Rogue's Honor

by Brenda Hiatt

  Rogue's Honor

  Title Page

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  ROGUE'S HONOR

  Brenda Hiatt

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 2001 by Brenda Hiatt Barber

  Originally published by Avon Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Though some actual historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  ROGUE'S HONOR

  by Brenda Hiatt

  PREFACE

  For years, all of London has known of the legendary Saint of Seven Dials, that shadowy figure who steals from the rich to give to the poor. To the denizens of London's slums and rookeries, he is worshiped as a hero and savior, while the gentlemen of the ton curse and scowl whenever his name is mentioned. His infamous calling cards are only proof of his impudence, they say, and an embarrassment to master and servant alike when they appear in place of purloined valuables.

  The ladies of London Society are torn, sympathizing with their fathers and husbands even as they sigh over the mysterious, romantic thief. What sort of man must he be, to take such risks for such a noble cause? they wonder. But though his identity is shrouded in secrecy, his fame continues to spread . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  London

  April, 1816

  "She'll marry you, never fear."

  Lady Pearl Moreston froze, her hand suspended over the crystal handle of the parlor door of Oakshire House, the finest mansion on Berkley Square. How dared her stepmother make such a promise—and to whom? Instead of opening the door, which stood slightly ajar, she waited to hear what reply might come.

  "But she's refused me twice already, your grace." Pearl identified the tremulous tenor as belonging to Lord Bellowsworth. "It seems clear that her wishes—"

  Obelia, Duchess of Oakshire, cut him off. "Her wishes have nothing to say to the matter. Do you wish to wed the Lady Pearl or not?"

  Scarcely waiting for the young marquess's stammering assent, the Duchess went on. "When you get her to Hyde Park, take one of the less frequented paths—the one leading off to the north, about a quarter mile from the entrance. You know the one? Good. No, don't interrupt. She'll be down at any moment. Go all the way to the end, to the little copse you will find there, and renew your addresses, as . . . forcefully as you can."

  "Forcefully? I—I'll try. But what if—"

  "I told you not to interrupt. I have arranged to have someone discover you, seemingly by chance, who will attest that he found the two of you in a most compromising situation. The Duke will be only too happy to consent to the match, whatever his daughter's wishes might be. Her hand—and her fortune—will be yours."

  Pearl waited to hear no more. Breezing into the room, her head held high, she exclaimed, "A delightful plan, to be sure!"

  Lord Bellowsworth started violently and began to stammer, but the Duchess merely smiled. "Lady Pearl. What a surprise. We were speaking hypothetically, of course."

  "Of course you were," Pearl agreed. "A hypothesis I fear I cannot help you to prove. You'll excuse me, my lord, for feeling indisposed for our drive today."

  "Of . . . of course. That is to say . . . I never meant . . . I'll give you good day, my lady, your grace." Bowing and blathering, he backed out of the parlor and fled Oakshire House.

  Pearl turned to her stepmother, whose petite blonde beauty, so similar to her own mother's, even now diluted her anger with long-remembered sorrow. "I know you have been anxious for me to marry, but I confess I had not expected you to resort to such measures as these to ensure it."

  The Duchess appeared more vexed than apologetic. "You leave me little choice," she said, flouncing across the room to seat herself in a high-backed chair that rather resembled a throne—her favorite. "Your father is concerned about your future, and I feel bound to make him easy on the subject."

  "And, of course, the fact that the Fairbourne estate will fall to me if I am yet unwed on my twenty-first birthday has nothing to do with your solicitude." Pearl spoke dryly, hiding any pain she felt from both herself and her stepmother. Seven years ago, when her father had first remarried, she had wished-- She cut off that regret ruthlessly.

  Obelia tossed her golden curls. "You'll have a substantial fortune in any event. If you marry well, you'll have no need whatsoever for that property, which by rights should go to Edward with the rest when he inherits. You cannot fault me for looking out for my son's interests."

  "Edward will scarcely be paupered by my inheritance of the smallest of the seven Oakshire estates." She adored her five-year-old half-brother, currently in the country while his mother enjoyed the London Season. But even for his sake, Pearl refused to sacrifice Fairbourne, a lovely little estate in the north of Oakshire, where she had spent many happy months as a child. She had definite plans for the land and people there—plans to put some of the theories she had studied into practice.

  "That is not the point. It will divide the Oakshire estate and lessen its consequence, which I cannot imagine you would wish. Besides," the Duchess continued peevishly, "that addendum to the entail was intended to provide for any eldest daughter who might prove unmarriageable. As you've had any number of offers, it clearly does not apply in your case. I believe the lawyers will agree, when I explain how matters stand."

  Before Pearl could reply, her father appeared at the parlor door. "I don't hear my two favorite girls arguing, do I?" he asked jovially. "What is it this time? The color of the new draperies?"

  Obelia rose to greet the Duke, ushering him to the chair next to hers. "Of course we're not arguing, my love. We both know how that upsets you." She shot an admonitory look at Pearl. "I was merely pointing out to dear Pearl the advantages of matrimony, as I have been so blessed by that state myself. I do so wish to see her comfortably settled. Don't you?"

