Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  “You should accompany Baron de la Croix,” she said. “It is too dangerous for him to go alone.”

  “I will not leave you unprotected,” Lucian said fiercely.

  “You must attend to matters.” She looked away for moment and then straightened her shoulders. “You must attend to Sir Thornley if nothing else.”

  “De la Croix will—”

  “We are safe here,” Ruth said with utter confidence. “Sairy Jane is not just an old woman who cooks for the vicar’s family,” she added dryly.

  “But she is not here,” Lucian began.

  A knock on the front door interrupted him.

  Lucian quickly drew Ruth into the dining parlour and motioned for her to go back against the wall. He plucked his pistol from his waistband and crossed the hall into the parlour where he took a position at the edge of the door. With a nod Lucian signalled André to open the door.

  When the caller knocked again de la Croix jerked open the door, his small pistol cocked and ready.

  The small man on the other side raised both hands palm out.

  To Lucian’s amazement the baron hugged the stranger and kissed both cheeks with an exclamation of delight.

  Ruth joined Lucian in watching the pair. Both were slight but one tall and fair the other short and swarthy.

  Grinning broadly André faced them with arm flung about the man’s shoulders. “My cousin, Pascual Walsh. He is most adept at handling delicate tasks.”

  “The only kind he knows,” Pascual jested.

  With a Gallic shrug André grinned at him. “Pascual, Miss Ruth Clayton and Mr. Lucian Merristorm.”

  “Expecting a mite of trouble were you, cousin?” Pascual asked dryly looking from the pistol in Merristorm’s hand to the one still in his cousin’s.

  “One never knows,” André said lightly.

  “With you one always does,” Pascual said cryptically. “Pardon the delay in my arrival. I received your message much later than you could have expected.”

  “The others?”

  “I have three with me.”

  “Excellent,” André told him. He turned to Merristorm. “We shall leave those three to guard the vicarage while we attend to matters in Whitby. I shall give the men their orders and see to our horses,” the baron told Merristorm. After a graceful bow to Ruth he and Pascual went out.

  Lucian took Ruth’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I don’t know how long I shall be,” he said quietly. “I—” A welter of emotions choked off his words. He ran the back of a finger along her jaw and swayed towards her.

  With great effort Ruth put her free hand to his chest and applied pressure. “You must go,” she said each word reluctant yet clear.

  A devilish twinkle glittered in Lucian’s eyes. “Such cruelty to an injured man, my Hecate.”

  Ruth cocked her head slightly.

  “My goddess of crossroads and choices who bewitched and guided me,” Lucian said huskily, his eyes alight with desire.

  She knew the unpleasant stories of the goddess and was warmed by his choice of the original tale. A wry smile curved her lips. “To your Lucifer,” she said with a shake of her head and took a step back.

  Lucian turned her hand and kissed the palm, then released it. He watched Ruth press it to her breast before she turned and lightly ran to the stairs and beyond his sight.

  * * *

  On the ride to the Wise Owl Lucian and André explained to Pascual all that had transpired. The baron finished the tale and fell silent.

  “There is more, cousin?” prompted Pascual.

  André released his breath in a hiss. “I saw Porteur.” He glanced at Merristorm. “You knew him as Chercheur.”

  “The Frenchman who almost killed Sarah Edgerton?” asked Lucian.

  “Porteur? Here?” Pascual said slowly. “Mon Dieu. Que fait il signifie?”

  “Je ne sais pas,” de la Croix admitted candidly. “Perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson can tell us,” he added but there wasn’t much hope in his voice.

  When they reached the Wise Owl the three men took care to ready their weapons before they entered the tavern.

  A lone figure occupied the room lit by a single lantern that hung on a post near the entrance to Peace’s private quarters. He sat slumped, face down on a table. One arm dangled at his side, the other lay bent in front of his head. He clutched a small object in that hand.

  “Walton,” explained André. “He thought to take over the gang.”

  Lucian pushed the man upright and back in the chair. “Not long dead,” he murmured and shook his head at the look of abject terror on the man’s face.

