A Debt of Dishonor

by Marek, Lillian

  “Ah.” She smiled slightly. “Well, I can see where that would be an explanation.”

  He had to continue. “And when I saw the necklace—it was so valuable, and went so ill with your poverty when you arrived—Stephen said it represented mistakes to you, and Franny said the past should be forgotten. I thought some scoundrel had seduced you and given you the necklace as payment.”

  There was no smile on her face now. “I assure you, if any man had offered me payment for my favors, I would have thrown it in his face. Her father sent those pearls to my mother after my father died. They were her mother’s jewels. It was the first time he had ever done anything to help her, to help us, and it was too late. She was already ill, already dying. I did not feel kindly toward him.” She looked at him. “That was all it took to make you think so ill of me? You could have asked me, you know.”

  He nodded. “So you see, I am sadly lacking in honor.”

  The silence stretched out, until she smiled. “But then, if none of this had happened, this encounter here, you would not have come riding up the road and rescued me when Farnsworth tried to carry me off.” He turned away with a dismissive gesture. “No,” she insisted, “you did rescue me. I don’t want to think what would have happened had you not arrived just then. And since then, everything you have done since then—you have been my knight in shining armor.”

  He shook his head helplessly at her, and could not keep a smile from appearing as he spread his arms open. “Kate, my dearest Kate, you unman me. You turn my failings into virtues. How will I ever manage to live up to your picture of me?”

  “No need to worry about that. I will find ways to puncture your self-esteem whenever I see you growing too arrogant.” She came into his arms and pulled his head down for a kiss.

  Sometime later, he lifted his head and rested his cheek on her head. “There is one more apology I must make. That day, the way I took you—I hurt you. I should never have been so rough. I gave you no pleasure, nothing but pain.”

  The silence stretched out as she remained in his arms, leaning against him. At length, she said, “Do you mean it isn’t always like that? It doesn’t always hurt?”

  “God, no!” She was going to give him a chance? There was hope? He was pressing kisses on her hair, on her face. “Let me show you. Let me show you what it should have been like. What it can be like.”

  First came fear, but then she felt the longing rise in her, that strange longing she could not name, the longing that had kept her awake so many nights. While he waited patiently for her answer, the fear was replaced by trust. She lifted her arms to go around his neck. “Show me,” she said, and turned her face to meet his kiss.

  He picked her up and carried her into the summer house. It had been transformed. There was a feather mattress on the bed and fine linen sheets. A soft rug covered the floor and curtains at the windows filtered the dim light. On the table was a vase of roses, perfuming the air. He enjoyed her surprise.

  “You planned this?” She was not sure if she should feel flattered or offended that he had been so certain of her.

  “No, not planned. I dared not do anything but hope.”

  He went slowly, this time. Each lace he unfastened, each ribbon he untied was accompanied by a kiss. Each inch of skin that he uncovered received a caress. She tingled all over with pleasure and growing anticipation. Unable to wait, she pushed his coat and waistcoat from his shoulders, untied his cravat, pulled up his shirt to enable her to touch his skin. She laughed when his nipples hardened under her caress just as hers did under his and he groaned at her touch.

  By the time he laid her on the bed, every part of her seemed to come alive with longing. He touched her in her most private place and she could not breathe. When he slid into her, this time, there was no pain, only a sense of rightness, that this was what she had been waiting for. This time, her gasps were gasps of delight, her cry a cry of pure ecstasy.

  Afterwards, when he lay beside her, cradling her in his arms, there was no smugness in his smile, only joy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Newell had been too engrossed in his own woes to mention it, or perhaps it would have slipped his mind under any circumstances, but there had been another man at the barn: the coachman.

  Now the coachman was not a particularly brave man, nor was he a particularly foolish one. When he heard the commotion in the barn and saw, through a crack of the door, that his companions were significantly outnumbered, he saw no point in remaining. He might have been able to ride off on one of the horses, but he was a coachman, not a horseman. Besides, he did not choose to risk being heard. He simply disappeared into the woods.

  It is a long walk from Lewes to London, the coachman discovered, made even longer by his efforts to keep out of sight. When he finally reached the city some days later, he wanted nothing more than a large quantity of ale, a decent meal, and a bed. These were all to be found in a tavern he knew but, the next morning, as he breakfasted on bread and ale, he considered his next step.

  He was not overburdened with funds at the moment, since his preliminary payment in this affair had been only enough to cover the hire of the coach. Although he was not privy to the precise details of the enterprise, he had heard enough to know that the Earl of Farnsworth was involved. He did not, of course, know the earl. Coachmen and earls do not travel in the same circles. However, he had heard of the earl, and the circles in which he had heard the name spoken suggested that the earl was not precisely a model of probity.

  The earl would want to know about the debacle that had occurred, and would doubtless be willing to pay for the information. And to pay to keep his involvement secret.

  A few discreet questions provided him with the earl’s direction and he eventually made his way to the appropriate square. It was, he was pleased to note, a thoroughly respectable-looking residence, in excellent repair, with gleaming paintwork on the front door. Not that he intended to go to the front door. Even if he could win entrance that way, he would not attempt it. He had no wish to advertise his business to anyone who chanced to pass.

