Debt of Honor

by Ann Clement

  Letitia’s gaze slid past the desk and sharpened on the portraits hung above the mantel. Curiosity buzzed in her head. Which one was the woman who’d made a man like Sir Percival cry? But the expectation of discovery immediately gave way to disappointment. None of the sitters could be Sarah.

  Then a second glance at the two faces in the center made her momentarily forget about her quest.

  The young man on the right had the same dark eyes and the same sensuous mouth as she had seen on a live person. His long, dark hair was held at the nape with a large, black ribbon, while shorter locks curled fashionably around his face. An unbuttoned, richly embroidered lilac coat revealed a matching waistcoat and the frills of a lacy neckcloth. He held a black tricorne hat under one arm. His smile, a little cocky, bespoke a man of fashion and self-confidence. The resemblance was so uncanny she had no doubt she gazed upon her father-in-law. He was as handsome and attractive as his son. And Ethel was right; he must have been wealthy.

  The building in the background drew her attention. Letitia came up on her toes to examine it in the gloomy light of a rainy afternoon. There was something familiar about its shape. A moment later, she was certain—Wycombe Oaks. She stared at the house it had once been before becoming the ruin she had loathed for the entire week she had stayed there with her father. In the painting, it appeared opulent, happy—if that was the right word for a building. It was alive. It was a home.

  Why had her father let it deteriorate so badly? Letitia had never seen all his estates. He had more than a few scattered all over England. But those she had visited were kept in immaculate condition. Wycombe Oaks seemed like a starving man on the brink of death.

  On a sigh, she glanced to the portrait on the left. That had to be Sir Percival’s mother.

  Her mother-in-law wore a once fashionable, tall wig decorated with garlands of tiny flowers. The pale-blue satin of her dress underscored the darker blue of her eyes. Somehow, her face seemed oddly familiar. Intrigued, Letitia paused to study Lady Hanbury’s features, but the feeling of familiarity remained undefined. Perhaps all she recognized was the slightly lopsided, gentle smile reminiscent of Sir Percival’s quick quirk of the mouth when something amused him. Yes, that had to be the reason why her mother-in-law seemed like an old friend met under new circumstances.

  There were other portraits and miniatures hung around the mantel, and Letitia examined each of them. As the clothing and coiffures went farther and farther back in time, she tried to quell the growing disappointment that Sarah’s likeness was not among them.

  She glanced at his desk as she turned to leave.

  It had that messy yet organized mark of a well-used space. Books and papers sat next to freshly mended quills by the inkwell, together with a couple of inlaid wooden boxes, a brass paperweight and two large ledgers, each bristling with strips of paper marking the pages inside. The volume laying on top of other papers had a pristine paper cover, like a book just delivered by a bookseller. A little curious, Letitia leaned over the desk and lifted the soft cover. She winced at the title: General View of the Agriculture of the County of Norfolk Drawn up for the Consideration of the Board of Agriculture and Internal Improvement, by the Secretary of the Board.

  Below was tucked a hand-scribbled note.

  My dear Sir Percival,

  The Norfolk volume, the latest in our series, is out. I hasten to send you a copy, an inadequate token of the warmest and undying gratitude for the immense help you gave its humble author. Without your devotion to the task of its compilation, it would not have come to fruition so effectively. I entreat you to keep up your excellent work for the sake of our readers benefiting from your knowledge and experience.

  I remain, my dear sir, yours, etc.

  Arthur Young

  Letitia had never heard of Arthur Young, but his praise filled her with a bit of awe for the man who was still almost a stranger.

  She replaced the volume and glanced at the desk drawers. No doubt Sir Percival kept a miniature of his first wife in one of them. But despite the burning desire to see the face that had enslaved his heart forever, she could not pry this deep.

  With a sigh, she stepped away from the desk. And then the door handle moved, and the door swung open.

  Water dripped from the rim of his hat and ran down his coat and boots. Percy didn’t want to go to Wycombe Oaks this morning, but Petre was shorthanded and the roof over the old mansion attached to the castle was in a state of near collapse in several places, despite the repairs he’d initiated last week.

  “Yes, the slates over the long gallery were all replaced,” his steward confirmed after greeting him with visible relief in the main entrance hall.

  “What about the dining room? Is it as bad as we thought?” Percy asked, walking through the hall and leaving a trail of small puddles in his wake.

  Petre nodded solemnly. “Even worse. Two beams are rotten and partially caved in, creating a convenient tunnel for the water between the roof and the gallery wall. The masons have done what’s possible, but the leak reappeared. The replacement beams will not be here for another week.”

  Percy winced. “No doubt more plaster came off the ceiling inside?”

  “We’re doing everything in our power,” Petre said gloomily. “With the field work aplenty, ’tis a bad time for taking more men for the work inside. In a couple of days, we shall lose some very skilled hands when the carpenter begins work on the orangery.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Percy replied. “The orangery, however, will not wait.” He glanced around. “This house will take months just to stop further damage. I have written several architects, by the way. But for now, let me help where I can. Every pair of hands counts, if I hear you right, Petre.”

