Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  “I know nothing of use to anyone,” Peace said.

  “I must, I fear, disagree.” Geary bent his head. “I know your secret,” he whispered in her ear. When he drew back he was pleased to see she had paled.

  “I–I shall bring ale to that table.” Peace pointed to one in the rear.

  Geary nodded. “Thank you.” He strode to the table pleased with the ease of his first move. This time, unlike London, there was no one in Whitby who could interfere with his plans.

  * * *

  October 15th Morning

  “Here, Sir Brandon.” The valet offered a fresh cravat as his master angrily tossed away a ruined one.

  Kill my sister with nary a thought but take umbrage over a miserable street brat? Thornley thought angrily about Lucian’s actions two weeks past as he snapped up the cravat. The filth tripped me on purpose, I know it. I may find this Clem yet and kill him for all the trouble the brat caused.

  Careful Thornley, he lectured his image. Don’t lose sight of the goal, Sir Brandon. He chuckled with deep satisfaction. The deception had been so easy. Soon–very soon–you’ll have Earl Gilchrist–Lucian Merristorm right where you planned. In Whitby. Dead.

  He imagined Lucian’s increasingly slovenly dress of late and gloated. The inevitable comparison between them gave him great satisfaction.

  While he tied a perfect Waterfall, Thornley considered the failure of his carefully manoeuvred encounter with Merristorm’s father. Not yet a hint about why Merristorm broke with his damnable roué of a parent or renounced the title due him. And no reason to be found for why he refuses to answer to Earl Gilchrist. Nothing to sweeten my revenge. Yet.

  Thornley had searched out all the rumours that had followed Merristorm on his return to London after selling his commission in Spain earlier in the year. Gossip murmured that the captain over-imbibed, womanised, brawled. There were whispers of threats to fellow officers, even murder.

  If only my Jasmine had waited. Hell’s teeth. Just waited. Four months she lay dead before ever I knew. Merristorm escaped then but won’t now.

  On his return to England Brandon learned that the circumstances around his stepsister’s accidental death at Halstrom Keep were shrouded in confused detail. Some said suicide. Others murder.

  A severe reversal in his financial fortunes prevented pursuit at that time. Then this past year came an unanticipated inheritance from a distant elderly cousin. By stipulation of the will he changed his name to Thornley, and then added “Sir.”

  The revenge I vowed over Jasmine’s grave is at hand if–God’s blood–if I didn’t ruin everything. I’ll apologize again for the damnable brat. Anything to ensure he goes with me this eve.

  Fortune threw Merristorm into my path. My success is ordained, Thornley thought as he ordered his phaeton brought to the door.

  * * *

  High Holborn Street, London

  Ruth Clayton huddled beneath her shawl to ward off the morning chill and growing fear. Her father had proven far more difficult than expected or hoped on this journey. She strode from the George and Blue Boar coaching inn leaving her younger sister to watch over him.

  Is it because his memory loss was worsened by that wretched sale– Ruth could not finish the thought. The vicarage in Blewbury was the only home she’d ever known. The sale of most of its contents had been borne of necessity. In his present state she could not make him understand why they had sold most of their possessions and now travelled to a new appointment in Yorkshire.

  “And come he slow or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last,” she quoted from Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion. If there be a knight awaiting to rescue us, she thought envisioning Ivanhoe, he is tardy, Lord.

  The woman hawking hot meat pies caught the words. She cast a glance over the young woman’s tall slender figure. Clothed in last year’s style, the gel was still clearly of the gentry. It was the fetching freckled face and riotous flame coloured hair that sprang free around the edges of the stylish bonnet held the hawker’s attention.

  Ruth’s gaze caught the woman inspecting her. To forestall the fear and doubt that grew each time her father did not recognize her, she savoured the pies’ aroma.

  The hawker almost sighed at the young woman’s wide white-toothed smile. What she read in the back of the sea green eyes belied it.

  “Thank you,” Ruth told the woman as she pocketed the change and accepted the three pies. She turned back to the coaching inn’s doors but then hesitated. Just a few minutes more, then I will go back, she thought despite the guilt.

