Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  Not recognizing the challenge in his eyes, Amabelle laughed. “Yes, a boy threw a ball and broke one of the feathers on my favourite bonnet.”

  To her chagrin, Crandall said, “As you say, quite silly.”

  Hurt by this rebuff, Amabelle added, “The Countess of Tretain and her niece called. I danced every dance at the Marquess of Mandel’s fête.”

  Ignoring her, the doctor went to Sarah. “I am surprised you can endure the city.”

  Hard put not to chuckle over her stepdaughter’s thunderous look, Sarah said, “But we have gardens.” She rose and took his arm. “We shall be in the White Salon if you need us.”

  Out in the hall Sarah chuckled. “I hardly thought it possible for you to stand against her. Well done.”

  Crandall grimaced. “I doubt that.” He looked down with mock severity. “Or I would if I had any idea what you meant.”

  When Sarah led him to the formal salon’s balcony’s doors he opened them and followed her onto it. Gazing down at the walled garden and then across towards Montague House, Crandall smiled. “This would be delightful in the spring.” He turned back to Sarah.

  “But you do not fare well,” he said. “I had thought even before you left that you were not. Will you not confide in me?”

  “I trust we always shall be friends.”

  “Which means you do not mean to tell me a thing.”

  “There is nothing to tell,” Sarah protested.

  Crandall released her hand and faced the garden. “Why did Amabelle call Tarr ‘Tarrant?’”

  Sarah hugged herself. “I misunderstood his name the first time he said it and he did not—”

  “You need not explain, Sarah. I always suspected there was more to his story than what he told us—me,” he corrected with a glance at her. “The ordinary fellow does not get tortured. No,” he assured her, “I shall keep it to myself.”

  Sarah put a hand on Crandall’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “Some day I hope to be more than a friend, Sarah.” Crandall flicked her chin. “I think you know that.”

  A cough turned the doctor to the door. Sarah knew before she looked who was there. But she was surprised to see Hadleigh’s eyes hooded, his stance rigid. She greeted her new guest with a forced smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tarrant. Gil just asked how you fared.”

  “Perfectly well,” clipped Hadleigh, his grip knuckle-white on his cane.

  “I am glad to hear it.” The doctor ignored his ill-mannered tone. He walked forward, his hand extended.

  After the briefest pause, Tarrant accepted it. “I did not mean to interrupt you.”

  “Nonsense, it is too cold out here for Sarah without a shawl,” Crandall said, and closed the balcony’s doors. “I was just about to tell her I have had word from Rupert Hale.”

  Sarah took his hand, unaware of Hadleigh’s stark gaze. “Is he well?”

  “He claims the French treat him tolerably well.” Crandall patted her hand and explained. “Our friend Hale was taken prisoner when he tried to return to England three months ago. He thinks he will soon be part of a prisoner exchange.”

  “I will be so relieved to see him safe.”

  Hadleigh could not gather his wits. He heard Amabelle and turned to her with profound relief and a false smile.

  Amabelle grinned with satisfaction. “I thought I heard you, Mr. Tarrant.” She glanced about. “You came alone?”

  “Yes,” Hadleigh raised her hand to his lips. “I had no wish for de la Croix to get the step on me.”

  “His sister Leora is very beautiful. Perhaps there is an understanding between the two of you?” Amabelle asked.

  “Amabelle,” objected Sarah and Crandall.

  “But we are almost as family,” Hadleigh said. “There is an understanding between Mademoiselle Ribeymon and me.” At Sarah’s sudden pallor, he added, “We both understand that we would never, under any circumstances, suit to be other than friends.”

  Amabelle scowled. “That was very droll, Mr. Tarrant.” She went to a cabinet at one side and removed a deck of cards. “Let us see if this skill is as sharp as your wit.”

  “By all means,” he said with a small bow. Hadleigh drew out a chair for her at the small round table to the right of the balcony doors.

  “Shall we play for a pence a point. That is not too high, dear Stepmama,” she assured Sarah. “I asked Leora and she says I would be laughed at to suggest such a paltry wager.”

  Not looking at Hadleigh, Sarah demurred.

  “I should have called a carte blanche,” Hadleigh told Amabelle after he lost the first game. He shuffled the cards. “At least that would have prevented your capot.”

