The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "I see," he said inadequately, fighting a distinct sense of anticlimax. "Then it's over?"

  "All but the formalities, my lord— though I warn you that those may drag on for some weeks yet."

  Luke couldn't help feeling that it had all been far too easy, despite the tedium of the past two weeks. One very pressing matter still needed to be addressed, however. "When am I likely to have access to my . . . er, money?"

  The clerk seemed not at all surprised by the question. "A solicitor will be calling within the hour to arrange the transfer of certain accounts, and you may remove to Hardwyck Hall at your convenience. The rest will follow as everything is finalized."

  Just like that. "Thank you, Mr. Tibbetson. You've been extremely helpful through all of this."

  "I'm happy to have been of service, my lord." With a deep bow, the clerk took his leave.

  For a long moment, Luke stood blinking at the closed door, trying to grasp what had just happened. All along, he had held a deep inner conviction that this was all an elaborate mistake, that it was only a matter of time before the world would right itself and he would be thrown back into the streets. But that, it seemed, was not to be. He was well and truly the Earl of Hardwyck, with everything that entailed.

  "My lord?" Flute, standing at the door between the adjoining rooms, jarred him from his thoughts. "Guess I can call you that now, eh? Sounds like it's been worth the work and the wait."

  Luke turned, a frown knitting his brows. "So it would seem. I suppose we should prepare to move to my new home." Forcing a lighter tone, he asked, "What think you of taking on a permanent position as my valet?"

  Flute gaped. "Me? But you'll have the blunt to hire someone trained to the job—any job. You'll be wanting a whole houseful of servants, I don't doubt."

  His spirits rising at Flute's reaction, Luke grinned. "No doubt, eventually. But I'll want someone I can trust closest to me. We'll find someone to train you to the job properly, never fear . . . if you want it?"

  "Valet to the Earl o' Hardwyck? I'm not daft enough to refuse, if you think I won't disgrace you. I was afraid —I mean I was only hoping—" he broke off awkwardly and ducked his head.

  But Luke understood, and was touched. "I'd feel as adrift as you would, if we went our separate ways. You've been a great help to me when my fortunes were down. It's only fair that I reciprocate, now that I've the means to do so."

  Another whine from Argos prevented any further discussion, which might have embarrassed them both. "Go on, you two, and have your walk. We'll have work to do when you return."

  With a tug of his cap, Flute complied, incredulous joy still fighting with disbelief on his thin face. Luke smiled with satisfaction once they were gone. At least he would be able to discharge his responsiblity to the one who had depended on him longest. But then he sobered again.

  His responsibility to Pearl was far more complicated. If he thought it would make her happy or smooth her path, he'd offer for her tomorrow, of course —but that might only play into her stepmother's hands. And after the way he had treated her on their last meeting, it was entirely possible she never wished to see him again.

  Nor, after the life he had led, was he remotely worthy of her, no matter how lofty a title they bestowed upon him. Inside, he was still Luke St. Clair, common street thief —and Pearl would know that, even if no one else might.

  He knew it was cowardly, but he preferred to wait until everything was settled to approach her again —to discover whether the one thing that mattered far more than money or influence, or even freedom, could ever be his.

  * * *

  "Thank you, Hettie. That is excellent news, indeed," said Pearl, forcing a smile of gratitude for her abigail's help. "Pray convey my thanks to John for his diligence in sharing what he has been able to learn thus far."

  "Of course, my lady." Hettie returned Pearl's smile, but worry was evident in her eyes. She took her leave without saying anything more, however.

  The moment she was alone, Pearl sighed heavily. She would not cry again. She would not! John Marley had merely confirmed what she had already read in the papers —that all had gone just as she'd hoped it would. Luke had taken up residence in Hardwyck Hall and would shortly be confirmed as Earl of Hardwyck. He would take his rightful place in Society, able to do all manner of good with his vast fortune.

  Stupid to repine simply because he had not sent word himself.

