by Brenda Hiatt
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."
They had reached the stairs to his lodgings, so he forbore questioning her further —for the moment. Placing a hand at her elbow, as much for the pleasure of touching her as to assist her, he escorted her up the stairs.
As they approached his door, a scruffy little mound of brown and white fur jumped up and ran toward them, short tail wagging furiously.
"And what have you been up to today, Argos?" Luke asked, scratching the terrier between the ears. The tail wagged faster. "Ah." Kneeling, his back to the girl, he unwound a scrap of paper from around the dog's collar. The note would be from Flute, and could mean only one thing: someone in the neighborhood was in desperate need of help.
Surreptitiously scanning its contents proved him right. Mme. Billaud's son Christophe had broken his leg—no doubt climbing out of windows again—and the surgeon refused to see him unless she paid in advance. With her husband recently dead, she had no way to come up with the money.
Palming the note, he put it in his pocket as he drew out his key. Normally this would mean that the Saint of Seven Dials would ride again tonight, but with Purdy here, he wasn't sure how he would manage it without both arousing her suspicions and putting her at risk by leaving her alone. He opened the door and bowed her inside, still frowning.
"Is there something I can do to help?" she asked, startling him back to awareness of her presence.
"Help? What do you mean?"
She lifted a hand in a vague gesture, then dropped it. "You seem, ah, upset about something. As you've been very kind to me, I'd like to help with whatever it is, if I can."
Luke stared at her for a moment, thinking hard. Not only had Purdy revealed unexpected skills, she was more perceptive than he'd given her credit for, as well. Was it possible that she could help?
Deciding there was little to lose, he asked, "By chance, did you ever watch or help your mother set a broken bone?"
Her eyes widened, but she answered quickly enough. "I've seen it done, yes. Why do you ask?"
"I've just remembered that a boy nearby has broken his leg. I had promised to help, or bring help, but, er, events of the past night and day drove it from my mind."
Her smile sent a jolt of desire straight to his vitals, and this time he did not try so ruthlessly to suppress it.
"As I was that 'event,' it seems fair that I help remedy your lapse," she said. "Let's go at once—the poor boy may be in considerable pain."
"Thank you," he said, thinking of other things she could remedy for him. Later. There would be time for that later.
Pausing only to slice bread and cheese that they could eat along the way, Luke led her back out into the streets, hoping that together they could render aid to poor Christophe—and that it would not take too long.
When they reached her second story apartment, Mme. Billaud greeted him with delight, chattering in her native French, but paused at the sight of the girl behind him. "Surely, this is no surgeon?" she asked, still in French.
Mme. Billaud, he remembered belatedly, spoke almost no English. He would have to translate for Purdy—though that had advantages, as well as drawbacks. "She knows much of healing arts," he replied in French. Then, to Purdy, "I'm merely reassuring her that you'll try to help."
Purdy nodded. "May we see the boy?"
He conveyed the request, and Mme. Billaud led them to a curtain that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the small room. From his cot, Christophe grinned up at Luke with his usual impudence, but the white line around his mouth attested to the pain he was suffering.
As she had at the Planks', Purdy hurried forward, her focus instantly on her patient. Gently, she probed the injured leg, while Luke asked the boy to point out where it hurt most.
After a few moments, she turned to Luke with a relieved smile. "It appears to be a clean break—I can feel no displacement. If we can find something to use as a splint and some bandages, I believe we can do as much for him as a surgeon could."
A tension Luke had been unaware was constricting his chest suddenly loosened as he returned her smile. "Excellent!" Then, again in French, he explained to Mme. Billaud what they would need. Nodding and chattering, the woman hurried out, saying that a neighbor had just the thing.
Purdy spent the few minutes while she was gone soothing the boy with her voice while she made certain his leg was as straight as possible.
"Can I be of assistance?" Luke asked her as she struggled to turn Christophe's knee slightly without causing the boy any more pain than necessary. He hadn't known anyone since his mother with Purdy's capacity for compassion.
She sent him a quick smile, which again went straight to his nether regions. "Thank you, but I believe that will do it. We're ready for the splint now."
Even as she spoke, Mme. Billaud returned with the required items. Handing them to Purdy, she asked whether she needed anything else.
"No, this will do the job nicely, Madame."
"And will he be all right?" asked the anxious mother.
"Yes, I believe so. The break is not bad." Purdy was working as she spoke, binding the two wooden splints on either side of the leg with tightly wrapped bandages.
