Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  “That was not a prayer,” Lucian muttered with a quick glance upward past the brim of his hard-travelled beaver. Deciding to let the man come to him, Lucian reined the cob to a halt.

  With aplomb Donatien assumed Bernard Geary’s persona and became Geary before he saw Merristorm. Riding up to the man he reined to a halt beside the cart. Doffing his bicorne he bid him, “Good afternoon,” in a precise Etonian accent.

  Raising a hand to brim of his beaver Lucian gave the man a slight nod.

  “You are new to the area?” When an assessing gaze was the only reply Geary looked past the cart and further up the road. “Coming from St. Cedds, Mr. Clayton?”

  Merristorm narrowed his eyes.

  Geary smiled apologetically. “I heard of the arrival of a new vicar. The whole town is awash with the news.”

  “Do they speak of anything else?” Lucian asked after a pause. He watched curiosity flicker in the dark hazel eyes.

  “Not that I am aware.” Geary settled his bicorne back on his head. “But the citizenry is not always open with me.”

  “A Riding Officer can be at a distinct disadvantage,” Lucian told him.

  “You know of me?”

  “Certainly not,” Lucian said. Something about the man made him uneasy but he put that to his not always pleasant experience of Riding Officers and decided to give a little information to get some. “I am Lucian Merristorm, currently a guest of the Claytons.”

  “I can’t imagine they shall remain in that wreck of a house for long,” Geary said.

  Lucian kept his expression bland. “Why?”

  “Who would live like a pig in a broken down sty if they had a choice. You’ve seen the church?”

  “What is left of it.”

  “The house is little better.”

  “You have been in it?”

  “Once or twice to check for hideaways.”

  “Find any?”

  “There is no basement except a small cold cellar off the kitchen,” Geary said with regret.

  “A lot of trouble in your district?”

  “Are you planning on adding to it Mr. Merristorm?”

  “I plan to leave Whitby as soon as I am able.”

  “The Claytons?”

  “You would have to ask them,” Lucian said tightly, suddenly eager to be on his way.

  “Perhaps you could introduce me?”

  “Another time,” Lucian said and flicked the reins.

  Geary turned his gelding and caught up with the cart. “May I be of service to you, sir?”

  “Why do you ask?” Lucian asked with customary rudeness.

  “You are stranger. I could direct you to the best means of addressing your present wants.”

  “Brandy?”

  “The Wise Owl—an establishment near the harbour that probably can provide France’s best for a price,” Geary said.

  Hearing a touch of pique Lucian glanced at him. “Despite your best efforts?”

  Geary looked to the sky and released a reluctant chuckle. He eyed Lucian closely. “You have the bearing of a dragoon officer. I shall take it you are familiar with the problems that beset my work.”

  “Friends are sometimes hard to recognize.”

  “Very much so,” Geary agreed.

  “Take me to the Wise Owl and we’ll see about the quality of their brandy.”

  * * *

  The Wise Owl

  Lucian jerked at the door and motioned for Geary to enter.

  The customers within looked at him and fell silent.

  Sailors, Lucian thought. Of the rougher sort. Freetraders? Perhaps Geary is why they glare. He saw a diminutive dark blond woman past the first blush of youth lightly grip the shoulder of a very large man. That he immediately began to converse with his companions as did everyone else Lucian thought no accident.

  “Capitaine Geary,” she greeted the man beside Lucian with the slightest of arches of one brow. “The usual, monsieur?”

  “And another for Mr. Merristorm, Mrs. Jenkinson.

  “I shall bring the drinks,” she said smoothly and ambled towards the bar.

  Lucian led the way to a free table near the wall. He sat in a chair facing the chamber. “A friend?”

  “An émigré and probably an aristo. I gather her husband died a couple of months ago, shortly before I arrived.”

  “A freetrader?”

  Geary put his forearms on the table and leaned toward Merristorm. “The leader of the local gang from what I have learned,” he said quietly.

  “His wife?”

  The Riding Officer looked over his shoulder and watched Peace walk toward them with a tray of drinks.