  Ruth nibbled on one of the pies, relished the hearty taste. The bustle of carriage and foot traffic on High Holborn drew her gaze back to the street. The jingle of harness, tramp of hooves, and creak of carriages blended with the cries of the street criers, and those people hurrying along with all of the accompanying odours presented a scene far different from the streets of her home village of Blewbury.

  If only— Ruth mentally stamped her foot. I will not. Just as well wish my freckles to perdition. She chuckled. How many lemons she had wasted trying to be rid of them as a child.

  That memory prompted one of an earlier, happier visit to the City with her father. Ruth began a mental revisit of St. Paul’s Cathedral as she nibbled at one of the pies. With her spirits raised by the visualization of the great church and the satisfaction of the warm food, she headed back to the coaching inn. Lord, this time let him eat and, Ruth added with wry humour, send that tardy knight to save us if you’re not too busy.

  Chapter Two

  Jermyn Street London October 15th

  Thornley whistled in triumphant expectation as he reined his phaeton to a halt outside Merristorm’s flat. Sir Brandon rechecked the article in The Times that unknowingly conspired with him. With a pleased grin, he folded the paper and rapped on the door.

  The lack of an answer meant Merristorm was sure to have too thick of a head to remember Thornley’s misstep.

  Striding inside, Sir Brandon went to the bedchamber. There he assessed the tall muscular figure sprawled across the bed.

  Lucian’s long narrow face had prominent high cheekbones and a square chin. Despite a complexion darkened by the Spanish sun, he was starkly handsome. A thick mass of raven hair, thick black slashes of eyebrows, and dark stubble gave his features a dangerous and saturnine aura.

  It needs only for him to open his eyes, dark as his damned soul, for him to be the very devil. Lucifer’d be a better name.

  “Merristorm,” Thornley announced quietly, “by the morn my revenge will be well in hand.” He reached to shake the man but recalled how dangerous that had previously proven.

  “Merristorm,” Thornley shouted. “We’ve much to celebrate.” He watched Lucian drag up one eyelid. Displeasure and anger stir in Merristorm’s eyes. Then puzzlement crossed the man’s features.

  “Up. We have a toast to drink.”

  “Don’t need toast,” Merristorm snorted and rolled over, his back to the man.

  “I thought you’d want to know about the Battle of Bussaco on the 27th of last month. Another victory for Wellington.”

  “Spain,” Merristorm mumbled.

  The single word told Thornley though Merristorm had foresworn this part of his life, a part of him rebelled, still cared. When Lucian rolled over and sat up, Thornley pressed a tumbler of brandy into his hand and watched as Merristorm quaffed it.

  “’Haps you’d like me to read the report to you?” Thornley asked.

  Merristorm tossed the glass to the floor as he heaved out of the bed. “Where’s dammed paper?”

  Thornley gave a silent whoop at his success. “On the table in your sitting room. A Major Danbury is mentioned.” Thornley rubbed his chin. “Isn’t he the man you saved from going over the side of a transport?” he asked carelessly. “I can’t think whether he was listed as wounded or killed.”

  Pushing past him, Lucian staggered into his sitting room. He snatched up the paper. Unable to find the report he cursed.

&nb
sp; “Let me.” Thornley took the paper.

  Lucian met his clear gaze and, after a moment, released it. He slumped into a chair, the need to drink overpowered by the need to know his friends in Spain were safe.

  “Monday, October 15th’– Battle in Portugal.” Thornley read. “We feel the greatest satisfaction in having our power to announce–”

  “Give me the bloody paper,” Lucian gritted. He scanned the column and half held his breath until he reached the end. “Lord Blake isn’t mentioned.”

  “Really? Sorry to have worried you, old man,” Thornley soothed. “Shall I pour drinks?”

  Merristorm rubbed his eyes. “No.”

  “No?” scoffed Thornley. “But we must drink to victory. To your regiment. To your friends.”

  Lowering his hands, Lucian leaned back and studied the man.

  Thornley stewed beneath the infuriating impertinent dislike in Merrristorm’s gaze. Let him grope to find why he dislikes me–he’s too far gone to ever recall it. With satisfaction he saw fresh despair and need for drink.

