Rogue's Honor (8 page)

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."

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.