Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  “Henry Fowler courted every girl he ever met,” Miss Wilson answered with a tinkling laugh. “But the poor man is dead this year or more,” she added.

  “But you did know him well?”

  “Of course, we did. His wife’s sister, Mary, was one of our dearest friends,” Miss Prudence said.

  “Do you ever recall either of them speaking about a Mr. von Willmar visiting? Perhaps he met the gentleman while on his grand tour.”

  “Von Willmar?” Miss Letitia contemplated the name as she repeated it once again. “Pru?”

  She frowned. “The Earl of Lade made his tour a very long time ago.”

  “Do you think the countess would recall?”

  “Oh, no. The poor dear has become quite childish. She no longer comes to London but her son does well by her,” Miss Prudence told him.

  “Von Willmar is staying with him on the claim that their fathers were good friends.”

  “Harry Fowler has even fewer spans to the bridge than his father,” Miss Letitia said acerbically.

  Goodchurch nodded thoughtfully at this assessment, for his aunts seldom erred. “Do you think you could discover whether or not the late Earl actually knew Mr. von Willmar’s father?”

  “A puzzle,” exclaimed Miss Prudence. “And we are having a tea this very afternoon.”

  Letitia Wilson rose. “We shall see what we can discover, Samuel.”

  “Do ring for Stevens,” Miss Prudence instructed. “I believe I know exactly where he can locate my diary for 1766. That,” she explained, “is the year Lade made the grand tour. It is so nice that you were able to get away from school again, Samuel.” She turned her cheek for his kiss.

  Patting Goodchurch’s arm, Miss Letitia told him to come for breakfast in the morning. “We shall either have the information or know where we can get it by then.”

  * * *

  Outside of London October 21 Saturday

  Hadleigh clutched his pounding head. His stomach heaved. A hand grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him upright. A large object was thrust into his arms. Hadleigh spewed into it.

  “Jésu,” swore the lad who sat opposite the two men. “I don’t see how he’s to be a lick o’ good.”

  André steadied Hadleigh. “Hand me that towel,” he ordered. He pulled the vase away, pressed the cool damp towel into Hadleigh’s hands, and then handed the vase to the lad.

  The boy cursed in French but took it.

  André assessed Hadleigh by the dim light of the swaying coach lamp. “Wipe your face, old man,” he told him. “You should feel more the thing now.”

  Hadleigh pressed his face into the towel. “Why rocks this dammed chair?”

  “No chair,” André answered with a hint of amusement. “You are dammed lucky I did not leave you on the stairs.”

  Hadleigh leaned back against the cushion, the towel over his face. His stomach threatened to repeat its protest. “Why are we in a coach?”

  “The lad brought a message from Pascual,” André explained. “If he snatches Gano, he will take him to a house he and I have used.”

  Jerking the towel away, Hadleigh stared at him. “Gano?”

  The lad tugged the towel from Tarrant’s hand and put it over the vase. “Ye shuld’a left ‘im,” he snorted.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Gano has been found?” Hadleigh demanded.

  The baron tsked. “You have creased my sleeve.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “Mon frère, you must listen with more care. Truly, I think you did not hear Lady Edgerton aright.”

  Memory of the interview with Sarah hit Hadleigh like a Mendoza punch to the solar plexus.

  “Jésu, drinking himself sick ‘cause o’ a wench,” sneered the mop-haired messenger. He tipped the covered vase toward the baron. “Can I throw this thing out the window?”

  André glanced at Hadleigh. “How’s the stomach? Better?” At Tarrant’s nod, he motioned to the window.

  “Deo gratias!” Seconds later the vase and its odoriferous contents splattered across the road.

  “Who is he?” Hadleigh snorted. “How do you know you can trust him?”

  De la Croix knew he could trust the lad but wondered what the truth about him might be. Perfect French at times and Latin phrases belied the lad’s urchin dress and filthy face and hands.

  “What is your name?” demanded Hadleigh

  The lad sank back. “Neil.”

  “Rest easy,” André advised. “The lad showed me the coin.”

