Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  “You believe in spirits and monsters?”

  Ruth leaned slightly forward and snapped, “Of course not.” Then she thought better of getting so close and shrank back.

  To keep from taking her in his arms Lucian planted a hand on either side of her head. “I’ll remain here until it is safe for you—for your family.”

  “This is a vicarage. Why would we not be safe?”

  “You are no slow top, Miss Clayton,” Lucian said, his mouth within inches of hers.

  “I have enough to worry about with father let alone whether you will be incapacitated by drink just when–”

  Lucian cut off her words with a ruthless kiss. The taste of her nearly drove him wild. He pressed his lean length into her and thrust his tongue between her lips. Fire shot through his veins when she opened for him. With the inferno came a peel of warning bells. It was not strong enough to trump passion with reason. That was done by a long low screech.

  Both froze at the sound.

  Lucian whirled from Ruth and scooped up the blunderbuss.

  Seconds after he moved, Ruth put fingers that trembled to her lips. She jerked them away as she ran to with window and searched in both directions. But all was shades of black and grey with glints of silver from reflected moonbeams.

  “Where did it come from?” Lucian asked in a whisper.

  Ruth left the window but halted several feet from him. “The front of the house—I think.”

  With a commanding wave Lucian motioned for her to stay where she was. In stocking feet he silently snuck into the hallway.

  For a few seconds Ruth could see the white of his shirt. When even that was lost to sight fear rose in her throat. Had someone entered the house unknown to them?

  She had noticed how unusually silent the front door’s hinges were that first night. In a house so long empty they should have squealed with each bit of motion. Ruth started at the sounds of some sort of encounter; put a hand over her heart.

  Words, unclear but angry drifted down the hall to Ruth. Her stomach clenched with fear that grew deeper with every passing moment. The wait grew unbearable.

  After taking but a step forward Ruth halted. She turned and crept back to the kitchen and grabbed the poker beside the stove. Advancing again she prayed that she would find Lucian unharmed without realizing it.

  Outside the parlour’s doors Ruth halted, listened intently. Nothing relieved the silence. Her back tight against the wall she edged around the door jamb.

  Still only silence. Ruth feared anyone there could hear her breathe. Worse, came the realization, she could not hear Lucian. Was he lying unconscious on the floor? Had he been wounded? Keyed to the breaking point she half screamed with candle light flickered behind her.

  Whirling she saw Jemmy, barefoot and wearing one of her father’s blouses for a nightshirt.

  Jemmy sniffed as he walked forward, clearly puzzled. Then he gaped.

  Ruth turned slowly back and saw Lucian rise from where he knelt on the left side of the fireplace.

  To think I worried for his safety.

  And his soul, came unbidden.

  “You’ve reason ta be glimfashy with him,” Jemmy said indignantly. “But ta take a poker ta him–”

  Lucian took hold of the poker in Ruth’s hand. Anger flashed in her eyes. He wondered for a moment if she would release it. “I asked Miss Clayton to bring it to me,” he said taking it firmly from her hand.

  Jemmy looked from one to the other, puzzled. “Didn’t ye hear thet strange noise? Thought fer a bit we were in fer it.”

  Feigning a yawn Lucian thought it time for a strategic retreat. He put a hand on Jemmy’s shoulder. “An old house creaks from time to time,” he said with bland innocence. “Best get you back to bed,” he added pushing the boy before him.

  ”You too,” Lucian told Ruth over his shoulder. “Dangers of all sorts are afoot in the dead of the night.” His Hecate glared back. The fury in her proved too tempting. “Danger for saints . . . and especially for sinners.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  St. Cedds Vicarage October 21st Early Morning

  Ruth backed away from Lucian Merristorm. The look in his eyes lit something far greater than the mild spark of fear, her initial reaction. She put her hands up and almost flattened them against his chest when he halted barely touching her fingertips.

  “What do you want of me?” breathed Lucian.

  Want? Ruth met his gaze. The warmth of it weakened her knees.

  Want.

  She flattened her hands; closed her eyes and breathed his unique scent into her soul. “I want you.”

