Code of Honor

by Andrea Pickens

  "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we should return home," he said softly. "Things appear hopeless with Anne's father, and Viscount Adderley is beginning to pay particular attention to her. I should just as soon not have to stand around helplessly and be spectator to that."

  Alex felt a stab of guilt. Here she was so caught up in her own affairs that she had neglected to see her brother's pain. She slipped her hand over his.

  "How selfish of me," she exclaimed. "I've thought of naught but my own petty problems. Come, tell me why you think things are truly so bleak. Surely you don't doubt Anne's feelings..."

  Hammerton noticed the two siblings buried among the plants, deep in conversation. He was reminded of the note he had intercepted from Branford, and how it revealed a growing intimacy between the earl and the Chiltons that didn't auger well for his plans. In fact, it had been a cause for concern over the past few days. His lips pursed in thought for a few moments, then curled into a bloodless smile. He strolled to where his cousin was laughing over a bawdy joke with a group of young bucks. Throwing his arm casually over Standish's shoulder, he disengaged him from the other gentlemen and steered him towards the back of the ballroom.

  "You wish to have Branford removed as an ally of the Chiltons?" whispered Hammerton. "I have an idea. The two of them are alone over there behind the potted palms. Follow my lead and in five minutes they will be more than happy to stick a knife in those elegant ribs."

  He brought them to a halt behind the settee where they were hidden from view by another arrangement of trees but close enough that any conversation would be audible to those seated on the other side.

  "Nasty business," said Hammerton in a voice dripping with concern. "I find young Chilton a very pleasant fellow, and his sister is charming as well. Someone should warn them of the danger."

  Justin made as if to speak, but Alex gestured for him to remain silent.

  Standish, for once, followed his cue perfectly. "Surely you exaggerate?"

  Hammerton heaved a sigh. "I wish that it were so. To be honest, I would not have thought even such an unprincipled rake as Branford would stoop so low."

  "Just what do you mean?"

  "Making sport with an innocent."

  "No!" Standish feigned shock. "No gentleman... "

  "I would not have believed it either if I hadn't witnessed it myself." He lowered his voice just a little. "It's right there in the betting book at the club. Imagine, he actually wagered five hundred pounds that he could — well, to put it bluntly — mount the poor girl."

  Alex went cold inside.

  "The blackguard!" exclaimed Standish.

  "Quite. Deucedly awkward though, to broach such a delicate subject to the young man. Don't quite know the fellow well enough."

  "Yes, I see your point."

  "Well, I shall try to think of some way to alert him. It would be ungentlemanly to let such behavior go unchecked. I should never forgive myself if the young lady came to any harm." With that, Hammerton motioned for them to move off, a look of malevolent satisfaction spreading over his face.

  Alex's nails dug nearly deep enough into her palms to draw blood. There was a dull roaring in her ears and she found herself wondering if, for the first time in her life, she was going to succumb to the utterly ridiculous feminine weakness of fainting on the spot. But she had never been one to wilt in the face of adversity, she reminded herself grimly. Her shock quickly turned to a seething anger. She gritted her teeth and imagined slicing up a certain portion of the earl's magnificent anatomy — inch by inch.

  "Alex..." Justin's face was white with concern as he searched for words.

  "You needn't worry that I'm about to fall into a fit of girlish hysterics." Her voice was under rigid control. "At my advanced age, I have few of the illusions of a young miss and am not so naive as to the ways of the world. If Lord Branford, for whatever reason, wants to play... "

  "We don't even know if it is true," pointed out Justin in a near whisper..

  Alex compressed her lips as she brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. "I thought it was you who expected the worst from him."

  Justin colored. "It's just that now I... I just don't believe he would do such a thing," he said in a near whisper. "Do you?"

  Alex didn't answer his question ."You know very well I sought out the earl for my own reasons. I am fully aware of his reputation. If he chooses to amuse himself with his own little games, that is his concern, not mine."

  She forced a smile as Justin's eyes bore into her. "Here is Anne looking for you. I expect you are promised for the next set."

  "But Alex..."

  "Put the whole thing from your mind. That is what I intend to do. Anyway, it isn't as if I have been silly enough to form a tendre for the man — or have imagined he has any such feelings for me." She shrugged. "I think I shall see if Aunt Aurelia is ready to leave, I find the evening has become exceeding dull."

  Branford gave a snort of frustration as he folded the sheets of paper and put them back into his pocket. The elder Chilton had been a damned obtuse individual, which made his code that much more difficult to break. And what the deuce were those little symbols that looked like hatchets, or some such thing, interspersed among the random letters? A professional soldier's logic was child's play compared to that of an introverted scientist.

  To add to the mystery, the servant hovering on his deathbed had had the termidity to expire before Branford arrived in East Anglia, leaving him with only fragments of a jumbled story — and an odd one at that. From the account Sykes had given him, the man's mind was already wandering. What was truth and what was mere figments of a dying man's imagination was difficult to discern.

