Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  “Do not be absurd,” the countess snapped. “Even if I were against the match, I would never say a word.”

  “But you would to me?”

  Lady Juliane sighed. “Sarah is much older than you.”

  Her use of Sarah’s name relieved him. “You think a simpering flighty miss would please me more?”

  Instead of answering she asked, “What were her reasons?”

  Hadleigh stood. “She said she cannot bear children.”

  “That is a serious consideration.”

  “It is unfortunate but not a tragedy. I love Sarah and that fact does not lessen my love,” Hadleigh told her. “It does not pain me to think that no child of mine shall inherit Tarrant Hall. After all, there is Anne Marie or Louis. Even André.”

  “But it is not the same.” She shook her head. “Have you truly thought about this?”

  He waved away her protest. “This past spring taught me that there is far too little time for happiness. I love Sarah. Help me convince her it is not wrong for her to love me.”

  “What was the other reason?”

  Hadleigh scowled. “She says she is to marry a physician held by the French. The man I told you about this summer. But she loves me,” he said fiercely. “Hale is just an excuse. She has heard the gossip—her age, her looks, her barrenness.” He grasped his aunt’s hands. “Please help me.”

  Lady Juliane took in his hope-filled eyes. A band tightened about her heart. “After the Jubilee,” she began and was fiercely embraced.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  No. 6 Charlotte Street October 22nd Sunday

  Darton came to the family salon just after nuncheon, salver in hand. “This just arrived, Miss Amabelle.”

  Thanking him the young woman broke the seal and read.

  Elminda peered at her. “Who is that from?”

  “Mr. Tarrant. He purchased tickets for Wednesday night’s performance.” Amabelle beamed. “If the evening is not too cold he shall procure an open landau so that we can view Jubilee illuminations. Is it not wonderful, Stepmama?”

  Forcing a smile, Sarah nodded. “Wednesday,” she repeated. There was ample time to develop an ague.

  “Six may squeeze into a landau, but not seven,” Elminda grumped. Her frown turned into a calculating smile. “But it would do for five.” She nodded with satisfaction. “Mr. von Willmar shall have to drive me.”

  A groan almost escaped Sarah. She could not leave Amabelle without a chaperon among three gentlemen.

  Darton returned. “My lady, Mr. Leonard wishes to speak with you in private in the White Salon.”

  “Very well,” Sarah said and prayed all was well.

  Michael, rumpled and taut, sat in the gold and white striped armchair twining his fingers. He jack-knifed out of the chair at Sarah’s entry, then tried to exert a measure of charm. “You look tired, my dear.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss and led her to an armchair. “Would you care for some Madeira?”

  Sarah’s glimpse of her brother before he stood had raised the hair on her nape. “I shall take a small glass if you wish to partake of the brandy.”

  Michael brought a glass for each of them and sat.

  Observing the dark circles under his eyes and his quivering hand, Sarah grew uneasy. “Mr. Tarrant has tickets for Wednesday.”

  Poised on the chair’s edge, Leonard asked, “What is that to me?”

  “You were invited to attend the theatre with us—to see Mrs. Edwin.” Sarah sipped her Madeira.

  Michael grimaced. “Oh, that.”

  “You do not wish to attend?”

  Accommodation forgotten, he snapped, “Of course I shall go. Not often I get to hobnob with the haut ton.” Michael stood, walked to the balcony doors, and stared morosely at the garden.

  Sarah searched for a harmless topic. “I hope the weather will continue as it has for the illuminations.”

  “That bloody celebration.” His chortle held a hint of hysteria. “I did not come to talk about illuminations.” Michael strode forward and loomed over her.

  Craning her neck, Sarah read menace behind his smirk. “What did you wish to discuss?”

  Leonard quaffed his drink, then tossed the glass onto the vacant armchair. He leaned forward, braced his hands on the chair on either side of Sarah. “You shall loan me money,” he gritted. “I must have £30,000 by tomorrow.”

  Disbelief widened Sarah’s eyes. She stared at the sweat beaded on his brow.

  Michael pressed his face close. “I will not be refused.”