  Crandall sauntered over to watch the play. His brow furrowed as Amabelle took Point, Sequence, and then displayed two Quatorzes. “I fear,” he looked at Sarah, “that your stepdaughter lacks the humane weaknesses.”

  Hadleigh saw that they shared some secret jest. It reinforced the aura of their intimacy on the balcony. The pips on his cards faded but Amabelle’s taunting saved him.

  “Do you hesitate to try to win this game?” he challenged.

  “Never,” said both Amabelle and Crandall.

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder. At the doctor’s deprecating bow, she turned back to the game.

  Tarrant watched Crandall saunter to Sarah and kiss her hand. He overheard something about Friday and Covent Garden before Amabelle recalled his attention. To lure Crandall from Sarah he asked, “What is this talk of humane weaknesses?”

  The doctor sat beside Sarah. “When I was a young man in London, I came upon a game of faro being played for devilish high stakes. The Marquess of Halstrom, better known then as Hellfire Merristorm, played cards with the young Earl of Lester. When Lester hesitated, the man commented that ‘games magnify the most commonplace parts of life. Friendship, generosity, compassion, and sportsmanship are all humane weaknesses one should overcome through cruelty and deceit. For only in perfecting these two qualities does one succeed—in the game and in life.’”

  Sarah shuddered. “I hope never to meet such a man.”

  A tremor ran through Hadleigh. He had met such a man.

  “You told that tale to be spiteful,” Amabelle exclaimed.

  “I wish it were a tale,” Crandall answered.

  The young woman read the truth and a deep sadness in the doctor’s eyes and warmth rose to her cheeks. She stood. “Excuse me, Mr. Tarrant, I must attend to a matter. Stepmama.”

  Hadleigh leaned back in his chair. “What happened then?”

  “The Earl of Lester lost everything. He died the next day in a fall from his high perch phaeton while he drove in Hyde Park. Halstrom lost Lester’s fortune the next night. “My apologies, Sarah, I should not have brought it up.”

  Tarrant tossed down the piquet cards and stood. “Tell Miss Edgerton I shall settle my debt whenever she wishes.”

  “Let me take you up in my carriage,” Crandall invited. He smiled at Sarah. “Until Friday.” He headed toward the doors.

  Hadleigh declined Crandall’s offer of a ride but acquiesced to his request to let him examine his feet at a later time. Bidding the doctor farewell, he walked up Charlotte Street heading for Great Russell Street and the British Museum where he was to meet André.

  When he neared a halted hackney Hadleigh felt a chill and increased his pace. Sarah and Crandall occupied his thoughts. When he reached Great Russell Street he turned right instead of left, unaware he had turned away from the Museum.

  Inside the hackney a fury not unlike that inspired by the Duc d’Veryl filled Donatien. Confident his features were hidden he stared at Hadleigh as the young man passed the hackney. Tarrant’s apparent despondency gave a glimmer of pleasure. It increased his wrath that the Englishman had not only survived, but appeared untouched by what had happened to him.

  Donatien released a string of low curses. At their every meeting Tarrant had appeared relaxed, at ease, except that first time with the Edgerton woman. There wa
s nary a ruffle in the life he had taken up after Lewes. The Frenchman could neither understand nor forgive that.

  A light rap on the hackney door pulled Donatien from his dark ruminations. He threw it open and glared at the slight figure that grinned uneasily at him with hand held outstretched.

  “The ‘eavier fellow be Crandall. ‘E asked the other gent about lookin’ at ‘is feet, or some such.” The lad wrinkled his nose. “They said they’d meet at Jermyn Street Fr’day morn.”

  Tossing two coins at the lad, Donatien shut the door and tapped on the roof. Gervase had passed word of the meeting. “Great Russell Street, the Museum,” he ordered. Delayed by traffic, he did not see Tarrant when his carriage halted behind a crested coach.

  Three people approached it. The man in the uniform Donatien did not recognize, but the other two curled his lip. His gaze lingered on the young woman.

  One hand to his groin, Donatien fisted the other and slammed into the seat. He overheard that they would return to Broyal’s residence. “Follow that coach,” he ordered. He thought of Limes Point four months past. “I promised the lady a reward.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  London October 11 Wednesday

  Maddie, Viscountess Broyal returned the pressure of her husband’s hand while he and Danbury discussed the critical reports of Wellesley’s unwillingness to meet the French.