  All in all, it had been a waste of nearly a week. He shifted impatiently against the squabs as the carriage rolled past the outskirts of London. Well, not quite a waste., he corrected himself as another sheet of paper crackled in his breast pocket. He had been close enough to Riverton to stop and attend to one other important matter. The local bishop had been more than happy to comply with his request for a special license, handing it over with unctuous wishes for the quick arrival of an heir.

  The journey had provided him with many long hours of contemplation. Mental arguments had raged back and forth. In the end, all the careful reasonings and rigid logic were no more than meaningless words. The essence of it all was that his life would be sadly flat — and yes, lonely — without her.

  He was tired of living in a carefully constructed shell. The thought of watching her eat toast and jam at breakfast, of seeing her paint-smudged face furrow in concentration as she worked, of sharing laughter and arguments brought a poignant smile to his lips. And the thought of her in his bed every night, looking at him with the sweet hunger he had seen the other night made the heat rise in him. He felt the front of his breeches tighten and realized that in regard to Miss Alexandra Chilton, he had totally lost his vaunted ability to control his emotions.

  And yet he was more than willing to lower his defenses to her. She had trusted him from the beginning. Trusted that he was more than the monster painted by the gossips, trusted that he would not hurt her. She had trusted, in fact, her whole self to him. That meant everything to him.

  The carriage hit a rut in the road, causing the small band box on the seat beside him to jostle his elbow. Another smile lit his face as he contemplated which of his offerings would please Alex more — the marriage license or the rare specimen of (Latin) that he had had the gardener at Riverton dig up for her. He was well aware that she had no high regard for his species in general, but she had also shown that she was not altogether adverse to some of its charms. He felt confident he could convince her that they might grow together quite nicely, that his was not a nature that would send out grasping tendrils to strangle or choke down the nearest living thing.

  He glanced out the carriage window, impatient to arrive at Lady Beckworth's townhouse yet oddly nervous as well. How did she seem to reduce him to feeling like an awkward mooncalf rather
than the "Icy Earl" that Society regarded with a mixture of awe and fear? He certainly didn't feel either icy or in control at the thought of her. But then again, Alex Chilton had kept him off balance from the first time he had met her.

  Would to heaven it would stay that way.

  The elderly butler took Branford's coat and cane with his customary grimace at having to shuffle from a comfortable chair to open the door.

  "Miss Alex is working in the library, my lord," he intoned, hunching his shoulders at the thought of having to walk down the hallway.

  Branford suppressed a slight smile. "If you don't mind, Givens, I shall announce myself."

  With his precious box under his arm, he approached the room with a mounting sense of anticipation.

  She was indeed at work. Her features were totally focused as she bent close to the textured paper on the easel to lay in a delicate wash of color. Branford paused to regard her through the half opened door — she was so intent on her painting that she hadn't heard his steps. There was a smudge of indeterminate color on her left cheekbone and the tip of her tongue was just visible through lips parted in concentration. The sight of it sent a flash of heat through his body as he thought of the last time they been together and how it had felt on his bare skin. He realized with a jolt that was almost physical how much he had missed her.

  And yet, he was reluctant to intrude, his attention captivated by the nuances of her expression, the deft movement of her graceful hands, the delicacy of her touch. Unaware of being observed, she worked with an inner confidence while he, strangely, felt a certain shyness rooting him in place.

  Chiding himself for acting like a mooncalf, he waited until her brush lifted from the paper, then stepped quietly into the room.

  "I hope this means my hibiscus is finished."

  Alex whirled around at the sound of his voice.

  Her face was pinched and there were faint smudges under the eyes, as if her nights had been fitful. Rather than the undisguised warmth that he had become accustomed to in her glance, there was a veiled grayness to her expression. He walked to the table and put the box down.

  "What is wrong, Alex?"

  He caught a flicker of some emotion at the sound of her given name before she turned away to slowly and deliberately rinse her brush, then wipe it on a clean rag.

  "Only that I do not like to be interrupted when I am at work." Her voice was cool, almost harsh. "I believe I have mentioned that before."

  He frowned at the sight of her rigid shoulders. "Alex, look at me."

  She turned slowly. Her face was composed, only the set of the jaw betraying the underlying tension.

  "Don't play me for a fool. It is obvious..."

  "Play you for a fool," she echoed. "No, sir, rather it is I who do not care for the game any longer."

  Branford took a step closer to her. "What in the name of Heaven are you talking about?" His expression was one of puzzled consternation. He reached out his hand to touch her cheek but she shied away.

  Her gaze locked with his and her mouth set in a hard line. "Very well, " she said. "Since you seem reluctant to lay things in the open, I shall do it for you. We are both adults after all, so there is little need for prevarication." Her face was a stony mask. "Is it true that you entered a wager in the betting book at your club for five hundred pounds that you could..." She took a breath of air to steady her voice, then went on "... that you could — I believe the term was mount — me?"

