The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "Pray forgive me," he said then, his expression making it a question.

  She nodded. "Of course. I was at fault as well."

  Whatever he read in her own eyes, it apparently satisfied him. With a tender smile, he said, "I'll take my leave of you, then —for the present." Before she could reply, he was gone.

  Pearl turned to watch his retreat, a small smile playing about her lips, but Minerva stepped in front of her, blocking her view of his well-proportioned back. "Here. Have some coffee," she suggested, or rather ordered, thrusting a steaming cup at her.

  Taking it, Pearl looked up sheepishly at her friend's disapproving face. "You were right about the champagne, it seems," she said. "I have behaved rather . . . unwisely."

  Minerva seated herself on the bench Luke had just vacated. "I should say so! What if Bellowsworth had seen you? Or your parents? Or any of the dozens of gossips present? Pearl, you might have been ruined!"

  Wincing at the bitterness of the coffee as she sipped, Pearl nodded. "I'll be more careful in future, I promise." Careful not to be caught, in any event. She knew, though there had been no time for plans, that she would see Luke again.

  Minerva apparently detected something of prevarication in her expression, for her concerned frown did not lessen. "Do you not recall what it is said your Lord Hardwyck did last Season, as mere Mr. di Santo? Pray be careful, Pearl. You do not wish to be used and discarded by him as poor Lady Simcox was."

  Pearl choked on a sip of coffee. She'd all but forgotten that bit of gossip —nor had she ever questioned Luke about it. "No. No, of course not," she said as soon as she stopped coughing. That couldn't be what Luke had in mind . . . could it?

  "Good." Minerva patted her hand. "Now, finish up that coffee, and we'll return to the gathering. Tomorrow you may wake with a nasty headache, from what I've seen of my brothers, but you'll be able to view things rationally again."

  Draining her cup, Pearl stood. "Thank you, Minerva. I don't doubt you are right." In fact, the headache was already beginning, her temples starting to throb uncomfortably.

  "You'll realize then that, handsome and charming as he may be, Lord Hardwyck is safer avoided," Minerva continued. "He may be a lord now, but at heart he is still a rogue without honor, it would seem."

  But her own heart was already given to that rogue, Pearl realized. The sober light of another day would not change that. What she would do about that inconvenient fact, she had no idea. She would wait for the promised return of rationality to consider her options. For now, she had to get through the rest of the evening, worsening headache notwithstanding.

  "I appreciate your advice," she said to her friend as they headed toward Lord Bellowsworth, still deep in discussion with the other gentlemen. "I shall certainly keep it in mind."

  She carefully made no promises to act upon it, however.

  CHAPTER 17

  As Minerva had predicted, Pearl awoke the next morning feeling as though a troop of soldiers had been marching on her head —and across her tongue —all night. "I am never touching champagne again," she mumbled into her pillow.

  That was a mistake, for it brought Hettie bouncing through the servant door. "Good morning, my lady!" she exclaimed, using at least twice her normal volume. "The Duchess wanted you below an hour since, but I convinced her that you needed your rest."

  She set down the tray she carried long enough to twitch open the draperies, letting in a blinding amount of light, then carried the tray to her mistress. "I've brought your chocolate and some toast, but can bring up more breakfast if you'd prefer to take it here."

  "Why," Pearl began, then grabbed at her head for fear it might explode before trying again in a whisper. "Why are you shouting?"

  "Shouting?" Hettie bellowed, looking confused, then concerned. "My lady, are you not well?" she asked then, moderating her tone to merely strident.

  Still clutching her head, Pearl shook it, very slowly and carefully. To her relief, it remained intact. The smell of the chocolate, normally a favorite beverage, made her stomach lurch.

  "No food. No chocolate," she whispered. "Tea, please." She wouldn't have dared request even that except that her mouth was so parched and foul-tasting.

  "Of course, my lady. And I will have her grace send for the physician at once." Hettie's concern would have been more endearing had it not made her so shrill.

  Again, Pearl cautiously shook her head. "No need," she said, her own voice louder than she'd intended. "Merely the aftereffects of too much champagne last night."

