Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  HONOUR’S CHOICE

  Honour Series Book Two

  Joan Vincent

  Chapter One

  London England February 27, 1809 Monday

  The lean figure strode through the dark mews behind Number 41 Grosvenor. Horses whickered welcome but he took no notice of them. He checked his stride at the door and ran a perfunctory glance over the house. Light glowed from the lower kitchens but none from the library. Candlelight lit the second window to the right on the third floor.

  Bounding forward, the figure hurried to the house’s far corner. With practiced ease he scrambled up a drainpipe using a series of brick outcrops. He silently raised the far right window, threw a leg over the sill, and slipped inside.

  Hadleigh Tarrant stripped off his gloves and picked up the flint beside the candle. His fingers glinted white in the dresser’s mirror as the candle’s flame flickered into life. Tarrant unbuttoned the loose fitting drab jacket and chuckled with satisfaction at his night’s work.

  The shadow of a pistol’s reflection in the mirror chilled his mirth. Hadleigh reached for the small derringer in his jacket. As he withdrew his weapon something hit his forearm. He released the derringer and swung at his attacker.

  With a soft curse, the assailant stepped back.

  Hadleigh dived headfirst at him. Catching his opponent in the stomach, he fell atop him on his bed.

  The attacker pressed a cane against Tarrant’s throat. He held it for a moment and then found it slowly but surely brought down against his. “Pax,” laughed the man pinned beneath Tarrant. “You improve, mon frère.”

  Hadleigh released the cane. He cuffed the Baron de la Croix’s shoulder and rolled away to rise in one supple move.

  The Earl of Tretain had raised both young men. They called his townhouse at No. 41 Grosvenor home when in London. But only in height were Hadleigh Tarrant and André Ribeymon, Baron de la Croix, the orphaned nephew of the earl’s wife, similar.

  Hadleigh, only child of Tretain’s deceased younger brother, was five and twenty. Tall and whipcord lean, he had the handsome sharp-planed features and grey eyes of the Tarrants. His black hair flecked with silver was attractively cropped in the current style. His looks and his quiet and sober nature sharply contrasted with André whom he considered a brother.

  The baron, four years younger, had an elegant, graceful figure. He wore his dark blond hair modishly long. His blue eyes glittered more often with mischievousness than serious contemplation. In manner and dress he had taken after his frivolous French dandy of a father who had been killed during the Terror in France.

  “Have you news?” de la Croix asked. He straightened the lace ruffle down his shirt with a regretful shake of his head.

  “Dear God, I forgot,” Hadleigh exclaimed. He drew a small box from his jacket pocket and gingerly opened the lid. After he peered inside he thrust it at his cousin. “You are lucky it is unharmed.”

  André grimaced when he looked but teased affectionately. “That beetle is what you searched out? I thought you had put aside your youthful obsession.”

  “It is a staphylinus olens,” Hadleigh told him as he closed the lid and set it aside. “A far better specimen than I now have in my collection.”

  “I presumed our other business could distract even you from a devil’s coach horse beetle,” André said, piqued.

  Hadleigh grinned. “Finding the beetle was a fortunate accident. I also ferreted out a possible source of information on the theft at Oak Hampton.”

  “Ahha, I was right,” André crowed. “That was the second theft, was it not?” His eyes narrowed. A secret report both had privy to detailed the amount of government bullion stolen and the ruthless nature of the guards’ deaths.

  “Yes.” Hadleigh stripped off his jacket and shirt. He poured water and began washing. “What are you doing here? Were you not to go with uncle this eve?”

  De la Croix lit several candles. “Tretain went ahead to the Boynton’s fête.” He carried one of the candles to the armoire and riffled through it.

  “You really should employ a valet to advise you.”

  Towelling dry, Hadleigh chuckled. “But I have not your taste or reputation. Society expects my raiment to be sober and simple. Besides, I like the freedom of not having one.”

  “Just another of your machinations to be in complete control at all times,” André shot back.

  “Yes,” Hadleigh agreed with a complacent smile. He accepted a fresh linen shirt. “Have we new orders?”

