Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  Jenks gaped at him. “Never say you mean to go through with that bit o’ madness you told me about last night? I mean, it would have been bad enough with that piss-faced cousin but the earl? Lud, if he tips the cards he’ll do more than read you a book.”

  Quentin grimaced. “Considering what has happened, have you any other solution?”

  “I don’t see how my duties can be stretched to include pretending to be a corpse,” Jenks groused.

  “Get it set up,” Quentin ordered. “Lord knows who will discover your death, but I want you unquestionably dead.”

  Jenks bit back the protest on the tip of his tongue when Maves entered the room.

  The old man’s hands shook as he gazed at Quentin’s silver braid. He pointed at it. “Were you in the 15th Hussars? With Master James?”

  “Yes,” Quentin put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I know the Lieutenant well. You will have to trust me. We need your help.”

  Maves studied his face. “Whatever you say, sir. It will be done.”

  Quentin tightened his grip on the butler’s shoulder. “Know that I will do Miss Vincouer no harm,” he said. Stretching the truth a bit he added, “I promised her cousin I would see her safe.” Assured by the old man’s nod, Broyal continued. “Send for Lundin and then give the cook whatever directions are needed for supper. I image there will be seven sitting down.

  “Jenks, my batman, will explain what else is to be done.” Clasping Maves’ hand in a firm grip, Quentin shook it. With a meaningful glance at his batman, he turned to leave.

  “Good luck, sir,” Jenks cast at him with irreverent glee. “Ye’ll need all you can get with his lordship.”

  “And with miss,” Maves added in an undertone. Then louder, “Sir, you will find the smaller salon down the corridor, first room to the left. The sitting room is the first to the right.”

  Quentin left them and trod heavily down the stairs. What his father intended he could not hazard. What was he to tell the earl and the Riding Officer? Putting a hand on the doorknob, he listened to the deep murmur of the earl’s voice. Strangely it comforted him. Quentin opened the door.

  Both men inside the room stood.

  Mildly surprised to see the captain no longer in a temper, Quentin’s gaze went from the half empty glasses in their hands to the decanter on the sideboard. He strolled to it. Taking his time, he poured a brandy and took a drink before facing them.

  Medworth and the earl appraised him.

  “I trust you have introduced yourselves.” Quentin allowed a slight smile. “My lord,” he bowed to his father. “This is an, ahh, unanticipated,” surprised and touched by the unexpected concern in his father’s eyes, he ended, “pleasure.”

  Margonaut raised his glass in salute. “You knew I must come as soon as you sent word of your betrothal, er, Broyal.”

  Captain Medworth stiffened. “When did you come to Hart Cottage, Major Broyal?” he challenged.

  After he raised his glass in answer to his father’s salute, Quentin drank, then met the captain’s gaze. “You do not recall our meeting outside of the Cherry Inn?”

  Medworth grimaced annoyance. “I have called upon Miss Vincouer several times since that morn. She never spoke of you or of a betrothal.”

  “I would have been surprised if she had, considering Mr. Vincouer’s precarious health,” Quentin sparred.

  “Captain,” Margonaut entered the fray, “you spoke of a wounded free trader. Why would you level such a charge against, er, Broyal here?”

  Medworth met the earl’s gaze. “We know the wounded man hid for a time in a tunnel on Vincouer property,” he said with asperity. “We found blood there.” He looked at Quentin. “You have not been seen since the morning we met.”

  He walked toward Quentin, motioning at the decanter behind him. As Broyal stepped aside, Medworth stumbled into him. Righting himself, the captain saw the other’s sudden paleness with grim satisfaction.

  “What do you think you are doing?” huffed the earl as he hurried to his son’s side. “He has not recovered from his wounds. Was in Moore’s campaign, you know. Wounded twice. A nasty sabre cut and took a musket ball too.”

  Quentin pulled away from his father. “I was not seen by anyone in the area,” he said to Medworth, “because I went to procure a special license. As you are aware of Matthew Vincouer’s precarious health, I am certain you understand the necessity.