  “He has every right to be reluctant to trust the Spanish generals, much less the Supreme Junta,” Danbury reiterated.

  Quentin agreed. “I have not forgotten our jaunt from Sahagun to Corunna. But until Perceval manages to fill government offices little will be done. This damnable duel between Canning and Castlereagh must have the French laughing.”

  “Lady Broyal,” at her grimace Danbury continued, “Maddie, are you certain you wish to return to Margonaut House?”

  “She wishes to return home,” Quentin said, and raised his wife’s hand to his lips. “We attend Covent Garden Friday night. Mayhaps you should bring some troopers to make safe the way for us,” he said, half in jest, half serious.

  “I look forward to going,” Maddie smiled. “After reading about ‘riot and confusion,’ I am all agog to see it.”

  “From what I have read, the O.P.’s have been voluble about increased ticket prices,” Danbury said. “A new Phoenix straight from the ashes of Fate,” he quoted from the Times, “With the Manager’s cries, hear the Audiences likewise, and reduce the Exorbitant Prices.”

  They still chuckled when the viscount handed his wife out of the carriage on Margonaut House’s flagway.

  When Broyal rejoined Danbury he noted his friend’s languid gaze. “Do not say it.”

  Danbury feigned a yawn. “Say what?”

  “I know that look. Do not spout that Ovid nonsense.”

  “Dear friend, you wound me.” The major examined a well-manicured fingernail. “I admire your passion for your wife.” He sighed. “Admire, but never understand.”

  “You will yet live to regret that translation of yours.”

  “I may. De la Croix recognized it when I made the mistake of quoting it the other night. Very tiresome.” He brushed an imaginary speck from his sleeve.

  “You are for Brooks?”

  “I have an appointment of which Maddie is unaware.”

  “Ah, you have not forgotten Ovid’s sage advice,” Danbury said, surprised at his disappointment. A flare of anger in his friend’s eyes cautioned him.

  “Few know that my father owns merchant ships. Two are in port. I set some of our sailors to listen for news of Porteur or George. One spent Monday night with a Frenchman who let slip an interesting piece of information.”

  * * *

  Hadleigh strode down the street battered by chaotic thoughts. Especially Crandall’s startling words. Some day I hope to be more than a friend. A tug on his sleeve bought his gaze to a bouquet of flowers in a small girl’s up thrust hand.

  “Buy it fer yer swe’th’rt, sor,” she pleaded. “Or yer fancy mort.”

  With uncharacteristic brusqueness, Hadleigh stalked away. Fancy mort. He imagined André and the young widow he appeared likely to offer a carte blanche. He recalled how she had leaned forward to reveal a provocative amount of temptation and dangled a sweetmeat before André last eve. After she plopped the sweet into his mouth, she had drawn a finger across André’s lip.

  The woman in the image changed into Sarah, André into him.

  Hadleigh’s travesty of a laugh became a barked cough. What is this? I left that all behind at Edgerton Manor.

  Did you? a voice whispered.

  He walked again and pondered why he had never seen how matters stood between Sarah and Crandall. And what of Hale?

  Heavy traffic at Court Road near Oxford Street halted Hadleigh. His throbbing right foot claimed his attention. Hailing a hackney, he ordered it to Jermyn Street.

  Twenty minutes later he slammed into de la Croix’s flat with such a ferocious scowl that Gervase shrank from him.

  André halted halfway down the stairs. “I am sorry that I was unable to meet you.”

  Tarrant pushed past him and snarled, “No matter.”

  “Gervase, see that we are not interrupted,” André ordered. He found Hadleigh pacing before the fireplace, his limp pronounced. He poured a brandy and after a glance at his friend, added another dollop. “Is the fire warm enough?”

  “Fire? What are you talking about?” Hadleigh removed his greatcoat and flung it in the chair.

  “Take this.” André pressed a glass into his hand.

  Scowling, Hadleigh took it and downed the brandy in two swallows. He set the glass down and began pacing.

  André took a seat and watched Hadleigh.