  Instantly, Hettie's worried frown eased, to be replaced by an almost motherly smile. "Then I know just the thing, my lady." Now she seemed to be making more of an effort to keep her voice low, which Pearl appreciated greatly. "I'll be back in a moment."

  "Thank you. And please don't—"

  "Not a word, my lady, I promise!" she said with a wink and a grin before disappearing back through the panel, taking the malodorous chocolate with her.

  Pearl sighed with relief, then rolled onto her back to stare up at the medallioned ceiling. What had she been thinking, to drink five glasses of champagne? Why, she could have . . . Bits and pieces of the previous evening returned, gaining clarity as they accumulated.

  Lord Bellowsworth, stuffier than ever. Luke's appearance, in splendid style . . . Luke and Bellowsworth arguing, arguing about her! Insufferable men. Then, later, talking to Minerva, then Luke, then . . .

  She pressed her hands to her face. Dear heaven, she had told him everything! And then . . . and then he had kissed her. Even now, horrified as she was by what she'd told him and the impropriety of allowing such an intimacy in such a setting, the memory of that kiss had the power to send warmth rushing through her, temporarily easing her bodily anguish.

  But not her mental anguish.

  She had agreed to marry Lord Bellowsworth with her eyes wide open. He had met with her father, the announcement had been printed in all of the papers, settlements were being drawn up, she had even exacted a promise from him that she would be allowed to manage Fairbourne as she wished.

  Everything, in fact, had been arranged precisely as she had requested. And now, now she discovered that Luke did not despise her after all. Worse, he now knew that she was betrothed to a man she did not love, and in all likelihood understood the true nature of her feelings toward Luke himself. Pearl writhed inwardly with embarrassment. She had all but thrown herself at the man, while engaged to marry another!

  When next she saw him, she would have to behave distantly, even coldly toward him, making it clear that the champagne had been talking last night and not her reason. Otherwise, he might well precipitate a scandal for the pure pleasure of discomfiting Bellowsworth. As new to Society as he was, that would do his standing no good at all.

  A little voice told her that she wouldn't care, as long as they could be together. But no. Luke had said nothing last night about wishing to marry her— she was certain she would remember if he had. She would not be made into a laughingstock for the sake of his male pride —or Bellowsworth's. It was up to her to make certain there were no further confrontations between the two.

  If she ever felt equal to leaving her bed again . . .

  * * *

  "Excellently done, Flute!" Luke examined the fall of his cravat in the glass. "We'll make a valet of you yet. You've been practicing, have you?"

  "Aye, around that urn on the landing." Flute fairly beamed with pride. "Clarence says I'm getting it right three times out of four now." Lord Marcus had been sending his own valet to Hardwyck Hall for an hour or two each day to assist in Flute's training.

  "I always knew you were a clever lad. Now, if you'll just hand me the blue coat—yes, Woodruff? What is it?" He turned to face his new butler, who stood clearing his throat at the door of his chamber.

  "Lord Marcus Northrup is below, my lord," replied the young man who had served as a footman to the Mountheaths until they turned him off last week without a reference.

  It seemed that Miss Fanny h
ad thrown away her favorite fan in a fit of pique, then, regretting her action, had told Woodruff to retrieve it from the dustbin. He had succeeded, but the condition of the fan had been sufficient to throw the young lady into a fury —and Woodruff into the streets.

  Luke nodded. "I was just going down. Thank you, Woodruff."

  Lord Marcus greeted him in the library a moment later with a relieved smile. "I'm glad I caught you before you went out, Luke. I've been thinking about last night, and wanted to talk with you."

  "About what?" asked Luke warily, moving to one of the new overstuffed chairs near the windows. Already the library was a far more comfortable room than it had been during his uncle's possession.

  Marcus took the matching chair. "Your apparent determination to pursue the Lady Pearl, of course. I don't know how well you know Bellowsworth—"

  "As well as ever I want to, I assure you," Luke interjected.

  "—but he's rather a favorite, even a coddled son of Society," Marcus continued as though he hadn't spoken. "He's an ineffectual fellow, I grant you, but those in positions of influence— particularly the matrons —are rather, well, protective of him."

