Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I despise you. Both of you,” she hissed. “I wish you dead!” She lifted her skirts and ran from the room.

  After a long pause, the prince asked, “What will you do with her? I have never seen anyone so fragile.”

  John set the empty glass upon his desk. “It is an enigma I do not wish to solve, but am required to do so.” He returned to sit behind his desk. Requiring a distraction while he organized his thoughts, he shuffled through a stack of papers. “Earlier today, I asked Mrs. Tailor to be prepared to return to London with the boy. The lady has served the child well, but she wishes to reunite with her family in Devon. I assume you will see the woman reaches her home safely.”

  “It would be my honor. I wish to know all the lady can tell me of the boy.” John thought that particular fact proved the prince would be a better parent than Satiné. His lady had avoided the child completely.

  John said with regret. “I would have been proud to call the child mine.” He bowed his head to the prince. “I will ask Mr. Fenton to show you to the front sitting room. I am certain you are anxious to return to the road. Mrs. Tailor and Rupert will join you momentarily.”

  “Will you call in on Miss Aldridge?”

  John shook his head in the negative. “Not so soon. I require time to decide how best to address this new dilemma.” He paused before saying, “May I know how you came to the acquaintance of both my mother and the woman I have called wife this past few months? It seems more than simply an odd coincidence.”

  The prince presented a self-effacing smile. “As to Lady Fiona’s acquaintance, the former baroness sought me out: We held several common acquaintances. I attended one of Lady Fiona’s parties with a certain actress, well known for her indiscretions. Your mother thought it best if I seek ‘better company.’ The former baroness was an intelligent, beautiful woman, who never questioned the place she had carved for herself in the world. I wish I could say the same for the woman upstairs. Lady Fiona understood I required an heir, and we could be nothing more to each other than exquisite friends.”

  “And why Miss Aldridge? Could you not imagine yourself with her? Why did you find it necessary to seduce her?”

  “As to the first two questions, Miss Aldridge possesses a certain innocence, which, at the time, I found quite compelling.” John knew that feeling also. He had hoped to protect a woman, who required no protection. “However, after we separated, I realized the detachment to others, which is so prominent in her personality. A country’s ruler must display condescension. I have never observed Satiné do so. In truth, I found her too ‘English’ in her opinions; if not so, I might have defied my father. Yet, a man wishes more than a beautiful woman in his bed.”

  John wished to remind the prince he had taken more than Satiné’s beauty, but he swallowed the insult. It would serve no purpose, and it would cause Prince George diplomatic embarrassment. Instead, he repeated, “How did you come by Miss Aldridge’s acquaintance?”

  The prince’s eyes flashed with confidence. “An Englishman pointed her out to me at a masquerade: A viscount by the name of Averette. He said she was the prettiest of her sisters.” John stiffened in dread. If Satiné had known the prince’s connection to Lord Averette, Miss Aldridge would have recognized the danger of the acquaintance, and perhaps things would have been different for both of them. “I do not envy your situation, Lord Swenton. You deserve better,” the prince insisted.

  John took note of Prince Henrí’s fretful uncertainty. “It is a web of my own making. I cannot blame others for my foolhardiness.”

  *

  “Sir Carter Lowery, Sir.” John looked up to see the baronet close on the heels of the Marwood butler.

  Evening approached, and still John had not moved from his desk. No matter how he had analyzed what had occurred earlier in the day, no alternative, with which he could live, existed. He growled, “Afraid I would send you away if you waited below, Lowery?”

  The baronet grinned ironically. “I see married life has not hardened your easygoing nature, Swenton.” His former friend did not note John’s cringe. Lowery motioned Mr. Fenton’s dismissal before claiming a nearby chair. “Pennington wished me to warn you Jamot has been sighted in the neighborhood.”

  John rolled his eyes heavenward. “Tell your employer his warning comes too late. Jamot paid a visit to Marwood Manor last evening. He attempted to bribe Satiné into giving him the emerald pieces belonging to Lady Fiona.”

