Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  “Do you know anything else of this gentleman?”

  The valet grasped for a detail. “He limps. Uses a cane.”

  “That is all? What more about de la Croix?”

  “Tarrant has just arrived. And it is only two weeks that I am in the baron’s flat,” he protested. “I have gone through everything with great care.”

  “Do so again. Watch the mail. Listen at all times.” Tapping the roof of the hackney, Donatien held out a small piece of paper to Gervase. “Meet me here.”

  Gervase took it. A shiver ran through him as he watched the coach meld into the throng of horses and vehicles on the street. A gloomy premonition filled him.

  Inside the hackney, lean white fingers caressed a beard trimmed across the point of the chin, the cheeks bare except for where the moustachios met it. Tarrant, Donatien thought, displeased. De la Croix’s connection with Tretain he had known for many years. He had once almost died because of it. But it was Comte de Cavilon who shot me, he recalled. His lips thinned into a grim line.

  I will make it a point to meet Hadleigh Tarrant. It cannot be the same man. Petit? He thought of his dwarf brother in France. No, he shook his head. The Baron de la Croix—will he recognize me after all these years?

  At least I need not fear the bantling’s efforts with Gervase in his employ. He chuckled. With Gervase in my employ.

  * * *

  London October 1st Sunday

  Amabelle stepped down from the hackney. Her umbrella warded off the light rain. The drizzle which began just as they left St. Paul’s had spoiled plans to drive about the city. Handing the umbrella to the butler, she sighed. “Darton, the service at St. Paul’s was grand. The sermon was ever so much more interesting than Mr. Bascomb’s.”

  Elminda Edgerton followed her niece inside. “Amabelle, that is unchristian.”

  Amabelle’s mulish cast made Sarah wonder again why she had agreed to Elminda’s chaperonage. “You must admit the church is marvellous,” she told her sister-in-law. She handed her light cloak to the aged butler. “Please serve tea and biscuits in the family salon, Darton.”

  The small house Sir Rufus’ solicitor had secured for the Edgertons at the edge of Bedford Square, No. 6 Charlotte Street, was all they had hoped. The ground floor had a formal dining room at the front of the house and family dining to the rear with doors opening onto a walled garden. A formal salon known as the White Salon was at the rear of the first floor. Its balcony overlooked a walled garden and the gardens that ran toward Montague House. The smaller salon on the first floor at the front of the house was the family sitting room.

  Amabelle, dressed in a pale pink empire day dress with an underblouse of white sporting a high shirred collar and marmelouk sleeves, stared down at the wet street from the family sitting room’s window. A pout marred her beauty. “It is not fair.”

  “You knew the dangers of the weather when you expressed a wish to come this fall,” Elminda chided her niece.

  “Come, drink some tea,” Sarah coaxed. “It will be better tomorrow. Darton will procure a copy of the Times and we shall see what entertainments may be had at the theatre.”

  “You can not mean to take an innocent like Amabelle to the theatre,” Elminda objected. “Burlington House and Montague House are much more appropriate.”

  “We shall take in both the museum and the Royal Art Academy, Elminda,” Sarah assured her, “but Madame Toussaud’s Wax Museum would be fascinating—Admiral Nelson—”

  “We shall call on your friend, Lady Hazelton, shall we not Aunt Elminda?” Amabelle interrupted as she sat beside Sarah. “Then perhaps we can attend routs and soirees. Perhaps a ball?”

  “I have written her. Good manners demand she reply first,” Elminda answered. “Do not put much hope in her connections.”

  “But Lady Tretain may invite us. She did write you the most gracious note, Stepmama.”

  “She cannot know we are in London,” Sarah noted.

  “But the Baron de la Croix,” Amabelle fished in desperation. “We shall see him while we are here. He could—”

  “If you encounter that gentleman, do not even hint such a thing,” Elminda commanded.

  For once Sarah was in charity with her sister-in-law. “Tomorrow we shall go to Hatchard’s and buy the latest publications.” Seeing Elminda brighten up at this suggestion, she continued, “If one reads Gothic material one cannot object to an evening at the theatre.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  London October 4, 1809 Wednesday

  After days of steady rain, Amabelle delighted in the first bright autumn day. She proposed a walk in Hyde Park. Sarah’s acceptance and her aunt’s decision to remain behind and finish Orlando’s The Chamber of Death pleased her to no end.