  “What’s this?” Pascual asked as he tugged a short length of coal black hair from Walton’s hand. He smoothed the three small feathers attached to it. A berry dropped to the table and rolled against the dead man’s hand.

  André looked at Merristorm and arched his brow.

  “No idea,” Lucian returned shortly. “Could be some sort of token. Sairy Jane spouted all sort of nonsense, especially about the creature Hobbleday.”

  “You saw it only once?” asked André.

  “Can’t really claim to have seen it at all,” Lucian said wryly. “Foxed out of my mind and in a great deal of pain from the beating dealt me earlier that eve. I’ve a vague recollection of a rather nightmarish sight but nothing more.

  “It was the work of the smugglers with phosphorous paint just like the ghostly drummer who walked the gallery of Herstmonceux Castle beating his drum to frighten off those who stumbled across a run. Saw it when I was stationed in East Sussex.”

  Pascual tossed the object on to the table with a moue of distaste. “Where is this woman you spoke of?”

  “This way,” Lucian said and strode toward the door to the private chambers. It stood slightly ajar and he nudged it open with the tip of his pistol. “Bring the lamp,” he ordered as he peered into the darkness.

  Pascual touched Merristorm’s arm and flicked the blade of a stiletto toward the door.

  Stepping aside Lucian watched Pascual snake inside very glad he was not one the man hunted.

  “Il est bien,” Pascual said from the dark. “Come in. ”

  Entering Lucian and André found him beside an overturned chair. Peace Jenkinson now had a thin red line running down the side of her neck. She stared up at them with contempt.

  Pascual looked to André and then quickly cut through the bindings. He took hold of her arm to help Peace up but she flung it away and tried to scoot away from him.

  “Drink this,” André urged holding a cup down to her. “It will give you strength.” He watched with admiration as she willed a calm he knew she could not possess. Her hand shook but her eyes flashed with steely resolve.

  “There is no one else here,” Pascual told André after he prowled through every nook of the quarters and looked out the back door which he then bolted. “I shall keep a watch,” he said and faded back into the tavern.

  Lucian wondered at the look Pascual and André exchanged before the man left the room. Their skills far outranked his in this. He stepped back.

  “May I assist you?” André asked offering his hand to Peace. He was not surprised to find Peace’s grip firm and stronger than most women’s. He escorted her to the sofa and after asking permission, sat beside her but as far away as the space permitted.

  “I regret that you are at a disadvantage. You must know we feared you would raise the alarm and are late in returning due to the turn of events.” He paused, waited for her to question what had had happened. His admiration rose when Peace remained silent.

  “Who is responsible for this?” André gestured to the blood on her neck.

  “Captain Geary,” Peace answered with no emotion.

  “Why?”

  “He overheard us and thought I had betrayed him,” she said with a sad resigned bitterness.

  “Who is he?”

  Peace glanced sharply at de la Croix.

  “He is no Englishman,” the baron said softly.
>
  “Non, she agreed.

  “What do you know of him?”

  “Too little.” Too much. Peace gathered her wits. “He may have ties from the ancient regime. He has the manners,” she said on a whisper.

  “He told you—”

  “The man fed me lies like men do,” Peace said bitterly. “He stole from me as you also did,” she spat. Desperation glinted in her eyes. “Now I am trapped.”

  “Mais non,” de la Croix said in dead earnestness.

  Peace flicked a glance at him, then Merristorm and then back. “At what cost?”

  “You have already paid a very dear price,” André told her. He rose and went to the mantel where he plucked a dark purse half-filled with objects that clinked from within a vase upon it. Returning to Peace, he pressed it into her hands. “I promised you a return to your former life. I honour my promises.”

  “But—”

  De la Croix bowed to her with a flourish. “We have not much time, Comtesse Bettencourt.”

  * * *

  “Come to my chamber,” André told Lucian as they walked out of the mouth of the cave beneath a sky streaked with the first rays of dawn. “I shall tell you about Thornley and another matter.” He motioned behind them.