  Lowery sat forward to rest his arms upon the desk. It was a familiar gesture, one John had seen the baronet do a hundred times or more. “What did Jamot offer in return?”

  “The whereabouts of Samuel Aldridge.” John closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He wished for the baronet’s companionship–wished for someone in whom he could confide; yet, he had not forgiven the earlier unfaithfulness of the Realm’s leaders.

  “You convinced the baroness Jamot had erred?” Sir Carter asked cautiously.

  John poured himself another drink. He had lost count on how many. Not enough to numb the pain, he thought. “If you mean, did I inform Satiné her Uncle Samuel has been in a German prison for nearly a year, I did not. Nor have I confided that particular fact to any of the others beyond Lord Godown, who assisted me in Samuel Aldridge’s arrest.” John had requested the mission when word came of Averette’s whereabouts: He had wanted to be Satiné’s hero. He added snidely, “Despite your recent opinion of me, I still possess my honor.”

  “What do you know of my opinions?” Lowery reached for the decanter and a clean glass to help himself to a drink. “I am employed to discover the truth; my opinions are never a part of the solution.”

  John accused, “How long must I walk under the shadow of guilt before you discover the truth?”

  “I believe the shadow lifted some three days prior,” the baronet replied smartly.

  “And when was I to be informed of this change in my status?” John attempted to remove the resentment from his tone, but success was slow in coming.

  The baronet leaned back in the chair to prop his feet on the corner of John’s desk. “I am here, Swenton, because you are one of my closest friends. I would have been here sooner, but I was told you were in Newcastle. We can continue to argue, or we can forgive the offense? Which do you choose, Baron?”

  “You have become an absolute arse, Lowery,” John growled.

  “Which do you choose, Swenton?”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “Do I have a choice? I am not the most amiable of men, as you have often made a point of reminding me, and I am too old to cultivate new relationships.”

  Lowery nodded sharply. “I know you well, Swenton. You have discovered something regarding Jamot. What would you have me know?”

  John heaved a sigh of resignation. “I met with Wellston in Newcastle. The earl recalled seeing Jamot escaping during the melee from Ashmita’s tent. When the Baloch was here, I confronted him, and Jamot made an excuse of how he planned to take Ashmita away after she had paid her penitence, but she had driven him from her sight.”

  “You think Jamot stole the emerald to pacify Ashmita?”

  “It was my first assumption, but the Baloch swears otherwise; and he makes the point if he had the emerald, he could have already returned it to Mir and have blamed one of us for the theft.”

  The baronet took on a familiar pensive gaze. “It is more than we knew previously, and it would make sense for a connection to Jamot’s presence in Ashmita’s tent and Mir’s accusations.”’

  John’s shoulders relaxed. It was good to speak honestly with his friend. “I suppose you mean for me to write a report on my encounter with the Baloch.”

  “Ah, yes. A written report. The Home Office is drowning in written reports.” The baronet paused awkwardly. “And how is the baroness? Prinny seemed to think he could experience a diplomatic guffaw if Prince Henrí could not convince Lady Swenton to relinquish the boy.”

  John closed his eyes to the expression of concern
on Sir Carter’s countenance. “Miss Aldridge is not my wife. She paid a man to pretend to be a Protestant clergyman because she hoped Prince Henrí would come to London to claim her.” He opened his eyes to meet the baronet’s steady gaze. “It was all a farce. I have known the futility of my hopes coming to fruition. I have spent my days and nights dreaming of a woman who thought so little of me.”

  “What will you do?”