  More than two weeks had passed since that fateful day in her father's library, and she had heard not a word from Luke since. Now she doubted that she would, until they encountered each other by chance at some Society function, with him in his new role. How awkward that would be! She shuddered at the thought.

  Perhaps she should leave London—return to Oakshire now, rather than waiting for the Duke and Duchess to remove there at the end of the Season, now only a few weeks distant. Or, better, to Fairbourne, which was as good as hers now. She would have plenty to occupy her there, enough to distract her from what she could never have here. Yes, that would be best.

  Her decision made, she went in search of her father to inform him of it. The library was empty, so she glanced into the parlor, where the Duke occasionally relaxed before changing for the evening. He was not there, either, but her stepmother was. Though lately Pearl avoided speaking with her unless compelled, she wanted to commit herself to her plan of action without delay.

  "Good afternoon, your grace," she said. "Do you know where I might find my father?"

  Obelia smiled —that broad, false smile that always presaged something unpleasant for Pearl —and shook her head. "He is out at the moment, but I am very glad to see you just now. Pray come in and close the door. We must talk."

  Warily, Pearl advanced into the room as requested and took a seat opposite the Duchess. "Talk? About what?"

  "Why, your marriage, of course. Delay would be unwise in a situation such as this, as I am sure you will agree."

  Pearl sighed. She had hoped that by now Obelia had given up her hopes of having her married by late June, but apparently that was not the case. "There is no marriage to discuss, your grace. I have made it clear that I have no plans to wed, now or ever."

  The Duchess' smile did not waver —if anything, it broadened further. "Oh, but you will have such plans, before you leave this room. Even you, I am certain, would consider marriage far preferable to ruin."

  "Ruin? Whatever can you mean?" Pearl spoke carelessly, but felt the tiniest prickle of apprehension along her spine.

  "There is very little that goes on in this house that I do not learn of in one way or another, Pearl."

  "Such as?"

  Obelia's blue eyes now glittered with malicious triumph, and Pearl's unease increased. "I'm well aware of a certain visitor you, ah, entertained in your chambers a few weeks since, on the night of my musicale."

  Though her breathing nearly stopped, Pearl tried to brazen it through. "I have no idea what you mean, your grace. I went to bed early with the headache that evening. My abigail can attest to it."

  "It was not the headache you went to bed with, missy. My abigail can attest that yours was below for much of the evening, with no way to know what you were doing. As well as to the fact that a certain young man left much later, through the kitchens, having apparently used the servant passageway from abovestairs."

  Pearl shrugged, with a nonchalance she did not feel. "I am not answerable for the comings and goings of every guest in this house. What young man do you mean, and what has he to do with me?"

  "Oh, come, now, my dear. The young man with whom you spent the early part of that evening, of course. Whom you were at such pains to cultivate, in fact, though at the time I don't believe you knew any more about his antecedents than did the rest of Society."

  "So he remained at the musicale after I went upstairs. What is wrong with that?" Pearl asked, though she did not meet her stepmother's eye. She felt as though a trap were closing about her—a trap of Obelia's crafting.

  "Nothing, o
f course," said the Duchess affably. "But in case you had forgotten, you had your abigail make his excuses to me when you retired —nor did anyone see him in any of the public rooms after that. Lady Minerva commented upon it to me, in fact."

  Pearl remained silent, afraid that anything she said might damn her further.

  "It was that very evening, as I recall, that your young man disappeared entirely from the Social scene . . . until his recent, miraculous reappearance."

  When Pearl still did not respond, Obelia's eyes narrowed, their malice more pronounced, though they lost none of their triumph. "Should you still care to protest your innocence, I can produce the laundry maid who was obliging enough to disclose to me the condition of your bedclothes the next day."

  Though she was careful not to betray anything by her expression, Pearl cursed inwardly in a way a lady of her breeding would never do aloud. She had not even considered that particular detail. How could she have been so stupid?