  The tightening of the man’s jaw noted, Lucian looked to the woman. She walked with confidence but her eyes were full of questions. He’d have paid anything to know what they were.

  “Thank you, madam,” Lucian said easily, and accepted the mug. “Excuse me, but have you seen me before?”

  Peace cocked her head and after a long steady look shrugged. “I do not believe so.”

  “You were here when Mr. Clayton became upset. Jemmy told me you prevented some rough handling—for him.”

  “I do not know a Mr. Clayton. Nor a Jim,” Peace said.

  “The new vicar of St. Cedds,” Geary added.

  The men at the next table guffawed loudly.

  “Oh, oui. Too much ale I think,” she said ignoring them.

  “You did not see anyone drag me out of your establishment before that happened?”

  “You evidently think I should have,” Peace said with a touch of annoyance. “Mais non, I did not. The tavern, it was very busy at the time.”

  Geary shrugged when Lucian bent his gaze on him. “I fear I didn’t see anything.” He raised his mug and waited for Merristorm to do likewise. “To friends,” he offered.

  “To true friends,” Lucian amended and drank. Only the experience of drinking the vile wines of Spain on the retreat to Corunna enabled him not to spit out the sour liquid. He looked at Geary as he swallowed and saw a smile in the depths of the Riding Officer’s eyes.

  The man took another drink.

  Lucian leaned forward and forced a chagrined grimace. “You’ve heard nothing about a man being beaten and robbed?” he asked tautly. He watched Geary’s eyes widen and nodded.

  “Robbed were you?”

  With an inward smile, Lucian gave a cryptic, “Yes.”

  “In need of funds?”

  “Pistol, balls and powder. A sabre.”

  Geary blinked.

  “Only a fool would take the road to London unarmed. I have borrowed from Mr. Clayton,” he added with distaste.

  “How do you mean to travel?”

  “On the morrow I shall try to secure an advance on my account in London and purchase a decent horse. It may take a few days but I shall get it.”

  “Perhaps I can vouch for you.”

  “Why would you?” asked Lucian with emphasized suspicion.

  “Someone once helped me in an embarrassing situation. I can but do the same.” Geary drained his mug and stood up. “I know where you can get the weapons very cheaply.”

  Sometime later Lucian was on his way back to St. Cedds in possession of two pistols, powder, shot, and a dull sabre badly in need of a stone which Geary had also provided. The Riding Officer had proven good on his word on vouching for Lucian and a bay gelding with tack was to be brought to the vicarage by evening, a new suit of clothes would be delivered in a day or two, and money from his account at Coutts in a week with luck.

  But Geary was a puzzle. He had provided very little information of use and instinct urged caution.

  Half way to the vicarage Lucian pondered why the freetraders were so threatened by an old man and a young woman and two children. If he could not find a way to convince the locals the Claytons meant no harm he would have to induce Ruth to take her family elsewhere.

  For the first time since he had denounced his father, Lucian wished he had not cut himself off
so completely. Was there a living Halstrom could give to Clayton? Give him in name only? Lucian amended.

  Idiot, you haven’t spoken to Halstrom for years and now you mean to ask a favour?

  “Besides,” he continued the discussion aloud, “there is no time to do so.” Lucian wondered briefly if he could hire decent equipage and get changes of horses along the way. Even if he could, he admitted, his chance of success with Ruth was less than that of unearthing the creature and those responsible for it.

  The dilapidated vicarage looked even worse as he passed it and drew the cob to a halt before the small shed. A sense of unease gripped Lucian as he glanced at the house. The urge to run to it and find Ruth mushroomed.

  “Bloody hell.” Lucian disgustedly turned back to the nag and began to unhitch it from the cart. “You’re getting worse than Jamey Vincouer.” He thought of how the young lieutenant was forever looking to catch a sight of Cecilia Mayer-Boden, now his wife, on the deadly retreat to Corunna. The man drove everyone to distraction fretting over her safety. That he now understood the urge worried Lucian.