  “We shall get word soon. At the fête if our correspondent follows former patterns. The amount of bullion taken makes the government quite anxious. What is this new source?”

  Hadleigh flipped a worn boot away from the bootjack and stripped off his breeches. “Not until I know more.”

  “You. Cautious? These are dangerous men.”

  “God help us, you sound like me,” Hadleigh scoffed. “You are the one who needs to think first and act second.”

  De la Croix raised his hand in an elegant if cautionary warning. “If you begin a lecture I shall not tell you where you can find a fourteen-punctata coccinella. If only we could discuss ladybirds of another sort.”

  * * *

  The company could have been understandably thin at the Boynton fête at this early date. Especially as they were launching twin nieces sadly lacking in looks onto the Marriage Mart. However, word that the Earl of Tretain, and in his train his two very eligible former wards, would attend had brought out the matchmaking females in town. Under fear of having a march stolen on them, the gentlemen also came.

  De la Croix was resplendent in a turquoise satin frock coat over a waistcoat with matching embroidery, a French lace jabot and wrist frills. He posed dramatically beside his friend at the door of the ballroom.

  Hadleigh’s angular good looks as well as his dark blue double-breasted frock coat with claw-hammer tails, finely starched linen shirt, cravat, and white trousers provided the perfect contrast. Each nodded to Tretain across the room as all eyes turned to them.

  Shifting his weight onto his red-heeled left shoe, the baron raised his quizzing glass to his eyes. “The Boynton twins,” he noted. His right brow rose upon seeing the thin, white-muslin-gowned pair with Freddy Pinlar and Scrope Davies.

  “Their uncle should know better than to let Pinlar close,” Tarrant said as they sauntered toward their hostess.

  “He knows you will rescue one of them and force me to take the other.” André examined a group near the two couples. When strains of music floated across the floor, he sighed heavily. “Must we dance with every rattle-brained chit?”

  Amusement glittered in Hadleigh’s eyes. “Perhaps not every one. You need never marry them,” he added magnanimously.

  Several hours later, as was his habit at such functions, Hadleigh had danced at least once with each of the eligibles present. He halted to allow an elderly man on two canes pass him and sensed rather than saw de la Croix join him. “God keep us from ever sinking to that state,” he said. “I cannot imagine being so dependent on canes.”

  “You are far from it,” André quipped. “Smile.” His did not reach his eyes. “We have a meeting set for the morrow.”

  * * *

  Lewes, Sussex England March 16 Thursday

  Sarah, Lady Edgerton tried to recall one of the more salient points of the vicar’s sermon on “Love Thy Neighbour” from Sunday’s service as her sister-in-law prattled. None came to mind but a recent article on a robbery in the Lewes Journal did.

  Elminda’s head is too dense to be injured by a cudgel. Lady Edgerton sighed contritely. But I am tempted to put a dose of extract of monkshood—no, Acontium, she amended recalling the Latin name, in her tea. Such interminable chatter.

  “Sarah. Lad
y Edgerton!” Elminda Edgerton admonished her brother’s widow. She uncharitably tallied exactly how many times she had done so over the past nine years since Sarah Leonard had wed her brother. “You must pay attention.”

  Seeing the aggrieved pout, Sarah tried to assume an attentive mien. She began contritely. “I am sorry. It is—”

  “That young man!” Miss Edgerton interrupted. “He is following us again. I warned you when we were in Andrew’s establishment. He intends some foul purpose. I just know it.” She grabbed Sarah’s arm.

  “Do not look in his direction. Perhaps he has learned of your inheritance from Sir Rufus—”

  Aware that her plump form, now swathed in a voluminous drab cloak, was of little interest to gentlemen, Sarah frowned.

  “Stop prattling such nonsense, Elminda. Some time has passed since I have had to endure that kind of unpleasantness.” She glanced around her bonnet’s brim. “Where is this gentleman?”

  “You are too trusting.” Her sister-in-law straightened her rigid back. “He means you harm. I know it in my bones.”

  “But where is he?” Sarah demanded.