  When Hadleigh stared at him stupidly, the baron slipped a hand into his coat’s inner pocket and extracted the coin-like disc he had had minted and distributed among his most trust compatriots. André took hold of Hadleigh’s right hand and deposited the coin in it.

  Hadleigh stared hard and then fingered the slightly raised fleur de lis in the centre of the banded circlet. He looked at de la Croix, his brow puckered in question.

  “‘Tis just a little something I created to be used as a sign—a signal that the person is loyal to me.” He plucked it out of his friend’s hand. “Small and insignificant to all except those who know what it means.” André casually flipped it into the air.

  Neil snatched it.

  “Make certain you return it to Pascal,” the baron instructed and then turned back to Hadleigh. “Rest. We shall have need of it before this night is over.”

  When the coach drew to a halt at their destination, the lad was the first out.

  De la Croix stepped down behind him. The derringer beneath his right sleeve and the weighty pistol in his waistband reassured him. André checked the front of the small two-story house and the stables beyond with a searching gaze.

  “Be ready to depart on the instant,” he told the coachman in a low voice. He nodded when the groom beside the driver raised a musket.

  “Where are we?”

  “Just beyond Lambeth.”

  In the dim moonlight, Tarrant watched André sink into a half crouch, then run toward the rear of the house.

  When he bent over, Hadleigh’s head objected. He cursed but followed and found André at the back door.

  Neil hurried from the moon-cast shadows of the stables. “Their horses are here and two others.”

  “Good,” André whispered. He edged open the door. When the lad tried to push past, André caught him about the waist. “Hold,” he warned. Pulling Neil against him, de la Croix wondered for a moment about the ridges of cloth wrapped about the lad’s chest beneath his smock.

  Hadleigh followed them inside, his heart hammered. It leaped into his throat when four sharp metallic raps belled in the silence. Something moved to his left. He prayed it was André.

  Light flared as a candle was lit.

  “Monsieur de la Croix?”

  “Pascual?”

  A slim outline took shape behind the candle. The light haloed a pistol. “Neil?” he asked.

  De la Croix straightened and put the lad behind him.

  A rapid stream of questions in French followed.

  Understanding them and their answers, Hadleigh demanded, “Where is Gano?”

  Pascual motioned with the candle. “Come.” He led the way down a hall and up a flight of stairs.

  Broyal’s valet Jenks stood in a doorway. When they appeared he lowered his pistol and stepped sideways.

  Hadleigh, eyes on the swarthy prisoner, took up a lamp from a table by the door. He carried it to the man bound hand and foot to a chair. When Gano jerked back his head, Hadleigh grabbed a fistful of black hair.

  André put a hand on his shoulder. “Was he at Lewes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are worse than a fool,” Gano told him. “It will not be your feet next time.”

  Hadleigh released the hair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pascual approach with a stiletto.

  “Do you dare, anglais?” taunted Gano.

  Sight of the sharp blade cut loose haunting memories. Revulsion filled Hadleigh.

  André slamme
d his fist into Gano’s face.

  A red welt rose and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. French invectives flew on pink spittle.

  George’s words echoed as Hadleigh watched the thin red line trail down Gano’s chin. His stomach roiled.

  De la Croix taunted the Frenchman. “So you have no fear of the anglais?”

  Gano spat at him.

  André palmed his derringer and pressed its barrel against the Frenchman’s temple.

  Hadleigh watched, horrified, as André cocked the derringer.

  Gano screeched. “If he kills me, you’ll never get the one as ordered your torture,” he warned.

  Hadleigh strove to keep his expression blank. “You know where George is?”

  “Non, but I can find him. If you let me go—” Gano saw de la Croix’s finger tighten on the trigger. Fear bulged his eyes.

  André leaned his cheek against the derringer. “We have no need to free you,” he whispered in French. Only when Hadleigh touched his shoulder did he straightened and lower the pistol.

  “Pascual, your stiletto.” André took it and ran a finger beside its edge. “Jenks, unfasten one of his hands. It was your right they carved at Hayward.”