  The words so startled Ruth that she jerked open her eyes. When she saw the ceiling of her chamber, not Lucian’s chest or seductive dark eyes, disappointment coursed through her. She put a hand to her lips which tingled at the memory of Lucian’s lips upon hers.

  Reality inched back into her thoughts when she heard Marietta stir. How could you be so wanton?

  She closed her eyes again and imagined him before her, a hand on either side of her head. Her heart fluttered with remembered exhilaration.

  With ruthless honesty Ruth examined her feelings. She had wanted him to kiss her. The jolt of his touch was somehow addictive. But more, Ruth decided. I longed for the safety found only in his arms.

  Safety in the arms of a drunkard? But why is he a drunkard? What demons pursue him that he escapes in drink? Lucian is a good man. If only he would open his heart.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  “I’m so glad you let us sleep late this morn,” Marietta mumbled as she stretched lazily beneath the covers.

  Ruth stiffened; became aware that it was not the grey light of dawn but the bright light of full day that lit the chamber.

  Bolting out of bed, Ruth jerked open the door and dashed out despite Marietta’s startled yelp. The tug she gave the chair beneath her father’s doorknob did not budge it. She listed off balance and was righted by two strong hands that drew her back against solid heat.

  Startled Ruth tried to wrench free. Instead two arms encircled her, trapped her arms at her sides and pressed her back against a very firm chest.

  “Sairy Jane,” Lucian began, his mouth inches from her ear.

  The deep timbre of his voice, the seductive lilt urged her to press against him, to turn in his arms and wrap her arms about his neck.

  “She said I should check if you meant to stay abed all day.”

  The invitation she read in his words sparked real fear. Ruth twisted and pushed at his arms.

  Instantly Lucian released her and stepped back.

  Ruth grabbed the seat of the chair and pulled hard. Her rump thumped back against Lucian.

  He grunted and instinctively grabbed Ruth about the waist.

  To her surprise Lucian thrust her away the moment they both were steady on their feet. “I’ll put the chair back,” he growled behind her. “It’d be best if you got dressed. Now.”

  Despite his intent not to, Lucian watched her as Ruth dashed away. Dainty feet and trim ankles flashed as she ran. He took a deep breath and damned his body’s response.

  Her door clicked shut behind her and Lucian jerked up the chair. Before he could move a forceful knock halted him. He pushed at the door

  Sampson Clayton looked at him with gratitude from the other side. “Thank you for opening the door, Mr. Merristorm. I must see to replacing the mechanism,” Sampson told him. With a look of approval at Lucian’s freshly laundered and pressed clothes he smiled.

  “Do you mean to join us at services this morn?”

  It flashed to mind that the last time Lucian had attended services he had escorted Jasmine Randolph. Revulsion twisted his gut. “I have other business to attend.” He set down the chair and wheeled for the stairs.

  Despite Sairy Jane’s protest Lucian went out the back door without pausing. He was well away from the house before he realized it. Lucian halted.

  He closed his eyes and summoned the memory of Jasmine Randolph. A f
aint image of a blond beauty swam before him. No dearly remembered features, not even the sad malaise that any thought of her usually brought.

  Lucian blinked. Tried once again. “I thought I could never forget her.”

  The nightmare.

  When was the last time he had dreamed of Jasmine Randolph? He looked back at the vicarage. Why does Clayton insist I ask my father what happened? There is no doubt as to that.

  The slam of a door took his gaze back to the vicarage. Jemmy, loping toward him, waved.

  “I should have left,” Lucian muttered, chilled by the lad’s confidence; by his ignorance of the situation. He had to solve the puzzle so he could leave.

  With an eye trained by picket duty, Lucian studied the landscape. The brush and dried grass were tall, the land undulating. But neither could hide a giant creature nor the band that had provided the cacophonic accompaniment. The shed that stabled the nag—he half smiled remembering Ruth’s reluctant admission that the poor beast was his—was short and squat and offered no cover for the creature. It was too small and bare to conceal pots and pans and sticks.

