THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  Lyndon shrugged. “I suppose you must be content unearthing the truth by reason of your wits which, I might add, Wessex values so highly. As for me, I intend to remain in town, anticipating a tidy windfall—five hundred pounds to be precise.”

  “How will you know whether or not my disguise has been revealed?” Devlin remarked. “I could tire of the pretense.”

  Lyndon chuckled as he poured himself another brandy. “You are without doubt the most honorable man I know, Pemberton. You will stay true to the wager, should you accept. Come now, where is your sense of adventure? I daresay none of those scoundrels has been to the theatre. And since you had no idea Bellewyck was even a relation, odds are the man’s servants have no notion what his heir looks like.”

  “Servants are predictable creatures,” Wessex proclaimed with a knowing nod. “And such a disguise may be your only means of discovering the truth.”

  For the first time, Duncan appeared interested in the possibility of a wager. “Pemberton posing as a servant? No valet. No footmen. No dressing room rendezvous with Miss Drummond? He’ll not be able to do it, I tell you.”

  Somewhat insulted, Devlin countered, “I beg to differ. I am entirely self-sufficient and quite adept at matters of intrigue.”

  Lyndon laughed heartily. “Does that mean you accept?”

  Much as it went against his better judgment to make sport of a serious issue, Devlin had never been one to ignore a wager—especially from his friends. Besides, what difference did it make how he learned the truth? If the servants were treacherous liars as suspected, a disguise might be the quickest method toward exposing them and finding the child.

  And Lyndon will lose five hundred pounds.

  A slow grin curved Devlin’s lips. “Not only will I last a fortnight, I will expose these servants at Bellewyck’s annual masquerade ball. Indeed, you are all invited to the Yuletide revelation of their dastardly crimes. In place of plum pudding, the lot of them will be trussed up like a Christmas goose and sent to prison or, better yet, shipped to Van Dieman’s Land.”

  “What about the missing ward?” Mitchell asked. “I daresay ‘twould be in poor taste to place wagers on the fate of a child.”

  “Unscrupulous bastards,” Duncan grumbled.

  “No wagers will be placed on the child,” Devlin stressed, brooking no argument. “And I must insist this particular wager is to remain strictly between us, gentlemen.”

  “So be it.” Lyndon raised his glass of brandy once more and saluted his childhood friend.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Death has a thousand doors

  to let out life;

  I shall find one.”

  ~ Philip Massinger

  (1584-1640)

  Bunt Head,

  Goodwin Sands ~ Kent

  “The storm blows stronger from the east, Blackjack,” Christiana said. “It could be a bad omen for us.”

  Blackjack Paschal was nothing if not a suspicious man. But as leader of the Ravens, one of the most daring smuggling gangs in Kent, his authority must never be questioned. So, ‘twas little wonder his dark eyes glared at her now, their manner accusatory.

  She made no attempt to avoid his penetrating stare.

  Then, with a sound similar to a growl, he turned his attention back to the black water.

  Christiana slowly released the breath she’d been holding.

  Still, she’d been right to speak her mind. The shifting sands were cause for any number of dangers during daylight. Being here at night was like venturing into the lair of a dragon that might wake at any moment.

  Swillies, caused by whirlpools in the sand, were unseen in the darkness and deadly treacherous. Like the gaping mouth of some monster, they waited to devour unsuspecting prey. Yet ‘twas the threat of the returning flood-tide that made Christiana the most anxious. They had but a three-hour interval before the waters returned in force, covering the dense sands where they now stood in mere moments. Even now, sand quivered beneath her feet—another warning the turning of the tide was imminent.

  The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to rail at Blackjack. Apart from the fact they were on the most deadly stretch of the sands, the moon was full and bright, although concealed now and again by swift moving storm clouds.

  Thunder drummed across the sky. Lightning flashed.

  She wished she were home in bed—not that sleep would come easy. Ever since the earl’s death, a specter of doom haunted her dreams. A disconcerting, foreboding sense something was about to happen. Of course, she knew why she had such a sense of dread.

  Someone else had visited Lord Bellewyck before he died.