  Amabelle was perfection in a pale blue muslin gown as she stepped into the hackney. Blue and pink embroidered flowers decorated the neck, hem, and the edges of her darker blue pelisse. Her bonnet, festooned with two elegant white feathers, perched at a jaunty angle atop her curls.

  The serviceable warm brown drab gown hung too loose on Sarah when her stepmother joined Amabelle. A pelisse of a fuller cut and an even duller brown deepened the unflattering effects of both. A worn stuff bonnet completed the unfortunate ensemble.

  When they were on their way Amabelle contemplated her stepmother’s appearance. She debated urging a return to Charlotte Street but did not wish to lower Sarah’s lacklustre spirits. If only Stepmama would wear the gowns she wore when Mr. Tarr was at the manor, Amabelle thought. I will hide that awful thing she wears. I pray no one of import sees us.

  The curious stares of the fashionable men and stylish women strolling near them confirmed Amabelle’s worst fears. She quickened her steps hoping to end the walk with expedient haste.

  “Amabelle, my dear, why are you hurrying in such a fashion. The weather is wondrous,” Sarah chided. “If Elminda learns you scampered about, she will inflict yet another scene upon us.”

  “Mademoiselle Edgerton.”

  Turning, they saw two well-dressed men. One mounted on a beautiful white mare pranced towards them. The other, astride a halted dark bay, gazed at them in an undecided manner.

  “Baron de la Croix,” gushed Amabelle. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  The baron dismounted and made an elegant leg before he took Amabelle’s hand and raised it to his lips. “It is our pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said, employing the light French accent he knew women admired.

  “How delightful that you have come to London.” He saw Lady Edgerton stare at his companion, her face drained of all colour but for two slashes of red across her cheeks. “Lady Edgerton,” he bowed wondering what had discomposed her.

  “Good afternoon, my lord. It is a ... a pleasure to see you,” Sarah said and dipped a slight curtsy. She took hold of Amabelle’s arm. “We shall not keep you—”

  “But, Stepmama,” her stepdaughter protested, “do you not see that Mr. Tarr is with Baron de la Croix?”

  “Please consent to walk with us, Lady Edgerton,” André invited. “Hadleigh, do add your voice to mine.”

  Tarrant prodded his bay forward. His joy upon seeing Sarah had been crushed by her obvious distress. He was loath to force his company on her but André’s words left no other polite choice. Dismounting, he pulled his cane free and joined them.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Edgerton. Miss Edgerton.”

  “Why so formal, Tarrant?” André quizzed.

  “Tarrant?” Amabelle chimed. “But it is Mr. Tarr.”

  Hadleigh grimaced. “You have found me out. It began as an error. It would be a great favour if you would keep that and my stay at the Manor in confidence.”

  “Amabelle will certainly do that,” Sarah said, her voice strident to her ears. “Will you not, my dear?”

  “Of course,” Amabelle said, her brow creased in puzzlement. “If that is what you wish.”

  “That is settled. Let us stroll.” André offered Amabelle his arm. “You are lovelier than ever.”


  “You are still very handsome,” Amabelle replied. “Even your mount is striking.”

  “They will spend hours flattering each other,” Hadleigh told Sarah. Her jasmine perfume intoxicated. He tried to tamp down his reaction.

  Sarah drew a deep breath and wished she had not. Sandalwood and crisp linen tumbled her to that day in the garden, to his lips upon hers. “You look very well, Mr. Tarrant. I am happy for it.”

  Sarah had lost weight and was much too pale. Concern overcame disappointment at her formality. “Have you been ill?”

  “That is unhandsome of you, sir,” Sarah choked. “I never shine when near dear Amabelle.”

  Stunned, Hadleigh stumbled over his words. “I did not mean— I am sorry. Please—”

  “Have no fear, Mr. Tarrant. I am accustomed to young men who lose their wits around my beautiful stepdaughter.”

  “What is this foolishness, Sarah? I am concerned because you do not look well.”