  "So you feel it would be a mistake for me to humiliate him?" Luke concluded. "Pity." For that was precisely what he intended to do.

  His determination must have been obvious, for Marcus leaned forward earnestly. "I know you care for the lady, and I'm the first to admit that Bellowsworth isn't worthy of her, but can you really afford a scandal so soon?"

  Luke had to laugh. "You're a fine one to talk!"

  "Yes, but I've never had much at stake. You do." Marcus frowned worriedly. "Already tongues are wagging about your exchange last night, and it won't be long before someone dredges up that old story about Lady Simcox from last Season."

  Now it was Luke's turn to frown. "What story is that?"

  "Hm. Well. I only know what the gossips have said," replied Marcus, clearly wishing he hadn't brought it up.

  "As I have not been in a position to hear Society's gossip until quite recently, perhaps you can enlighten me," Luke suggested.

  Marcus ran a finger between his neck and collar, glancing out the window, then around the library, before answering. "The story last year— after you went back to the country —was that you seduced her right under her husband's nose. That she flaunted her infidelity so that Simcox would divorce her—so she could marry you —but that you left her in the lurch. I never believed any of it, of course, but—"

  "Like most persistent tales, it's a mix of fact and fiction," said Luke with a chuckle. "The lady approached me. She was desperate to free herself from her brutish husband, and I agreed to, er, assist her. She never had the slightest desire to attach herself to me—or to any man, I imagine, after what she'd seen of marriage. She intended to return to her ancestral home in Cumberland, I believe."

  "Then it's true that you and she . . .?"

  "A gentleman never tells," Luke reminded him dryly. "Now that you've done your duty by sharing your concerns, perhaps you'll excuse me, Marcus. I have a mind to go riding in the Park."

  "Would you care for company?"

  He shook his head. "I'm trying out a new mount, actually. My horsemanship still leaves much to be desired, I fear."

  Visibly relieved, Marcus grinned. "What, does your aunt Lavinia not keep a stable?"

  Luke felt a twinge of remorse for continuing to deceive his friend about his past, but he shook his head. "No, she never travels, so saw no need. I've scarcely ridden at all since Oxford, in fact."

  The riding instruction he'd received there had seemed pointless at the time, but he was glad of it now. He saw no need whatsoever to inform Marcus that he had reason to believe Pearl and Bellowsworth would be driving in the Park this afternoon. He only hoped he wouldn't make too poor a showing, should he encounter them —as he fully intended to do.

  "I'll take my leave then," said Marcus, standing. Luke accompanied him to the front door. "You'll keep in mind what I said?" he asked, by way of parting.

  "Of course," Luke agreed. "I do appreciate your keeping me apprised of everything Society is doing and saying." It would make his campaign easier, if he knew precisely what he was up against.

  With a cheerful nod, Marcus departed. At once, Luke called for his horse. With any luck, the next hour would be most amusing.

  * * *

  "You seem uncommonly thirsty this afternoon," Obelia commented from her throne-like chair in the parlor as Pearl poured herself another cup of tea.

  "I suppose I am," she agreed absently. Hettie's concoction had helped enormously, but she still felt far from her best. Tea was all she cared to put into her stomach thus far.

  The Duchess eyed her critically. "I am pleased to see you are feeling recovered. It was beyond all things rude for you to refuse to call upon Lady Bellowsworth this morning, illness or no illness. She rarely invites visitors to her home, you know."

  "I'm certain Lord Bellowsworth —and you, your grace—would prefer my first impression upon her to be a positive one." Pearl took a large sip of tea. It did seem to fortify her somewhat. "I assure you that such would not have been the case had I gone this morning. I had the most dreadful headache, and was dizzy besides."

  "You're not increasing, are you?" Obelia demanded. "That could ruin all."

  Pearl nearly spewed out the mouthful of tea she had just taken. "Of course not! And pray lower your voice, your grace. That would be a fine thing for one of the servants to hear."

  Obelia merely sniffed, taking a delicate bite of the cucumber sandwich she held.