Watching her deft ministrations, it was several seconds before Luke realized with a shock that Mme. Billaud's questions had been in French—as had Purdy's replies. The girl spoke French with the ease of a native! She seemed unaware of
having done anything unusual, however, still intent on her work.
When she finished a few minute later, she turned to Luke. "Tell Mrs. Billaud that her son must not use this leg at all for the next few days. After that, he should be able to get around a bit, if she can find or fashion him a crutch to keep his weight off of the leg."
Hiding his smile, Luke dutifully relayed her instructions so that she would not realize her earier slip, then bade Mme. Billaud and her son goodbye. What other abilities or knowledge might Purdy be hiding, he wondered, as they reached the street again. He decided to try a small test.
"The Billauds are but lately come to England," he told her as they walked. "They tired of the tug-of-war over their homeland between the Treaties of '14 and '15, and came here to escape it."
She nodded absently, staring at a pair of ill-clad children arguing over a crust of bread, a touching concern creasing her pretty brow. "Were they Belgian, then, caught between the French and the Dutch?"
Aha! No farm maid would have known that. "Indeed they were. You have kept current with European politics, I see," he said dryly.
With a start, she turned wide, guileless eyes to him, though he detected a flicker of wariness in their depths. "I, er . . . not really. I recall Hettie's father talking about it once."
And remembered treaties, dates, countries? Unlikely, but he did not say so. "Of course. Shall we return to my lodgings, or would you prefer to make another attempt to contact your friend? You said you had an idea?"
Now, knowing that she was as intelligent as she was beautiful, he found himself almost overwhelmingly attracted to this girl of mystery. The feeling was almost frightening in its intensity. Tempted as he was to taste her delights, he knew it would be safest to get her out of his life without further delay.
She glanced at him, a troubled frown between her brows, as though she was wondering how much he had guessed, but she nodded. "Yes, I've remembered that Hettie has a . . . a friend who works at Oakshire House. In the kitchens."
That seemed plausible, if Hettie, like Purdy, was from the Duke of Oakshire's lands. "You believe this friend might know where she is?" Unfortunately, after what he had overheard earlier, Oakshire House was the last place the Saint of Seven Dials could safely go.
"Perhaps. At the very least, she could surely get a note to her from me, so that I can tell her where I am. Then she can come to fetch me." She smiled brightly at her solution, again giving the impression of childlike intellect—intentionally, of course.
"A reasonable plan," he agreed. "However, this may not be the best time to carry it out." At her questioning look, he continued. "In addition to the robbery at the Mountheaths', it would seem that an even more serious crime was committed at Oakshire House last night."
Purdy gasped. "At Oakshire House? What—?"
"I told you that I overheard the Mountheath servants speaking earlier. They were saying that a highborn lady, in fact the very daughter of the Duke of Oakshire, has been kidnapped."
CHAPTER 5
Pearl stared at him in horror, though her first wild fear that something had happened to her father was allayed. Kidnapped? They believed she had been kidnapped? What hornet's nest had she stirred up?
"A kidnapping—in the middle of Mayfair?" Had Hettie hinted at such a thing, or had the others simply assumed it? What on earth must Hettie be doing right now? Pearl imagined her stepmother grilling the girl mercilessly.
"Hard to believe, I admit. And of course I merely overheard some servants talking, so it's possible there has been some sort of misunderstanding. Still, if I were to appear just now at Oakshire House with a mysterious note—"
"Someone might assume it was a ransom note and have you arrested," she finished. And if the authorities discovered she'd spent the night at his lodgings, he might well hang for a crime that had never been committed!
Horror swept through her again at the thought. This man might not be of noble birth, but he evinced the most noble character she'd ever known, so obviously concerned as he was for the unfortunate around him. No, even for Fairbourne, she could not risk Luke St. Clair's life.
"Very astute," he said then, and she had to think for a moment to recall her last words. Another slip on her part.
"I . . . I've heard of such things as ransom notes," she offered, trying without much hope to salvage her charade. "Hettie and I used to read adventure stories together, you see."
"And did this mythical Hettie teach you French as well? And geography?" Though his eyes—those intense eyes—held more warmth and amusement than condemnation, she knew she was trapped. He had caught her lapse into French earlier, though he'd pretended otherwise.