  “But enough of this. I will answer any and all questions late morrow afternoon,” he said and offered his hand.

  The captain stared at it for a long moment. He saluted instead. “On the morrow. In Folkestone. Your man knows my direction,” Medworth finished with a cynical smile, turned on his heel, and left.

  Quentin stared down at the amber liquid in his glass.

  “That man does not believe you,” his father noted and sat. “He is not likely to be swayed by a mere ‘viscount’ when he thinks things through.

  “You have a great deal to explain.” The earl paused until his son met his gaze. “Major Broyal.”

  “I appreciate your forbearance, my lord.” Quentin finished his brandy and refilled his glass then sat in a chair at a right angle to his father’s. “I ask for it to continue for a short time if you mean to remain here.”

  “I did not come to—to do as I have done for the past twelve years.” The earl, his stomach in knots, took a sip of brandy and awaited his son’ reply.

  Startled, Quentin stared at his father. A cautious optimism flashed through him.

  Margonaut read as much in his eyes. His heart soared. “Is there an empty bedchamber left in the house?”

  “Truth to tell, I do not know how many bedchambers there are. Even if one is free, my lord, this establishment cannot live up to your expectations.”

  Frowning at his son’s formality, Margonaut set his glass on the side table. He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. For a moment he lowered his gaze. When he raised it, the earl opened his hands, his posture that of a supplicant.

  “When last we met Broyal—Quentin. Each time we have met these past years—I have said things that should never have been said. And which,” he hurried when he saw the pain in his son’s eyes, “were in no manner true.”

  “This is not necessary, my lord,” Quentin interrupted.

  Margonaut raised a hand as if to take hold of his son’s arm. He dropped it at Quentin’s dark look and decided to bide his time. “The sabre cut you took at Castantino was on your right side.”

  “It was,” Quentin replied, hesitated then added, “It was I who caught the Preventive man’s ball the other night.”

  “Miss Vincouer has been concealing you from the authorities?”

  “Vincouers tend to save people with appalling frequency,” Quentin answered. “By the by, I do have that special license. I mean to use it.”

  “Am I to understand that Miss Vincouer is amenable to marriage?” his father asked with a lift of a brow. “Do you wish to know if I am?”

  Quentin ignored the question. “I really must take care of that muckworm, Sanford Vincouer.” One hand clenched at the thought of the blow the scoundrel had dealt Maddie. But he forced his mind back to his father. “I doubt there is a free bedchamber.”

  “You can find out,” the earl told him. “I intend to stay here—and to become acquainted with your fiancée. By the way, who was the lady who wielded my cane so effectively?”

  “Miss Benton. Pricilla Benton. Maddie’s aunt.” Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “It would be best if there was someone to keep an eye on Sanford when I cannot be here.” He saw the question in his father’s eyes and shook his head.

  “I spoke with Castlereagh,” Margonaut countered. “You have found your man?” The stare cast at him called to mind Quentin at five and ten when summoned to account for some huge boulders that blocked a neighbour’s entry drive.

  “Your man Jenks has been busy of late,” the earl added. “The investigator’s report I received made interesting rea
ding.”

  “Investigator? What report?” Quentin demanded.

  “The one from the agency I hired to find you. I met their man in Folkestone. By the way, why did Jenks visit the rending establishment outside that city?”

  Quentin chuckled and surrendered with a graceful bow. “You will learn about what Jenks collected there soon enough.

  “Was the Secretary for War pleased to have you on his doorstep?” Quentin ventured. “Surely he is in the midst of making preparations to send the army back to Portugal?”

  “More than that,” the earl said. “Wellesley returned to Portugal in April and even now marches on Oporto. He may even have retaken it by this time.”

  “Good God.”

  “Come, Quentin, do not try to fob me off. What is going on here?”

  Broyal pulled his mind away from Portugal. “I received a note requesting a meeting later tonight with a man of interest to Castlereagh. But,” he tugged on his ear, “there is the matter of Maddie’s, my fiancée’s, father.

