Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  “But he’d a gotten ye,” Jemmy protested. “Jest ask Mr. Merristorm. He’d a done the same thing.” Jemmy twisted his head to look at the man who now sat bowed over, his arms crossed on the table and his forehead pressed against the uppermost arm.

  “Quite the babbling,” Lucian gritted, the lad’s words a torment in sound and content.

  “Sorry, sir. I bet ye’ve a head.” Jemmy looked back at Ruth, beaming with admiration. “Ta think he could still make thet shot as boozy as he were.”

  Her lips clamped on the rebuke that comment prompted, Ruth finished wiping Jemmy’s face. She rinsed the cloth and began to clean the blood out of his hair. “In the morn,” she told the boy with a sideways look at Lucian, “the pair of you are going to bathe.”

  Merristorm gave a derisive grunt.

  “Ouch,” Jemmy protested. “Needn’t pull me hair out.” He reached up to rub the offended area but Ruth took hold of his hand.

  “I am sorry, Jemmy,” she said pushing his hand back into his lap. I am almost finished.” A few moments later she did so. After rinsing the cloth she pressed it to the lad’s head. “Hold this will you?”

  “Sairy Jane?” Ruth asked turning to look where she had gone. For a terrifying moment she thought the old woman had left them. The glint of a light moving toward the kitchen from the corridor was like a fist in the stomach.

  “What’s wrong Miss Ruth?” Jemmy asked. “Thet’s jest Sairy Jane bringing the lamp frum the sitting room.”

  Ruth looked back and met Lucian’s mocking gaze. She itched to slap it off his face and felt even more foolish when she saw he had read her wish. “You had better go back to the sofa in the sitting room,” she said caustically.

  “Why don’t the lot of you go there?” Lucian mumbled and lowered his head back to his arms.

  “Wishing us to perdition will not help anyone,” Ruth said tartly. She plucked the cloth from beneath Jemmy’s hand.

  “Bring the light close,” she told Sairy Jane who stood watching them from the door. After inspecting the wound Ruth went to one of the boxes on the kitchen floor. She stooped down and removed a jar wrapped in cotton wool.

  “What’s it?” Jemmy asked with some misgiving.

  His grimace made Ruth chuckle. “It is just some salve that will help it heal.” She smoothed in on while Sairy Jane removed the bowl and tossed the water out of the back door. “Back to bed with you. Do you need help?”

  Jemmy rolled his eyes. He slipped down from the table and studied Merristorm. “He’s the one needs help,” he told Ruth. “Can I bring me blanket and sleep by the sofa—so’s I can help him if he needs the necessary or sommit,” the lad added hurriedly when he saw refusal on Ruth’s face.

  “He has a point,” Sairy Jane said quietly. “Won’t hurt him and he won’t get blood all o’er me clean sheets.” She set the glass in her hand a distance in front of Lucian and then put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Drink what I brought ye. It’ll make the morn more tolerable.

  “No,” Lucian mumbled.

  “Mr. Merristorm,” Ruth snapped. When he did not move she slapped a hand on the table. “You shall drink this—this—tisane. I have no time to care for a man sick from drink.”

  “Care to pour it down my throat?” Lucian growled as he slowly raised his head.

  The insolent challenge goaded Ruth. She reached for the glass with every intent to make the effort.

  Jemmy got hold of the glass first. He sloshed a little out as he held it before him. “See that his sofa be ready, Miss Ruth.”

  The please he mouthed doused her unusual spat of temper. “Just a minute,” Ruth told him and hurried out before he could see her smile.

  Sairy Jane shook her head. “I’m fer me bed. Turn down the lamp,” she said to no one in particular.

  Jemmy waited until the door had closed behind the old woman. Then he approached the table and set the glass in front of Merristorm. “Best ta take yer med’cin like a man,” he challenged.

  Lucian saw the fear of rejection beneath the boy’s admiration. For a moment he wondered if he’d be able to pick up the glass or if his hand would shake so bad he would spill its contents.

  Better to let the boy see what a sod I am, Lucian decided. Ruth is too well aware of that already. The thought did not bring the satisfaction he expected. Angry at his weakness for the chit, he thrust out an arm and took hold of the glass.

