by Brenda Hiatt
According to the letter, Pearl now had in her possession documents attesting to the marriage of James Knox, Earl of Hardwyck, and Lady Dorothea Sinclair, daughter of Earl Sinclair. Also records of the birth and baptism of one Luke Hartwood Knox, their son, and heir to the earldom.
Luke closed his eyes. As though it were yesterday, he could hear the dreaded middle name on his mother's lips, letting him know yet another childhood escapade had been discovered. The birth date listed was his own.
It was true, then. He really was a member of the very class he had despised all his life. If he could find a way to prove his identity, he would have wealth, influence, even a seat in the House of Lords. He could become as vain, pompous, proud and shallow as any of them. Or he could throw this letter away and pretend nothing had changed at all.
But then he though about his mother, and the father he had never known. What kind of life might he have led, if both had lived? His mother —and Pearl —were proof that blue blood did not preclude strength of character. Would he have been able to rise above a privileged state and become a worthwhile human being? He would never know. The chance had been denied him—by one man.
"Should we escape out the window?" asked Flute worriedly. "Or do you think they'll be watching for that? Are we done for, sir?"
Brought back to the present, Luke smiled grimly. "Not yet, Flute. Not quite. But if I have anything to say to it, someone else may be. What do you know about the Earl of Hardwyck?"
Flute blinked in confusion. "Not much, sir. Only that he's one of the richest swells in England. Wouldn't know him to look at, though. Why?"
"Then he no doubt lives in one of the biggest houses in London. Let's find out which one. It would seem I have a score to settle with him."
CHAPTER 13
Pearl had not the slightest desire to attend the Countess Lieven's rout, but knew Obelia would never believe the excuse of another headache. Besides, if she stayed home she would only give herself a real one, stewing over Luke's short-sightedness that afternoon and her own thwarted desires. Better to get out and distract herself as far as was possible.
"My lady, you are a vision. That color particularly becomes you," Hettie informed her as she handed Pearl a pale green fan that perfectly matched her gown. "See for yourself." She positioned the pier glass so that Pearl could observe her entire ensemble at once.
She barely glanced at her reflection. What did it matter, after all? "Thank you, Hettie," she said absently. "You've done a wonderful job, as always." She headed for the door, forcing her abigail to trot after her to toss a silver lace shawl over her shoulders before she left the room.
The Duke and Duchess awaited her below, where they were to have a family dinner before departing for the rout. Both echoed Hettie's opinion that she looked particularly lovely tonight, and she thanked them automatically. Odd that her exterior should be so unaffected by the wretchedness within, she reflected, picking at the lobster bisque before her.
By the time they reached the Russian Embassy, Pearl had roused herself somewhat. She had no desire to appear so preoccupied that people would question her about it. Therefore, she greeted the Ambassador and his wife with the graciousness trained into her from the cradle.
"You have outdone yourself, Countess Lieven," she exclaimed as she passed through the receiving line at the top of the grand staircase. "I had no idea so many hothouse flowers could be had in all of London so early in the Season."
"One merely needs to know whom to ask," replied the Countess in her beautifully accented English. "Flowers are a passion of mine, so I have made it my business to know where the best are to be found, at any time of year."
Unfortunately, that brought to Pearl's mind a vision of Covent Garden market, with its masses of flowers. She managed to refrain from asking if those she saw here had come from that source—so close to Luke.
Moving into the main ballroom, she could not help scanning the assemblage for the one face she knew would not be present. Instead, she spotted the man responsible for his absence—Lord Hardwyck, who was in truth no Lord at all. Seized by a fit of perversity, she moved in his direction.
He saw her before she could speak, and bowed deeply. "If this was your second choice of attire for the evening, my lady, I must express my appreciation to your abigail for her clumsiness," he said by way of greeting.
For a moment she was confused, then recalled the excuse she had used to escape him and Lord Bellowsworth that morning. "The mishap was less than I feared. Merely a torn flounce, easily repaired," she replied easily. "Would that all injuries were so easily put right."