  “I cannot—do not have that much—”

  “Liar!” Leonard slapped her hard.

  A hand to her stinging cheek, Sarah sought to reason with him. “My funds are invested or are in the form of properties. Only a small amount is available in ready cash.”

  “How much can you raise?” When Sarah did not respond immediately, Leonard raised his hand to strike her again.

  “What is it, Michael? What have you done?” Sarah begged.

  Leonard backed away. “No-no-nothing!”

  “But so large a sum? Could I not meet with this person? Make some arrangement?” Sarah asked as she stood.

  Michael drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “Amabelle’s funds?”

  “Held in a trust until she marries.”

  “How much can you raise?” he asked.

  “By tomorrow? A thousand, mayhaps two.”

  After a sharp knock, the door opened. Cauley, sent by Amabelle, loomed in the doorway. “You called, m’lady?”

  Michael shook with rage. “Get out!”

  Cauley flexed muscular shoulders. “Do you wish me to go, m’lady?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  Abject defeat deflated Leonard.

  Her brother’s wretchedness wrung Sarah’s heart. “I shall see how much I can raise.”

  “A paltry sum will do me no good,” he accused and stalked toward the door. With a final glare at Cauley, Leonard strode out of the room and clambered down the stairs.

  Hurrying after him, Sarah arrived at the top of the landing just as her brother tugged open the front door. She saw him check upon seeing von Willmar. In the few seconds before the Prussian lowered his gaze, Sarah read contempt, anger. She turned to Cauley. “Show Mr. von Willmar to the White Salon and then get Miss Elminda.”

  Later that morning Sarah found Cauley polishing silver in the butler’s pantry. “You really need not do that.”

  “‘Tis too boring if I do nothing.”

  “Thank you for this morn. Please stay close whenever my brother calls.” She accepted his nod with an embarrassed smile. “Has there been any sign of George?”

  Cauley shook his head.

  “The Broyals?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Mr. Tarrant?”

  “I’ve not seen him since he called Friday.” Cauley watched a dull red spread across her worried features. “He’s safe, m’lady,” he reassured her.

  Sarah fingered the ribbon on the front of her gown. “It would be best if you returned to his employ. He does not take proper care of himself.”

  “He’d have my beard if I were to endanger you by leaving. Ye needn’t fret over Mr. Tarrant.”

  “I would be grateful were you not to mention I asked.”

  “As you wish, m’lady.”

  * * *

  The Lion’s Pub, London Sunday Evening

  The pub situated close to Somers Town had an interior as rugged and dirty as its customers. At the rearmost table, separated from the others by a partition, Leonard shoved a folded page across the table to von Willmar.

  A nasty chuckle chided him. “You were foolish this afternoon,” he said, a warning clear in his voice.

  Swallowing with difficulty, Michael gave a quick nod. He gulped down more of the pub’s sour ale.

  Donatien’s eyes hardened. He flipped the paper back to Leonard. “I will give you until Wednesday night to procure what I wish,” he hissed. “You will hand it over to me during inte
rmission at the Lyceum. The Royals’ box shall be conveniently empty.” He saw refusal flicker in Michael’s eyes.

  “If you do not do this, the men of the Blue Devil will visit you one final time.” The errant thought came that the young man’s reaction would have pleased the Duc d’Veryl. What an excellent job he did in teaching me cruelty.

  “It shall be an exquisite evening. We shall watch Britain’s Jubilee aware you help bring her to her knees.”

  Leonard tried to voice a refusal but it came out as a gurgle. He lurched up but halted when his chair knocked against the wall behind him. Swearing, Michael stumbled away.

  Donatien removed an ornate silver flask from his jacket and poured a small amount of yellow liquid into his empty glass. Savouring the juniper-flavoured Chartreuse liqueur, he considered his pawn.

  Far too skittish to be of use much longer, he concluded. How fortunate I also have Inglis and Gough in my pocket.

  At a flick of von Willmar’s hand Gervase slunk warily into the chair. He flicked his tongue across dry lips. “I tried to find you last eve.” He whimpered when fingers snapped.