  “He will be discovered sometime this eve, perhaps as late as the morn. Deceased.” He raised a hand to still his father’s question. “Accept that death to be just as it appears. It is important to me.”

  With an iron will, the earl schooled his features into acceptance. “As you say. And—”

  “It is far too long a tale and one unsafe to voice with Sanford in the house,” Quentin interrupted. “I shall have Maves see to your chaise and cattle. If there is a room here he will come for you when it is ready.” A sardonic smile lightened his features. “You are prepared to room with him if necessary?”

  Margonaut’s lips tightened, then relaxed. “Better I than my man. He is higher in the instep than even I.”

  Quentin’s smile warmed at the jest. “We dine at six. Informal attire, please.” He bowed and strode from the room.

  The earl stared after his son. He would have no chance to dissuade Quentin from whatever his present course was and hoped Castlereagh was correct that there was little danger. With a heavy sigh, Margonaut hoped he had begun to breach his son’s defences and repair the damage he had wrought. He would even accept an unknown bride as the price of reconciliation.

  * * *

  Quentin paused outside the sitting room to marshal his anger. When he entered he met two incensed glares.

  Ermintrude launched the attack. “How dare you treat us in such an uncivil manner? You—a stranger—a common—”

  “Not common, Mother, for all his father claims to be a viscount,” Sanford sneered. He raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “Perhaps you are a free trader and not a very good one at that. Madeline’s taste has always been execrable, but who would have thought she would take such a one as this to her—”

  In two long strides Quentin was upon him. He slammed his fist into Sanford’s pinched face.

  Clutching his nose, Sanford crumpled to the floor.

  Ermintrude shrieked and hurried to her son. “Brute,” she yelped. “Bedlamite! Attacking an innocent man without cause.” She put an arm about Sanford’s shoulders and pressed a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. “I shall report you to the magistrate.”

  Sanford struggled to his feet and ungraciously shrugged his mother away. “Do be quiet, Mother,” he swore with a pronounced nasal twang. “You shall answer for this,” he swore at Quentin and then brushed past him. At the door Sanford pushed his way out between Maves and the earl.

  “Never have I been subjected to such brutish behaviour,” Ermintrude protested. She fell back on the settee, a hand to her brow. “I know I shall suffer an apoplexy. Leave me. Have Pricilla fetch my vinaigrette at once.”

  “Miss Benton is not available,” Quentin informed her coldly. “Retire to your room until supper.”

  Ermintrude rose from the settee like an elephant about to charge. “Well, I never,” she huffed with indignation.

  “Do not ask a tray be sent to your room,” he continued, his anger tightly controlled. “There is too little staff to accommodate such a request. We would, of course, understand if you cut short your visit.”

  “Well,” she huffed, and sailed angrily out of the room.

  Maves struggled to bury a grin. “May I say, sir, that was well done.” He cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Lundin awaits you in Mr. Vincouer’s office. If you would follow me?”

  Quentin nodded and massaged the knuckles of his right hand.

  “I do hope,” the earl commented, “that the remainder of the day proves less stimulating.”

  * * *

  “It should work,” Henry Lundin told Quentin some time later in Vincouer’s office. Maves had told him what had happened that afternoon. “I told Miss Maddie it was a crazy thing to attempt, but if you’ve met Sanford you know why she did it. Especially after young James—”

  “You need not defend my future wife,” Quentin told him. “Aside from shooting the bastard I don’t know what else she could have done.”

  Lundin took in the angry eyes, the tightened fist. Doubts as to the wisdom of putting the Vincouer family’s fate in this man’s hands evaporated. How easy or difficult it would prove for Quentin to turn Miss Vincouer amenable to an immediate marriage, he wisely kept to himself.

  “You will remove the coffin from the mausoleum and secure it until it can be put back?” Quentin asked.

  “Before dawn. How do you intend to get past holding a proper service?”

  “You’re to get the doctor—”

  “Balfor,” Lundin supplied. “He is in on the rig.”

