping to an incredulous guess. Saint of Seven Dials. Luke St. Clair. Little Emmy had called him "Mr. Saint." He had been at the Mountheath's that night, too, and as eager to depart as she herself had been . . .
The strains of the opening minuet recalled her to her surroundings in the Chatham's opulent ballroom. Glancing up, she saw the Marquess of Ribbleton approaching to claim the promised dance. She'd missed her chance to slip away—not that the Duchess would have allowed her to hide for long anyway.
"I'll tell you everything else I've heard about the Saint later," Minerva promised in a whisper as her own partner advanced from the other direction. "It's just the sort of adventurous tale you like."
Pearl smiled her thanks, then turned to greet Lord Ribbleton. It was quite true that she enjoyed the occasional novel of derring-do to lighten her otherwise serious reading. But fiction was one thing, and a real-life criminal something else entirely.
Still deep in thought, she took her place opposite the Marquess, murmuring something appropriate in response to his fulsome compliments on her appearance.
As the evening progressed, Pearl's thoughts returned again and again to Luke and the puzzle he presented. After her brief taste of another sort of life, her own felt more artificial and hollow than ever, and not nearly as interesting. For two nights and a day, she had been more alive than at any other time in her whole sheltered, pampered life.
"You are unusually pensive tonight, my lady," commented Lord Harrowby as he led her from the floor after a country dance. "Still concerned about your old nurse, are you?"
"What? Oh, yes. Poor Nanny," Pearl responded absently, noticing that Lord Harrowby's hair was almost the exact same shade of brown as Luke St. Clair's, though he was not so tall.
Glancing up at Sir Cyril Weathers, who met her at the edge of the floor to claim the next dance, she decided that he was of approximately the same height as her Luke, though slighter in build. Mentally, she shook herself. What was the matter with her, trying to see bits and pieces of Luke St. Clair in every man present? Sternly she marshalled her thoughts. He was not "her" Luke!
"What think you, Sir Cyril, of the result of the Corn Laws, now that the wars are over?" she asked, to distract herself.
Though clearly surprised that a lady would broach such a subject, Sir Cyril expounded at length on his views, which Pearl quickly realized came exclusively from a particular editorialist in the Times. All too soon, her mind was wandering again.
As the dance ended, she noticed yet another man who reminded her strongly of Luke— height, hair color and general build were all the same. He walked toward the buffet table, and she mused that he even moved in much the same way, though of course she should not be noticing such a thing about any man.
Pearl accepted Sir Cyril's thanks for the dance, then turned back to watch the man she had noted. As soon as he turned, of course, she would realize who it was and laugh at herself for her fancies. But until then, she unwisely allowed herself to imagine Luke St. Clair in her world —what they might speak of, the things they might do together.
No man had ever affected her like this before, she knew. Could one kiss—one very heated kiss!--be enough to send her into such infatuation? Or was it more than that? Luke had spoken of fate . . .
She and Sir Cyril reached the edge of the floor, and already her next partner was approaching. Summoning up a polite smile for Lord Edgemont, Pearl took one last glance at the gentleman who had reminded her of Luke. At that precise moment he turned, and it was all she could do to suppress a gasp.
Could it be only her imagination, or was he indeed the very image of Luke St. Clair? Scarcely hearing Lord Edgemont's greeting as he bowed over her hand, she finally pulled her gaze away to respond.
"I find myself quite thirsty, my lord." Her voice sounded high and strained to her own ears. "Would you mind terribly if I took this opportunity to refresh myself with some lemonade and a cake or two?"
At once Lord Edgemont offered to procure for her whatever she desired, but that did not suit Pearl's purpose at all. She needed to get a closer look at the gentleman near the buffet tables.
"We'll go together," she told her escort. "I wish to look over the selection myself. I also perceive that there are a few guests to whom I have not yet been introduced."
Completely oblivious to whatever reply Lord Edgemont might make, or even whether he was following her, Pearl headed toward the tables and the man who looked so disturbingly familiar, an impossible hope beginning to form in her breast.
CHAPTER 7
"So there are no young ladies here of an age to have a governess?" Luke asked the footman refilling the tray of lobster patties. "I was certain my aunt said that her protégé worked for the Earl of Chatham."
The footman shook his head. "Lady Minerva hasn't had a governess for nigh on two years, since she turned eighteen," he offered. "Could be one of the maids will have heard of this Purdy, though."
"Thank you." This was the third great house where Luke had made inquiries, though without much hope. Purdy had mentioned a connection to Oakshire House, but an invitation there was rather above his touch.
He was about to ask the footman whether he'd heard of a Hettie, when he was accosted by a hand on his shoulder. "There you are, Luke, old boy. Hobnobbing with the servants again? Your aunt's friend will turn up sooner or later, never fear. For now, I've got some people you must meet."
Luke turned to Lord Marcus Northrup with a genuine smile. Among the few members of the ton Luke knew personally, Lord Marcus was his closest friend. They had met at Oxford, where they'd discovered a number of common interests, including a delight in playing pranks upon bullying upperclassmen. The youngest son of the Duke of Marland, Marcus had given Luke invaluable advice based on his experience with four older brothers. He was also as adept at gaining entry where they weren't allowed
as any professional housebreaker Luke had encountered.
Upon receiving Luke's note saying he'd arrived in Town, Lord Marcus had immediately responded, as always, with an invitation to stay with him in Grosvenor Street, where he shared a house with two of his older brothers when in Town. Luke had accepted at once, as he'd done a few times previously, when he'd needed —or simply wanted —to move in more fashionable circles for a while.
"Of course, Marcus. Sorry if I seem preoccupied by this silly errand. I did promise my Aunt Lavinia, but there's no call to be obsessive about it." Obsessed he certainly was, but he couldn't let Marcus know that. "To whom did you want to introduce me?"
Lord Marcus grinned, making him look far younger than his twenty-five years. "As this is your first visit to Town in a year, quite a few people. In fact, here comes a lady you really must meet—a true original. Diamond of the first water, bluestocking and philanthropist all in one, but quite influential for all that. She could be your entrée into the highest circles, if she finds you tolerable. Let me make you known to her."
Luke barely listened. Already he was considering whether he could visit any other great houses tonight in his search for Purdy. Only a few days without her, and he felt as though a vital part of himself had gone missing. He had to find her, and soon! Still, he pinned on his best social smile and turned to make his compliments to the remarkable lady in question.
"Lady Pearl, may I present an old school chum of mine, the honorable Lucio di Santo, nephew of the Conte di Santo of Italy, though of good English stock on his mother's side. Luke, the Lady Pearl Moreston, daughter of the Duke of Oakshire."
While Marcus nattered on, Luke stood frozen, his gaze locked with that of the young lady in question. The room seemed to spin about him, Marcus' voice coming from a great distance. How could this be? It was impossible —it must be impossible!