  With an appreciative snort Jenks joined Pascual. Together they freed Gano’s right hand and forced it forward.

  “Which finger, Jenks?”

  The batman held up his maimed hand.

  “Hadleigh, bring the table,” André commanded.

  Setting down the table in front of Gano with a thump, Hadleigh thought of Maddie and Jessie Vincouer. He held out his hand for the stiletto.

  It was many hours later that Hadleigh and André headed back to London. After they had been on the road for some time Hadleigh stirred. “Gano proved more useful alive,” he said as if an afterthought.

  “He confirmed Pascual’s information, but we shall have neither Porteur nor George,” André decried the loss. “Just a man known as Chercheur—the Seeker.”

  Hadleigh tried to stare into the future. “Seeking what?”

  * * *

  London Saturday Morning

  Goodchurch reread the note from his aunts. It said they needed two more days to do as he asked. Perhaps the information on von Willmar will come to nothing. Now I had best hunt for Merristorm. He tossed aside the note and took up hat and gloves. When he opened his door he was startled to find the captain about to knock.

  Lowering his hand, Merristorm flexed his jaw, dark with stubble. “I’m sorry for ... for deserting you last eve.”

  Shocked at the heretofore unknown condescension to an apology, Goodchurch gaped at him.

  Merristorm scowled. “Have you breakfasted?”

  Closing his mouth, the lieutenant shook his head.

  “The house where I am lodged has a decent spread.” Merristorm shrugged. “But you were about to go out.”

  “Lead the way,” Vicar declared. “A meeting has been called for this eve.”

  “What has happened?”

  “Gano has been captured.”

  While they were waiting for a hackney, Merristorm began, “About my father—”

  His features suddenly harsh, Goodchurch said, “Do not speak of him. Fathers are either great blessings or damnable curses.”

  * * *

  Margonaut House Late Saturday Night

  Danbury peered at Tarrant. “You were certain he can not be persuaded to reveal more?”

  Hadleigh grew grimmer. “He fears Chercheur more than us.”

  “There is nothing for it but to turn him over to Perceval,” Quentin told them.

  “We can use Gano to lure Chercheur to us,” said Hadleigh.

  “But how?” inquired several at once.

  Hadleigh glanced at André. “De la Croix has a French butler who has a propensity for searching through our effects.”

  “A spy?” blurted Goodchurch.

  The baron smiled. “He came to me via suspicious circumstances ... or so Tarrant insists.”

  Broyal cut in. “So what is your plan?”

  “To let bits of information fall about Gano fall in Gervais’s hearing,” Hadleigh answered. “If he swallows it, he shall fly to Chercheur like a Beotrupes stercorosus to dung. Dor beetle,” he explained.

  “Then we follow him,” Merristorm insisted.

  “The fellow is wired like a hair trigger. He would shy away at any hint,” André told them. “It will be best to let him pass the information and act later.”

  Hadleigh leaned forward. “He works for Chercheur who, I believe, is in camp with George and Porteur. It is an instinct, nothing more.”

  “What information will you let your butler overhear?” Danbury asked.

  “That Gano is to be brought to London for more diligent ... questioning,” Hadleigh explained. “What I cannot decide is where to bring him. The place must be accessible enough to tempt Chercheur and still capable of being controlled.”

  “The Horse Guards if we place no heavy guard about the coach.” Broyal smiled at their disbelief. “Westminster stairs are directly across from the Horse Guards.”

  “It could work,” Danbury agreed. “The river may entice him to attempt a rescue.”

  Hadleigh nodded. “We will have men on the street and the river.” He looked about the table. “Are we agreed?”

  “It had best be before the 25th, the King’s Jubilee,” Quentin added. “The city grows more crowded every day.”

  A general murmur of agreement arose.

  Hadleigh sent for pen and paper. He had Broyal sketch the area around the Horse Guards. “Monday?”

  At everyone’s nod, he continued, “Danbury, can you speak with Lord Carington? His mansion is directly across the Horse Guards.”