  “You were told when to contact me.”

  “But this,” the valet raised his hands, “is very important. I knew you would be angry if I did not tell you. Gano has been captured.” Gervase gasped when a hand slithered up his coat sleeve and fingernails sank into his wrist. “I swear it. I overheard Monsieur le Baron and his cousin.”

  “Continue.”

  “Gano is to be brought to the Horse Guards tomorrow,” whispered the man. He blanched as the nails sank deeper.

  “Why then?”

  “The city grows too busy with the king’s annivarsaire.” Gervase bit through his bottom lip.

  “S’il vous plaît, mon— S’il vous plaît. Please,” he begged in English. “The baron and his cousin argued. It was decided to go to the front as that would be unexpected.”

  Donatien withdrew his hand. He wiped blood from his fingernails. “Was there anything else?”

  Gervase cradled his arm as he shook his head. At the other’s nod, he skittered away.

  “Gano,” Donatien murmured. Rescue would not be impossible. Should one reward disobedience and carelessness? A new consideration dawned.

  Has de la Croix discovered Gervase? Would they think Gano enough to lure me into a trap?

  A wicked chuckle formed at the thought of a plot to snare him. Donatien sipped his Chartreuse liqueur. They are too stupidly soft-hearted. Too bad their brains do not keep pace with their pride. “Pride,” he murmured and knew what he would do.

  * * *

  Horse Guards October 23rd Monday

  To the casual observer, Whitehall Street appeared normal. Carriages, dray carts, and riders filled it. Street sweepers plied brooms, peddlers hawked wares, and a steady stream of men came and went from the various buildings.

  Hadleigh was relieved when Quentin sauntered out of the Horse Guards. Moments later he saw the signal that the coach approached and passed it on. Glancing up the street, he saw André buy an apple from a young girl.

  The coach halted between the Chapel and Carington’s mansion. A trooper stepped down and looked both ways. He turned back to the coach and pulled Gano into the doorway.

  Hunched over, Gano swore volubly in French.

  There was a brief scuffle. Gano fell forward and knocked the soldier off balance.

  On the roof of Lord Carington’s mansion, Donatien drew a length of hollow reed from inside his jacket.

  Another soldier tumbled from the coach and hauled Gano off the first. They wrestled him across the street.

  Hadleigh’s heart hammered as he watched everything but their progress. Where? Where is this Chercheur? He glanced at the trio, now half way across the street. They paused as a high perch phaeton passed. Why does nothing happen? Hadleigh saw André approach them and wished he had such steel nerves.

  When he looked back to Gano, Hadleigh saw him stiffen and stumble. He heard Quentin’s shout and saw André dash to the fallen prisoner. By the time Tarrant crossed the busy street, André leaned over Gano, his ear close to the man’s mouth. The baron straightened, the prisoner’s eyes stared wide and vacant.

  André scanned the street and the surrounding buildings. “Murdered before our very eyes.”

  Hadleigh stepped back as Broyal directed the men to carry the body into the Horse Guards. “But how?”

  The Viscount put a hand on Hadleigh’s elbow. “Check with the men on the river. See if they saw anything.

  “Tonight at Whites. Ten o’clock.”

  André went with Hadleigh across the street towards the stairs down to the Thames. “He is thumbing his nose at us. I feel it in my bones.”

  Hadleigh shook off a tremor. “Who is this Chercheur? Could he be Porteur?”

  Disbelief filled André’s features. “That is too fantastic,” he scorned the idea. “As soon say he is George.”

  * * *

  Whites Monday Night

  “A dart no longer than a finger tip with a deadly poison on it?” repeated Goodchurch.

  Quentin nodded.

  “But what poison?”

  Merristorm interrupted. “What are we going to do now?”

  Danbury raised a hand. “Let us conclude our reports on the men on the list. Mine are innocent as lambs.”

  Merristorm was last. “Leonard has spent most of the past five years in dun territory. Lately he frequents less respectable hells. He won large and then lost greater sums.”

  Goodchurch cleared his throat. “I was told by—on good repute, that is, that another man on the list gambles with him—Warren Gough.”