  The Duke frowned, as he always did when this subject arose—which it did all too frequently, in Pearl's opinion. "So long as she's happy, and needn't be too far away," he conceded. "I won't let my 'Pearl beyond price' go to just anyone, you know. But I leave that in your capable hands, Obelia, as I've told you often enough. And Pearl's, of course."

  "Of course," echoed the Duchess, clearly less than perfectly pleased by his caveats. "You may always trust me to do what's best for both of our children, my love."

  He smiled fondly at his wife, and Pearl rose abruptly. "If you'll excuse me, I have some reading I'd like to finish."

  Her father waved her away with an indulgent smile—he'd always been proud of her academic turn of mind—but Obelia arched one delicate brow. "Your bluestocking tendencies make my task more challenging, Pearl, but I shall prevail, never fear." Her look, which escaped the Duke's notice, made her words into
a threat that Pearl now understood only too clearly.

  Since Pearl's sixteenth birthday, Obelia had been throwing her in the way of every eligible male she could find. This Season she had redoubled her efforts, bringing in the most exclusive French modistes and coiffeuses to enhance her stepdaughter's slim figure and honey-colored tresses, and planning lavish entertainments. Now she seemed determined on stronger measures.

  Pearl left the parlor, but not before she heard Obelia say to her husband, "I know dear Pearl's future worries you, Clarence, but fear not. By the time you return from Brighton, all will be settled. I have everything well in hand."

  "I know you'll do your best for her, my dear," the Duke responded with an indulgent chuckle.

  Pearl bit her lip. She had forgotten that her father was to leave within the hour. Without his support, she would have to rely solely on her own wits to evade Obelia's determined plotting. By the time she reached her opulent lilac sitting room, she had the beginnings of a plan.

  Her abigail, folding the Mechlin lace shawl Pearl had earlier rejected, looked up in surprise at her entrance. "My lady? Did I forget an item in your toilette?" Dark, perky and petite, Hettie swept her mistress with a critical eye, clearly finding no fault until her gaze reached her face. "Something has happened." It was a statement, not a question.

  Despite her anger at Obelia's machinations, Pearl could not suppress a smile. Hettie knew her better than any person living. "I'm afraid so," she replied. "And I need your help." Quickly, she related what had happened downstairs.

  The daughter of Pearl's nanny, Hettie had known her mistress since they were both in the nursery, and enjoyed far more intimacy than was customary between a lady of the upper Quality and her abigail. When Pearl concluded, Hettie's indignation equaled Pearl's own. "You, marry that mealy-mouthed young popinjay? What can her grace be thinking?"

  Pearl shrugged. "She wants me wed, and he is the most malleable of my current crop of suitors." She waved a hand toward the dozen or so bouquets displayed about the room, from the gilt mantelpiece to the exquisite inlaid mahogany tables, in testimony of their numbers. "But her reasons don't matter. Now that I know to what lengths she will go, I must put myself out of her reach—for a few days, at least. Until my father returns."

  "Out . . . out of her reach? What do you mean?"

  "I'm leaving."

  Hettie gaped, her usual cleverness not in evidence at the moment. "For Oakshire, you mean? Without informing his grace or—"

  "No, she'd only fetch me back to Town, or take advantage of my journey to compromise me somehow, if not with Bellowsworth, then with some other young lord whose ambition outstrips his integrity—any one of them, in other words. I mean to disappear entirely, right here in London. Will you help me?"

  Hettie's brown eyes recovered a measure of their customary shrewdness. "I'll not do anything to put you in danger, my lady. I'll go tell his grace the Duke first. This start of yours—"

  "It's no start, I assure you." Even as she spoke, Pearl's nebulous plan took on more clarity. "It's an idea I've toyed with for some time. One day I'll have the management of Fairbourne and be responsible for hundreds of people. I've studied agricultural, economic, and social reform, but what is that but theory? I've been coddled and protected my entire life. Even my charitable projects have been strictly chaperoned and supervised, so that I never have any actual contact with those less fortunate."

  Hettie still looked doubtful, so Pearl tried another tack. "I've been perched on a lofty, confining pedestal, first by my father and then by every man aspiring to my hand. If I don't escape it, I may begin believing all they say about me and become the most conceited, arrogant, autocratic woman who ever lived."

  Hettie chuckled. "With her grace putting you in your place ten times a day? Not likely."

  "I suppose I do have something for which to be grateful to her after all." Ignoring Hettie's snort, she hurried on. "How would you like it if every man who paid you court was interested only in your money and connections, never in yourself?"

  "Don't forget your looks, my lady," Hettie added dryly. "Those violet eyes of yours aren't exactly in the common way."

  It was Pearl's turn to snort. "All part of the package of externals. I'm one of the best-educated women in England, but no one cares about that. Never has one of my suitors asked my opinion on any political or economic issue, or on philosophy, science, or anything else. All they can see is a glittering ornament that would add to their own consequence, and I'm sick to death of it!"