  No. He went around to the alley in the back, through the gate and then to the kitchen door. The surly fellow who answered the door refused to let him in but, grudgingly, took a message, offering information about recent events concerning a lady in Lewes.

  The coachman was not offended. No one of sense allowed strangers into the house. He was willing to wait, thinking it likely that his message would win him admittance once the earl had heard it.

  In this, he was quite correct. He was taken to the library, where the earl awaited him with barely restrained eagerness.

  “Well? Well?” barked the earl. His eyes glittered, and he was tapping a rapid tattoo on the ground with a walking stick. “Where is she?”

  The coachman realized he might have made a mistake. The earl was obviously expecting good news—at least, what would be good news for him. He might not welcome bad news.

  The coachman licked his lips. There was no avoiding it, now that he was here. “It was a trap. They were expecting us. I’m the only one that got away.”

  There was a moment of stillness. The coachman did not dare breathe. Then a red tide of fury rose in the earl’s face and a torrent of imprecations spewed from his mouth. He raised the stick and staggered toward the coachman. “Fools! Incompetents!”

  Each word was accompanied by a swing of the stick, and the coachman barely managed to dodge enough to stay on his feet and get out the door. He fled back down to the kitchen, where the servants stood like statues, watching the door fearfully. He gave them barely a glance as he raced out.

  The upstairs servants also made themselves scarce while the shouts reverberated in the hall and the earl’s stick wreaked havoc on assorted ornaments. Eventually, silence returned and so did the footmen usually posted in the hall. When the bell rang, the footman whose turn it was first jumped nervously, then steeled himself and entered the library.

  The floor was littered with shards of
china and glass but Farnsworth sat at the desk writing a letter as calmly as if nothing had happened. He folded and sealed it, and it was only when he lifted his head that the footman saw the tic twitching in his cheek. “Find Hall and give this to him.” The order was barked out and the earl turned away, as if the footman had already vanished on his errand.

  There was no direction on the letter, which was hardly surprising, since no one knew where Hall lived. However, the footman knew—all the footmen knew—that one could leave messages in a number of places. When Hall was willing to meet, a message would be returned.

  Sometimes, that took a matter of hours. In this case, it took close to a week. At the tavern where the meeting was to take place, the footman thought, at first, that Hall had not yet arrived. He bought a pint at the bar before he spotted his quarry at a table by the wall, his dingy brown clothing making him almost invisible against the dingy brown woodwork.

  The letter was handed over without conversation. Hall opened it and read it. He looked startled, the first time the footman had known Hall to show any reaction to anything.

  “Do you know what this says?” Hall asked. When the footman shook his head, Hall gave a tight smile. “Just as well.” He tucked the letter in his coat and got up to leave. Before he departed, he stopped and looked back at the footman. “A word of advice. You might want to look for a new position.”

  *

  Sussex

  It had been a glorious day. Ashleigh had been out with the builders and the master brewer, examining the site for the new brewery and checking over the plans. If all went well, this year’s crop of hops would be used right here at Kelswick, and there would be jobs for all who wanted to stay. When he got home, Kate would be there. She was beginning to feel comfortable at Kelswick, and in twelve days, she would be his wife. If he got back early enough, perhaps they could walk down to the summer house.

  A horseman was waiting at the bend of the lane ahead. He was a stranger but looked innocuous enough in his brown, nondescript clothes, neither rich nor poor. He held up a hand, as if asking for a word, so Ashleigh pulled up his horse.

  “I wondered if I might have a word, Your Grace.” He sounded not quite like a gentleman, but respectable enough.

  Ashleigh nodded. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid my name would mean nothing to you, but you may call me Brown if you like. I think I may be in a position to do something for you.”

  Ashleigh said nothing and waited.

  Mr. Brown nodded approvingly. “It never does to rush into things, does it? Well, I am what you might call a fixer. People come to me with a problem, and I try to take care of it for them.”

  “And do you think I have a problem?” Ashleigh sounded vaguely amused.

  “No, you misunderstand me. I was not offering you my services, precisely, though we have come into contact before in what you might call a tangential fashion.” Mr. Brown spoke softly. “For example, one of my tasks might have been to find a young lady who had run away from home and return her to her family.”

  Any trace of humor vanished from Ashleigh’s face, and he swung around on his horse toward Brown.

  Brown held up a hand to ward him off. “Now, finding a young lady that way is a perfectly decent thing to do, one might say, though I won’t deny that, on occasion, things turn out to be a bit more complicated than I was told at the beginning. One of the hazards of my profession, you might say. People are not always quite honest.” He paused to let Ashleigh pull his horse back a few paces. “But there are things I do not do, not for any amount of money, and I find I consider myself insulted when someone thinks I would do such a thing.”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a letter, which he handed to Ashleigh. “You ought, I believe, to read this.”

  Ashleigh darted a suspicious look at him but took the letter. His eyes widened as he read it. “This is preposterous.” He glared at Brown, who shrugged. “This letter is addressed to someone by the name of Hall. Is that you?”

  “I have sometimes been called by that name.”

