Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

WHISTLING CHEERFULLY, Luke St. Clair strolled along Jermyn Street as the cool of early evening turned the afternoon’s haze to tendrils of mist. Casually, he scanned those entering and exiting the gaming houses, looking for an easy mark. His gaze slid over one well-dressed man and then another. No, obviously merchants. Ah! That middle-aged man alighting from a crested carriage. Clearly one of the ton . He’d do nicely.

Luke hunched his shoulders and slowed his pace, in keeping with today’s disguise as an inebriated old man—down at the heels, but not quite seedy enough to look like a threat. He ambled in the direction of his selected target, then stumbled just as he reached the man.

“Sorry, milor’,” he mumbled, steadying himself against the gentleman’s arm to break his supposed fall. Even as the nobleman supercilously swept aside Luke’s abject apology, his purse was liberated from his pocket.

“Be gone with you, old tippler. Keep your distance from your betters,” the haughty lord advised him with a sneer.

Biting back an instinctive retort, Luke managed a servile bow that made his cheap white peruke slip down to partially conceal his face as he backed away from the man. Not until he turned onto Haymarket Street a moment later did the hue and cry begin.

With a chuckle, Luke straightened his wig and quickened his pace, though not enough to draw attention. Then the words, “Stop, thief!” rang out behind him. Ducking around the next corner into an alley scarce wider than an arm-spread, he broke into a run.

This was always his favorite part. Leaving the alley for Coventry Street, he glanced back to see two dandified bucks of the ton hot after him, brandishing sticks and shouting absurd threats.Perfect.

Or not so perfect. The young gentlemen were apparently among the more fit of their species, for another quick glance showed them gaining. Luke put on a burst of speed, leaping over an ashcan before sending it clattering behind him. So much for his disguise! No description of the thief would mention an elderly man now.

Still, he knew this part of London better than the alley cats did. With the young sprigs hot on his heels, he led them a merry chase toward Soho Square, taking care to trail them through every puddle of mud or filth he could find along the way. “That’s for you, Mum,” he muttered at the sound of sudden cursing behind him.

Slipping around a corner, he then nipped into the dark recess of a doorway, pressing his back against the wooden panels. He managed to catch a few much-needed breaths before his pursuers approached. As they came closer, he snaked one hand behind him to test the door handle.

It opened easily, and he nearly fell into a brightly lit roomfilled with women in various stages of undress—actresses preparing to perform here at one of the minor opera houses. Quickly, he shut the door behind him so that his pursuers wouldn’t hear their squeals.

“Lucio, as I live and breathe!” cooed a buxom redhead Luke remembered well from last Season. Indignation turned to delight as others realized who had burst in upon them.

Doffing his peruke, Luke greeted them all with his most charming smile. “My apologies for an unannounced entry, ladies. I won’t be staying long.” He’d dallied with at least three of them in the past, taking nearly as much pleasure from the knowledge that he was cuckolding their noble protectors as from their more obvious charms.

The outer door opened again, and at once two of the actresses stepped in front of Luke, who quickly ducked down behind them. Between their skirts, he could see the dumbfounded faces of his erstwhile hunters.

Shrilly, the women protested the intrusion, claiming a modesty that should have provoked laughter rather than the embarrassment the two young dandies evinced. Stammering apologies, they quickly backed out to continue their search elsewhere. The moment the door closed, the women again converged on Luke, giggling and pulling at his jacket. Obligingly, he took it off, but only long enough to reverse it and pull a cap from the pocket.

“I am eternally in your debt,” he declared to the group as a whole. Despite their chorus of protests, he dropped a quick kiss on the cheek of the redhead, winked at the two blondes he’d known previously and, with fulsome compliments, took his leave.

Peering from the doorway, he watched his pursuers turn another corner, apparently heading toward Seven Dials. He waited another moment or two before emerging to stroll toward Mayfair, in the opposite direction.

Pulling the purloined purse from his pocket, he counted his takings as he walked. Not as much as he’d hoped, but it would pay his rent for the month and buy a new washtub and iron for Mrs. Breitmann, who eked out a living for herself and her five children by taking in laundry. Of course, there was still Grady O’Malley to spring from debtor’s prison in Newgate, as well as a few things he wanted for himself. Luckily, he was headed toward the richest part of London.

Luke paused at the edge of Berkley Square in the gathering dusk, gazing at one of the finest mansions in Town. Yes, that one would do nicely—or perhaps that one there, two houses down. He’d wander through the mews and discover which one might be having guests in tonight. That would make his job easier.

He felt not the slightest twinge of guilt for what he was planning. These people had more wealth than they could ever use, and deserved none of it. With the exception of the close circle of friends he’d made at Oxford, in his experience every member of the ton was arrogant, self-absorbed, and completely unappreciative of his or her privileged state.

Smiling to himself, he again considered the fine mansions before him. Gilded cages, that’s what they were. He far preferred his life of unfettered freedom to one of circumscribed luxury with no thrills, no challenges, no worries whatsoever…

~ ~ ~

“ARE YOU SURE you want to go through with this, my lady?” Hettie asked anxiously as Pearl closed the gate at the back of the kitchen gardens, emerging into the alleyway behind the great houses of Berkley Square.

Her escape accomplished, Pearl let out her breath and faced her abigail. Tucking a stray strand of hair into the tight bun she now wore, she checked the fit of her borrowed rags. Well, not rags precisely—a much-worn work dress of Hettie’s, with the hem let out to cover the much taller Pearl’s ankles.

“Of course I’m sure. And it’s ‘Purdy,’ remember? If you call me ‘my lady,’ we’ll be found out at once.” Slipping out of the house unseen had been difficult enough, despite the commotion surrounding the Duke’s departure. She had never quite realized what an army of servants her family employed.

“Oh, look at that poor cat, trying to pull a fish from that crate there,” she said then, her attention diverted. “Do you suppose it has kittens somewhere?”

Hettie chuckled. “It looks sleek and fat enough to me, my—Purdy. Stuffed on mice from Lord Tinsdale’s stables, no doubt, not to mention scraps from his kitchens. A cat’s not likely to starve in Mayfair.”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.”

Hettie glanced away, but not before Pearl saw the combination of worry and merriment in her eyes. No doubt she believed that Pearl was merely amusing herself with her play acting. But of course Pearl had a far higher purpose. Think of Fairbourne!

“Eh, there!” A rough, masculine voice accosted them. “Be either of you wenches looking for a job t’night?”

Pearl turned indignantly, ready to blast the footman—for that’s what he appeared to be—for calling them wenches, but Hettie placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“What sort of job?” she asked the man. “We’ll do nothing unsavory, I assure you.”