  “Do join Baron de la Croix and Amabelle,” she nodded to the couple ahead of them. “I am come to London as a chaperone.”

  Hadleigh refused and offered his arm.

  Without looking at him, Sarah gingerly placed her hand on his sleeve. Her mind in turmoil, she trembled at the contact. “Do you—do you still have enough herbals?”

  Hadleigh looked at her, his eyes tender with memories. “Cauley would know,” he said and placed his hand atop hers.

  “Sarah, what is wrong?”

  A ball arced through the air in front of them. It bounced off Amabelle’s bonnet causing André’s mare to rear.

  Fearful for Sarah, Hadleigh dropped his reins and drew her close. She trembled against him, spread with delicious warmth. Then he realized she was frightened. “It is nothing,” Hadleigh assured her. “See. De la Croix has his mare under control.”

  “I was so afraid it would step on your foot.” Sarah swallowed with difficulty.

  A tall man who had a hold on Hadleigh’s horse’s reins bowed at their side. “Your horse, sir,” he said in a strong German accent. He doffed his hat to Sarah. “The child was just playing, madam.”

  A nursemaid appeared with a boy of seven in tow. “Young man, apologize to the gentlemen and ladies. At once.”

  The lad bowed, his lower lip trembled. “I am sorry, sir, I did not mean to frighten your horse. And you, miss, for your bonnet.”

  The nurse curtsied and hurried the boy away.

  Amabelle laughed and de la Croix chuckled.

  Tarrant released Sarah. He met the stranger’s gaze. A wave of revulsion hit him. Puzzled him. He shook it off and nodded. “Thank you–”

  “Berthold von Willmar.” The gentleman clicked his heels. He smiled. “It was a mere trifle, sir.”

  The man almost preens. Why? Hadleigh wondered but could not guess it was because von Willmar saw no hint of recognition in Tarrant’s eyes.

  “Tarrant. Hadleigh Tarrant. This is Baron de la Croix.” He paused, looked at Sarah’s gloved left hand.

  Guessing his dilemma, Amabelle stepped forward. “My stepmother, Lady Edgerton.”

  “And Miss Edgerton,” Tarrant finished, greatly relieved that Sarah had not remarried.

  “My pleasure.” Von Willmar said with a bow and a smile that concealed he was also Squire George and M. Porteur.

  De la Croix bowed. “You have the air of a soldier.”

  The gentleman’s rigid posture tightened. “Formerly Captain von Willmar of the 30th Landwehr, once Prussia’s finest. Prussia is now in a sad state.” He smoothed his blond moustache with gloved fingers. “But the English did their best to save our regiment when we were besieged by Lefebvre at Danzig in ‘07. The dammable French had held too many in reserve. A prisoner until but six months past I am newly come to England.”

  “How terrible,” Sarah said but wondered at the uneasiness this man prompted. She saw nothing in the rigid Prussian posture to cause it. Not in his pale looks nor his unusual beard.

  “Everyone has something to endure. My lord,” he nodded to the baron. “As an émigré you suffer just as I.”

  De la Croix eyed him. “As you say.”

  “Are you also a soldier, sir?” von Willmar motioned to Tarrant’s right leg. “Do you recover from a wound?”

  “Come, gentlemen,” Amabelle chimed. “The day is far too beautiful to dwell on such sad topics.”

  “The fräulein is correct.” Von Willmar clicked his heels and tipped his hat. “Guten tag.” He strolled away.

  “The Prussians put a bit too much starch in their shirts,” de la Croix said quietly to Hadleigh.

  “Stepmama, is my bonnet straight?” asked Amabelle.

  “Yes but there is only one feather.” Sarah looked about and retrieved the broken one.

  “That horrid little boy,” Amabelle pouted. “To think I felt sorry for him.”

  André hid a smile. “It was a pleasure seeing you. Lady Edgerton, may we call?”

  “I—I do not know if we shall be home,” Sarah stammered. She frowned when Amabelle nudged her but added, “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” he tipped his hat and mounted. When Hadleigh was astride his bay, André bade them a good day.

  “What a delightful surprise.” Amabelle took Sarah’s arm. “It was worth the cost of a silly feather.” She sighed. “Though it was a rather grand one.”

