by Brenda Hiatt
"Tell him what? What news?" Pearl could not quite conceal her impatience at the woman's meandering way of coming to the subject.
"Why, that his name weren't never St. Clair at all, though his mamma was born Sinclair. Master Luke's real last name is Knox, and he's the rightful Earl o' Hardwyck!"
CHAPTER 12
Pearl stared at the old woman for several long heartbeats, certain she had misunderstood. "But . . . but the Earl of Hardwyck was just here. He was downstairs not five minutes ago. How can Luke possibly—?"
"That would be his uncle," Mrs. Steadman said with a grimace. "Mr. Wallis Knox. He may think he's an earl now, but he's not. Lady Dorothea meant Luke to take his rightful place once he was grown, and I'll do all I can to help him do it."
"Lady Dorothea?"
The old nurse nodded. "Daughter to Earl Sinclair, she was, a lady from birth. It were enough to make a body weep to see her living like she did after she run away and all, but she had Master Luke to think of."
"I'm afraid I still don't understand." Indeed, Pearl felt the woman's rambling explanation was adding to the mystery rather than unraveling it. "Perhaps it would be best if you started at the beginning. Your mistress —Luke's mother— married the Earl of Hardwyck, and Luke was their son? This can be verified?"
"Oh, aye. It's all in the parish registry at Knox Abbey, the marriage and Master Luke's baptism, too."
And there must be copies of those records right here in London, Pearl realized. She could have those facts checked this very day.
"I remember both days like they was yesterday," Mrs. Steadman continued, her eyes growing misty with reminiscence. "So happy my lady was! Just as well she didn't know then what was to come."
Again, Pearl had to fight her growing impatience to know everything at once. "And what did come? Her husband died, I presume?"
"Died!" The woman turned her head as if to spit, then recollected where she was and merely snorted. "Murdered, I'd say. And my lady believed the same, though she couldn't prove it. She had her proof a year later, though, when the blackguard tried to kill both her and Master Luke. What kind of a monster tries to do in a three-year-old child, I ask you?"
Though still not convinced of the old woman's sanity, Pearl could not help but be horrified. "Monstrous indeed! Who would do such a thing —and why? And how?"
The old nurse took each question in turn. "Who? Why Mr. Wallis Knox, o' course, him what styles himself Earl of Hardwyck now. The why is plain to see. With his brother and Master Luke out o' the way, it all come to him—the title, the money, and the land and all."
Pearl couldn't deny that Lord Hardwyck was generally considered one of the richest men in England, his fortune rivaling, perhaps even exceeding, her father's. A strong motivation indeed! Still, it seemed so unlikely . . .
"And the how?" she prompted, as her informant had paused, apparently to commune with her memories.
Now a tear trickled down the lined, careworn face. "Fire. My lady couldn't bear to live in the grand mansion after her poor husband was murdered. Even then, she was afraid of Mr. Knox, I reckon. So she moved into the Dower House at Knox Abbey, seeing as how it was standing empty. She said it was plenty big for her and Master Luke, and only brought along me and one other servant."
Fearing the woman meant to go off on another tangent, Pearl gently brought her back to the matter that most concerned her. "The Dower House burned, then? How can you be certain it wasn't an accident?"
"I saw Cranley, Mr. Knox's henchman, skulking about the grounds only an hour before the fire started. I meant to tell my lady about it, but I forgot." Her wrinkled face crumpled into tears. "Maybe if I had . . . "
Pearl laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "But Lady Hardwyck escaped, did she not, along with her son? Had you prevented the fire, perhaps another attempt would have been made—a successful one." As she spoke, she realized that she had nearly accepted the woman's story as truth.
Drying her eyes with the corner of her apron, the old nurse nodded. "Aye, you be right, milady. And Lady Dorothea seized her chance with both hands, as they say, once she realized what had happened. She bundled us all out of the house in the nick o' time. Mary, the housemaid, was up at the big house— helping with the brasses, I think she was. So it was just the three of us in the Dower House. We hid in the wood a quarter mile away and watched it burn to the ground."