  Walking around the table Jemmy asked, “Need me ta help? I used ta help me pa when he were in a bad way.”

  “No,” growled Lucian but his displeasure was at what the boy’s simple words told him. He slowly raised the glass sloshing only a little over the side before he steadied it against his mouth. The first few mouthfuls he gulped down but then realized the taste was surprisingly pleasant and it quenched his thirst.

  The glass drained he gingerly held it out. “I don’t suppose you know where she keeps the brandy?”

  Jemmy shook his head. “Don’t think there be any in the house.” He brightened. “I brought a bucket o’ fresh water in afore I went ta bed.”

  With a resigned sigh Lucian tilted the glass towards him. “Your name?”

  “Jemmy, sir. Don’t ye rememb’r how ye—” he began excitedly as he took the glass and hurried to dip it into the bucket of water in the sink.

  “In the morn,” Lucian cautioned him. He propped his elbow on the table and pressed his head against his hand.

  “I shall give it to him,” Ruth nodded at the glass in Jemmy’s hand from the door. “Go fetch your blanket.”

  “Thank ye, Miss Ruth.” Jemmy thrust the overflowing glass into her hand with a brilliant smile.

  Ruth listened to the pad of his bare feet on the stairs. Better that than the trip of her heart. “Here,” she said louder than necessary when she reached the table.

  “There’s no call to shout,” Lucian said with asperity. His stomach roiled at the thought Ruth would see that he could not even hold a glass steady. No, it’s not that, he protested and grabbed for the glass.

  His precipitous move startled Ruth. She stepped back tipping the glass toward him and sloshing water over his hand and sleeve as he caught it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as he drank what remained in the glass.

  Anger helped Lucian stand after he thumped the glass down on the table. He ignored the fact that he knocked it over as he leaned against the table top and sucked in a breath to steady himself. When the dizziness eased, he said without looking at Ruth, “Do you mean to help me or not?”

  “Help you?” she squeaked.

  “To the sitting room.”

  “I thought you didn’t know where it was?”

  “Hence the help,” he gritted.

  “Then follow me,” Ruth said. Self-satisfaction dripped from the words. Near the door his words stopped her.

  “Please.”

  The softly whispered word melted her heart. Ruth closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together. Taking a deep breath, she turned and slowly went back to him. Without a word Ruth gingerly put an arm about Lucian’s waist and waited as he settled his other one across her shoulders.

  Wordlessly they shuffled across the kitchen and into the corridor. Half way to the sitting room Lucian groaned and Ruth halted. “What is it?”

  He drew in a deep breath full of her fragrance. Even in his sodden state he sensed lust quicken. Lucian was too aware of the soft round fullness pressing into his side as she turned toward him. “Get me to that bloody sofa,” he growled.

  “Mind your language, Mr. Merristorm,” Ruth whispered and continued down the corridor.

  When they came through the open doors Lucian lunged for the sofa. Anything to get away from this bewitching Hecate. He dropped onto it with a thunk and grabbed his head to ease the flair of dizziness or the near panic thoughts of Ruth aroused. Which was worse he was not certain. When Ruth lifted his feet he automatically laid back on the sofa. Her touch as she tucked a blanket around him nearly did him in. He wanted his clot
hes off, her hands on him. His on her.

  “Open your heart and mind to what happened in the past that drives you to drink,” she murmured but went to Jemmy before he could frame a response.

  Lucian heard Ruth bid the boy goodnight. There was a swish of fabric. He imagined she bent to tousle the boy’s hair.

  Probably kissed him, his traitorous mind jibbed.

  When she left taking the candle with her, he groaned.

  “Are ye a right, Mr. Merristorm?” piped the boy.

  “I’ve run mad,” he muttered.

  “Me pa used ta say thet. It’ll be better of a morn, sir.”

  Lucian turned his face to the back of the sofa. In the morn I shall put the dust of this place behind me.

  Chapter Twelve

  London October 18th Late Afternoon

  Baron de la Croix’s brow furrowed in consternation as he trotted down the steps of the house that Lucian Merristorm kept for orphan boys. Merristorm the patron of a moral and just cause. Who would have believed it?