  Sarah watched Hadleigh ride away, her heart breaking anew.

  * * *

  October 6th Friday

  Since Hadleigh disliked for any quarter given because of his limp Baron de la Croix trotted up the steps of No. 41 Grosvenor ahead of him. Long eager strides took him to the Gold Salon. Hadleigh’s description of the problems Leora’s presence in town might provoke caused André to frown as he entered the salon. His sister had always seemed so much younger than he.

  “It is too bad of you,” Leora objected.

  André gaped at her. She was resplendent in pale green tissue with sheer puff sleeves over a somewhat darker green satin gown adorned only by a wide belt of dark green beneath her breasts. Her hair had been cut short; dark gold ringlets outlined a flawless complexion. He could envision himself much the same in such a guise until his eyes moved down to what, to his eyes, was a wickedly revealing neckline.

  When in God’s teeth did she become a woman? André swallowed as he took in her slim yet shapely form.

  “It is very bad of you,” Leora accused.

  The baron met her gaze and saw hesitancy he had never before encountered there. “Ma sœur, vous êtes magnifique,” he complimented, and made a gracious leg to her curtsy. André took her hands in his, raised them to his lips.

  “You are so like our mother, Leora. It takes my breath.”

  “Well, bantling, I did warn you, did I not?” Hadleigh said behind him. “Mademoiselle Ribeymon I would tell you that you are exquisite but it would turn you to conceit.” His smile denied his words as he stole one of her hands from André.

  Leora’s gaze swept Hadleigh from his fashionable Brutus to his shiny evening shoes. Satisfied he was well she went on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with a kiss and then did the same to her brother. “This evening we have the two most handsome escorts in all of London.”

  “We shall be besieged by every lackwit in and out of uniform in the town,” Hadleigh bantered back.

  André raised his beribboned quizzing glass to survey her.

  “Do put that thing down,” Leora demanded, her hands on her hips. “Or I shall break it.”

  Tarrant laughed at André’s grimace. “The chit never learned respect. But have you been subjected to her uncertain tempers as have I.”

  “So I am a virago, am I,” she shot back.

  Lady Julianne paused just inside the salon. “Leora, you are not to succumb to your brothers’ baiting.” Her voice took a steel edge. “A lady always ignores such ploys.”

  With an indelicate snort, Leora re-assumed a demure stance.

  “How good to see you both,” Lady Juliane said as she accep
ted a kiss from both young men. “You are devastating in black with that green satin waistcoat, André. How did you learn the colour of Leora’s gown?”

  “A man of the world has his ways.”

  “He probably kissed Meg,” young Anne Marie tossed from a settee where she swung her legs to and fro. “He can make any of the maids do whatever he wishes. One time I saw—”

  “Anne Marie,” Lady Juliane warned. “Thank goodness we are en famille. I must inculcate better manners in both of you.”

  De la Croix raised his quizzing glass back to his eye. “I am relieved, Tante Juliane.”

  His aunt rounded on him. “Do not tempt me, André.”

  Hadleigh put up his hands. “I said nothing. Might I hug this daughter of yours?” he asked looking at Anne Marie.

  “You were always the best, Hadleigh,” the thirteen-year-old praised. “But no childish hug. I want a kiss like Leora.”

  “My lady,” Hadleigh bowed. He took her hand and kissed it, then brushed one across her cheek. “Will you ride with me in the morn, Lady Anne Marie?”

  She dimpled in delight and sank into a deep curtsy. “It would be an honour, Mr. Tarrant. Then I can show you the stag beetle I captured,” Anne Marie told him.

  “And the scientific name?” He chucked her chin. “Lucanus servus. Can you be ready to ride by nine?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  André feigned exasperation. “Now I must invite Leora.” He took his sister’s hand. “Are you still an abominable lay-a-bed or shall I order Athena saddled in the morn?”

  “I will forgive you that if we gallop,” Leora told him.

  “Not a gallop,” Lady Juliane protested. “At least do not tell me if you go at such a pace. And please do not be seen.”

  Hadleigh inquired, “Where is Tretain, Aunt?”

  “A meeting. He will try to join us at the theatre.” She glanced at the long case clock at one end of the room.