  Ashleigh continued to glare. “And Farnsworth wants you to kill me?”

  Brown shrugged again. “He is a man who is accustomed to his own way.”

  “But, but this is insane. He must be out of his mind.”

  Another shrug. “The thought has occurred to me,” said Brown.

  Ashleigh’s outrage slowly faded as he considered that last remark. “Do you mean that seriously?” he said at last.

  Brown sighed. “I am not a medical man, of course, but I have wondered. He has the pox, you know, and it affects some that way.”

  “Good God.” Ashleigh’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Yet you would have handed Miss Russell over to him.”

  A shadow of what could have been bitterness passed over Brown’s face. “It is not for the likes of me to pass judgment on the behavior of my betters, now, is it?”

  “Then why have you brought me this letter? I will reward you, of course. Is that what you want?”

  Brown shook his head. “Not precisely. I am thinking of it more as a sort of insurance. This affair could have ramifications, unpleasant ramifications. When that happens, and noblemen are involved, people like me often end up being punished for things that were none of our doing. I would like to think that an honorable gentleman like yourself would prevent such an injustice.”

  “In other words, if you seem headed for the hangman’s noose, you would like me to come to the rescue.”

  “Something of the sort.” Brown nodded diffidently. “Though I hope it will never come to that.”

  “I do not even know your real name.”

  Brown smiled. “And I would prefer that neither you nor the authorities ever have any reason to know it.”

  Ashleigh nodded stiffly. “Very well. I am in your debt. You may call on me should you ever have need of my assistance. You have my word on it.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Brown turned to go, but then turned back. “By the by, you might want to tell Mrs. Darling that her brother would be pleased to hear from her.” Ashleigh’s look of surprise won another shrug. “Now that their father is dead.” With that, he kicked his horse into motion and rode off.

  Ashleigh looked after him, thinking that for a Londoner, the fellow looked quite comfortable on a horse. But then, perhaps he wasn’t really a Londoner. He was taking the road that led to the West Country.

  *

  That evening, over the port after dinner, Ashleigh told Bancroft about his encounter with “Mr. Brown” and showed him the letter. “It’s a bit awkward. I’d like to tell Franny about her brother, but then I would have to explain about Brown, and I don’t want Kate to be frightened, or Alice either. It will be difficult enough to come up with a reason for going to London at this time.” He fiddled with his glass, staring into the wine as if it held answers, but showed no inclination to drink it.

  Bancroft looked up from the letter in surprise. “You’re planning to keep this from them? Don’t be a fool.” When Ashleigh looked startled, he went on, “Have you learned nothing? Those ladies do not want to be wrapped up in ignorance. They have more than enough courage and intelligence to deal with this new threat.”

  “I am not denying their intelligence, but I can protect them. I will deal with the threat.”

  “Will you? Then think on this. If they do not know there is danger, they will not be on their guard. Were you planning to lock them in their rooms until you deal with Farnsworth?”

  Ashleigh raked his fingers through his hair. “I would like to do precisely that. Damnation. Kate is only now beginning to relax, to believe she is safe. And now this. Who would have thought Farnsworth would begin acting like a madman? He says I have been impertinent and must be removed. Insane.” He glared at Bancroft. “It is all very well for you. The threat is not against Alice, and you do not have to tell her that your promise was meaningless.”

  “Is that what troubles you? That
you promised more than you can deliver?” Bancroft leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Do you really think Kate will blame you for this?”

  “She should. I blame myself.” Ashleigh pushed away from the table and began pacing. “I should have taken the threat from Farnsworth more seriously. I should not have expected him to behave rationally. After that attempt to snatch her up in broad daylight, and the fire—I should have seen the danger, the signs of madness. She tried to tell me what he is like. I should have listened to her.”

  “Peter,” Bancroft began gently, but the duke ignored him and continued pacing. Bancroft stood and caught Ashleigh by the arm. “Peter, you did listen to her. That’s why you persuaded her and Franny to stay on here instead of going back to Franny’s home. Not everything is your fault, and not everything is your sole responsibility. I know you want to protect Kate from Farnsworth and his threats, but that does not mean you must refuse all assistance. I would take it amiss if you were to keep me out of this, and I do not doubt that Merton will feel the same way.”

  Ashleigh halted and considered. A rueful smile broke through the worry on his face. “To say nothing of Alice. She used to bully me mercilessly when we were children, you know. You must beware. Now that she has recovered from Talmadge, she is returning to her old ways.”

  Bancroft smiled contentedly. “She only bullied you because you were too stubborn to acknowledge when she was right. And now, I believe, it is time for us to join the ladies.”

  The room that served as the family sitting room had long windows opening on to the terrace and the garden beyond. These were open, letting in the fresh evening breeze. To the surprise of all, himself included, Ashleigh closed them and drew the curtains before sitting down next to Kate. His sister looked at him, handed him his tea, and suggested to Clara that since she was so tired, she really ought to go to bed.

  Clara opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a look from her mother. She turned to Bancroft, but there was no help there. So she excused herself with exquisite politeness and went off, radiating resentment as only a fifteen-year-old girl can.