  “You won’t raise your glass to them?” Thornley goaded.

  “No. Yes. Later,” Lucian replied to the taunt.

  “Do you go to Lade’s for dinner? Certain to have excellent French brandy. Why don’t I come for you?”

  Merristorm shook his head.

  Thornley knew he thought the Earl of Lade a weasel and could almost hear Merristorm think, I’ve come to this?

  “’Haps you’re to meet your father?”

  “Never. Lade’ll suit,” Lucian said hoarsely.

  Thornley paused at the door. “You should hire a valet, old man. Should I send the fellow around I mentioned last week?”

  “Another day,” Merristorm told him absentmindedly as he picked up The Times.

  “At five then,” Thornley said.

  Alone again Lucian reread the article, hungry for every detail. On the retreat of the enemy, no attempt was made to pursue them . . . no cavalry engaged on either side.

  “Wonder what Danbury was thinking when that order was given.” Lucian knuckled his forehead. He thought of the tall slim perpetually bored man with the scar on his right cheek. For some reason the major had taken an interest in him. At first Lucian had feared Danbury would come to London and try to save him as he had in the past. Now the ex-captain feared he wouldn’t.

  “God, how I miss him and Vicar. All of ’em,” he whispered. An emotion he refused to identify clawed at his gut. “My death would have had meaning in battle.”

  Most deaths have no value.

  Lucian tried to blot out the memory of the young Spanish lad Magelhaes, one of many he had tried to help, bathed in blood.

  If I hadn’t encouraged Magelhaes to become a guide he might still be alive. He shouldn’t have died. Why haven’t I?

  You’ve a pistol, his demon taunted. Or your sabre. Either would be a means to put a period to your misery.

  Lucian shrugged up and staggered to the side table. His hands shook as he gulped down what was left in the bottle of port Thornley had left there. Merristorm wiped his lips with the back of his trembling hand. He stared at the appendage as he lowered it. The tremors belonged to a youth going into his first battle, not a hardened campaigner.

  The bottle slipped from Lucian’s hand. The terror of the nightmare returned, clawed at his gut. Lucian staggered towards the door in an effort to escape. His dragging uncertain steps caught on the carpet. He fell heavily. Pushing upright Lucian was brought up short by the unkempt disgusting tramp that stared at him from the mirror before him.

  “Away,” he muttered with a half-hearted wave and was taken aback when the figure’s hand moved with his. He shoved his face belligerently forward.

  Lucian’s nose collided with the cold silvered glass. Realizing it was his image, Lucian leaned his forehead against the mirror and closed his eyes. “This is what you’ve become,” he muttered. “No wonder Scruggs looked at me so strangely.” The thought of the man who ran the foundling house for him brought to mind the boy Clem.

  “Don’t.” Lucian forced the picture of the boy he had failed in Spain to the edge of his mind’s eye. He pulled back from the mirror aware for the first time that this is what Danbury had seen the last time he visited Lucian in Spain. He pushed his hand into his hair to straighten it. At its coarse nasty begrimed texture, he spat a vulgar Greek epithet.

  A tremulous spark of pride flared, rebelled at what he saw. Lucian careened to the washstand and sloshed water from the pitcher into the bowl. By the time he had the worst of the filth scrubbed away and a clean shirt dragged over his head he was near frantic for drink.

  Dammed near cut my throat shaving. Need to see to that valet Thornley’s so bloody insistent about.

  Need a drink worse, his demon chortled.

  “If I had a valet, he could fetch brandy,” Lucian snorted.

  Fetch yer own. Fetch enough to drown yer black soul.

  “Makes sense to me,” Lucian drawled in worthy imitation of his father. He tugged a cravat bunched at the back of one the drawers about his neck and looped it into a knot. The stench of a month’s wear of food, drink, cigarillo smoke, and cheap perfume shied him from the coat he had thrown onto his bed. Lucian snagged a less odoriferous one from the armoire.

  He shrugged into it as he headed out the door. Halting before the mirror he smiled grimly. “Nothing like my father.”

  You are just like him.

  Lucian threw open the door and scuttled down the stairs. He hit the street at a run, the devil behind him.