  André Ribeymon knew he would not have done so before this visit. That misjudgement annoyed and troubled him. There were times when his life depended upon his instant and instinctive judgment of people.

  The grizzled old soldier in charge, Eleazor Scruggs, had proven tight-lipped, even hostile when questioned about Merristorm. But cajoled with the retelling of Lucian’s part in the pursuit of a very nasty French spy the scarred battle-hardened veteran visibly relaxed.

  “Sounds right like the Capt’n,” Scruggs nodded vigorously. “Serious when needs be. The kind o’ man ta have on yer side in a fight.”

  “You served under him,” André hazarded a shrewd guess.

  “’Til Talavera. We sent them frogs running but near lost me life. The Capt’n paid ta have me carried to Portugal straight away,” Scruggs said expansively.

  “He had a thing fer helpin’ boys o’er there too. One o’ his fav’rites were Magelhaes.” He shook his head. “The lad were knifed by a Spaniard and the Capt’n kilt the bastard. Thet why he were sent home but figure ye knew that.”

  André nodded, the tacit lie heavier on his conscience than usual. “I was told that Merristorm had papers drawn to provide for the house for some time. Had he mentioned a journey?”

  “When I got them papers I were sore afraid he meant to kick up his toes. Afore his time.” Scruggs edged his gaze away from de la Croix’s. “If’n ye take my meaning.”

  “Suicide?” André asked.

  “The man lived in a kind o’ hell when he weren’t tryin’ ta get his self kilt. Seen it many a time. Those seekin’ death bury those afeared o’ it.”

  “Did he ever speak about what plagued him?”

  “The Capt’n?” Scruggs gave a cold chuckle. “He were one ta give help. Ne’er one ta take it.”

  “And that was what he did on Monday—helped someone?”

  “Aye, he called on some of the boys. Tom and Jim and one or two others.”

  “Could I speak with them?”

  “Ye mean ta find where the Capt’n’s gone?”

  “If I can.”

  Scruggs eyed the Baron speculatively. Lace at neck and sleeve and puce satin before dark. A dandy in clothes and stance. “I’ll fetch them,” he said and went away muttering, “Thet one’ll ne’er save the Capt’n but ‘ave ta chance it.”

  The Baron wholly agreed with Scruggs. While he had adjusted his view of Merristorm, André had no doubt the “Capt’n” would not take kindly to any “saving.”

  The lads proved no less loyal and were not so easily cajoled. However when they bristled at mention of Sir Brandon Thornley an uneasiness that Halstrom’s urgency had not raised niggled at de la Croix.

  A wave of his gilt topped cane brought the Earl of Tretain’s light coach to the baron’s side. After ordering the driver to his flat on Jermyn Street, André settled back to consider what the boys had revealed by what they had not said.

  First and foremost that Thornley was a wholly bad influence on the man they idolized. André had first dismissed this as simple jealously but side comments and mutterings under their breath had shown the boys sharp as tacks when it came to the humours of men.

  Why not considering their lives before Merristorm and Scruggs, de la Croix thought with his own prayer of thanks. His Aunt Juliane had rescued him and his sister from a fate not unlike that which Merristorm had saved these boys. He grimaced at a distant memory surged to the fore.

  For a moment he was a six year old boy confronted by a mob ugly with fevered anger and greed who demanded that Baron de la Croix be turned over to them for justice. Even now he could see the pattern of roses in the green brocade of his mother’s skirts behind which he had taken refuge. He had at first refused to leave her and go with her maid. But his mother had demanded he protect his infant sister Leora and he had done as she asked.

  For a moment the clatter and bustle of the London streets crescendoed and coalesced into the chaos of the mob ransacking his home in far-away France. He and Leora had stayed hidden though the traitor who helped them had not tried to defend his beautiful mother. Pandemonium had ricocheted in that tiny cell in ever increasing violence: fabric ripped, glass shattered, servants screamed. Revolutionaries cursed amidst the cries of the few servants who tried to protect what would have been his inheritance. Hidden in the secret closet behind the wall beside the fireplace in his mother’s sitting room André had prayed until too numbed by terror. And then that awful silence.

  Baron de la Croix blinked and saw his knuckle white grip on his cane. He swore under his breath but could not stay the image of his mother’s bloody battered body.