  * * *

  Later Saturday Night

  “Why stop here? The play is almost at end,” André asked when Hadleigh signalled their hackney to halt at the Lyceum.

  “I need to discover when Mrs. Edwin treads the boards,” Hadleigh explained. “Amabelle wishes to see—”

  “Now you court Miss Edgerton, eh?”

  Hadleigh glared. “It was—is a means of seeing Sarah. I must rid her of this silly woman’s notion she has.”

  “Of course. Why else would she refuse you?” André straightened the ruffle on his cuff. “Do you have a foolish mannish notion?”

  “She will not marry Hale. She just wanted to put me off.” He climbed out of the hackney and hurried inside. When he returned Hadleigh announced, “Wednesday eve. A new dramatic sketch to celebrate the King’s 50th year—Britain’s Jubilee.”

  “That bloody celebration. Tretain thinks there will be a dreadful crush at St. Paul’s,” André told him.

  “Are we promised to any of the celebrations?”

  “Tante Juliane expects us for supper. Cavilon and his family will be there. I will suggest an evening at the Lyceum. Then Leora can see the illuminations.”

  “Where are we bound now?” asked Hadleigh.

  “Back to Jermyn Street. We must converse there if Gervase is to eavesdrop.”

  “I thought we would do that tomorrow.”

  “It will be better done now. We do not know how long it will take for him to contact his master.” In the dim light of the carriage lamp he saw Hadleigh’s grimace. “What is it?”

  “I wanted to speak with Aunt Juliane this eve.”

  “That is easily done. They attend the Ponsonby affair.” André chuckled. “Leora sent a note to remind me to put in an appearance.” Hadleigh’s dour look turned him serious. “What is it?”

  “I keep trying to comprehend what happened,” Hadleigh agonized. “I cannot believe Sarah will wed Hale. Someone must have said something to her about the rumours. I would not put it past Elminda Edgerton.”

  “Hadleigh—”

  “If only you knew Sarah.”

  “I intend to do just that,” André told him. The coach turned onto Jermyn Street. “Now for our little charade.”

  An hour and a half later they re-
entered the carriage. Just beyond Jermyn Street Hadleigh and André stepped down and sent it on.

  By prior agreement, Hadleigh went to the alley that ran behind the stretch of flats while André crossed the street.

  De la Croix’s sharp whistle less than fifteen minutes later told Hadleigh that Gervase had left the flat. He found André waiting with a hackney and checked the time. “Aunt Juliane will have left the Ponsonby’s by now,” he grumbled.

  “Not if I know Leora.”

  De la Croix did not remind Hadleigh he was correct as he halted inside Ponsonby’s ballroom. Vexation creased his brow. “Is that Danbury dancing with Leora?”

  Hadleigh found the pair and looked further until he saw his aunt. “Better him than von Willmar,” he clipped and headed for the Countess of Tretain. After he extracted her from a group of friends, Hadleigh led her in a slow promenade around the outer edge of the ballroom.

  Lady Juliane fluttered her fan, smiled, and nodded at acquaintances as they strolled. “What is so desperate that you have sought me out? No, do not deny it. It has always been thus with both of you.”

  Heat rose above Hadleigh’s collar.

  The countess guided Hadleigh into a small salon. Taking a seat, she waited for him to order his thoughts. “Pacing always helps get the words out,” Lady Juliane offered. She was surprised when Hadleigh sank to one knee before her.

  He captured her hand. “Do you recall during this summer at Trees how you told me to value those I love?”

  “Of course, and you do so.”

  “I am not talking about family, or even friends.” A lump filled his throat.

  “Lady Edgerton?”

  Hadleigh nodded. “I asked her to marry me.” Before the countess could reply, he blurted. “She has refused.”

  His pain, the harsh sadness so like what he bore when he first came from Lewes pained Lady Juliane. He is so like my Adrian, she thought and anger welled at Sarah Edgerton. “Why?”

  Her reaction drew a slight smile. “She had several reasons.” He flexed his fingers about her hand. “Aunt Juliane, did you say something to Sarah?”