  Branford's face drained of all color. He was utterly still save for a slight twitch in the muscle of his locked jaw.

  "Alex..." he began.

  She cut him off sharply. "It is not a difficult question, Lord Branford. Is it true or isn't it? Yes or no."

  "Yes." His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Alex bent her head and began to fiddle with her brushes to hide her trembling hands. She chose one whose sable hair tapered to a perfect point, tested its feel, then returned it to the earthenware jar.

  "I must fetch my other brushes — I wish to get back to work, if you please. No doubt you are able to find your own way out, just as you found it in."

  She made as if to go by him, but this time his hand came to rest on her arm.

  "Alex, I never.... " He hesitated, seeming to struggle for words.

  Her mouth set in a tight smile. "Oh come now, you needn't feel you must invent some apology. It isn't necessary. As I said before, we are both adults." She brushed a ringlet of hair from her cheek, adding another tone to the smudge already there. "Anyway, as I intend never to marry, I was curious about the physical act — and why not experience it with someone who is said to be so very skilled at it? After all, you've had such a great deal of practice, haven't you." Her eyes had become overly bright, brimming with a hurt her words tried to belie. "Now sir, if you will excuse me." She wrenched her arm free and fled the room, leaving Branford in stunned silence.

  He stood motionless, struggling to master his feeling of utter shock. He felt as if he had been pushed from a cliff and was falling, falling into a vast black void.

  "Have you a shred of decency left, or do you also intend to break your promise to meet my challenge?"

  Branford's eyes closed for a moment, then he turned slowly to meet Justin's burning glare. The young man's face was taut with anger, made fiercer by disillusionment. His hands clenched at his sides were white at the knuckles. As he stood blocking the doorway, he struggled manfully to keep his shoulders from sagging with disappointment.

  "What a bloody sapskull I was to believe you actually...." He grimaced in self-disgust. "Well? Will you show any honor?"

  Branford rubbed his eyes wearily. When his hand fell away, the young man was surprised to see a spasm of naked pain evident on the earl's face before his expression became entirely blank.

  "Send your second to Ashton. He will arrange things," said Branford in a low, resigned tone. "And for God's sake, man," he added. "Choose someone with discretion and a rein on his tongue, else your sister will be fodder for the gossips!"

  A short while later, Alex returned to the library, closed the door firmly and locked it with a twist of the heavy brass key. She undid the strings to a canvas roll and added an assortment of different sized brushes to those already standing in the crock by her easel. Mechanically her fingers reached for a square tipped one, dipped it in a glass of clean water and began mixing a new tint on her palette. It was then that she noticed the small box still sitting on the edge of the oak table. She stared at it for a lengthy time, then put her brush down and slowly walked over to it. After wiping her hands on the sides of her old gown, she lifted the top and stared down at the intricate veined leaves of a small plant, its roots carefully balled in a piece of damp burlap. Her breath caught in her throat with a tiny sound. Sinking into the nearest chair, she buried her head between her arms and let the tears come at last.

  "Are you utterly mad!"

  Henry Ashton laid aside the papers he had been studying and peeled off his reading spectacles, as if hoping a clearer view of his friend's face would reveal the words he had just heard were nothing more than a bad jest.

  "If you do not wish to stand for me I shall go elsewhere, Henry. Do not feel in the least obliged."

  "Damnation, you know very well I'd roast in hell rather than betray our friendship in such a manner," he muttered. "Trouble is, Cecelia will no doubt roast both of us if she gets wind of this."

  Branford gave a tight smile. "Then let us make certain she does not."

  Ashton nodded glumly. "Perhaps I can resolve this unfortunate matter with whomever young Chilton sends to me."

  The earl's expression became grim. "I think that well-nigh impossible now, Henry." He let out his breath in a heavy sigh. "The pup hasn't a decent gun to his name. Offer the use of this set to his second, if you will." He placed a polished rosewood case on the desk.

  Ashton gave a snort of disgust as he opened the lid. "From Mantons, naturally." His eyes narrowed. "Those aren't your regular pair.
And those aren't your initials engraved on the butts."

  "No. they were meant for him in any case. Al — Miss Chilton had mentioned his birthday was approaching." His mouth twisted into an unwilling smile. "A gentleman should have a decent gun with which to entrust his honor."

  "So you are providing him a deadly accurate weapon.," he observed with a touch of asperity. "Do you plan to forgo your own ball and powder as well, to make the match more even? I know you, damn it!" His voice began to rise. "I know you damn well won't put a bullet in the pup. What in the devil's name is this all about? Because I also you know would never... "

  "Henry," said Branford softly. "Kindly keep your voice down."

  Ashton's mouth snapped shut.

  "and as to my reasons, I will not discuss them. As I said, the choice is entirely yours."