Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  “And a ruthless one,” Tarrant finished. “The unfortunate guards’ throats were slashed or they were garrotted. This has to be the work of traitors.”

  The War Secretary scoffed, “Englishmen?”

  “From my impressions I suspect some are as you suggested—Frenchmen working under the guise of émigrés,” the baron offered. “They,” he chuckled without mirth, “we are allowed complete freedom and most Englishmen are sympathetic. In fact, they are quite loose-tongued. I will speak with Cavilon.”

  Castlereagh nodded. “I knew you would know how best to ferret out who among the émigrés could be responsible.” His smile faded as quickly as it appeared.

  “In the meantime the schedules of monetary shipments have been reworked. A shipment is not to be revealed until a day before time,” Castlereagh told them.

  “Now,” the Secretary waved at the map, “the only way to get the gold out of the country is by boat. But it has to be as dangerous for them to transport it as it is for us.”

  “This young coxcomb and I argued about that,” Tarrant told him. “He thinks they will take it somewhere near Dover, but I believe that is too obvious. More likely they shall head for Hastings or Eastbourne.”

  “Search both areas. De la Croix, you take Kent. Tarrant, Sussex. I will put out a rumour that a new shipment of bullion is to go to the coast. That should stir some response.

  “Remember that any assistance is yours for the asking. Send word back through the usual channels,” the Secretary ordered and jammed his hat atop his head.

  The young men watched him leave, then turned back to the map. The baron put his finger on Rye. “Let us meet here. Say in three weeks?”

  “We will write if there is something promising.”

  “I shall send word to Castlereagh to forward any communications according to our directions.”

  They removed all trace of their presence in the room before each went his separate way.

  * * *

  Wednesday Evening

  Broyal constantly shifted his position as he sat at the table in Whites. His wound ached abominably. The bandage dug into his side no matter how he angled his torso. He drained his glass and closed his eyes.

  The same troublesome thought pestered him. How had Maddie Vincouer fared with Cousin Sanford in Jamey’s absence? Shaking away the question he opened eyes.

  Danbury approached followed by a man wearing the King’s uniform.

  “Stay seated, man. That wound still troubles you. No,” Danbury held up a hand, “do not deny it. I will not bother you about it further.” He motioned to his companion.

  “This is John Waters. You may recall he had the good fortune to buy the French sabretache that contained Berthier’s letter to Soult which told Moore Napoleon was almost upon us.

  “John, this is Viscount Broyal. By the way, you will never guess who I saw at Gunther’s this afternoon,” Danbury continued after they sat. “Golden haired. Tall and with a figure to please any man.”

  Quentin smiled at the wicked glint in his friend’s eye.

  “Vincouer did protest too much, I think,” Danbury added.

  “The Glacier,” sighed Quentin, then scowled.

  “The young lady was dammed lucky to make it to Corunna let alone back to England,” Waters commented.

  “All of us who made it to Corunna were lucky,” Quentin said tersely. “Here are your glasses, gentlemen. Leave the bottle,” he told the steward.

  Danbury raised his glass in salute to Waters. After they drank he said, “John heard something about Vincouer.”

  Broyal leaned forward eagerly. “What is it?”

  “There are rumours that a wounded officer of the 15th Hussars was cared for by Spanish peasants,” Waters told him. “From their description, I believe it was Vincouer.”

  “Then he is alive?”

  Waters shrugged. “If he didn’t die of his wounds and the French don’t find him.” He watched the other’s face darken. “He probably encountered peasant guerrillas. They help anyone fighting the French. I rather think he will make his way back to Lisbon—even through the French lines.”

  “I agree,” Danbury seconded Waters. “Which is why I have these.” He laid a packet of letters on the table and pushed it across to Broyal.

  “What is this?”

  “Madeline Vincouer’s letters to the lieutenant. The Horse Guards were going to send them back to her with a notice of his disappearance and probable death at Bembibre. In all likelihood that word has already reached his family,” Danbury continued. “Since he may still be alive, I thought you might want to write a letter to explain the circumstances and send it with them.”