  “Damnation!” Tarrant rubbed a hand across his forehead, then dropped into the coat-draped chair. “I have gone mad.”

  “You do appear a trifle aux fou,” André agreed.

  Hadleigh flicked a quelling look at him and stood. He grabbed the empty glass and stalked to the side table. After he filled it he returned to his seat.

  “I must visit Montague House. What exhibit, in particular, produced this effect?”

  “I did not go to the bloody Museum.” Hadleigh stared at the fire, his thoughts as turbulent as its flames.

  André stilled. “Have you seen George?”

  Hadleigh continued staring at the fire, but then looked at André. “What? George who?”

  With effort, de la Croix managed not to gape. “What has upset you?”

  Hadleigh gazed at the glass. His shoulders slumped and his voice came low and rough. “Crandall means to marry Sarah.”

  For seconds André could do no more than restrain a relieved bark of laughter. “Crandall? Ah, yes, the doctor who treated you in Lewes. But I thought you said a Mr. Hale was to be the fortunate man?”

  The glass stem in Hadleigh’s hand snapped. He caught the bowl of the goblet. Setting the two pieces on the table, he murmured an apology.

  “Why are you so upset about this proposed marriage?”

  “I am not upset.”

  “Of course not,” André replied. A light hint of humour brushed his syllables. “Why should you be? Lady Edgerton is no more to you than nurse, n’est-ce pas?”

  Hadleigh glared at him then leaned his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands. “I ... appreciate all she did for me. It would be churlish not to.”

  “Oui, most discourteous.”

  “Sarah was kind and gentle. I cannot be unfeeling about her. It would not be natural.”

  “Never say I wished you to be unnatural. But she is fortunate to lure a physician to marriage.”

  Hadleigh sprang up and caged André in his chair. “Any man would be lucky to have her,” he snarled. “I will not tolerate you speaking so of Sarah.”

  “Is this what happened at the Mandel fête, mon frère?”

  The question startled Hadleigh. He dropped his hands and stepped back, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “You are in love w
ith Lady Edgerton?”

  Hadleigh stared at him, then looked away. “You do not understand.” For a moment he was back in the Edgerton garden, Sarah warm in his arms, her eyes lit with desire, her lips moving across his.

  “Then, mon frère, why is it objectionable that she marry?”

  Hadleigh saw the pain in Sarah’s eyes as she spoke of her first marriage. It was a kindness on his part. “She deserves someone who values her. Who loves her beyond all else.”

  André held his hand out in question. “And you are upset with Mr. Crandall because?”

  “You would not understand,” Hadleigh snapped. He limped out of the room, his expression darker with every step.

  * * *

  Seven Dials October 12th Wednesday

  Only the dim glow of a wavering carriage light winked at the black night as three laughing gentlemen staggered out of the Blue Devil Club on Audrey Street.

  “That was a bonny night’s work,” Warren Gough half sang. He clapped a plump hand against Michael Leonard’s back.

  Paul Inglis flailed an arm in a drunken bow. “Yer friend ish bes chap e’er.”

  “T’best,” Michael agreed, a bulging velvet pouch clutched to his breast. He sagged against Inglis. “Now I can get the worst of those dammed duns off my back.”

  “Bloody hell, don’t waste the blunt on duns,” Inglis objected. He swung around and addressed the tall, stiff-backed Prussian behind them. “Wherse do ve go next?”

  “It would be best for you gentlemen to go home,” Donatien answered, the steel in his voice penetrated his companions’ drink-fogged minds.

  “But ‘tis early,” Leonard whined.

  “You must be rested for your work on the morrow,” the disguised Frenchman said as he herded the trio toward a waiting hackney.

  Gough chortled. “Brimsley’d have yer hide, Leonard.”

  “Only ‘cause that dullard’s arse wouldn’t be able to get his business done with’t me.”

  Inglis paused in midstep. “Speakin’ of arse and gettin’ business done, ‘haps we shud go back ta Madam Tierley’s?”

  “An excellent idea—for the morrow,” Donatien placated. “It would not do to find yourself—incapable, shall we say, at the opportune moment.” At the hackney, he opened the door and after they climbed in, bid a good eve. Tossing a coin to the driver, he ordered, “To Orange Street.”