  Elminda frowned a reprimand but leaned to her. “Across the street at the east end of Langley’s Emporium,” she whispered.

  Sarah casually glanced there. “I see no one.”

  “Then let us continue. He will follow. You shall see him and know that I am, once again, correct.”

  May the Lord, Sarah prayed, grant me patience.

  A moment later Elminda tightly clamped a gloved hand on her sister-in-law’s arm. She hissed, “See, there he is.”

  At sight of the staring gentleman Sarah halted but her sister-in-law determinedly propelled her forward.

  “Let us pretend to look at this day gown on display,” Elminda whispered. “You can see his reflection in the window.”

  Sarah restrained a bubble of laughter. “What nonsense.” But she stared at the wavering image of a severely handsome individual. A modest four capes adorned his greatcoat. Unbuttoned, it revealed a narrow waist and broad shoulders to match his height. Dark hair curled below the brim of his beaver hat.

  Dissatisfied with the reflection, Sarah turned. She had done little more than decide the gentleman’s face was all angles when his gaze encountered hers. He walked on and left her admiring his graceful stride and a desire to stare after him.

  Irked by her twinge of interest, Sarah looked at her reflection. Gold-flecked brown eyes stared back and deep autumn brown crimped curls edged her bonnet. Her round face was pleasant enough despite a full lower lip she had never learned to arrange in a pretty pout like other girls.

  Thinking of the handsome gentleman, Sarah wriggled her nose. Perhaps she had achieved too much success in her efforts to present a stolid matronly appearance.

  Her husband, Sir Rufus, dead four years, came to mind. More than twenty years her senior, he had been a kind and considerate husband.

  Though it had not been a love match, Sarah had cared for him and missed him. At three and thirty she was young enough to wed again, but having settled for kindness once, refused to do so again. Not, she thought wryly, that my suitors offered anything but an interest in my inheritance from Sir Rufus.

  Sarah turned from the window. Rupert Hale’s hint in his last letter that he wished to be more than a friend consoled her. “Let us visit the apothecary before we take tea at the White Hart.”

  “But, Sarah,” her sister-in-law protested, “there is something highly suspicious about that gentleman’s manner.”

  “You read too many gothic novels,” she chuckled.

  Elminda stiffened at the gentle reproof. “If you had read The Mysteries of Udolpho you would know that Signor Montoni appeared most normal when he first entered Madam Cheron’s life,” she sniffed.

  “But it is only a story and so far from truth,” Sarah said and hurried forward.

  * * *

  Hadleigh paused in front of Langley’s Emporium. His quarry had entered an establishment across and up the street. Two women in front of the dressmaker’s window came into view. He would have dismissed them had not the shorter, heavier one turned and stared. Hadleigh met the direct gaze. He cursed to have drawn anyone’s attention and strode away.

  He stepped into the first alley and resumed his watch of the portly gentleman. I should write André, he thought. I have travelled across Sussex since my last posting at Horsham. If he hasn’t learned anything he can join me here.

  The March 1st secret meeting he and André had had with Lord Castlereagh about the recent thefts of bullion was still very clear. There it had been decided that de la Croix would search for the perpetrators in Kent while he concentrated on Sussex

  Picturing the round-stomached man he had found after a torturous search from Horsham to Lewes, Hadleigh’s eyes narrowed in disgust at his obtuseness. At Horsham he had first realized that he had seen the man on several occasions.

  Hadleigh smiled sardonically. Mr. George may yet provide a key to the puzzle. André will no longer be able to tweak me for my cautious ways.

  George came out of the shop on the other side of High Street and trudged up the steep sloping avenue. Two dogs barked and nipped at the portly man’s heels.

  Hadleigh pursed his lips seeing the brown paper package George hugged close. He frowned as the man kicked the animals aside and entered the silversmith’s shop.

  Settling back against the wall to wait, Hadleigh considered every scrap of information on the robberies. Had he found a substantial lead?

  The reappearance of George ended this reflection. The man no longer carried the parcel. The name of the silversmith shop noted, Hadleigh followed him.