Now Pearl began to understand. "So Lord . . . er, Mr. Knox never knew you all escaped?"
"Nay, she wanted him to think we was all dead, so's he wouldn't ever try to harm Master Luke again. She took us to a cottager whose baby she'd helped birth when the midwife couldn't come. They was willing enough to help us—giving us spare clothes and baby things, and promisin' to hold their tongues."
Pearl listened, rapt, as the old nurse related the rest of the story, of how Lady Dorothea had gone into hiding, masquerading as a commoner, to protect her son. Finally, she brought it up to the point where Luke went off on his own after his mother's death and Mrs. Steadman lost track of him. By the time she was finished, more than an hour had passed.
Turning to Hettie and John, who had been listening as attentively as she to the astonishing story, Pearl said, "John, I have one more task for you. I will write a letter for you to take to Somerset House."
She would request documentation of the transfer of title and property to the present Lord Hardwyck, as well as all pertinent dates attending previous title holders. As he was known to be a suitor of hers, her request would not look particularly odd.
"And Hettie, ask the coachman to ready the small, closed carriage —the one without the crest. I have a visit to pay."
* * *
Luke returned from yet another discouraging day of seeking employment to see a sumptuous, dark blue carriage standing in the narrow street directly in front of his building. It looked absurdly out of place, and his first thought was that some fool merchant or gentleman had lost his way. This might be just the opportunity he had both hoped for and dreaded.
Then he considered that it might also be a trap. Suppose the Runners were trying to flush him out with this strange ruse? In that case the carriage was being watched, and the last thing he should do was approach it.
He glanced up and down the street, but saw no one other than a pair of drunken ex-soldiers slumbering in a doorway. Moving from shadow to shadow, he maneuvered himself into position to glimpse the interior of the carriage without attracting the attention of the coachman atop it. A lone figure sat within, apparently female. His heart beginning to hammer with a hope he could not quite admit, he crept closer.
Yes, the occupant was definitely female —but short. Dropping back into the shadows, Luke circled around the side of his building until he could see his own door. There she stood —his own Pearl, the one who had haunted his dreams and daydreams since the moment he left her.
As he watched, her shoulders slumped in apparent dejection and she turned away from the door, her pale pink skirts brushing the filthy balustrade as she started back down the stairs. Now Luke stepped forward, his sudden eagerness sweeping caution away.
He met her at the first turning, and was able to observe her expression an instant before she saw him. He read there wariness, frustration and suppressed excitement, which gave way to shock, then pleasure.
"Luke! Oh, Luke, you are here after all!"
Her obvious delight sent a shaft of exultation through him. Then, as quickly, he realized how he looked, dressed as he was to apply for more menial labor. And how inappropriate her presence here was.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, more harshly than he intended in his concern and embarrassment. "This is madness, my lady. The risk—"
"Was worth it," she assured him, though the joy in her eyes dimmed a fraction at his tone. "I have something to tell you— something extremely important. Will you join me in the carriage?"
He realized that she could hardly go alone with him into his lodgings, with two servants watching —much as they bo
th might have preferred it. His body was already responding to her nearness, interfering with his ability to reason.
"Very well," he said, caution belatedly returning. This all seemed deucedly odd, but he could not believe Pearl would betray him. Not knowingly, anyway.
As they descended to the carriage, he again peered up and down the street. Was the shadow at that alley entrance a mere trick of the light, or was someone there? Suppose Pearl had been duped, so that she would lead the authorities to him?
Still, he did not have the strength of will to leave her, after being so depressingly certain he would never see her again. Whatever followed, he would have a few moments with her. Silently he accompanied her to the carriage, handed her into it, reveling in her touch, then climbed in himself. The moment the door was closed, she turned to him eagerly.
"Oh, Luke, I have the best news! I've discovered who you really are, and it is far better than I ever dared to hope!"
