A Debt of Dishonor

by Marek, Lillian

  A Debt of Dishonor

  Lords of Sussex

  Book 2

  by Lillian Marek

  © Copyright 2021 by Lillian Marek

  Text by Lillian Marek

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2021

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lilian Marek

  The Lords of Sussex Series

  The Earl Returns

  A Debt of Dishonor

  The Winds of Change

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lilian Marek

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  London, April 1818

  The scarlet carriage belonging to the Earl of Farnsworth pulled up at the residence of Viscount Newell, and the groom leaped to open the door and put down the steps. The butler, who had been warned to watch for the earl’s arrival, opened the door as the earl approached. His eyes widened at the earl’s smile, and he could not restrain a shiver. He had never seen the earl pleased before. It was not a pleasant sight.

  Still smiling, Farnsworth paused for a moment before the somewhat dingy mirror in the hall to examine himself. He was not an ugly man. Taken individually, his features were not unpleasing, except for the strange redness of his nose. He was well set up, his clothes needing no padding or other tailor’s tricks. He always wore gloves, and few could know this was to cover a persistent sore. His hair was his own, and though it had become patchy, it was still brown with no gray showing. His eyes, also brown, were reasonably clear. It would be difficult to fault his appearance.

  Newell came into the hall to greet him, looking like a man who has not yet recovered from the previous night’s debauch. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and nodded a greeting to Farnsworth without actually speaking.

  “And where is your sister? Is she not ready for our little outing?”

  Newell shrugged and looked away. “She’s locked herself into her room and won’t come out.”

  Farnsworth froze. The smile faded. “And why would she do that?” he asked icily.

  Newell shrugged again, without looking at Farnsworth.

  The earl spoke with exaggerated patience. “Newell, do not tell me you were so foolish as to tell your sister about our arrangement.”

  Newell flushed. “I didn’t tell her. I…” He pursed his mouth and looked away. “It’s not my fault. She was in the library last night and overheard us.”

  “She overheard us.” Farnsworth’s voice was flat. “Would I be correct in concluding that she took some exception to our agreement?”

  Newell said nothing. He simply stood there, head turned aside, looking both mulish and sulky.

  Farnsworth spun away from the viscount, looked off at some sight he alone could see, a muscle in his jaw twitching. After a moment, he turned back. “I should have known better than to leave anything in the hands of an idiot like you. Now, what should have been a pleasant little excursion will, of necessity, turn into an ugly scene.”

  Newell said nothing.

  But then, thought Farnsworth, what could the idiot say? “Have you at least the key to her room?”

  Newell shook his head. “She has it in there with her. I’ve told her she has to come out, but she won’t answer when I talk to her.” He sounded resentful.

  Farnsworth made a sound that seemed half-disgusted and half-amused. “Well then, order your largest footman to break down the door. I am afraid I do not intend to wait for your efforts at persuasion to have effect.”

  The largest footman, who was also the only footman, did not set about the task he was ordered to perform with any enthusiasm. He had not been paid in the past two quarters for the ordinary footman duties he performed. He could not really see why he should be expected to do something that was clearly out of the usual run of footman duties. However, one look from Farnsworth was enough to persuade him to make an effort.

  It was not a painless effort. Though the footman was large, the door was sturdy, and when he ran at it, he bounced right off. That he tried three more times, with equal lack of success, was a tribute to the power of Farnsworth’s glare. He was standing there rubbing his shoulder and wondering which would shatter first, wood or bone, when the housemaid appeared.

  She had been drawn by curiosity, wondering what the thuds and grunts portended. The butler, who had been peering around the corner of the corridor, trusting that he was too old to be asked to help, whispered to her what was afoot, or rather, ashoulder.

  Now, the housemaid had nothing against Miss Russell, the viscount’s sister, but she had nothing for her either. On the other hand, she did have a bit of a soft spot for the footman, so she tweaked the butler’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked at her in surprise, and she nodded vigorously.

  The butler approached the visc
ount and cleared his throat. When he had Newell’s attention, he said, “Excuse me, my lord, but this young person reminds me that the keys in this house are interchangeable.”

  Newell looked at him blankly.

  Farnsworth barked a laugh. “That means, my dear Newell, that any key in the house will open any lock in the house. So if you can produce a key, any key, we can bring this farce to an end.”