  At this appeal to her romantic nature, Hettie nodded with sympathy, and Pearl began to relax.

  "I wish to experience life without the trappings of rank," she continued. "To see how the common folk live. Perhaps even to work with my own hands. I'm certain it will be of benefit to me."

  Though she still looked doubtful, Hettie only asked, "What do you want me to do?"

  Pearl smiled in relief. "First, help me out of this dress."

  * * *

  Whistling cheerfully, Luke St. Clair strolled along Jermyn Street as the cool of early evening turned the afternoon's haze to tendrils of mist. Casually, he scanned those entering and exiting the gaming houses, looking for an easy mark. His gaze slid over one well-dressed man and then another. No, obviously merchants. Ah! That middle-aged man alighting from a crested carriage. Clearly one of the ton. He'd do nicely.

  Luke hunched his shoulders and slowed his pace, in keeping with today's disguise as an inebriated old man—down at the heels, but not quite seedy enough to look like a threat. He ambled in the direction of his selected target, then stumbled just as he reached the man.

  "Sorry, milor'," he mumbled, steadying himself against the gentleman's arm to break his supposed fall. Even as the nobleman supercilously swept aside Luke's abject apology, his purse was liberated from his pocket.

  "Be gone with you, old tippler. Keep your distance from your betters," the haughty lord advised him with a sneer.

  Biting back an instinctive retort, Luke managed a servile bow that made his cheap white peruke slip down to partially conceal his face as he backed away from the man. Not until he turned onto Haymarket Street a moment later did the hue and cry begin.

  With a chuckle, Luke straightened his wig and quickened his pace, though not enough to draw attention. Then the words, "Stop, thief!" rang out behind him. Ducking around the next corner into an alley scarce wider than an arm-spread, he broke into a run.

  This was always his favorite part. Leaving the alley for Coventry Street, he glanced back to see two dandified bucks of the ton hot after him, brandishing sticks and shouting absurd threats. Perfect.

  Or not so perfect. The young gentlemen were apparently among the more fit of their species, for another quick glance showed them gaining. Luke put on a burst of speed, leaping over an ashcan before sending it clattering behind him. So much for his disguise! No description of the thief would mention an elderly man now.

  Still, he knew this part of London better than the alley cats did. With the young sprigs hot on his heels, he led them a merry chase toward Soho Square, taking care to trail them through every puddle of mud or filth he could find along the way. "That's for you, Mum," he muttered at the sound of sudden cursing behind him.

  Slipping around a corner, he then nipped into the dark recess of a doorway, pressing his back against the wooden panels. He managed to catch a few much-needed breaths before his pursuers approached. As they came closer, he snaked one hand behind him to test the door handle.

  It opened easily, and he nearly fell into a brightly lit room filled with women in various stages of undress—actresses preparing to perform here at one of the minor opera houses. Quickly, he shut the door behind him so that his pursuers wouldn't hear their squeals.

  "Lucio, as I live and breathe!" cooed a buxom redhead Luke remembered well from last Season. Indignation turned to delight as others realized who had burst in upon them.

  Doffing his peruke, Luke greeted them all with his most charming smile
. "My apologies for an unannounced entry, ladies. I won't be staying long." He'd dallied with at least three of them in the past, taking nearly as much pleasure from the knowledge that he was cuckolding their noble protectors as from their more obvious charms.

  The outer door opened again, and at once two of the actresses stepped in front of Luke, who quickly ducked down behind them. Between their skirts, he could see the dumbfounded faces of his erstwhile hunters.

  Shrilly, the women protested the intrusion, claiming a modesty that should have provoked laughter rather than the embarrassment the two young dandies evinced. Stammering apologies, they quickly backed out to continue their search elsewhere. The moment the door closed, the women again converged on Luke, giggling and pulling at his jacket. Obligingly, he took it off, but only long enough to reverse it and pull a cap from the pocket.

  "I am eternally in your debt," he declared to the group as a whole. Despite their chorus of protests, he dropped a quick kiss on the cheek of the redhead, winked at the two blondes he'd known previously and, with fulsome compliments, took his leave.

  Peering from the doorway, he watched his pursuers turn another corner, apparently heading toward Seven Dials. He waited another moment or two before emerging to stroll toward Mayfair, in the opposite direction.

  Pulling the purloined purse from his pocket, he counted his takings as he walked. Not as much as he'd hoped, but it would pay his rent for the month and buy a new washtub and iron for Mrs. Breitmann, who eked out a living for herself and her five children by taking in laundry. Of course, there was still Grady O'Malley to spring from debtor's prison in Newgate, as well as a few things he wanted for himself. Luckily, he was headed toward the richest part of London.

  Luke paused at the edge of Berkley Square in the gathering dusk, gazing at one of the finest mansions in Town. Yes, that one would do nicely—or perhaps that one there, two houses down. He'd wander through the mews and discover which one might be having guests in tonight. That would make his job easier.