  * * *

  Thornley contemplated his plans for revenge on Merristorm as he drove home. Halfway there he grew uneasy. Had he made certain that nothing would go awry on Merristorm’s long journey? Perhaps one last bribe would ensure the man had no choice but to blindly follow what had been arranged. Thornley reined his team toward the coaching inns on High Holborn.

  By the time I join Merristorm in Whitby he’ll be a common vagrant. He’ll not have the dignity of dying in a duel, Thornley swore. The mangy cur. It’ll be a pleasure to see him scrounge for food and shelter with little chance of success.

  Thornley chuckled coldly. Of course, when his death is discovered I shall decry the tragic outcome of my “little jest.” But who will care enough to ask what happened. Not his friends in London.

  “Just get him to accompany you to Lade’s,” he muttered. “Everything else will fall into place.

  * * *

  George and Blue Boar High Holborn, London

  Ruth edged her way between the jostling travellers to the bench where she had left her father and sister. Her revived spirits faded when Ruth saw her father’s hat, but no parent on the bench beside her pouting sister.

  “Where is Father?” she asked as she peered about the coaching inn’s crowded public room.

  Marietta Clayton’s frown turned into a radiant smile upon sight of the pies. “Oh, Ruth, are they still warm? My stomach has been jabbering like a jay, I’m that hungry,” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t gulp it down in one bite. It will give you the stomach ache,” Ruth cautioned. “Where has Father gone?”

  Her mouth full of succulent meat pie, Marietta chewed and waved a hand toward the outer doors.

  Ruth pulled a kerchief from her inner pocket and wiped her younger sister’s chin. “Do not take another bite until you explain where Father is,” she insisted as she pushed a stray blond curl back into place beneath her sister’s bonnet.

  "He went,” Marietta chewed hungrily, “to find you.” The girl swallowed. “I know I was supposed to watch him, but Ruth, he can’t bear it. And he wasn’t speaking Greek again. I was certain you would see him,” Marietta prattled guiltily.

  Ruth sighed. At four and ten I’d probably have done no different. She smoothed back a blond curl with a forgiving smile. “Save the last pie for father.

  “Can’t I come with you? Please.”

  Ruth’s stomach churned with the thought of her father lost in a maze o
f unfamiliar streets. Streets foreign to her as well. “Someone must watch our portmanteaux,” she said ruefully. “You can walk about a bit, but never let our boxes out of sight. We can’t arrive in Whitby with nothing.”

  Marietta’s eyes widened. “I’ll watch them closely,” she assured with childish earnestness. “Father has only gone exploring for a bit. He would never leave us.”

  Apprehension chaffed Ruth like an itchy wool shirt. If he recalls he has daughters—and where we are. But will he?

  Unwilling to burden her young sister with the seriousness of his condition until it was absolutely necessary Ruth had put off telling Marietta. Her sister knew something was wrong. After all, she had been called home from boarding school. But thus far Ruth had been able to maintain the illusion that the move to Whitby was of her father’s choosing, not the cost of his strange mind-thieving illness. Marietta must not know how precarious their position was. That worry had filled her with heart pounding dread since their father had failed to complete the Whitsunday service last spring despite Ruth’s prompts.

  “Father’s fine,” Marietta sniffed. “Why do you fret so?”

  “I’ll explain after we arrive in Whitby,” Ruth told her. “No matter what, stay here until I come back.” She surveyed the George and Blue Boar’s crowded public room. There was no sign of a tall man with a thatch of white hair.

  After a reassuring squeeze to Marietta’s hand, Ruth hurried out of the inn. She hastened across High Holborn and down a narrow alley to the inn’s courtyard on the other side of the street. A mass of horses, coaches, passengers, hostlers, and postilions mingled in a tumultuous yet organized chaos.

  Not finding her father there, Ruth hurried back to High Holborn. She swallowed her pride and described him to anyone who would lend an ear. At the end of a fruitless hour an old serving woman remembered such a man bumping into her. Ruth hurried in the direction pointed out and soon had trodden parts of Little Queen Street and then Great Queen Street in a futile search.