  Someone who came to the abbey with far too many questions.

  Bellewyck’s solicitor had spent hours looking for personal papers to give the duke. He also made an inventory of the estate, laughable under the circumstances and certain to cause a raised eyebrow by Pemberton. But when Mr. Higginbotham kept asking about a ward, she knew what the solicitor had really been searching for at the abbey.

  With a shudder, Christiana closed her eyes, determined not to dwell upon the past or the iniquities of her life. She had to focus on the present and what needed to be done.

  Keep watchful and wary.

  Take one day at a time.

  Breathe one breath and then another.

  Yet despite her will to survive and protect those she loved, she still treaded perilous and menacing waters. At this very moment, she stood upon another desolate beach, her life in her hands.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Listening.

  Hard as she tried to concentrate on the run, her thoughts returned to the Duke of Pemberton and what he may or may not know.

  Secrecy is essential.

  Trust is everything.

  “Stay close at hand,” said Blackjack. “Be swift. Be silent.”

  Shoulders tensed and muscles ached from standing in readiness for what seemed hours without end. Dressed from head to foot in black clothing, their faces darkened with pitch, the Ravens were ready to flee or dispatch their duties with order and precision.

  Thunder sounded, closer now. The malevolent warning prompted the most experienced smuggler to ponder what judgment waited them in the hereafter. But if any prayers were offered for the absolution of one’s sins, they were done so in silence.

  Raindrops began a rhythmic strike upon the sands, a muffled pattern increasing in tempo until, with a deafening crack of thunder and a jagged streak of white fire, the water briefly illuminated. And in that fleeting heartbeat of time, luggers could be seen navigating the deadly shallows of Goodwin Sands, cutting their way swiftly toward the shore.

  Seemingly from out of nowhere, shadowy figures emerged from secret crevices and caves, their agility honed from years of experience. Armed guards stood at the ready. Prized contraband would be taken to hiding places—the sanctuary of a church tower or one of many tunnels leading to places known by but a privileged few.

  They worked with nary a word to spare, oblivious to the tempest now raging or the weight of rain soaked woolen garments. And in the midst of the weather’s wrath and the life-threatening work they pursued before the mighty sea returned to claim the sands, the terrified pounding of a single heartbeat resounded with one thought that would not, must not, be spoken aloud this night.

  Death comes like a thief in the night.

  Beyond where ancient Roman roads cross the River Medway, the Duke of Pemberton had made his way toward the southeast coast of England and the remote, ancient village of Bellewyck. Seated beneath the shade of a towering oak, he ate an apple and slowly twisted his torso to the left and right in an effort to ease knotted muscles.

  Traveling alone on horseback might not have been so arduous a task had the weather cooperated. His clothing, damp from the most recent onslaught of rain, felt like a coarse horse blanket rubbing his skin raw.

  Now, tired of muddy, washed out roads and flea-infested coaching inns, Devlin studied his journey’
s end with no small amount of relief. Situated on a remote headland overlooking the sea, the village of Bellewyck appeared serene, picturesque. Drifting in from the gray water of the Dover Straits, a haunting mist wound its way through quiet streets and shuttered shops like the breath of a mythic dragon.

  To the west was an expanse of countryside, gently rolling hills and rich, fertile meadows. And on a knoll in the far distance, beyond a wood of dense trees, the gothic spires of Bellewyck Abbey.

  A faint echo of thunder sounded, prompting him to stand and scrutinize the sky. “No time for dallying, Luther. Another storm gathers over the Straits.”

  He fed the remainder of the apple to his prized black hunter. “No doubt the French have willed it our way. We best be off and hope to reach the abbey before nature unleashes its fury upon us again.”

  Once beyond the village, the weather improved.

  The sky cleared from a depressing slate gray to blue.

  Stately poplars lined either side of the road. The vast expanse of their branches formed a majestic emerald arch. Here and there, sunlight speared down in shafts of gold. In more heavily wooded areas, dappled light twinkled and glistened like stars between fluttering leaves.

  A soft breeze whistled through the trees.