  "If you must know, I drank a bit too much of the Prince Regent's excellent champagne last night, and it disagreed with me," said Pearl, deciding honesty was preferable to Obelia's surmises. "And my monthly courses ended just days ago, so you needn't worry about . . . what you suggested."

  It appeared that this was plainer speaking than Obelia cared for. "No more details, if you please. I only hope Lord Bellowsworth did not notice your imbibing last night. A man in his position will not want a sot for a wife."

  Pearl did not reply, refusing to be drawn into a discussion of her own shortcomings —not that she had any defense for her foolishness, in any event. The silence had become awkward, as so often happened between them, when Upwood appeared to announce Lord Bellowsworth.

  On entering the parlor, he offered only a cursory bow to the Duchess before hurrying over to Pearl. "I am so happy to see you sitting up, my lady! Dare I hope you are feeling recovered? Mother was so disappointed that you were unable to attend her this morning."

  His solicitousness would have been a pleasant change from Obelia's criticism had Pearl not detected a hint of censure in his manner. "I hope you conveyed my apologies to her," she replied. "I had the most abominable headache, but I am feeling much more the thing now."

  "That is excellent news," he exclaimed. "And I have even better news to share. My mother is outside at this moment, in the barouche-landau, and wishes you to come driving in the Park with us!" He beamed as though offering her the greatest treat imaginable.

  The Duchess spoke before Pearl could summon up the enthusiasm he clearly expected for her response. "Sitting outside in a carriage, my lord? Pray invite the dear lady inside!"

  But Lord Bellowsworth shook his head. "She preferred to wait, your grace. Climbing in and out of carriages is difficult for her. That is why I was so delighted when she asked me to take her for a drive today. I'm certain the fresh air— warm, with no hint of chill —will do her an enormous amount of good."

  "I'll ring for my parasol at once." Pearl realized she might as well get the inevitable meeting over, though she'd have preferred another day to recover her constitution.

  Stepping outside a few minutes later, Pearl saw at once why Lady Bellowsworth might find dismounting from her barouche an effort, for she was an extremely large woman. Blinking in the sunlight, which seemed far too bright for so late in the day, Pearl curtsied to the turbaned, silk-swathed figure reposing under th
e hood of the carriage.

  "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady," she said, when the woman did not speak at once.

  Instead of replying, Lady Bellowsworth turned to her son. "Burford, hand her into the barouche-landau, so that I can get a look at her." He hurried at once to comply. "My eyes are prone to inflammation, you know," she continued. "Spectacles do me little good."

  Pearl murmured something sympathetic as Bellowsworth seated himself next to her in the rear-facing seat, but the grand dame before her waved a beringed hand to silence her.

  "So this is the lady you have finally chosen is it, Burford? The papers have been uncommonly flattering about her, but I'll form my own opinions. A bit long in the tooth, isn't she?"

  "Of course not, Mother!" With an embarrassed glance at Pearl, he signaled the coachman to start. "I've already told you that she is not yet one-and-twenty."

  Lady Bellowsworth continued to regard Pearl, who was torn between laughter and outrage, with a critical eye. "A younger girl would be easier to train," she pronounced. "This one has a very decided expression and her forehead denotes a strong will. I suspect she has been much indulged."

  "If your ladyship would prefer to select a more suitable bride for your son—" Pearl began hopefully.

  "No, no, of course she does not mean that, my dear," Bellowsworth interrupted. "Mother is merely nervous at this, her first drive in some months."

  "Driving is not at all good for me," Lady Bellowsworth agreed, diverted for the moment from her critique of Pearl by this reference to her own health. "I find I benefit from a more sheltered atmosphere. Early summer is the only season I can abide being out of doors for any time at all, I take a chill so easily."

  At once Bellowsworth was all concern. "Is that rug warm enough for you, Mother?" he asked, reaching across to adjust the heavy blanket covering her legs.

  "Too warm," she responded, shoving the rug to the floor of the carriage. "And the sun is too bright." In that, Pearl had to agree with her. "It makes my poor eyes water."