  Newell flushed. “Fetch a key.”

  While the butler hurried off to do just that, the other two servants backed quietly away and vanished around the corner. Once he had produced the key, the butler prepared to do the same, but Farnsworth waved him to unlock the door. He did so and stepped aside.

  Farnsworth stepped in, followed more slowly by Newell. Both were prepared for a storm of fury. Neither was expecting an empty room. Farnsworth was the first to recover his equilibrium, and strolled around the room, using his cane to peer behind curtains and into the armoire in a fair imitation of indifference. It was he who noticed the letter propped up on the writing table.

  It was folded and sealed, with only “Humphrey” written across it. Who but Katherine could have left it? Farnsworth had no hesitation about opening it. Then he laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.

  “Your sister does not appear to hold either of us in great esteem,” he said, with apparent casualness. “She calls you a ‘pusillanimous pander’ and says you are welcome to starve in the gutter for all she cares, and she would rather die than be sold to a ‘disgusting, diseased degenerate’. That would be me, I presume. She is a trifle overfond of alliteration, but one cannot fault her characterizations. How well she knows us both.” He turned to Newell with a look of barely controlled fury. “You bungling fool.”

  Newell looked appalled. “She would rather die? My God, has she killed herself?”

  “Do not be an idiot. You will notice that there are no clothes in this room, with the exception of that rather tawdry thing you dressed her in to display her at the opera. She has obviously packed her bag and run away. Now, you will need to retrieve her.”

  “How the devil am I supposed to do that? I don’t know where she went.”

  Farnsworth looked at him.

  Newell blustered, “Well, I don’t. How could I know?”

  Farnsworth sighed the sigh of an intelligent man forced to deal with fools. “Does she have any friends in London? Does she know anyone in London?”

  Newell shook his head. “She’s only been here a few weeks and never met anyone except friends of mine here, and she don’t like them any more than she likes you.”

  Farnsworth gave him an impatient look. “Does she have any friends anywhere? She is twenty years old, after all. She must have known people before you brought her here.”

  “Well, I suppose she has friends back in Yorkshire. Leastways there were people there with her at our mother’s funeral.” Farnsworth looked at Newell, and got a shrug in reply. “I don’t know where else she’d go. She’s lived there all her life, so she won’t know anyone anyplace else.”

  “Then you will be taking a trip to Yorkshire to retrieve my property, won’t you?”

  “But she’s run away. She’s not going to want to come back, and if she’s with friends…”

  “That is your problem. You will have to deal with it. We both know you have no other way to pay what you owe me.” Newell opened his mouth to protest, but Farnsworth glared at him. “You will leave at once and let me know of your success immediately on your return. You really do not want to disappoint me.”

  The click of his footsteps on the marble of the stairs and hall was the only sound in the house as Farnsworth departed.

  Newell felt sick. How the hell was he supposed to get to Yorkshire without any money? He needed a drink.

  *

  A few miles south of London a farmer’s wagon was heading for home, the load of cheeses having been delivered. The aging cart horse plodded along slowly but steadily. On the back of the wagon, munching on apples, sat the farmer’s son, a cheerful boy of about ten, and a young woman to whom the farmer had given a ride. A few strands of blond hair peeked out from beneath her bonnet, a somewhat battered thing, devoid of decoration. The farmer had at first thought her too delicate, too fragile for the Yorkshire farm girl she claimed to be, but her sturdy brown dress and cloak, and the boots on her feet, to say nothing of her roughened hands, all looked familiar with hard work.

  She tilted her head back to feel the warmth of the springtime sun and took a deep breath of the fresh air. Her eyes closed and the corners of her mouth tipped up in a faint smile.

  Miss Katherine Russell had escaped.

  Chapter One

  Sussex

  Katherine Russell, known to those who loved her as Kate, was awakened from a deep sleep by the sun streaming through the window. She lay there in frozen stillness, her eyes wide with panic. Where was she? This was not her home, nor was it her brother’s house. Once the silence in the room had assured her that she was alone, she cautiously lifted her head to look around. The room was unfamiliar and it was—she stopped to stare in surprise. Yes, the room was unfamiliar. But it was not threatening. It was actually pretty. How remarkable. There were chintz curtains with a pattern of pink flowers on both the bed and the windows. There was a fireplace with a cheerful fire in it to take the chill off the spring morning. And the sheets on her bed were soft and lavender-scented.