  Quentin fingered the letters, turned them over, and then balanced them in his hand. He and Danbury shared a smile of remembrance of Jamey reading parts of his cousin’s letters aloud. Other memories followed—falling stones, Hellion screaming, Vincouer lunging to save him.

  His hand tightened on the missives. Quentin thought of the sketch of Maddie Vincouer, stained and crumpled, but still in his possession. After a prolonged silence he said, “I shall be near Hayward next month. I will deliver these.”

  “It would not be kind to raise false hopes,” Waters cautioned. “I return to Portugal with Wellesley. If any news comes my way I will send it to you.”

  “I will also ask the Horse Guards to forward any news about Vincouer to you,” Danbury added.

  Quentin nodded and raised his glass. “A toast, gentlemen, to the friends we lost.” He paused a moment, his eyes on Madeline Vincouer’s letters. “To those they left behind.”

  Chapter Six

  Hayward, England March 5th Sunday Morning

  The vicar of St. Edwin’s greeted Maddie as she followed her sisters out of the vestibule after Sunday services. “I am so happy your father is well enough for you to attend,” he gushed. Despite her cool gaze the elderly cleric continued, “I do not mean to imply there is anything remiss in your missing services when necessary. Caring for your father is most laudable, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” Maddie answered and started to walk away.

  The vicar caught her arm. “My wife would be most happy to assist you with the nursing. She has a talent for it. Why, when I think of how she cared for our six children—”

  “That is most kind. Please thank her for me, but it is not necessary. We must go,” she made her excuse. “Aunt Benton awaits our return.”

  “One more thing, Miss Vincouer,” the vicar said following her as she walked away. He motioned the Preventive officer hovering behind them to approach. “Captain Medworth has asked if he might be presented. He replaced Captain Longford this past January.” The vicar smiled. ”Ahh, here he is.

  “Captain Medworth, Miss Madeline Vincouer and her sisters, Miss Ruth, Miss Helene.”

  The littlest pushed forward and bobbed a curtsy. “I am Jessamine.”

  Captain Medworth bowed. “A very pretty Miss Vincouer,” he smiled. Turning to Maddie, he bowed again. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Vincouer. And that of your sisters,” he added. “May I walk you to your carriage?”

  Maddie looked warily at the officer’s proffered arm then with an inward sigh, placed her hand on it. “Good day, Vicar.

  “Ladies.” She arched a brow at her sisters.

  After obedient curtsies to the elderly vicar, the girls walked towards their coach.

  Captain Medworth and Maddie followed them. “Your sisters have very pretty manners,” he complimented her.

  “That closed carriage with the white-footed pair is ours,” Maddie offered. “How do you enjoy our small community?”

  “But I have not joined it,” Medworth said with a wry smile. “I am stationed in Folkestone. My duties keep me close to the coast, but do bring me to Hayward and Hawking from time to time,” the captain offered.

  “Your duties?”

  “Miss Vincouer, I doubt anyone who has lived her entire life here can be unaware of a Riding Officer’s duties.
”

  “Yes, of course,” Maddie said. Seeing the captain’s keen eyes narrow, she gathered her wits.

  “My superior recommended that I speak with your father.”

  Maddie almost froze in mid-step. Swallowing, she hurried to the carriage.

  Captain Medworth, puzzled at her reaction, opened its door and unfolded the steps. He lifted Jessamine in before helping the other two girls. When Maddie put her hand in his, he held on to it. “Miss Vincouer, when might I call at Hart Cottage?”

  At this mention of her home’s name, Maddie blinked. She appraised him more closely than she had done earlier. He was an unassuming young man with dark blond hair but his eyes revealed an intelligence of which to be wary. “We do not receive visitors, Captain. My father has been very ill the past year—”

  “Yes, I know,” Medworth interrupted. He brushed back a lock the breeze had tumbled across his forehead. “A courtesy call, I assure you. I am most anxious to meet your father.”