  “What’cha’ lookin’ fer, sir,” Jemmy asked as he tromped to a halt before Merristorm.

  Lucian eyed his barely recognized beaver hat that dangled from the boy’s hand. He held out his hand and when Jemmy handed it over ran his hands over the brim to reshape it. “Do you see any place to hide?”

  “Hide?” The boy’s eyes widened. “Ye mean the creature?”

  “T’was very inconvenient of me not to see where it went,” Lucian said darkly as he clapped the hat onto his head.

  “Ye weren’t seein’—aye,” Jemmy floundered.

  “We’ll start here and move in an ever enlarging circle,” Lucian instructed. “Keep a look out for any sign of what direction they went.” He thought of the days the Preventives had used his regiment to hunt freetraders. “Perhaps even a trapdoor to a tunnel.”

  With a look of awe, Jemmy nodded.

  Several minutes later Lucian paused and cocked his head. “Was that—”

  “A bell? Yes, sir,” Jemmy said. He bit his lower lip. “I sort of, well I . . .”

  The ring of a small bell, a dinner bell Lucian guessed, floated to them across the crisp air.

  “You promised Miss Clayton you would attend the service.”

  Jemmy nodded.

  “Then you had better go.”

  The boy stubbed the tip of one of his boots against the grass. “I said I’d bring you.”

  Lucian looked at the hunched shoulders and stubborn look. The lad was braced for a bear garden jawing. “Then we had better go. Do you know the direction?”

  “Aye, sir,” Jemmy beamed at him. “Miss Ruth said ta follow the road back to a fork. The church sits behind some trees.”

  “Circle to the right,” Lucian bid him. “I’ll follow.”

  Lucian slowed his steps as they drew near the trees that shielded St. Cedds. From the remnant of the square tower he had spotted above the trees while they approached he knew the church to be very old, probably Norman. The tower appeared to have been struck by lightning. The lack of repairs put the present use of the church much in doubt.

  The nearness of the church brought a different dread to Lucian. He should not have come. It would give a wrong impression; a lie by implication.

  “Mr. Merristorm!”

  Jemmy’s shout carried Lucian forward at a run. He took in the crumbling façade of the church and then the boy’s crushed expression.

  The scene reminded him of a building amidst a battle. Windows gaped bare of glass. Roof timbers, bare and rotting, sat like a broken spider web atop the walls. Chunks of stone and roof tile lay where they had fallen in the overgrown churchyard.

  “Where are they?”

  “Inside. I seen a flash of Miss Ruth’s blue gown.” He looked up at Lucian.

  “They ain’t got no living, do they?”

  “We don’t know that,” Lucian said, but fear dried his mouth. Unaware of what drove him he strode forward anxious to find Ruth.

  The church door yawed permanently open. It sagged tiredly from the one hinge that still held it in place.

  Lucian halted just inside the door to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimmer light.

  Jemmy slipped in beside him and clutched Merristorm’s hand. “Ain’t ne’er seen nuttin’ like this,” the boy half-whispered.

  Long stripped of useful wood or metal, the nave was startlingly bare. Windswept piles of leaves littered the whole. Suddenly there was a flutter of wings near the front. Half a dozen sparrows winged through one of the paneless windows.

  Marietta’s gasp drew Lucian’s focus to the three figures near the sanctuary. Ruth stood with her arm about her father, her head tilted against his arm. The nave was very short, the distance was not great.

  A low sob drifted back to Lucian. He strained to hear from whom it came. When Sampson pushed Ruth away, Merristorm was certain it came from him. He watched Ruth clutch at her father’s hand, capture it. Her words belled clearly like a death knell.

  “We cannot leave St. Cedds, Father. We have no one but each other.”

  Lucian did not wait to hear more. He stalked out of the church deeply hurt but knew not why.

  * * *

  Donatien lowered the telescope he had kept trained on the church as the man and boy approached it. He remembered the drunken Merristorm propelled out of the Wise Owl by two knaves and the prickle of disquiet at recognizing the man. The captain’s condition and the obvious intent of his captors had eased any fear the man was here to disrupt the Frenchman’s plans.