  The panic began to ease and her heart started slowing down to a normal beat.

  She was in her aunt’s house in Lewes, that was it. She had reached sanctuary. Frances Darling had not just given her shelter last night when she knocked on the door, close to exhaustion, but had welcomed her. For the first time since her mother’s death, Kate had felt safe. The determination—or desperation—that had carried her here from London eased under that welcome and she had tumbled into bed barely aware of her surroundings.

  Now she was aware. Someone must have unpacked her bag and pressed her blue dress, because it was laid over the chair, along with a clean shift, stays and stockings. Her half boots had even been cleaned and polished. Sitting on the hearth by the fire was a pitcher of water, still warm for her washing.

  Feeling embarrassed—she did not want her aunt to think her lazy—she dressed hurriedly, pinned the pocket with the necklace under her skirt, and ran down the stairs.

  As she reached the hall, she was startled by a knock on the door. The sound froze her for a moment and panic returned. He could not possibly have found her so soon, could he? Then she realized it had been a courteous knock, not a demanding hammering. She stiffened her shoulders and opened the door, but then she stood frozen once more, unable to speak.

  In front of her was a man, the most spectacular man she had ever seen. He looked like an angel, a warrior angel, with a fierce, proud face, though he was probably only a farmer. His coat was well cut but loose enough for ease of movement and so too loose for fashion, and his boots boasted more mud than polish.

  He was tall, much taller than she. Her head barely came up to his chin. If she looked straight ahead, she would be staring at his cravat. That was not where she wanted to look, however. She wanted to look at his face, his wonderful face. How could it be so beautiful and so masculine at the same time? His hair was dark, almost black, and fell neatly into place with no fashionable curls. His chin was strong without being obtrusive, his nose was classical without being hawkish, his mouth was well shaped without being voluptuous, and his eyes were a clear, brilliant blue, sheltered by unfairly long lashes and sharply arched brows. His face was, perhaps, a trifle too long and narrow for perfection, which somehow made it even more attractive. With its stern expression, it was the face of a hero, a Lancelot come to rescue Guinevere or Hector determined to defend doomed Troy.

  “Run along, girl, and fetch your mistress,” he said, walking into the hall without so much as a glance at her.

  Girl? Kate thought, coming to herself. Girl? He thinks I am a servant? She drew herself up and said icil
y, “I will see if my aunt is at home. Who shall I say is calling?”

  That drew his attention. He stopped abruptly and turned to stare at her. And continued to stare.

  There was a muffled snort, and she realized there was a second man, who had been standing just behind the first one. She should have noticed him since he was even taller and broader than the first man, but he was not as beautiful despite his golden curls. At the moment, he appeared to be greatly amused, while the first man continued to stare. It was the second who spoke. “I do beg your pardon.” He seemed to be having difficulty restraining his laughter. “This gentleman is Peter Alexander Joseph Bancroft, Duke of Ashleigh, and I am Thomas Wortham, Earl of Merton. We have come to call on Mrs. Darling, if she will receive us.”

  Kate was reasonably certain that her jaw did not drop. Instead, she dropped a stiff curtsey. “Duke, Lord Merton, if you would be so good as to wait, I will see if my aunt is at home.” Opening a door at random, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was a drawing room. She ushered them in, gracefully, she hoped, and then managed to leave at a ladylike pace when all she wanted to do was run. Aristocrats, a duke and an earl no less, she thought, panic rising again. They must not be allowed to discover who she was. No matter how wondrous, how heroic the duke looked, he was not a hero, not for her. More likely an enemy. No member of the nobility could be anything but danger.

  *

  Once she had departed, Merton no longer bothered to restrain himself but collapsed in laughter. “Ashleigh, your face was priceless. What a blow! There is someone around Lewes who does not know you by sight.”

  Ashleigh, who was still staring after the girl, recalled himself. “And apparently, someone I offended,” he said with an effort at carelessness. “Prickly little creature, isn’t she? But if she goes around dressed like a servant girl, she can hardly be surprised when people mistake her for one.” Or a sprite. A forest nymph, with those green eyes and that flaxen hair.