  Seeing his hesitation Hadleigh prompted, “And?”

  “He was seen encouraged by von Willmar.”

  “What is there in that?” snorted Merristorm. “He has already been discounted.”

  Mirroring their thought, Hadleigh asked, “Why would a Prussian befriend lowly clerks in the War Office? Can we learn more about him?” His gaze settled on a squirming Goodchurch.

  “Well, as to that,” the lieutenant said, “I have a means of—of getting information. But my, hmmmm, sources, will know nothing until Wednesday,” he finished lamely.

  Merristorm gave a derisive snort and a blush scorched the lieutenant’s face.

  “Let us know if anything comes of it,” Hadleigh told him.

  “Let’s have Leonard and von Willmar followed,” André suggested. “I shall ask Tretain to talk to Perceval about the matter.”

  “That is all you mean to do?” Merristorm objected. “We had just as well return to Spain. I, for one, am eager to get back to an enemy I can meet in battle.”

  Danbury frowned. “You will have your wish soon enough. We have orders to take our leave from London in a little over two weeks.”

  The meeting broke up soon after this announcement. As the others left, Hadleigh retained André.

  “Gano?”

  “He said bastard and then Duc de Veryl before he died. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing beyond the obvious.”

  “It must mean something more,” André insisted.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  No. 6 Charlotte Street Oct. 25 Wed. Evening

  Elminda tapped von Willmar’s sleeve with her fan. “You are in excellent spirits this eve, sir.”

  “Naturlich, on such a night,” Donatien smiled. “With such agreeable company.”

  Conversation halted as Darton presented a note to Sarah.

  “Michael shall meet us at the theatre,” she announced.

  Amabelle rose. “Now if only Mr. Tarrant would come so that we could go.”

  “Mrs. Edwin must be a wonder,” Mr. Crandall commented.

  Amabelle’s eyes sparkled. “She is but a minor part of this eve. I am excited because Leora told me London will be bright as day from all the candles, lamps, and lanterns.”

  Hadleigh limped through the open salon door. He bowed to Sarah who refused to meet his gaze. “I d
id not consider the delay the crowds would cause,” he apologised. “It would be best to leave at once.”

  “I agree,” Elminda seconded. “Mr. von Willmar and I shall meet you there.” She imperiously bid the Prussian to follow.

  Amabelle went to the door. “Stepmama, shall I bring your wrap?”

  Resigned, Sarah nodded. “We shall join you below,” she told the gentlemen.

  As he and Hadleigh walked down the stairs, the doctor frowned. “Did you see the look von Willmar cast at Miss Elminda?”

  His thoughts on Sarah, Hadleigh did not answer.

  Crandall noted his distraction. “Your foot?”

  Hadleigh grimaced. “I startled de la Croix’s man. He dropped the coal shuttle he had in hand on my foot.”

  “Good lord,” Crandall snorted. “Is he usually so nervous?”

  The swish of silk announced the ladies. Amabelle came first, an ermine trimmed cape on her shoulders.

  “How beautiful you are, Miss Edgerton,” Hadleigh said.

  “Do not fill her head with compliments,” the doctor told him. At the young lady’s frown, he stepped forward and offered his arm. “I shall be the one to do that this eve.”

  Watching Sarah’s reluctant descent, Hadleigh schooled his features. When she refused his arm, he allowed Crandall to hand her into the landau.

  Amabelle’s vocal admiration of the candles and lamps that glittered from the private homes and businesses they passed went unheard by Sarah and Hadleigh.

  After a long silence Sarah began, “How are—”

  “I think—” Hadleigh said at the same time.

  Sarah insisted he continue first.

  “We cannot go the way we planned. I told the driver to pick the fastest way to the Lyceum. Drury Lane would be impossible this eve.” Hadleigh touched the Bishop’s wort sprig on his lapel.

  Sarah had been upset ever since she saw that Hadleigh limped. No longer able to contain her worry she asked, “What happened to your foot?”

  Her concern lightened Hadleigh’s heart but he restrained his smile. “A minor accident. It is only bruised.”