  “I shall send someone for Thornley’s body. There is nothing else to be done here. The muskets and other weapons must have been taken on first. He took no chance at their loss.”

  Lucian thought De la Croix looked more distressed than his words indicated. “There was nothing you, rather we could do,” he told André. “We knew too little and we were too few.”

  With a futile gesture of his hand André dismissed it. They trudged up to the cliff and then rode in silence to the inn where André had taken lodgings.

  After getting the fire blazing, de la Croix poured brandy from his flask into two glasses. He offered one to Lucian and was pleased when Merristorm motioned it away. “Please sit,” he said doing so.

  Lucian shook his head and instead went to stand with his back to the fire.

  André took a sip of brandy, rolled it in his mouth, and swallowed. “Sir Brandon Thornley was an assumed name,” he began. “He was christened Brandon Randolph.”

  Lucian stared at Andre in shock. His features stark, he sank into a chair near the fire.

  “Stepbrother . . . meagre means . . . hints of sordid relationship with his stepsister . . . variety of schemes to raise funds,” de la Croix began.

  André’s dispassionate tone, the respect Merristorm held for him, and various memories ruled objection futile. Lucian tried to summon denial, to protest Jasmine’s innocence. As the proof built like nails securing the lid on a coffin he found no real anguish, just deep sorrow.

  Jasmine dead and now her stepbrother. For what?

  You wanted to kill your father, his demon taunted.

  Lucian drew in a deep breath and sat back in the chair. He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands. How long he sat there he did not know. Slowly he became aware that de la Croix stood at his side, a hand to his shoulder.

  Never one to suffer being touched, Lucian found comfort in the firm hand. He looked up. Compassion warmed the baron’s blue eyes.

  “There is one thing more,” André said quietly. He withdrew his hand and pulled a sealed parchment from his jacket. “He wished this given to you.”

  Lucian eyes the vellum with reluctance. No need to ask who had sent it. Eight years of hatred and loathing shook him when he first tried to move his hand to take it.

  Open your mind and heart, he heard Ruth whisper. His hand shook but he took the missive.

  * * *

  St. Cedds Vicarage October 23rd Early Afternoon

  Lucian turned onto his back and stretched. He stopped mid-yawn as pain lanced through his head. Investigating his forehead he found an oval knot. “Ruth?” he mumbled fuzzily and then bolted out of the bed.

  Dashing out the door he halted at the railing. Below Ruth and Marietta were laughing in the kitchen. He heard Jemmy’s higher pitched voice and the vicar’s bass. All calm, relaxed, happy.

  Sagging with relief, Lucian turned and leaned back against the rail. Ruth is safe.

  He pushed away from the railing and went back into his chamber. He eyed the still sealed parchment from his father on the floor beside the bed. It was as if a lifetime or two had passed since that horrible spring morn eight years past.

  He swooped up the letter and reached to break the seal but stopped. Tapping one edge against the back of his hand Lucian paced. Ruth had been very relieved he had not died last eve. She had called him Lucifer with that certain look in her eyes. Did that mean she would wed him?

  Studying the seal Lucian bit his lip. He had to prove to her he had changed. He paused, sucked in his breath, and thought of his father. Resistance skittered along his nerves with the familiar frisson of revulsion.

  Lucian snorted derisively. “Rather calling the kettle black,” he said. “I doubt Halstrom ever drank himself under the table. At least he never did it in the presence of others.” He stared at the letter.

  “You have hated him for all this time. Rebuffed, rebuked, rejected every overture and still—” Lucian looked down at the parchment. Scrawled across it in the remembered hand of his father he looked at the crossed through Gilchrist and read beneath it, Lucian.

  Another life, Lucian thought as he sat heavily on the side of the bed.

  A future life, something inside him counterpoised.

  He considered it. Mayhaps. Lucian rubbed the back of his hand across his chin. Mayhaps if Ruth loves me.

  Lucian bit his lip and looked at the open door. “Go and find out,” he said rhetorically but did not move.