As he could have no suspicion that she knew the truth, her veiled barb had no effect.
"Indeed. And would that an unblemished gown could make all women beauties. Though your ensemble is lovely, you would outshine every woman here were you clad in homespun, my lady. You are perfection itself." His dark eyes were disturbingly similar to Luke's, but with none of the same warmth. Before she could stop him, he seized her hand and brought it to his lips.
Vividly reminded of Luke doing the same that very afternoon, Pearl had all she could do not to snatch her hand away.
"Perfection surely entails more than fine clothes or a pretty face, my lord." Her tongue nearly stumbled over the undeserved title. "I would far rather be admired for character—a rarer commodity."
He smiled. "Character can only be appreciated upon closer acquaintance. I would deem it an honor to be granted the opportunity to understand yours, Lady Pearl."
"In some cases, greater knowledge of a person reveals rather a lack of character," she informed him. "Or even a lack of integrity."
"Certainly it is lamentable when such is the case," he agreed, "but I have no fear it might prove so in yours."
The man's complacency nettled her further. Did he feel no shame at all for what he had done years before?
"You would be equally willing, then, to open your own character to examination?" she could not resist asking, watching for some chink in his polished veneer.
"A dull study, no doubt, but I would never deny you anything you deemed a pleasure, my lady. Shall we retire into one of the anterooms to commence this closer acquaintanceship you suggest?" He extended an arm to her expectantly.
Appalled, Pearl realized belatedly that he had interpreted her digs as flirtation. The last thing she wished was to be alone with this man.
"I think not," she replied icily. "I merely spoke hypothetically. Excuse me—I believe my father wants me."
As the Duke had his back to them, it was clearly a fabricated excuse, and therefore an insult. Lord Hardwyck's eyes narrowed with an unpleasant glitter, but he only said, "Later then, my lady."
Inclining her head when she would have preferred to cut him entirely, Pearl moved away, silently resolving to be more careful in the future. She should have known that a man who could cold-bloodedly plan the murder of his brother, sister-in-law and infant nephew would be impervious to any verbal slings she could cast his way. After more than twenty years, he must feel so secure in his position that he feared no retribution.
Surely, now that he had her letter detailing the proof, Luke could not allow those crimes —crimes against his parents as well as himself —to go unpunished?
She would give Luke a few days to do the right thing, she decided, difficult as it might be to refrain from taking a hand in things herself. But she was determined that the false Lord Hardwyck should not profit from his crimes for longer than that. If Luke would not act, she would—whatever the personal cost.
* * *
Luke stood outside the glow cast by the numerous lamps leading up to the entrance of his uncle's mansion and gazed at the impressive edifice. On the very edge of Mayfair, with a view of Green Park, Hardwyck Hall dominated an area replete with grand houses.
For a moment, Luke could not help thinking that this magnificent place might well be legally his. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be master of such a place, and country estates besid
es —and failed utterly.
The very idea of such wealth, combined with the overwhelming responsibility that accompanied it, oppressed him. No, he wanted to make the owner of all of this pay for what he had done, but he had no wish to take his place.
"Stay here and watch the street," he instructed Flute. "I'll go around to the back and find a way in. Give the usual signal if you have any reason to believe I've been detected." Flute could do an admirable impression of a screech owl.
Just now, though, the lad clearly had reservations. "I thought we weren't going to be stealin' no more, sir. And we ain't never tried breakin' a place as grand as this. There'll be guards and such, surely?"
"I'm touched by your concern, but don't worry. I'm not planning to steal anything this time —just do a bit of exploring." Before Flute could ask the obvious question, Luke left him, to slip around the corner of the walled sweep of lawn fronting the street.