  “Get him to come tomorrow—morn or afternoon makes no difference unless ‘Mr. Vincouer’ is discovered before then. Tell him to demand the body be immediately sealed in a coffin and placed in the mausoleum. Say it is necessary due to the highly contagious infection suffered by the deceased. If any one objects, he can suggest a memorial service. That was done for those who died in Spain,” Quentin explained. “It’ll be your job to get my batman out of the coffin after you put it in the mausoleum.”

  Lundin frowned. “Is it necessary to go so far as to put him inside the coffin? It’ll be bloody uncomfortable.”

  “I won’t take chances with Sanford or Captain Medworth. That’s why this must be done quickly. I do not want to give anyone time to dwell on the matter.”

  Lundin left and Quentin was about to sit back down when several ear-splitting screams sounded from the top of the stairs. Striding into the entry hall, he found Lundin staring up at Ermintrude. Green tinged her harsh features. She held a hand over her mouth and stared down at them with bulging eyes.

  “Send for Balfor at once and get that coffin,” Quentin ordered the steward and took the stairs three at time.

  Ermintrude backed away from him. “He is dead! Matthew is dead!” she shrieked and slumped to the floor.

  * * *

  Miss Benton came out of Maddie’s room just as Quentin reached Ermintrude. “I shall explain,” he told her. “Be easy.”

  After Sanford, the earl, and Maves joined them, the four men carried Ermintrude to her bedchamber. They left an ashen Agatha to tend her mother.

  Despite the warning about the effects of the wasting disease and the contagious infection suffered by the deceased, Sanford insisted upon seeing his uncle. He tugged open the door and paused at the pungent bilious odour. After covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he entered.

  Quentin glanced in at Maddie, still asleep, and closed her door. With a stern look he warned his father and Maves to remain outside the chamber.

  “My God,” Sanford cursed the foul air and the drawn bed curtain which forced him to go very close in order to see his uncle’s body. “What kind of illness was this?” he demanded. Sanford gulped down the bile the stench made rise to his throat and minced closer to the bed.

  “Mr. Balfor feared it very infectious. After the haemorrhage last week Mr. Vincouer’s inner organs began to rot,” Quentin told him. The odour confirmed that but also proved a vivid a reminder of the aftermath of battle.


  Sanford yanked back the bed curtain. He gaped at the grotesque sight. Deep black hollows surrounded sunken eyes that stared; the mouth gaped. The sight coupled with the nauseating odour convinced Sanford’s mind as well as his stomach to leave. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he bolted out of the door and thundered down the stairs.

  “Get that pot of offal covered,” Quentin ordered Maves who had followed the earl into the room after Sanford’s departure.

  Margonaut took one quick look at the “corpse,” then threw one at his son. “Jenks?” At Quentin’s nod, he left.

  After opening the doors to the balcony, Quentin moved on to the windows. Then he returned to the bedside and shook his head at the covered crock Maves held. “I doubt Sanford will come back,” he told them. “But,” he touched Jenks’ arm, “stay as you are. I’ve sent for the doctor.

  “Maves, uncap that thing right before I bring him up.

  “Jenks, should I tell Lundin to smear a small amount of its contents on the bottom of the coffin before they put you in it, rather than have you suffer with the open crock?” Quentin smiled at the batman’s horrified look. “I thought so. Lundin will get you out as soon as he can.”

  “But, sir, what about—” Maves began.

  “Vincouer’s true coffin will be placed elsewhere as soon as there is light enough in the morn. We can’t risk attracting anyone’s attention with lantern light later tonight. There won’t be enough time before then,” Quentin explained. “Where are the children?”

  “Outside. I advised Master Malcolm to entertain them in the park behind the house until someone came to fetch them,” he said. “The young ladies do not know about—about the deception.”

  Quentin read deep sorrow in Maves’ eyes. “All of you can mourn him now,” he said gruffly. “Shall you break it to them or would you like me to do so?”

  “If you would inform Master Malcolm, sir. It must seem very strange to Mr. Sanford if you do not,” Maves answered.

  “At the bottom of the stairs turn to the right,” he explained. “You’ll see the door that opens onto the park.”