  "I'd say I have evidence enough to insist upon your marriage," the Duchess concluded. "I have no doubt your father will agree when I share my discoveries with him."

  At that, Pearl's head snapped up. "No! Please, you must not!" The very idea of her father confronting Luke, demanding that he marry her—! No, it could not even be considered.

  Obelia watched her expectantly, waiting for her inevitable capitulation. But Pearl would not give in without a fight.

  "May I ask why, when you have clearly known about this for weeks, you choose to use it against me now?"

  For a moment the Duchess appeared disconcerted, but she recovered at once. "When I first learned of your disgraceful conduct, I immediately assumed you had done it merely to thwart me, deliberately choosing to sully yourself with a man of no social standing —one you would not be expected to marry —in order to render yourself unmarriageable."

  Pearl had to force herself not to flinch at this all-too-accurate description of her motives. As stated by Obelia, it sounded sordid, dirty. Not at all the rapturous experience she remembered.

  "The fact that your so-called Mr. di Santo disappeared that very night confirmed my suspicion," her stepmother continued. "But when you did not yourself reveal your ruined state, I saw no reason to do so. Not while some eligible suitor might still be induced to marry you, ignorant of the damaged state of his bride."

  "I do not consider myself damaged," Pearl informed her coldly.

  "Most men would," Obelia assured her. "The only one I thought might possibly overlook it for the sake of gain was Lord Hardwyck. He is of a refreshingly practical turn of mind."

  "A mercenary turn of mind, you mean."

  The Duchess merely smiled. "Just as well nothing ever came of it, considering recent events. Your father tells me everything is now all but settled. What an amazing bit of irony that the true Lord Hardwyck must now marry you, whether he will or no."

  Pearl's thoughts flitted this way and that, hammering against her skull like a bird frantic to escape its cage. She could not, would not allow Luke to be forced into marriage with her— with the one person he must now despise above every other person alive. He would no doubt believe she had confessed their liaison for that very purpose!

  "Your grace, you must not do this," she said with every bit of earnestness she could command. "I will relinquish Fairbourne to you instead, if that is what you wish."

  "And how would you have a legal basis to do such a thing, or I to accept it?" asked Obelia scornfully. "I credited you with more sense than that, Pearl —and more ambition, as well. Why do you not agree, then simply attempt to postpone the wedding date until after your inheritance is secure? It is what I would do in your place."

  "Were my motives as mercenary as your own, no doubt I would do the same." Pearl made no attempt to hide her bitterness. "I might even be willing to marry a man twenty years my senior for the prestige of his position. I fear my ambitions are beyond your ability to understand, however."

  "It appears you understand my motives as poorly as I understand yours," snapped the Duchess. "While I believe that estate should go to my son, that goal pales in comparison to my desire to have you wed and out of this house."

  This was plain speaking indeed. A month ago, Pearl would have been wounded by her stepmother's words. Now, however, she was concerned only with preventing her from forcing Luke's hand.

  "How if I agree to wed—but where I will?" She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. "I would still be out of your way. I will even agree to marry before my birthday, if possible."

  Obelia regarded her suspiciously. "What do you mean, where you will? Whom can you intend to wed, if not Lord Hardwyck?"

  Pearl smiled grimly. There was one man she felt sure she could convince to abet her in her social aims. A man who had offered for her several times already, and whom she believed she could bend to her will, as he had already shown himself exceedingly malleable. A man she could manage, if not one she could love.

  Though feeling as if a part of her soul was dying within her, she spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. "I will marry Lord Bellowsworth. Pray send for him, so that I may let him know that I have had a change of heart."

  * * *

  "That was unusually quick work for Parliament, I must say," Lord Marcus said by way of congratulation. Luke had invited his friend to join him for breakfast, that he might ask his advice on various matters. "Usually they have to debate anything to death before coming to any sort of decision."

  Only one week after Luke's removal to Hardwyck House, the Committee of Privileges of the House of Lords had acted upon the recommendation of the College of Heralds and confirmed him as Earl of Hardwyck.