  Petre nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “We’ve been trying to raise a temporary scaffold to support the rest of the ceiling in the dining room. There’s some heavy timber there to be put in place.”

  Percy took off his hat and placed it on the newel post, then draped his coat over the rail.

  “Very well,” he said.

  His muscles, after a week of similar exercises, protested at the very thought of lifting any timber at all. He rubbed his shoulder and followed Petre. No one had a stronger obligation to join in rescuing the tattered remnants of the former splendor of the Hanburys than he.

  It had been a hellish week for him, getting up at dawn and returning home after dark. Wycombe Oaks had swallowed him whole. The estate was ruined. It would take years to bring it back to an acceptable functionality. Most fields were fallow, the outbuildings beyond repair and the books not kept with any regularity or, he would wager, adherence to truth. The accounts were in infuriating disorder. It was clear that all Stanville had wanted was as much money as he could drain from the estate and that Stanville’s steward was more than dishonest. Percy had sent the man packing on the day following that first nightly visit after his wedding.

  He would not rest until the place returned to its former glory. His cousin, who was his heir, would thank him one day, and the Hanburys would continue despite the adversities of life. He had money to help Wycombe Oaks get back on its feet. Thanks to Letitia’s misadventures, he’d defeated his enemy without so much as calling a single shot. A decade of hard work, of profitable, though often risky investments brought gains which were to pay for buying back his ancestors’ home from Stanville’s descendants—those funds were his to enjoy now, his to use for the restoration. Acquiring a wife seemed a small price to pay, after all.

  Four hours later and as dirty as one of his laborers, Percy nudged his horse into a trot when Bromsholme’s stables came in sight. He left the rain-soaked animal to the ministrations of two stableboys and marched toward the house.

  “Hot bath,” he told Slater, who tried in vain to conceal a disapproving scowl at his appearance. “Is Lady Letitia home?”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler replie
d, holding Percy’s hat and coat at a distance as if they would bite him. His frown grew deeper when he beheld the condition of Percy’s other clothes. “I believe she is in her rooms.”

  “Thank you, Slater. Send some refreshments to the library in about half an hour, if you would.”

  Slater bowed and walked away, taking the wet coat and the scowl with him.

  Percy’s thoughts fled to Letitia as he walked upstairs. She must have taken his talk about the “covenant” seriously, because all linen and silver at Bromsholme had been inventoried meticulously. The report from Mrs. Waters was most favorable. He didn’t really give a damn about the linen and silver, but at least the new Lady Hanbury had kept busy without getting in his way.

  Once she established that secret studio of hers, her attention would hopefully be diverted from him or the idea of having children. And once he determined that she could live on her own, who knows, he might even demolish the damned orangery altogether.

  Uninvited, her image as she had looked yesterday intruded again. Sunshine and beauty. If there were better words to describe his impression, he could not find them in his vocabulary. That light, white dress she had worn only underscored her sensuality. More than once, his hands had begged for the repetition of the touch, and his brain, and perhaps also other parts, had recalled the exquisite feeling her alluring curves gave him when he prevented her fall on the stairs. More than once when he watched her mouth while she was speaking, he had thought of his tongue slipping between those inviting lips. And many more times than once, he had issued a stern warning to himself to abandon this foolery.

  Ethel had infuriated him with her blatant attempt to stake a claim to his wife. Whatever she had told Letitia during the half hour they spent together in the gardens had put Letitia on edge for the rest of the day. If there were any friendships he was not overjoyed to see his wife develop, this was the one. Ethel’s nosiness had always irritated him. Her overzealous attempts to run his house after Sarah’s death had nearly driven him to uncivil behavior a few times. Ethel would surely try to ingratiate herself with Letitia, in which case he might be forced to endure her overbearing presence more often than he wished.

  The footmen carrying the hot water arrived right on his heels, and soon Percy let himself sink into the heat of his bath, closing his eyes for a moment. Thank God Letitia kept to her rooms. He liked that. They would eat dinner together today. That would be enough. Wycombe Oaks’ ledgers sat on his desk in the library, and they definitely needed more attention than his wife.

  The unexpected intruder was a kitchen maid holding a large tray.

  “Where would you like me to put your refreshments, my lady?” the girl asked.

  How thoughtful of Slater to send up some food. After all, she’d hardly had a bite for breakfast. The old hawk must have noticed. But how did he know where to find her?

  The girl stared at her expectantly, so Letitia pushed Arthur Young’s book and the ledgers to the side. “Here on the desk, if you please.”

  The maid deposited the tray, curtsied and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Letitia sniffed. The delicious smell of smoked ham, fruits and freshly baked bread made her stomach give a little gurgle of appreciation. She plucked the largest strawberry from the cook’s artful arrangement and took a big bite. Sweet juice rolled over her tongue. She popped the rest of the strawberry into her mouth, then followed with a few paper-thin slices of ham. It was easy to keep a good table with a cook like her husband’s. And that bread. Even her father’s French master never came close to such perfection.

  Letitia poured herself a glass of wine from the small carafe Slater had placed on the tray. Without water, it tasted stronger than what she was used to, but it was really good. She must thank Slater for his thoughtfulness.