The back of the house held the usual gardens, mews and stables, if on a rather larger scale than most Town houses. At this hour, no one was about but a stableboy, whistling noisily as he scoured an oat bucket. The master of the house was likely out for the evening, and probably wouldn't be back for several hours, from what Luke knew of ton habits. With any luck, the servants would be taking it easy.
He flitted around the far side of the stables, then along the edge of the back gardens until he reached the house itself. Pausing in the deep, fragrant shadow cast by an apple tree in blossom, he examined the lowest windows on that side of the house —the ones leading to areas only servants would inhabit. The late April evening was warm, and more than one ground-floor window stood open, as did most of the upper ones.
He chose the window nearest the corner. It was open, dark, and its iron-fenced well was amply screened by shrubbery. Moving silently, he hopped over the low iron railing and crouched in the window well to peer inside. All he could see was a slit of faint light from a doorway on the far side of whatever room this was. Good enough. The window was just large enough to admit him with a squeeze.
Dropping into the dark room, he identified bags and crates by feel. A storeroom, then, probably close to the kitchens. Peering through the slightly opened door, he saw a dimly lit hallway, deserted for the moment. Quickly he slipped out of the storeroom and crept to the stairway at one end. A smaller set of stairs led off to one side, and he took those, hoping they might lead to a secret panel in one of the upper rooms, as the servants' stairs in Oakshire House had done.
They did. The first panel-door he found led into an ostentatious dining room with a brilliantly polished table that would easily seat twenty people. Nothing here interested him, however, so he closed the panel and moved on. Next he came to the library. A quick check of the desk revealed only writing paper and pens— nothing of a personal or business nature. Glancing around at the hard leather chairs and undisturbed bookshelves, he concluded that Hardwyck rarely used the room.
Going up another flight of stairs, Luke tried another panel. This one led into an elegant parlor, revealed only by exterior lamplight filtering in through the tall windows. Tired of this hit-or-miss exploring, he crossed the room and cautiously cracked open the door. A large passageway, well-lit by sconces set at intervals along the walls, stretched in either direction.
Still moving softly, wary of servants, he traversed the corridor, peeking into rooms along the way. These were the public rooms, and included among other things a music room, a ballroom even larger than that at Oakshire House, and a gallery hung with at least two dozen portraits. He couldn't resist a quick exploration of the latter.
The first few portraits were very old, their subjects wearing costumes from fifty, one hundred, or even two hundred years earlier. Luke gave them only a cursory look. Even knowing that these people might well be his own ancestors, he felt no particular connection to them. He moved on to more recent paintings.
And stopped, stunned.
There, staring out of a canvas halfway along the gallery, was his mother, just as he remembered her— except for the elaborate gown she wore. If Pearl's letter had not been proof enough that Nanna's tale was true, this portrait convinced him beyond doubt. Below the painting was a brass plaque which read, "Lady Dorothea Hardwyck, 1791." One year after he himself had been born.
He then glanced at the next portrait and received an even greater shock. Except for the clothing and hair, longer and lighter than his own, he might have been looking at his own reflection! Yes, according to the plaque, this was his father, the fourth Earl of Hardwyck, painted the same year as his mother's portrait.
Here, then, was all the proof he would need, should he do as Pearl wished and press his claim to the title. And perhaps it could be the means to his revenge, as well.
For a moment he struggled with himself, assailed by all of the advantages Pearl had put forth to him that afternoon. But then sanity prevailed, and he again considered the obligations that went with such a position: lands, tenants, even a seat in Parliament. Simple Luke St. Clair, responsible pillar of Society? Preposterous!
Even as he renewed his original decision, he heard footsteps in the passage outside the gallery. Quick as thought, he pressed himself into an alcove behind a piece of marble statuary. The footsteps neared, then receded. Whoever it was had not come into the gallery.
He waited until he heard a door open and close, then stole back down the corridor to the parlor he had first entered. Retracing his steps, in five minutes he was climbing back through the storeroom window into the cooler evening air. Flute was waiting where he had left him, across the street from the grand front of Hardwyck Hall.