  "The Lords seemed only too eager to have the matter settled," Luke agreed. "It appears my uncle was less popular than I realized, for all the influence he wielded."

  "Power breeds enemies," Marcus offered.

  Luke took a sip of coffee— excellent stuff, prepared by the French chef he had hired yesterday —and pointed to the morning papers. The news of his confirmation was on the front page of both the Morning Post and The Times. "So does fame, I imagine. If I am to live up to a fraction of what seems to be expected of me, I will need your assistance, Marcus."

  "I'm here to serve, of course," responded his friend with a grin. "Who'd have thought, back at Oxford, that scrawny Luke di Santo would turn out so well?"

  "Not I, I assure you," said Luke with perfect truth. Turning to the scandal sheets, he chuckled at the wild surmises about his past and predictions for his future. How could these pundits know what his future held, when he had no clue himself?

  Marcus leaned across the table to see what he was chuckling at. "Everyone is agog to know when you will appear in Society in your new role," he commented.

  "So it would seem. Since yesterday, when word first appeared in the afternoon papers, invitations have been arriving."

  "And? Whose have you chosen to grace with your grand entrance? I insist upon being present to see the faces of those matrons who warned their daughters away from you last Season."

  "I haven't decided yet," Luke replied.

  "There's a grand reception at Carlton House tomorrow night," Marcus suggested. "The absolute cream of the ton will be there, of course."

  "Hmm. Perhaps. I'd have to make certain my new clothes from Weston are ready in time."

  "Yes, you'll want to wait until you're properly outfitted," Marcus agreed. "Don't want to give those tabbies any opening to criticize, after all. Begin as you mean to go on."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  In truth, Luke preferred that his first meeting with Pearl not be in the midst of a crowd, but he still felt uncertain of how he should approach her. Perhaps a casual morning call, and an invitation to go driving, to gauge her feelings toward him? That might serve. He was reluctant to ask Marcus's advice on so delicate a matter.

  Idly, he turned over the page, where a noted gossip's speculations about him continued. There, in the next column, another item ca
ught his eye. He stared for a long moment, unwilling to believe what he read there.

  "Luke? Something wrong?" Marcus asked in sudden concern.

  With an effort, Luke shook his head. "Not a thing. That reception at Carlton House does sound like a good choice for my first public appearance. Will you come with me to Weston's as soon as we finish eating? I'd like to do this thing right."

  He swept the paper aside before Marcus could see what had stunned him—an announcement of the betrothal of Lady Pearl Moreston, daughter of the Duke of Oakshire, to the Marquess of Bellowsworth.

  CHAPTER 16

  Pearl's cheeks were beginning to ache with the effort to maintain a smile when she felt more like screaming with frustration. When she had agreed to this betrothal she had managed to forget, in her desperation to salvage her pride, how very boring Lord Bellowsworth's conversation could be.

  ". . . So I had to convince Mother that just because a stable cat found its way into the main house, it did not necessarily follow that there were mice in the house," he was saying, as they slowly traversed the main ballroom of Carlton House. "She cannot abide animals of any sort, you know."

  "Mmm," Pearl responded, idly scanning the room, though she did not admit to herself who it was she was looking for.

  "She insisted that I remain, therefore. I suggested a ratcatcher, to ease her mind, but she pointed out that he would have ferrets or terriers with him, which she detests nearly as much as rodents."

  Lord Bellowsworth had been obligingly incurious about the reasons for Pearl's volte-face after her repeated refusals of his suit. She had cited the claims of filial obedience and he had accepted that without question, as it was an overriding force in his own life. Thus, she was not obliged to pretend an affection she could not feel, much to her relief. Still, that could scarcely console her for the years of tedium she saw stretching ahead.

  One of the Prince Regent's numerous footmen passed just then, and Pearl plucked a glass of champagne from the tray he carried —her second of the evening. She hoped it might mellow her sufficiently to allow her to remain civil to her fiancé —and everyone else.