  “I will not be under a cat’s paw,” he swore as he unbuckled the harness. After he had kicked some grass in front of the nag, Lucian picked up a bucket and headed toward the pump jack at the rear of the house.

  As he pushed down the pump handle Sairy Jane threw open the door and flew down the steps. Stark fear froze the blood in his veins.

  “He’s gone missing,” the old woman huffed to a halt and put a hand on the pump to steady herself.

  “Sampson?”

  “Aye. They’re all out looking for him.”

  “How long?”

  Sairy Jane wrinkled her brow.

  Lucian scanned the horizon in all directions. “How long?” he asked again.

  “I was jest ‘bout to serve ’em. Miss Ruth sent Jemmy to get Mr. Clayton. He’d gone to his study when they came back from the church. Real upset he were. Babbling strange nonsense and all. Miss Ruth looked terrible scared.”

  “What direction did they go?”

  Sairy Jane made an arc with her hand.

  “Bloody hell,” Lucian said savagely. He started at a run for the shed then realized the cart would be useless on this wild terrain. The horse probably could not carry his weight more than a few miles.

  But Lucian continued to the shed and took the sack with the pistols and the sabre from the cart and then he returned to Sairy Jane. “Fill and tie a water bottle in a cloth that I can sling over my shoulder,” he instructed as he removed the wet stone from the bag and began to sharpen the sabre’s edge.

  * * *

  After the first dismay wore off and Lucian settled into the hunt he turned his thoughts to how he had come to be where he was. His memories of the road to Whitby were a jumble. He found it difficult to distinguish between dream and reality.

  Most vivid, most daunting were his “conversations” with Ruth. Worse, Lucian knew that while he wished to find the old man in the now faint hope of getting answers from him, he very much wanted to find him for Ruth. The realization halted him.

  “No,” he said the denial aloud but it sounded no truer for that. “’Tis only that she is a woman, alone in every way that matters,” he said and resumed covering the ground with long strides. “What man with any sense of honour wouldn’t wish to protect a virtuous woman?”

  Of all things a vicar’s daughter. Lud, what I wouldn’t give for a drink. No sooner had Lucian thought it than he realized it wasn’t true. Rather, he’d never take a drink again if the old man was found safe. The memory of a surfeit of prayers for Jasmine darkened his features. You can’t make deals with the Almighty.

  He now approached the sea north of the vicarage intent on walking along the cliff’s edge for a way before veering inland again. The sun sat on the horizon, a blazing arc with streaks of pinks and purples to each side. The beauty of it made him wish Ruth was at his side to share it. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather washed over him. The last woman at his side had died. He lengthened his stride and hastened the pace.

  Less than a furlong from the drop off to the sea Lucian turned and walked parallel with it. Ahead of him a few yards from the edge of the cliff he thought he saw a figure. It turned. He saw it was a woman. Ruth. Alone.

  Half running now, Lucian saw her put her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun and step closer to the edge. His stomach somersaulted. Lucian thought to call for her to step back but feared a shout would startle her. He clamped his lips against it and raced towards her.

  Still some distance from Ruth, Lucian slowed to a walk. He prayed she would look in his direction. When he was almost upon her, she did turn. Her eyes widened and she stepped back.

  Lucian lunged for her arm. “What are you doing?” he shouted, his heart-stuttering, fear blazing into fierce anger.

  His wild look strummed the day’s tension to a crashing pitch. “Looking for my father,” Ruth shouted as he jerked her towards him. She wrenched her arm free and held out both hands palms up as if to fend him off.

  “Damme you,” Lucian swore, “you could have fallen.”

  “I feared my father had,” she answered, and began to shiver.

  “You can’t see if he has from this vantage.” Lucian swallowed the lump in his throat and held out a hand. “Come here,” he commanded. Then he took a small step towards her. “Come—” he said more gently.

  The whine of a pistol ball halted Lucian. A second later he heard the weapon’s report and became aware of the thunder of a horse’s hooves at full gallop. In the same instant he realized Ruth was backing away, her face contorted with dread.