  After another slice of bread, she took a halved peach, no doubt plucked from Sir Percival’s hothouse, and set out for a leisurely stroll along the shelves while eating the delicious fruit. The perusal of titles on the book spines confirmed her suspicion. Her husband’s library was a shrine to agriculture. She never imagined there could be so many books on this subject and in one place.

  But at the other end of the room, she found an excellent choice of literature. All major English authors with whom she was familiar. And even some foreign writers and poets of recent fame. No doubt Sarah’s doing.

  Her fingers skimmed over the spines on one of the shelves until they stopped on a slim volume with Schiller’s name on it. She pulled it out and read the title. A play she didn’t know. The long, plump sofa was right behind her, and Letitia sank into its overstuffed cushion, open book in one hand.

  The rain still pelted the windows, and the darkness of the day did not make reading easy. She could light the candles, but getting up seemed like an enormous effort. With the toes of each foot, she slid off her slippers and shifted to stretch her legs on the seat. Leaning comfortably against the sofa’s back, Letitia burrowed her feet under another pillow, rested her head on one hand and returned to reading, but soon her head began to swim. The pillow was so soft and warm…

  Clean, shaven and in dry clothes, Percy ran lightly down the stairs and let himself into his favorite room.

  The hot bath had taken the chill from his body, but a fire would make the library more pleasant on such a gloomy day. He was about to reach for the tinderbox when he noticed the disarray on his desk.

  Someone had piled everything to one side to make room for a tray—and someone had eaten almost half of what was on it, not to mention drunk the wine. Apparently, Slater was aging more quickly than Percy had thought. The butler had never shown poor judgment in the choice of servants, but this was on the outside of acceptable.

  Percy picked up the tray and turned around in search of a table with some free surface on which to deposit the ravaged meal. His stomach rumbled in protest at having to wait for its replacement.

  Just then, he caught a glimpse of something pinkish on one of the sofas, a foreign object that, he was sure, had not been there yesterday. A quick perusal ended in astonishment.

  The pinkish object was his wife.

  He quietly put the tray back on the desk, his heart racing at this discovery.

  Letitia was fast asleep, one arm under the pillow in which she’d burrowed her face, her hand hanging limply over the edge of the sofa, palm up. Her other hand rested on a small volume, still opened to the page she had been reading. Her feet were buried under another pillow. A few shorter strands of hair had escaped the loosened knot and fallen on her cheek and down her throat. Her breathing was deep and slow.

  She looked so fragile and beautiful at the same time, so at peace with her surroundings, and—he searched for the right word—so…right. Yes, she looked right on his sofa in his library. As if she belonged here.

  Belonged here? If she did, it was only as the inconvenient part of his marriage of convenience, nothing more.

  Carefully, Percy tiptoed over to the sofa, giving in to the sudden craving to peek at her face, and squatted by the armrest. Letitia’s cheek was rosy from sleep, and long, golden lashes gave her face a nearly angelic aura. Her slightly parted lips beckoned. All he needed to do was lean a bit forward and touch them with his own.

  Wincing, Percy shifted his gaze away from her mouth. But, damn him, it slid to her breasts lifting the fabric of the dress with each breath, to the ivory skin of her shoulders and to the long, smooth column of her throat. He swallowed. Desire swirled through him out of nowhere, like a potent blast of wind.

  Getting up hastily, he warned himself that giving in to temptation was absolutely out of question. What he should do now was to wake her up, send her on her way and get to work.

  Instead, Percy tiptoed to the two smaller sofas and retrieved a blanket that until now had spent a useless life thrown over an armrest. Back by Letitia’s side, he carefully spread the blanket over her.


  She murmured something under her breath and burrowed deeper into the pillows.

  He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and bent to pull the book from under her palm before it fell to the floor. She moved her fingers and murmured something again, but did not wake.

  Schiller. He recognized the slim volume, putting it on the table. The very one he had bought in London just before meeting Sarah for the first time. Then he’d tried to read it to her when she came here as his bride. Sarah hadn’t liked it.

  She hadn’t liked coming to the library, either, and had kept her books in her room. It had surprised him after her death that most of them were about India. She’d never talked about India. She’d never talked much about anything except being unwell.

  Life surely could deal one a surprising hand. The first two weeks of his marriage to Sarah were etched in his memory as days of nearly insane happiness. Gorgeous early summer days when everything around them had basked in sunshine just because she was here with him.

  Then, after a fortnight, he had to return to London. Sarah refused to go. Later, he would always regret that he had not insisted on taking her along. Those two weeks of separation changed her somehow.

  Over the years, she grew increasingly distant and cold. He had spent countless nights since her death, lying awake and trying to understand what he had done to contribute to their falling apart and the terrible end that followed. If only they had had children, none of this would have happened.

  Percy glanced at Letitia again. A week had passed, and he had done nothing more than touch her hand when required by etiquette—if he excluded her little misstep on the stairs. Even if she could be trusted, he would be wise to keep his distance. He did not want to be again in the same place where trusting Sarah had led him in the end.