  But this sober version walking the ground beyond the vicarage for clues and obviously in the boy’s good book troubled Donatien. He cursed the ham-headed Willy Burns for dragging out the “creature” Friday past.

  If only I had discovered it in time to put a halt to the scheme. They may have frightened the Clayton’s but not Merristorm.

  The Frenchman reached beneath his cravat and fingered the ring on the cord that he wore beneath his blouse. The Duc d’Veryl had not outwitted him. Neither would this drunken sod of an English cavalryman.

  Seeing a flicker of movement Donatien raised the spyglass to his eye. No uniform, he thought watching Merristorm stalk out of the church. No sign of Baron de la Croix or the others who sought to foil me in London. He wanted to dismiss his concern but knew that was not wise. To underestimate the enemy, indeed not to recognize him could, as it had for the duc, end in death.

  Donatien slid the glass into its pocket on his saddle and put his hand to his pistol, then grimaced and withdrew it. He backed his horse down the rise until he was certain he could not be seen. He reined to the right and rode across country towards the road that led to St. Cedds, his thoughts back to early September and the meeting with Damler.

  Donatien looked down at his hand and touched his forefinger to his thumbnail, now short and rounded for his latest disguise as Bernard Geary, Riding Officer. He reined to a halt at the fork that led to St. Cedds.

  Was Merristorm a complication to be eliminated? Or a nuisance to be tolerated?

  Madame Jenkinson is a complication of major proportions but you will not harm her.

  Donatien’s gut churned with a far different sentiment than he was accustomed. Peace Jenkinson’s face haunted him as those he had killed through the years never had. The narrow oval of her face was elegant; brows, nose, and lips dainty. The first time he had seen Peace, her dun coloured hair was plaited and the braid swayed seductively against her derrière.

  Donatien smiled at the memory but then his lips thinned and tightened. Peace Jenkinson was not just the widow of the murdered tavern owner who had led the local smuggling gang. Gut instinct told him she was now their leader. His fist clenched reflexively. He had learned far more than he wanted to know about the woman. How had it happened? How had he come to dream of what was not possible?

  Vianne, Comtesse Bettencourt, would hate him if she knew his connection to Nap
oleon. She was on the official list of émigrés for whom a reward was offered and death awaited. Napoleon would have her head if she returned to France.

  Donatien put the conundrum that he had played over and over seeking a solution since shortly after his arrival in Whitby. Only three days remained until he and everything Damler had told him about would be bound for France.

  Three days more. Better three days gone from this place. Better to know if Merristorm will prove a danger, Donatien thought, avoiding his decision about Peace Jenkinson. He prodded his gelding onto the road to St. Cedds.

  There is nothing in Bernard Geary or in my disguise as the Prussian officer Berthold von Willmar whom Merristorm observed and to whom he spoke that could betray me. He never saw me in any of my other disguises. Squire George, émigré Jacques Porteur, the spy Chercheur, or meek English Mr. Tredway. Donatien smiled. No one ever surpassed his skill at disguise. But the inkling of possible failure remained and he had been warned not to fail.

  Best to know if Merristorm recognizes me. If he does not—mais non—he may still die.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lucian flicked the reins against the cob’s knobby back as he neared the church. He was relieved Jemmy did not appear and insist on going with him. What he wanted to accomplish in Whitby would be better done alone. Tempted to thank God for the ₤20 in his pocket Lucian scowled. He had to leave this place soon.

  Ruth’s overheard words in the church threaded back into his thoughts. We have no one but each other. Lucian pushed the words away and looked around. Some trees still wore their autumnal colours with pride. Interspersed among them cedars and pines added to the palette. Lucian looked over their tops at the brilliant blue sky. It struck him that he had forgotten how beautiful it was.

  A rider loomed into view. Lucian gripped the reins tighter then realized the bony nag couldn’t out run a speedy turtle. Why in the bloody hell didn’t I bring the blunderbuss? He continued to curse his stupidity until the rider drew closer and he recognized the uniform.

  A Riding Officer. God, I hope he’s not too corrupt.