  “God! No!” Lucian screamed and lunged for Ruth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lucian saw Ruth’s eyes widen with terror when only the front of her shoe met land as she stumbled backwards. As if in slow-motion he stretched an arm toward her extended hand. Their fingers touched, slipped away.

  The image of Jasmine hanging above him for that split second sprang up before him. This time the face was Ruth’s.

  With an agonized cry Lucian stretched intent upon going over with her if all else failed. His heart stuttered as his hand met flesh and he closed it upon two of Ruth’s fingers. He frantically jerked her towards him even as he threw himself back.

  For an infinitesimal second Ruth hung with one foot off the edge and then Lucian’s weight propelled her forward and into the solidness of his chest. Her hand freed, she clung to Lucian’s neck even as his arms slammed around her and knocked the air from her lungs. Stiff-legged they stuttered back away from the cliff’s edge.

  Lucian thought his heart would soar out of his chest when he realized Ruth was safe in his arms. She had not fallen. She lived. He had come in time.

  On the heels of that Lucian remembered the rider who had shot at them. He heard a horse’s sharp protesting neigh and knew it had been reined to a rearing halt very close to them. Lucian ignored Ruth’s cry of protest and thrust her away and down with one hand. With the other he drew the sabre from its makeshift sheath and whirled to face their attacker.

  Only an instinctive leap to the side saved Lucian from the rearing horse’s hooves as they flashed dangerously close to his head. A red haze before his eyes sharpened his view of his target. With a blistering oath he lunged for the man in the saddle, grabbed hold of his waistcoat, and pulled him down. The moment the man hit the ground, Lucian slammed a booted foot into his back and slapped the flat side of his sabre against the man’s face.

  The attacker secured, Lucian shot a worried glance at Ruth. Seeing her slowly rising to her feet, he let out the breath he didn’t know he had held. The red haze before his eyes began to fade. He pushed a heel into the quivering man’s back. “What in the bloody hell were you trying to do?”

  “Save her,” screeched the man. “I couldn’t let you push her off the cliff. Once a murderer always a murderer, Merristorm.”

  “I was not—” Lucian stared at the back of the hatless head. H
e looked at the horse prancing nervously a few yards away. He blinked, recognized it, and caught the sight of Ruth’s white face before his gaze went back to the man who had twisted his head to the side. The look of pure hatred rocked Merristorm.

  “For God’s sake, Thornley. Are you mad?” Lucian withdrew his foot and stepped back. He held the sabre ready as Thornley crawled to his feet and then slowly stood up.

  Sir Brandon Thornley gulped in a ragged breath as he brushed dried grass from his sleeves and coat. Shaken by the turn of events he almost blurted out that Jasmine deserved better. He looked at the young woman who stared from one to the other, uncertainty clear upon her face.

  “I—” the apology necessary to lull the fool stuck in his throat. “I apologize if I misconstrued what I saw. I thought the young lady,” Thornley glanced at her, and then back to Merristorm, “looked like she was trying to get away from you.”

  Lucian gritted his teeth to keep from blasting the man. How could the idiot think he meant to harm Ruth? “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  A thin frightened wail rose from beyond a clump of trees barely visible from where they stood.

  “Father!” shouted Ruth and ran pell-mell for the trees.

  “Bloody hell,” Lucian swore. He glared a warning at Thornley and then gave chase. “Stop, Ruth. It could be a trap!”

  Coming down the rise at full tilt the first thing Lucian saw was the man on a horse. He raised his sabre as he madly looked around for Ruth.

  Hunched on the ground in a slight hollow beyond him he found Ruth cradling her father. Lucian looked back at the man. Geary. All energy spent, he tiredly sheathed his sabre as the Riding Officer dismounted and walked to the pair on the ground.

  Ducking his head Lucian shrugged out of the sling that carried the water jar tightly against him. He removed it, uncorked it, and went down on one knee beside Ruth.

  Ruth took the jar and tilted it to her father’s lips.

  Lucian looked up at the Riding Officer.

  “Clayton screamed and ran when he saw me,” the Riding Officer explained. “It wasn’t until I heard Miss Clayton’s shout that I realized you were nearby.”