  The air was crisp, clean.

  The forest cool, tranquil.

  He indulged his senses, inhaling deeply of nature’s incomparable fragrance.

  Riding toward the estate, every so often a break in the trees allowed a glimpse of meadows glistening with dew, or a pocket of rising mist. The conical shape of an oast house and other outbuildings gave evidence to the estate’s brewery operation. But he did not see a single person. The feeling of isolation didn’t depart even when the abbey loomed before him. If anything, the deplorable neglect of the estate served to magnify the impression of human abandonment.

  Thick, crawling tendrils of ivy encroached upon magnificent stonework, shrouding the west facade. But despite the abbey’s age and obvious decay, a timeless majesty remained with the gothic structure.

  “It has possibilities,” he murmured.

  Glancing up, he noted most of the windows shuttered. According to the solicitor’s report, the estate was ridiculously understaffed. To him, the place looked like it hadn’t been lived in for years. His gaze drifted down to the servant entrance, concealed behind an elaborately carved stone staircase to the front door.

  “Shall I enter stage right or left, Luther?” He patted the sleek neck of his mount. “The servant’s door being stage left, mind you.” Luther expelled a rather telling snort, and Devlin grinned. “Quite right, let us take care of your needs first.”

  After seeing to Luther, Devlin approached the abbey, brushing bits of hay and dust from his clothing. He ascended thirteen steps to the main entrance then sounded an iron ring against thick planks of weathered oak. When no one came to answer his summons, he walked in unannounced.

  A vast hall greeted him, magnificent in design with an exquisite fan-vaulted ceiling. Two rows of massive stone columns reflected the structure’s Norman influence. Originally the ancient abbey’s nave, the hall separated the front door from a large stained glass window facing the east.

  Six massive columns lined each side of the nave. And every two columns supported an elaborate gothic arch leading into another area of the abbey. If not for the light streaming in through the beautifully crafted panes of the east window, the cavernous hall would have been concealed in darkness.

  Suddenly, boisterous laughter resonated from a nearby room.

  He followed the sound, and located the Great Room wherein a handful of servants had congregated before an enormous fireplace. Curious what they found so entertaining, he quietly approached.

  They were talking freely, laughing wildly, and not tending to their duties. No doubt, the spectacle provided a truthful picture of their shameful conduct for years.

  Just then, a cloud of soot sprinkled down, prompting an older couple to step away from the ornate marble chimneypiece. Fits of coughing wracked their bodies. And they waved their hands in front of their faces until the airborne soot settled upon a small mountain already accumulated in the hearth.

  “Blast,” the man yelled. “What’s takin’ so long?”

  Devlin had no idea what the hidden sweep said in response, but the spectators found his comment exceedingly amusing. Peals of laughter rang louder than before. More soot rained down a moment later, followed by a violent fit of sneezing high inside the flue.

  “Bloody hell,” a muffled voice yelled.

  “Are ye stuck then?” teased a female servant with golden tresses. “Mayhap ye’re too big for the job—in more ways than one.”

  More guffaws and laughter followed. When the blonde looked over her shoulder to make an aside comment to a much younger girl, she noticed a stranger.

  “Caw,” she cried. “Who the devil might ye be? And what do ye think ye’re ‘bout comin’ in here without so much as a by yer leave?”

  Devlin instinctively crooked his brow. “I beg your pardon. Are you addressing me?”

  “My, my,” she sniggered, tossing a riot of bright curls about her shoulders. “What hoity-toity manners.”

  Suddenly, a frightened yell sounded from inside the flue. A body fell into the hearth, landing with a hard thud. Dressed in black from head to foot, the small sweep didn’t move or make a sound. To Devlin’s astonishment, the handful of servants offered no aid whatsoever. Rather, they stared transfixed at the immobile figure.

  Fearing the sweep had been killed or seriously injured, Devlin rushed forward. He pushed the servants aside. Then, kneeling beside the stricken youth, he sighed with relief to find the lad still breathing. But when he attempted to examine the sweep’s limbs to determine if any bones were broken, the older man jerked his elbow.