  Blanching, Maddie pulled her hand free before she thought of what she was doing. Blushing, she put it back and let him hand her into the carriage. “You may call, Captain, but I do not know if my father will be well enough to see you,” she warned. “If you could tell me your interest—”

  “I hope he will be able to help me get a better idea of the free traders’ activities in this area. To be candid I have learned that your father has lived here only thirty years. He will know his neighbors’ habits by now but it is usually difficult to gain acceptance in such a closed society. I thought, perhaps, he is still new enough to share some thoughts rather than refuse to speak of smuggling at all.”

  “Free trading is not a topic of conversation at Hart Cottage,” Maddie said as she arranged and rearranged her skirts.

  “Have you seen anyone new in the area—anyone you do not know?”

  “No,” Maddie said.

  Ruth sat forward. “But—”

  Maddie glanced at her sister and then met the Preventive officer’s gaze. “No one is new in the area, Captain. If you learned of Hart Cottage I am sure you know that.” She smiled and looked meaningfully at the open door.

  Medworth had not missed Ruth’s brief word, or the fact that she now stared at her lap. “May I call soon, Miss Vincouer?”

  “As you wish.”

  The captain shut the door, stepped back, and instructed the driver to go. Staring after the carriage, he realized more questions had been raised than settled. I shall visit Hart Cottage in the very near future.

  * * *

  Sussex, England April 1st Late Saturday Evening

  Lightning wildly slashed through the driving rain as six men rode into the yard of a small house on the outskirts of Lewes, Sussex. One dismounted near the rear door while the other five, each leading a string of pack mules, rode to a stable a short distance from the house.

  Once inside the back room, a rotund man of medium height threw his dripping broad brimmed hat aside with a mirthless chuckle. His disguise as Squire George had proven very successful just as his disguise as Jacques Porteur was effective in Hayward. He wrenched off his wet gloves and flung them aside. Striding into the next room he ran a finely manicured hand over his balding pate and smoothed down the few long strands of yellowish hair. He sat in a chair that awaited him by the roaring fire. “Petit, get these boots off,” Donatien commanded in French.

  The dwarf scuttled forward to do his master’s bidding. Taking the boots away, Petit returned with a pair of slippers under his arm. He bore a tray on which stood a decanter and a crystal glass, which he set on a table beside the chair.

  After the servant pulled on his slippers, Donatien motioned to him to fill the glass. Once done he held it before him and studied the deep red colour of the wine. “How is our guest?” he asked referring sarcastically to the man they had taken prisoner.

  “Monsieur Tarrant is still tied to the wall,” replied the dwarf, his largish head bent over his small, large-knuckled hands.

  Donatien swirled the wine slowly, then breathed in its bouquet. “He still lives?”

  “Oui, monseigneur. I did as you instructed. Water only.”

  Rolling the wine around his mouth, the portly man swallowed, sighed contentment. “It is a fine wine, Petit.”

  “Oui, monseigneur.”

  “We leave before dawn.” Donatien paused at the sounds of his men in the back room. He pursed his lips in distaste at the fresh blood on the rough cloth trousers of the two men who entered. “Those in the stable will speak of this night’s work?”

  “Not a syllable,” the taller, swarthy-faced man answered gleefully. “Shall I do the same to that gov’nment man in the cellar, Monsieur George.”

  “No, Letu, I will speak with him. The two of you rest. Petit will wake you when it is time to be on our way.” After they left the room, he rose.

  “Monsieur Tarrant is a foolish stubborn young man, eh, Petit? Bring candles.”

  Petit crabbed down the stairs, careful to hold the brace of candles high to light the monseigneur’s way. He had no wish to suffer the fate of the young man against the far wall, who sat on the dirt floor, his hands shackled above his head. When the light fell across the prisoner’s feet, rats scurried away from their bloody remnants, which were held in crude wooden stocks.

  The prisoner did not stir as the light fell across him. He made no indication he heard or saw them.