  Why had he agreed to search out Merristorm when spoiling the plans of the men who had grasped power and wealth over the bodies of his mother and so many others was far more important?

  I shall wait, André thought, until Pascual tells me what he has learned. Pascual, a distant cousin who aided him with nefarious talents as well as acted as his valet and footman, might be able to confirm Halstrom’s conclusions about Thornley. If so, André decided, he would be free to convince the Marquess it would prove very unhealthy to approach Leora.

  The ointment in the scheme was the good he had learned about Merristorm. Much of it was difficult to believe if he took his last encounter with the man at face value. But the French spy he thought of as le Français had taught him to never take anything for what it appeared.

  Do I resist doing as I said I would because the taunt he threw at me was far too close to the mark? André uneasily recalled the incident.

  Carelessly robed, Merristorm’s saturnine features worse for the night’s growth of whiskers, had a hint of despair in the depths of the dark eyes that belied his lackadaisical pose. André had noted his presence and dismissed it until the deep sardonic voice flicked at the baron’s wounded pride. “Seen any poisonous snakes in London of late?” Merristorm queried. “Slip through your fingers as easily as the last?”

  “It was a taunt,” André said aloud, his pride still raw over the unavenged torture of Hadleigh Tarrant and the near death of Tarrant’s wife Sarah at the hands of the Frenchman of so many disguises—that time the Prussian von Wilmar. Le Français.

  André had wounded the man but he had escaped. Merristorm had aided him then, knew the details. But he had not known the man had escaped yet again this past March after he kidnapped and terrified James Vincouer’s wife Cecilia under the guise of Tredway, a harmless Englishman.

  He meant to insult me but was it merely to distract? De la Croix considered the matter. His gut twisted at a sudden thought. So I would detest him? Not try to prevent the end that would surely overtake him?

  * * *

  St. Cedds Vicarage Whitby, Yorkshire October 19th Dawn

  The dull pain in Lucian’s head throbbed with increasing violence. It yawed back and forth like the scorpions that had skittered across the bodies on the sandy battlefield of Talavera.

  He moaned and tried to shove a hand towards his head
. His palm hit his bristly cheek and then inched upward.

  The heel of his hand was cold against his hot forehead. He pressed it hard to try and still the throbbing. When it did no good he opened his eyes and stared upward blearily. The grey shadows of early morn danced and twitched as he blinked at a cherub on the ceiling.

  Where in God’s hell am I? Blinking back the pain Lucian slowly turned his head. The white mantled fireplace struck him as odd as the cherubs carved on it. ‘Tis like nothing in Spain.

  The aftermath of Magelhaes’ death tumbled to the fore. Lucian clenched his fists against the images from the past. His heart ached anew at the thought of the boy’s blood soaked body. Cold satisfaction twisted amidst the ache. Eugenio Hernandez’s attempt to kill Lucian had ended in the man’s death. Danbury and Goodchurch’s pity had stolen even that satisfaction when Merristorm was forced to sell his captaincy. Lucian closed his eyes and laid his forearm over them.

  Another image shimmied into focus. This one had burnished autumn curls and eyes green as emeralds. His breath hitched. He pulled her into his arms. Heart hammered. Groin tightened. The scent of her tinged with delicate sweetness, light as the belled lily of the valley from which it came, filled him with urgent hunger.

  Lucian opened his eyes and made to reach for the beauty. But found her gone and in her place an old crone bent over his head with a dagger in hand.

  Lucian groaned. Had madness claimed him? He drew in a slow shuddering breath and a welter of jumbled and tangled images cascaded through his mind. An old man who spoke Greek and knew him. Thornley and Lade. Coaches and coaching inns. Strangers buying him port. Ruth’s beauty. Her kindness.

  “Ruth.” Lucian said the name with a new certainty. “Ruth,” he murmured and closed his eyes. On the instant he saw a glowing giant tower over her, heard a tremendous blast and flinched from the bruising slam of a stock into his shoulder.

  A half mad laugh trembled behind his teeth. Lucian swung his feet over the side of what he saw in a blur was a sofa. The dull pain in his shoulder moved to a fierce twinge. His head throbbed.