Distracted by her loveliness, her lips, her scent, despite Hettie's presence in the carriage, it took a moment for the meaning of her words to penetrate. "What do you mean?" he asked in sudden alarm, when they did. "How could you possibly—?"
"I had inquiries made, in the vicinity of Edgeware. Something you no doubt could have done yourself, had you wished to." Though her words held a rebuke, her expression was still one of suppressed joy. "When you hear, you will wish you had done so years ago, I assure you!"
Luke doubted that, but her excitement was contagious. "Then tell me, do," he said with a smile. Sweet, valiant Pearl, so much more concerned for his welfare than her own. "And then," he added more severely, "we'll speak about the danger you courted in coming here."
Sweeping his scolding aside with an imperious wave of one dainty, gloved hand, she placed the other on his sleeve. "I was able to find your old nurse, Mrs. Steadman," she explained.
Now she had his full attention, the very name bringing back a flood of memories he had suppressed for years. He listened while she related to him the story of his early years, events that predated those memories. Though she spoke with compelling conviction, he could not seem to make the story his own. Surely it must belong to someone else. Someone more . . . worthy.
"So you see," she concluded, "you are no more a commoner than I am. Indeed, your family is even older than mine, and nigh as wealthy. You are an Earl, Luke. A peer of the realm!"
Slowly, he shook his head. "It all sounds like something out of a novel —and Nanna was always fond of novels, as was my mother. I fear you have been deluded by an equally deluded old woman."
She frowned, clearly disappointed that his enthusiasm did not equal hers. "I am having the verifiable facts checked, of course —the marriage and birth records, the fire. I couldn't believe it at first either."
"Even if the circumstances turn out to be true, it doesn't follow that they relate to me. There can be no proof that I am who you say I am. Certainly, I possess none."
"Mrs. Steadman was your nurse, was she not?" Pearl asked impatiently. "To whom else could they possibly relate?"
But Luke was not convinced. The very idea that he,himself might be one of the class he had hated all his life was repugnant, and far too much to swallow at one bitter gulp.
"She might have read of it in the papers," he pointed out, quite reasonably, he thought. "She is old—her mind may not be what it was. She may have woven this pretty fiction from that story to comfort herself with the idea that she was once someone important."
"From what you've told me, it doesn't seem so terribly unlikely that your mother was a lady born. Are you unwilling to believe that of her?"
Pearl knew him far too well, he realized, her shrewd question having just the effect she'd hoped. No, he couldn't deny that his mother had always seemed out of place in her situation, nor that Nanna had called her "lady" from time to time, in private. If he had thought about it at all, he had assumed it was merely a gesture of respect.
"Of her, no. I am another matter, however. And even if all of this were true, there is still the matter of proof. Without that, my lot is unlikely to be affected by this revelation."
She stared at him. "You sound as though you don't wish to believe it is true. Are you so bent on despising the nobility that you feel compelled to reject the very possibility that you may be one of them?"
Again, her perception was disturbing in its acuity. "I've never despised you, Pearl," he said, ignoring the real purport of her question. "You know that."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it." The eager excitement in her eyes had turned to frustration and dismay, but he refused to share her hope. "Assuming the facts check out, as I am convinced they will, do you mean that you will make no attempt to reclaim your rightful place?"
"Rightful? If you knew the sort of life I have led . . ."
She placed her gloved hand over his bare one, distracting him again. The bond between them was as strong as ever. "I do know, Luke. You have told me, remember?"
But he shook his head. "Only the generalities, not the specifics." Even now, he writhed inwardly to remember some of the things he had done. "I'm no hero, Pearl, believe me—nor even a fit object for your pity."
"Pity?" She released his hand as though it burned her. "Do you think that is what I feel for you? Pity? That I'm doing this out of some sort of charitable concern for the poor, misunderstood Saint—?"