  “Here now,” the man chided. “We take care of our own.”

  At that moment the sweep moaned and opened his eyes. Although his face was covered with soot, he seemed dazed, oblivious to the commotion about his prone body. He stared up the darkened chimney, as if unsure what had happened to him.

  “Merciful heavens.” The matronly woman leaned over the small sweep. “Are ye hurt?”

  The boy sat up gingerly. “I-I don’t think so. Just had the breath knocked out of me is all.” He coughed hard several times, but it did little to alleviate the hoarseness of his voice. With a grimace, he rubbed the back of his head.

  Devlin’s jaw clenched. How far up the chimney had the boy climbed? The hearth was large enough to hold four men standing side-by-side, and tall enough for him and Viscount Lyndon to stand without striking their heads. Whatever height this young lad had achieved, any fall could have left him crippled or dead.

  Jostled further away by servants huddled about the sweep and talking all at once, Devlin’s towering height allowed him to watch as the boy gathered his wits and stood. The sweep then brushed off the seat of his trousers and placed his hands on his hips.

  “Damn.” The disgruntled lad looked about inside the hearth. Then, using the toe of his boot, he searched the thick layer of ash.

  “What are ye lookin’ for?” the older man asked.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, the boy appeared about to answer but saw Devlin watching him. A heartbeat later, the other servants noticed the youth’s wary expression. They turned as one to stare at their uninvited guest.

  The plump, older woman stepped forward. With a gentle countenance, her brown eyes appeared wary but kind.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she said. “But have ye business at Bellewyck Abbey?”

  “Indeed I do, Mrs. Tatum.” Devlin kept his tone cordial, most effective when dealing with servants.

  The woman paled; a strange reaction to be sure. She glanced to the man still standing inside the enormous hearth beside the young sweep. “No, sir,” the woman replied. “I am Mrs. Lloyd, the cook.”

  “I see,” Devlin replied. “Where might I find the housekeeper?”

 
; “What business do ye have with her?” the older man demanded.

  “My business does not concern you, old man.”

  “I like that.” The blonde servant came to stand before Devlin, both hands planted firmly on her hips. “Old man, is it? And just who d’ya think ye are to walk in here and speak to our Tom Rooney like that?”

  Devlin stared hard at the servant. Who was this irritating wench? She belonged in a tavern—or worse.

  “Well?” she barked and stomped her foot.

  Clenching his back teeth, Devlin placed his hands about the young woman’s waist, then lifted and set her aside without another word or thought.

  “When is Mrs. Tatum expected to return?” he calmly addressed the others.

  “Maybe she won’t ever return,” argued a lanky boy with dark blonde hair, large green eyes, and an abundance of freckles. His cheeky attempt at sarcasm, if not masculine bravado, failed comically with the ill-timed cracking of an adolescent voice.

  “This is absurd,” Devlin grumbled. “I am Mr. Randolph, newly appointed steward to this Godforsaken estate.” He enjoyed a moment of devilish satisfaction to see the shock on their faces. “Now that I have your attention, unless I receive a direct answer to my questions, the lot of you will be sacked here and now.”

  “Who sent you?”

  Devlin had no idea who’d spoken, but answered. “The Duke of Pemberton has sent me. Indeed, I have a letter from His Grace for the housekeeper. Now, for the last time, when will she return?”

  “I am the housekeeper,” the unfamiliar voice said.

  Like the proverbial parting of the Red Sea, the servants stepped aside to reveal, of all people, the slender boy from the chimney. The impish, soot-covered sweep slowly approached Devlin with a determined stride. When, at last, the diminutive figure stopped in front of him, her eyes flashed with defiance.

  “You cannot be serious. You are the housekeeper?”

  “As you see,” she replied.

  The top of her head came to but the middle of his chest. Covered in soot atop dark boy’s clothing, with a black woolen cap covering her head, he saw no womanly attributes whatsoever. Neither could he begin to guess how old she might be, or what she looked like beneath all that filth. In any event, what the devil was a housekeeper doing climbing chimneys? For that matter, what manner of woman would so clothe herself?