"Did you find what you were looking for, sir?" Clearly, he still found Luke's behavior odd in the extreme.
"I did indeed —even though I had no idea when I went in what it was I sought." A slow smile spread over his face as the idea that had first occurred to him while standing before his father's portrait took clearer shape. "How would you like to help me become a ghost?"
Flute stared at him in dismay. "Are you asking me to turn you in for the reward money? I won't do it, sir, and that's flat. I'd rather starve first."
Luke gave a shout of laughter, then realized it wouldn't do to draw attention to himself. "No, no, nothing like that, lad, I promise you. I don't mean to become a real ghost. Let's head back to my lodgings, and I'll explain as we go."
Quickly, he outlined his plan, which involved obtaining an ensemble similar to the one in the portrait. His hair was too short and dark for the part, so he'd need a wig as well, several shades lighter.
"If I play my part well," he concluded, "Lord Hardwyck will either believe his house is haunted, or that he's gone mad. Either way, I daresay I can convince him to do whatever I wish inside of a week."
"But . . . but why, sir? Why this particular nob? And why would he have a picture in his house what looks so much like you? Is he some kind of kin to you?"
"I always knew you were a sharp lad, Flute. Yes, I believe this fellow to be my uncle. Further, I believe he may have killed my father, years and years ago." Luke debated whether or not to tell him the rest, but Flute was already ahead of him.
"If your uncle's a lord, then what does that make you, sir? You're one o' them, ain't you?"
For the first time, Luke wished he hadn't been quite so vocal about his hatred of the nobility. Clearly Flute had picked up more of his attitude than he had realized over the past two years.
"It looks like I may be, yes. But that's neither here nor there," he added quickly, before Flute could speak. "This earl is one of the worst of the lot, and I want to make him pay for what he's done. Will you help me?"
Flute considered for a moment, then nodded, his thin face breaking into an impish grin. "Aye, I'll help. Thinking how much you done for me and others as a nobody —so to speak —I'll trust you to do what's right and more once you've got brass and some clout."
Luke frowned. That was too similar to what Pearl had said for his comfort. Was he going to be pressured
by Flute as well? "I don't want to be one of them," he said dampeningly. "I just want to give this one what he deserves. That's all. Still willing?"
"Oh, aye." Flute sobered a bit, but his eyes lost none of their twinkle. "Whatever you say, sir. What do we do first?"
* * *
By the end of the next day, Luke had everything he needed and once again stood watching Hardwyck House.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a ghost myself, sir," Flute whispered. "Look! Here comes the carriage. It'll only be a moment now."
Luke nodded, the curls of the powdered light brown wig brushing the ruffles of his antique shirt where they billowed out of the equally archaic coat. He felt as though he were about to step on stage. "There he goes. Come."
They both followed the same route Luke had used the night before. Though a light drizzle was falling, the storeroom window was still ajar. From a dark corner of the gardens, Luke pointed. "That's the window, there. You know what to do, if anyone is about later?"
Flute nodded. "I'll make sure their attention is on the other side of the house, not to worry. Two in the morning, you said?"
"That should be enough for the first night, yes. I'll see you then." Slipping from the shadows, Luke crept to the house, hopped over the railing and again let himself in through the window, taking care to leave it just as he found it.
Perhaps he should have left Flute out of this entirely, he thought as he continued the explorations he'd begun the night before. Certainly he could have handled this himself. But acting as lookout made the lad feel useful, and kept him out of more substantial trouble, as well. He'd have to give some serious thought as to what Flute could do once this caper was over. He was bright enough to get bored easily, and that was dangerous, as Luke knew from long experience.
Deep in thought, making no sound in his soft-soled slippers, he drifted around a corner and came face to face with a young housemaid dusting a set of Grecian urns. Her mouth formed a perfect "O" and her eyes went wide and wild. For several long heartbeats, they stood still, staring at each other, then she took a quick step backward.