  John laughed ironically. “What I have always done: I will act with honor. When I first learned of Satiné’s duplicity, I was elated to know I could claim my freedom, but it is not so easy as that. Satiné has been introduced to Society as my baroness. She and I have shared sleeping quarters aboard ship, at Thorn Hall, and at Swenton Hall. I have bathed her in her sickened state. Even if I wished to walk away, I have soiled Miss Aldridge’s reputation, as much, if not more than Lachlan Charters or Prince Henrí. What Charters and the prince did to Miss Aldridge was done in secrecy. What I have done, all the ton serves as witness. I will convince Miss Aldridge to accept my hand in marriage, and I will attempt to make the best of my poor choices. I am determined to be content if she agrees to present me with several heirs. What more can a man hope but to know future generations will bear his name?”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was late when John slipped into Satiné’s room. He and the baronet had had a light supper in his study while John had explained in detail what he had discovered of Jamot, as well as what had occurred in his personal life since they had parted. It still stung that those he had trusted completely had thought him capable of theft; yet, what could he do? He had spent a decade honing his relationships with those with whom he had served. The baronet was correct: John could nourish his resentment or he could prove them foolhardy for their weak opinions. He chose the latter.

  John knew his faults: He was impulsive, spirited, quick to speak his mind and often imprudent. All who knew him used the word “fierce,” but John knew that description a misnomer. His father often referred to him as “solid.” John had always been afraid to ask if the late baron thought him immovable. He much preferred to think of himself as passionate.

  Approaching her bed, John said softly, “Satiné? Are you awake?” For the longest time, she did not move or speak, but John knew her not asleep, even if her carefully executed deep breathing was meant to say otherwise.

  Finally, she rolled to her back. “What do you wish, Lord Swenton?”

  John sat on the edge of her bed. “We must decide what is best for our futures.”

  She brushed the hair from her cheeks. “I have named my fate with my perfidy.”

  With the light of a lantern on a side table, John studied her averted profile, and he wondered how he had once thought her a classic beauty: The lines of Satiné’s face were sharply defined; she was gaunt and frail. “Your deception has placed us in a most awkward position. You have been introduced to Society as my baroness. We have shared quarters and intimacies for nearly three months. I doubt Baron Ashton could secure a husband who would accept so many flaws.”

  Satiné hugged a pillow to her chest. “Then I shall remain a spinster. Uncle Charles means to remarry. Perhaps I can be of use to Mrs. Eastwood’s children, or I can become a governess.”

  John spoke honestly. “Most reputable employers would research your history. If we separate, your name will be forever ruined. No one will hire you. In fact, it is likely Mrs. Eastwood would refuse the connection to Baron Ashton. Lady Yardley and the duchess will also know Society’s shame, as will their children.”

  “If you mean to torment me, my Lord, you are doing it magnificently,” she accused on a whimper before she buried her face in the pillow.

  John tugged the feather-stuffed pillow from her hands. “I have no time or no inclination for your dramatics, Satiné,” he said coldly. “If you wish to hear sweet endearments, you will be sadly disappointed in my words. I have permitted you to dictate our previous relationship, but I mean to have my say.”

  “Then speak, my Lord,” she said tersely.

  Silence like no other he had ever known invaded John’s heart. He remained stoney faced. “As the world believes us a married couple,” he said through tight lips. “I believe we should fulfill their expectations. We will speak our vows before the clergy of the Church of England, telling everyone we wish to restate our vows before a Protestant altar for Vienna is essentially a Lutheran society. It is the truth, but it has been twisted to our benefit. No one needs to know the original ceremony was a sham.”

  “You have no desire to call me wife?” Confusion crossed Satiné’s countenance.

  A tremendous sense of loss choked him, and John swallowed hard to clear his throat. “There was a time not so long ago naming you as Lady Swenton was my dearest hope, but now it is simply my duty; and I believe to a certain extent it is your duty also. Your actions have brought embarrassment and disappointment, and together we must right the wrongs you have created.”

  “You would marry me?” she whispered in disbelief.

  “Before you think to agree, you must know, I desire children to carry the Swenton name forward. I will regularly exercise my husbandly rights, and you will bear me as many heirs as possible. As such, you must follow Mr. Coyle’s suggestions. In your previous despair, you have permitted yourself to become unwell. Child bearing is difficult enough without a woman being under so much turmoil.” Her mouth opened, but decidedly then closed. “You will perform your duties as the mistress of this estate and serve as my hostess when I entertain. In return, I will treat you kindly and provide for your every need. You will have a handsome annual allowance, and I will provide you a jointure in case I precede you in death.”