She broke off, apparently remembering Hettie's presence, though the maid made no indication that she heard the slip. Eyes downcast, she seemed to be doing her best to appear invisible and uninterested, but Luke was sure she was absorbing every word. How much had Pearl told the girl? He had Flute's safety as well as his own to consider.
"I think you are grateful that I was able to assist you when you made your ill-advised foray into the back streets of London," he said dampeningly. If her abigail did not already know of their liaison, she would not discover it from him. "You thought this would be a fitting way to repay me, and I thank you. But it is up to me what I do with the knowledge."
Pearl swallowed visibly. Unshed tears glittered in her eyes, tearing at his heart. He wanted to kiss them away, to fold her in his arms and assure her that she was the most precious thing in the world to him. Instead, he steeled himself with the reminder that he was in no way worthy of her, even if her unlikely tale turned out to be true. The choices he had made put her forever out of his reach.
"Surely you cannot wish to continue in a life of . . . of the sort you have been leading?" Her voice quavered, but did not break. "What of poor Flute? And what of your uncle, enjoying his ill-gotten gains at the expense of your father's death and your mother suffering? If anyone merits your vengeance, surely he does."
He felt his resolve beginning to waver. But was it because of the strength of her reasoning or the strength of his feelings for her? "I'm sorry Pearl," he forced himself to say. "I must go—and so must you. You are not safe here."
Not safe from the inhabitants of Seven Dials . . . or from him. Before he could change his mind, he stepped out of the carriage.
Pearl extended a pleading hand. "Luke, please—"
"Farewell, my lady." He took her outstretched hand and lifted it briefly to his lips, then turned quickly and walked away, not even caring what direction he took.
For a moment he feared that she might follow him, but he heard no sound of pursuit, neither footsteps nor carriage wheels. Still, he quickened his pace. He needed time to think, to decide, perhaps to plan a course of action, away from Pearl's intoxicating presence.
* * *
Pearl sat for several long moments in stunned disbelief. She had been so certain Luke would forget his prejudices upon learning he was himself a peer. His difficulties —their difficulties —would be solved. He could return to her world . . .
Yes, she now had to admit what she had managed to conceal from herself before. Her motives had never been entirely selfless. She wanted Luke to come back to her, to become a part of her life. To experience again—
But he had rejected that life. Rejected her. Suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of her failure, she covered her face with her hands and wept.
"Oh, my lady, pray do not cry," Hettie exclaimed, putting a gentle hand on her shaking shoulder. "He's not worth it—no man is. An ungrateful wretch, that's what he is, after all you tried to do for him."
Pearl's head snapped up. "You do not know him. Don't pass judgement on him."
Hettie blinked, and at once Pearl apologized. "I do appreciate your concern, Hettie, but I shall be fine." That quick burst of anger had not been without effect, however, for it had supplanted her despair. Now she could think again—and plan.
Opening the panel on top of the carriage, she directed the coachman to drive back to Oakshire House. Luke St. Clair was much mistaken if he believed Lady Pearl Moreston would admit defeat so easily. She could be every bit as stubborn as he.
* * *
Luke walked the streets for hours, but when he returned to his lodgings to find Pearl's carriage gone he was no closer to a decision than he had been when he left— except one. If what she claimed was true, and the man styling himself Lord Hardwyck was really responsible for his father's death and his mother's poverty, then that would have to be repaid somehow.
But how? After sending Pearl away so brusquely, would he ever know the truth? She had admitted she had no proof beyond Nanna's word as yet, and it was entirely possible no such proof existed. Even if it did, and Pearl obtained it, she would see no point in telling him now.
Flute opened the door before he could fit the key into the lock. "I'm glad you're back, sir. Something havey-cavey is going on. Not ten minutes ago, this was slipped under the door." He handed Luke an envelope. "I reckon the Runners must know we're here."
Turning the envelope over, Luke read the one-word inscription and smiled. "No, not the Runners, but someone every bit as persistent." He broke the seal, as recognizable as the hand that had written his name, and read through the letter twice.