  Donatien walked up to Tarrant and without warning, slammed a splintering board he had picked up at the bottom of the stairs against the sole of one of his prisoner’s feet.

  Tarrant convulsed. A low moan escaped, but he refused to raise his head.

  “Perhaps we need to carve more than your feet,” the portly man purred in the English of Squire George. ”How many men does the government have out seeking information about the gold?” An evil smile curved his lips. He swung the board into the other mutilated foot as hard as he could.

  Once the peak of the spasm of pain began to pass, Tarrant slowly dragged his head from his chest and let it fall back against the wall. He gazed with pain-dulled eyes at his tormentor, strove to even his ragged breathing. “I—am the—only—one.” He clenched his jaw when he saw the board and hand of his tormentor arc up. Involuntarily Hadleigh closed his eyes before the board slammed into the raw meat of his feet. “No—one—else,” he managed after an eternity of pain.

  “I do not believe you, Mr. Tarrant. You do realize that if I know your name, I know much more.” Donatien smiled maliciously. He prodded Hadleigh until he opened his eyes, and only then swung the board hard against the raw morass of one of Tarrant’s soles.

  When he was certain Tarrant had recovered enough to hear him he softly purred, “If you do not wish to die fastened to this wall, the rats gnawing on your feet, you will tell me what I wish to know.”

  * * *

  Bellum Castle, Berkshire April 20th

  The Earl of Margonaut shuffled the papers on his desk. “They have gone?”

  “The Earl of Lamborn and his family left after taking breakfast, my lord,” his agent, Arnold, answered. He glanced at the open ledger on the earl’s desk. “Do you wish to go over estate matters this morn?”

  Margonaut stood and walked to a large set of windows in the west wall of his office. Gazing down at his wife’s rose garden, he thought of Thomas, now lost to him too. A spasm of pain tightened his chest.

  The earl forced himself to think about Quentin. He also loved the garden, Margonaut reflected. A brutal chill swept down the earl’s spine. The scene with Phillip still haunted him. Never had his youngest son naysayed him so coldly which made Phillip’s words more damning.

  Phillip insists that Thomas’ death was a tragedy but most of all a calamity for Quentin. He said that Thomas had told him their mother had wanted Quentin to have an independence so that I would not stifle the son who is most like me.

  Margonaut could still see Phillip’s white fierce features, his body rigid as his son faced him without flinching. It was so lik
e Quentin’s rebellions. The earl had found it very difficult to conceal how shaken he was.

  His gaze went to the right—to his wife’s portrait. Beside it now hung Quentin’s likeness—an oil Thomas had commissioned when his brother had gained his captaincy. Margonaut had never seen it until Phillip had angrily told him it was in Thomas’ chambers.

  The face that stared at him from it was so like his own. But Margonaut saw a son who had driven him to the wall. Then he blinked and saw honour and courage. A son to make a man proud.

  A black well of regret nearly drowned the earl when he had first studied the portrait. Phillip’s words had prompted him to re-evaluate his handling of the son who was now his heir. The angst that had surfaced threatened to overwhelm Margonaut until he had sworn to make amends for all that had come between them.

  I have been such a bitter old fool. God help me right this. He ran a hand through his hair.

  “I have made a regular bumble broth of things, have I not?”

  Arnold, though startled by this highly unusual confidence, stared at his employer’s back in silent agreement.

  The earl turned from the window. “There has been no word from Broyal since his visit?”

  “None, my lord.”

  Margonaut stalked across the library and halted beside his desk. “You will carry a missive to London as soon as I have written it. In London, find the offices of the Mason Detective Agency. There you will arrange for one of their people to search throughout England until they locate my son.

  “They are not to let him know I ordered this search if he is found. They are only to write to me and inform me where he is. Go, I will summon you when I finish the letter.”

  When his agent left, Margonaut sank in his desk chair. His all-consuming grief for his wife had nearly been the death of his family. His rage at Thomas’ loss had made him unforgivably cruel to Quentin when he had come home in early April.