  “A business agreement.” Disenchantment clouded her tone.

  “I hope we will achieve some degree of compatibility,” he said. “I would wish it to be so.” John stood slowly. “Do not provide me your response this evening. It is a life-changing decision and deserves your careful consideration. We will continue our discussion in the morning. It would please me if you would break your fast with me.” With that, he strode from her room, crossing through their adjoining sitting rooms to his suite. Closing the door behind him, John leaned heavily against the wood. “It is done,” he said through trembling lips. “I have pledged myself to a woman I will never love.”

  *

  Isolde glanced up from where she swept the infirmary floor. In the five days she had been tending her father and the dozen other sailors Doctor Timmons had serviced, her mind had never been far from thoughts of Baron Swenton. As expected her heart and mind rebelled against the idea of never knowing him again. She had noted the way Doctor Timmons looked upon her with fondness. They had quickly come to an easy companionship: The good doctor had escorted her to the inn each evening, with their occasionally dining together before he departed for his own quarters.

  Isolde found Timmons most agreeable–their conversations very lively, but while she sensed the doctor’s growing interest, her heart would never be engaged.

  “A post has arrived for you from York.” Timmons handed her the letter. “I suspect it comes from Lord Swenton,” he said with a bit of acrimony.

  Isolde stared at the baron’s familiar script. “I asked His Lordship to send word of the baroness,” she said lamely.

  Doctor Timmons’s brow rose in skepticism, but he said, “Perhaps the baron wishes a report on your father’s progress.”

  Isolde nodded woodenly. “It would be of Lord Swenton’s nature to do so.” With a blush, she stepped around him. “I shall read it later; I have duties to finish before Jamie and I clean the chamber pots.”

  Timmons caught her hand. “It is not necessary for you to work in the infirmary. Lord Swenton has paid generously for your father’s care. Sit with Mr. Neville and enjoy his timely recovery.”

  Isolde shook off his suggestion. “We Nevilles are rarely still. The work is not demanding, and it keeps me from worrying upon Papa’s condition.”

  Obviously, the do
ctor did not agree with her protest, but he swallowed his objection and returned to his work. Isolde watched him walk away. She hoped her father’s recovery would come quickly; it would be best if she could return to Ireland soon. She wished for no more entanglements. One man was available and an appropriate choice, but she held no interest in Timmons’s overtures. The second was married to a woman he could never leave, and that particular man could claim her heart with a simple gesture of welcome.

  An hour had passed before Isolde found a few private moments to read Lord Swenton’s letter. She had sneaked from the infirmary to sit upon the wooden steps leading to the alley behind the makeshift hospital Doctor Timmons operated. In the days since she had arrived at the facility, she had observed a multitude of street merchants and workers coming to call upon the physician, who displayed the skills of a surgeon. The area, which housed her father and what remained of the crew of The Saltchuck, was separated from the general practice Timmons kept. She admired the doctor’s ingenuity and thought he was bound for success in all he touched.

  Steadying her balance on the narrow steps, Isolde surveyed the area to make certain she knew privacy. This was the place Timmons brought the soiled bedding and clothing to be burned in a metal tub, customarily used as a bath. No other buildings opened to this enclave, and Timmons had assured her the townsfolk would learn nothing of the disease until after the ship’s patients were long removed from the area.

  Breaking the wax seal, Isolde traced the familiar slant of his lines before she unfolded the page to read…

  3 May

  My dearest Isolde,

  I wish I could be writing this letter under better circumstances. I wish I could tell you I meant a return to Newcastle or that I would see you in Dublin in the autumn. However, my trials continue, and I am honestly attempting to follow your last command to me: to carve out a bit of happiness with Satiné.