  “Coward,” Lucian swore. He raised his gaze and caught sight of the new suit of clothing hanging on the hook. “By Zeus,” he swore rising. He grinned at the letter in his hand and then tossed it onto the bed.

  “Prepare for battle.”

  * * *

  Promontory Point

  Ruth walked unaware of her steps and her sister at her side. A ramble had seemed a good idea when Lucian roared for Jemmy to come to him. Her heart had leapt at the vigour and intensity of his voice, of him. Alive.

  Alive but well? Ruth pondered for the millionth time. Last eve as in the entryway when they almost kissed she’d have sworn he was but she would have sworn to anything at that moment.

  “You aren’t listening,” Marietta said poking Ruth in the side. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Pull your head from the clouds. Anyone can see Mr. Merristorm is mad about you,” she laughed.

  Ruth looked into the distance, into the endless stretch of blue sky.

  “You are daffy for him, admit it,” Marietta teased. “Oh my,” she exclaimed releasing Ruth’s arm and skipping back away from her. “I just remembered that Father dropped the most interesting tidbit about Mr. Merristorm. One that shall affect you most surely when you wed him.”

  “Father doesn’t know anything about Mr. Merristorm,” Ruth said primly.

  “You don’t deny you shall wed,” chortled her sister.

  Ruth looked away and prayed tears would not fall.

  “I am sorry,” Marietta said running to her and hugging her. “It will be well with you, I know it.”

  “I am being foolish,” Ruth said running a finger beneath one eye and then the other. “What was this bit of gossip?” she asked to distract them both.

  Marietta squeezed her arm. “It would be so delicious if it were true.”

  “What?” chuckled Ruth.

  “Father asked Mr. Merristorm if he was acquainted with Marquess Halstrom.

  “You should have seen the look the baron and Mr. Merristorm exchanged. Mr. Merristorm said yes and father said,” she cleared her throat and mimicked, “You look enough like him to be his son.” Marietta gazed at Ruth in expectation. Her face dropped with disappointment at the lack of reaction.

  “But he would be an earl if his father is a marquess,” Marietta explai
ned irritably.

  Ruth shook her head and chuckled. “What did father say immediately after that?”

  Puzzling for a moment, Marietta sighed.

  “What?” Ruth insisted.

  “He asked why we were standing in the hallway,” she replied dejectedly.

  “I do not need Mr. Merristorm to be an earl. Indeed that would be a distinct disadvantage,” Ruth said with a shudder.

  They walked a bit further and Marietta halted. “Shall we stay here, in Whitby that is, Ruth?”

  “I do not know,” she answered. “I know so little,” she murmured.

  “You are about to learn a great deal,” Marietta whispered.

  “What do you mean?” Ruth asked and turned to look at what her sister was staring.

  Ruth’s breath caught at the sheer masculine beauty of the man striding towards them. Strength and purpose radiated from him as his long stride ate the ground beneath his feet.

  She had known Lucian was handsome but in these clothes he was far more. His coat clung to his shoulders and waist accenting their breadth and his leanness. The breeches hugged powerful legs. His face, which she had sometimes thought harsh and severe, had turned noble.

  Before Ruth could gather her wits he was upon them, sweeping off his beaver. He bowed and greeted them as if they strolled in Hyde Park. “Good day, ladies.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Marietta said bobbing a curtsy. She nudged Ruth who stood stone still.

  “Good—good afternoon, sir,” Ruth mumbled. She almost raised her eyes heavenward at the lack wit of it.

  Lucian and Ruth stared at one another, unaware of the world. Marietta sighed and grimaced with resignation. She touched Ruth’s arm. When that drew no response she poked her with her elbow.

  “What?” Ruth started and stared blankly at her sister.

  “I am going back to the house to check on father,” Marietta said in a martyr’s tone.

  “Good,” Ruth said absentmindedly, her gaze fast on Lucian.

  “I shall be kidnapped my smugglers along the way,” Marietta said but, getting no response, sighed and walked away.