She flinched away from that too-knowing gaze to focus again on the ragged children and their stick-swordfight across the alley, until welcome pride came to her aid. "Hettie is not mythical," she said haughtily, raising her chin to face him again. "She's my . . . my friend."
The gentle question in his eyes was nearly her undoing. Perilously close to admitting all, she had to remind herself how foolish that would be. He could have no idea—yet—of who she really was. Once he did, there would be no more support. And no more heated glances.
Somehow, in just one day, he had become a friend—and perhaps a little bit more. But that would end the moment he discovered she was one of the hated noble class.
He put a hand on her arm and instead of spurning the intimate contact, Pearl found herself leaning into it, taking comfort from it, her quick spurt of pride forgotten. "Come," he said quietly. "Let's go back and sort everything out."
"Back?" Sternly, she tried to subdue the tremble in her voice.
"To my lodgings. Unless there really is somewhere else I can take you?"
If he escorted her back to Oakshire House, there was a chance he'd be arrested before she could explain. Taking his proffered arm, knowing this was almost as dangerous, she accompanied him back the way they had come.
"I've been trying to puzzle you out," he said conversationally as they walked. "Perhaps you can tell me how well I've done." He shot her a grin in response to her questioning frown—a grin that sent tendrils of warmth curling through her body.
"Here's my guess," he continued. "You're actually of gentle birth, and have worked as a governess in some exalted household. That would explain your education. You were forced to leave when some supposed 'gentleman' of the household tried to take liberties." His eyes darkened with anger for a moment, then with something else. "Not that I can blame him completely."
Again she felt herself coloring—something she'd done more this past day than in the whole year preceding it. "That's . . . a surprisingly good guess," she said, trying to ignore his effect on her. After only a slight hesitation, she elaborated on the story he had begun. "It was the butler, actually—which is why I was so anxious to avoid the attention of Hodge, at the Mountheaths'."
"And Hettie? A fellow servant?"
"My pupil's abigail. She, er, helped me to escape. I fear we did not think things through as thoroughly as we should have, however." Mixing some truth into her story made her feel better. It felt somehow wrong to lie to this man, even though she knew he was hiding things as well. Besides, lying was beneath her—though at the moment she had little choice.
They were mounting the steps to his lodging now, and Pearl felt her heartbeat quickening with every step, along with a sense of anticipation for she knew not what.
"Has Hettie returned to the house you left by now?" he asked. "In Oaklea—or perhaps much closer to London?"
Pearl watched his strong, brown hands—bare hands—as he unlocked the door. "I don't know," she confessed truthfully, following him into the apartment. "We were separated at the Mountheaths' before we'd decided just what to do. She may have gone back by now—which I cannot do." She ignored the latter part of his question.
A quick upturn of his lips told her he'd noticed. "Very well, mystery lady, that will do for now, I suppose. If you're not willing to go back, we'll have to find you
other, more permanent employment. Without references, however, another governess position will be difficult to procure." He closed the door, shutting out the rest of the world.
She couldn't stay, of course. She didn't dare, now that he knew this much about her, now that she suspected he was as drawn to her as she was to him. No, she would have to slip away at her first opportunity and return home—and he mustn't be anywhere near her when she did so.
"You've been very kind," she said, meaning every word. "Even knowing so little about me, knowing that I was hiding things from you. Thank you."
His smile warmed his eyes, warmed her—dangerously and deliciously. "You're very easy to be kind to. At first I may have acted out of simple pity, but now that I know . . . er, know you better, it's more than that. I'd like to help in any way I can—as you've helped me, and the denizens of this place. You are a gallant young woman, Purdy."
His use of her assumed name served as a much-needed reminder that he knew nothing about her—and that she knew even less of him. They were from different worlds, and she would soon be gone from his. There could be no future for their budding friendship. The realization struck her with a sharp sense of loss.
"I simply try to do what's right," she said, as much to herself as to him. "The world doesn't always make that easy."
"Well I know it. Instead, it places barriers in the way of good intentions." He spoke as though to himself, but then caught her eye again. "As you have discovered yourself," he concluded, shaking off his sudden gravity with a smile.
She nodded. "But our good intentions will triumph," she said with complete conviction. "They must."
Something kindled in his deep brown eyes, capturing her. "Such an idealist," he murmured. "I like that."
Pearl became suddenly, acutely aware of how alone they were, here in the close confines of his lodgings, how near he stood. Not another person in the world knew where they were. She continued to drown in his gaze, her heart thudding in slow, heavy strokes.