Free Rogue's Honor by Brenda Hiatt

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."

CHAPTER 5

    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,