  * * *

  “That is all,” Sarah gently tried to soothe the anxiety Elminda’s scold had caused. “Bring our tea,” she told the girl who escaped with a grateful smile. If only I had brought some hop tea. It would settle Elminda’s nerves. Make her more agreeable.

  “Lady Edgerton, these girls at the White Hart need a firm hand,” Elminda complained loudly. “Our tea shall be cold and the scones from yesterday.”

  Sarah resignedly smoothed her napkin. Glancing toward the door at the tinkling of the bell, she saw the balding pot-bellied man who had entered the apothecary shop just as they left. He walked past their section and continued into the area behind a half wall topped with a decorative screen where the gentlemen gathered.

  The serving girl returned with a tea tray, followed by another with a tray of scones. Sarah poured the tea, thankful to see steam rise.

  With the March chill relieved by the tea and their appetites satisfied by scones, Sarah ordered her carriage. A moment later her sister-in-law clutched at her arm. “What on earth—”

  “It is he,” Elminda whispered loudly. “Do not look,” she warned. Disregarding her own words, Miss Edgerton watched the tall dark stranger speak with the innkeeper. She tightened her grip when he met her gaze with a quizzical quirk of his brow.

  “I told you, Sarah. Why do you not listen to me?”

  Lady Edgerton glanced over her shoulder as the man strolled into the adjoining section. She recognized the four-caped coat. Turning back to Elminda, a chuckle bubbled free at the other’s foreboding glare.

  “Elminda, he did not even glance our way. He more likely follows the portly fellow we also saw several times this day.” From the corner of her eye Sarah saw the portly man raise his head. She met his gaze and flinched at the cold calculating intelligence. When he glanced at the handsome stranger, fear tugged at her conscience. This evaporated at Elminda’s pinch.

  “He did not look our way to prevent arousing our suspicions,” her sister-in-law insisted. “He was at Chapman’s and that was some time after I first saw him spy on you from Langley’s Emporium. We should summon a constable.”

  “We will do no such thing. I do believe I shall have you read Cadlington’s Tracts on Improving the Mind in place of those Gothic romances.” Sarah rose to forestall further protest.

  * * *
<
br />   Donatien, confidant in his guise of English squire, shut his mind to the querulous nag of a woman on the other side of the screening wall. But a long habit of selective listening alerted him when she said “followed.” After a direct glance at the plump one he turned to watch the new entrant and saw a face from his past. Instincts quivering, he lowered his gaze.

  I saw that young man in Horsham. Again at Penhurst. His eyes brightened, hardened. From the looks of him he has to be related to Tretain. What is the family name? Tarrant. The earl once meddled in France’s affairs. Does that irritating habit run in the family?

  * * *

  Hadleigh sipped ale and glanced again at the portly gentleman reading the Times. It was his third glass and George did not appear likely to budge soon. Scowling, Hadleigh downed the ale and ordered a simple meal. As he took his last bite of beef George stood. Hadleigh watched the man pay his bill and then leisurely saunter out of the inn.

  Brief words with the clerk confirmed George had not taken a room. Hadleigh hurried out the door. He forced himself to amble between the carriages and teams in the yard until he saw George mount a prime bit of horseflesh. Moments later Hadleigh guided his bay in its wake.

  Donatien spurred down Rotten Row and galloped out of Lewes. Satisfied that the young man followed, he slowed the pace.

  Keeping back a discreet distance, Hadleigh trailed George when he left the main road. Excitement built when the man entered a dilapidated stable behind a small secluded cottage.

  Hadleigh dismounted and led his bay through the hedge that surrounded it. After getting as close as he dared, he tied his mount to a nearby tree, and crept towards the house.

  * * *

  The dwarf’s large head lolled as he sat by the banked fire.

  “Ou est Letu?” Donatien demanded as he shrugged out of his greatcoat. He threw it at the small man. “Ou est Letu?” he snapped again. Where was the man when he needed him?

  The dwarf pushed up on stubby arms and heaved upright on bowed legs. “Monseigneur, we did not expect you to return this eve,” he replied in French. “Letu and Gano sleep.”