Honour's Redemption Read online

  HONOUR’S REDEMPTION

  The Honour Series – Book Four

  Joan Vincent

  Prologue

  How Caple, Herefordshire 1802

  Lucian Merristorm, Earl Gilchrist, inwardly flinched as he watched his fiancée playfully flick his father’s arm with her fan. The tempting smile on her lips tightened the knot in his stomach. With difficulty Lucian tamped down his mounting unease at his fiancée’s reaction to his handsome widowed father. He eyed the man’s impeccable cravat, the marquess’ own Grand Tournoi, and wished he had taken more care with his own.

  The easy repartee between his fiancée and his father should have soothed the apprehension that had intensified during the day. Perhaps Jasmine, that is Miss Randolph, Lucian amended, is correct. Perchance she can beguile Father to agree to our immediate marriage. This thought eased his mind. He studied the dainty young woman who so surprisingly had agreed to be his wife. Lucian sighed at her beauty and at his luck.

  At the age of nine and ten he had had no choice in the matter of marriage but to approach his father. Youthful optimism and a mind besotted by the lady had convinced him to take his present course.

  Friends at university acquainted with his father, Hellfire Stranton Merristorm, Marquess Halstrom, had tried to reason Lucian out of so bold a move. He had thought them great fools until he had introduced his fiancée to his father earlier in the day. Jasmine had been triumphant, certain of success, but Lucian had seen an ominous glint in his father’s eyes.

  “I am certain my son will excuse you, my dear,” Halstrom told Jasmine with a provocative wink. His smile widened when Miss Randolph flashed an answering glance at him from beneath her lashes.

  “We have much to discuss,” the marquess added. He stood, strolled around the table, and offered the young woman his hand.

  Lucian, who had jumped to his feet, watched Jasmine place her hand in his father’s with easy familiarity. A tremor ran through him when she leaned into his father and whispered in his ear. Nausea rose in his throat when the marquess murmured a reply and then pressed an intimate kiss on her gloved hand. Never before had Lucian so envied his father’s élan.

  “Then I shall leave you to your port,” Jasmine simpered. A tad belatedly she looked at Lucian and nodded. After a slight curtsy to the older man, she floated out of the dining room confident that both men’s admiration followed her.

  Lucian hungrily watched her go, unaware how closely his father scrutinized him.

  The marquess resumed his seat and motioned for the butler to fill his glass. He smiled when Lucian, abstentious as usual, waved away the brandy.

  Halstrom and Lucian, his only child, both possessed the Merristorm stamp: heavy black eyebrows above darkest cocoa brown eyes, long lean aesthetic faces with firm lips, strong jaws, and stubborn chins. Age and licentious living had lent Halstrom a sardonic but distinguished air. His form, though more mature than his son’s youthful lean figure, remained athletic and much admired by the ladies. Possessing handsome features and handsome fortunes, father and son were highly regarded as matrimonial prizes.

  “Father,” began Lucian nervously as he watched his parent sip the finest brandy France had to offer.

  “Miss Randolph tells me she has no family other than a stepbrother,” Halstrom noted conversationally.

  “Brandon Randolph jaunted off to Paris as soon as the Treaty of Amiens was signed in March,” Lucian said half angrily. “Expects Jas–Miss Randolph to endure Mrs. Bates’ dreary finishing school until he returns.”

  “Which will be?”

  “We don’t know,” Lucian snorted. He leaned forward with eager recklessness. “Which is why we must wed at once. It is the only way I can offer her my protection.”

  “Hardly,” Halstrom teased his too earnest son.

  Lucian wondered if he could have heard aright. The flicker of amusement in his father’s eyes provided proof sufficient. He leapt to his feet. “Dare you insinuate Miss Randolph is Covent Garden ware?”

  “You know of such?” A brow arched. “There is hope.”

  Lucian bristled then fisted his hands behind his back. He did not dare risk falling into their usual quarrel. “Will you give permission for me to wed Miss Randolph?”

  Halstrom languidly trailed a finger around the rim of his glass. “When did you meet the lady in question?”

  Panic rose in Lucian’s throat. The heavy scent of the burning beeswax candles threatened to choke him. He raised his chin and threw back his shoulders. “We were introduced during my stay at Blamey’s.”

  “That’s a devilish long-time acquaintance,” mused the marquess. “What? Five weeks?”

  “I knew you would take that tack.”

  “How old is Miss Randolph?” Halstrom asked.

  Warmth flared across Lucian’s cheeks. “She is twenty-one.”

  “Ah, an older woman. She does not require anyone’s permission to wed.” Halstrom grimaced wearily. “Do not stand there glaring at me. Sit down.” While Lucian did so, the marquess sipped his brandy. He set it aside and bent a sardonic gaze on his son.

  “You desire to wed a young woman of doubtful pedigree whom you have known a very little time?” he queried softly.

  “Yes, my lord,” Lucian gritted through his teeth.

  “You do this despite the warnings of your friends?” the marquess asked knowing that honesty was a failing of his son.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I should grant permission because?”

  “If you mean to refuse, do so,” Lucian demanded.

  The marquess pursed his lips. “Miss Randolph does not appear to appreciate your desire to pursue your Greek studies,” Halstrom said quietly, his lids half lowered.

  “She is–young–does not yet understand–”

  “What kind of life helpmate…”

  “Jasmine loves me,” Lucian blurted. “She would never oppose my plans to continue to work with Dr. Robinson.”

  “A new translation of the Greek poet Hesiod, isn’t it?” murmured Halstrom.

  Lucian stared in disbelief. How had the marquess known?

  “The last edition was published ages ago,” his father continued. “Was it 1727?”

  “1728, but that is no matter,” Lucian said tersely.

  Halstrom gazed at his family’s coat of arms on the far wall. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Father–I love her,” Lucian said desperately. He met the daunting gaze with steadfast resolution.

  “Then do as Miss Randolph suggested during supper.”

  “Why should I leave her alone with you?”

  “Do you not trust Miss Randolph?”

  “I do. Absolutely.” Lucian watched age descend with a heavy hand on the features so like his own. In an instant the effect was gone.

  Halstrom quaffed his brandy and stood. “If Miss Randolph loves you, I shall not withhold my permission.”

  “Then you grant it?” Lucian asked in disbelief.

  “There remains that one small task of proving her love. Leave us in the morn for but an hour and you shall have your answer.”

  * * *

  Dew sparkled across the lush green plain kissed by a lazy late morning breeze. Lucian bent low across the black stallion’s neck as it thundered across the meadow. Certain of success, he could not constrain a triumphant grin.

  Even the chilling grey square towers of Halstrom Keep did not diminish his euphoria when it lurched into view.

  Lucian reined the black to a rearing halt atop the rise. Elation eased features oft rendered stern by a serious mien and studious bent. He snatched his beaver hat from atop locks as black as his steed and enthusiastically waved it. “Huzzah!”

  “Huzzah,” Lucian shouted aga
in before thumping the low-crowned beaver back atop his head. His heart was near to bursting. Not only had Professor Robinson told him he had the makings of a great Greek scholar but that he would become Lucian’s mentor. Now Miss Jasmine Randolph was to be his.

  “Easy,” Lucian soothed as he expertly reined the high-spirited stallion into a series of slow figure eights. He had taken out the black, certain his father would see him leave Halstrom Keep and recognize his choice of mount a sign of their present unusual amity.

  Lucian had refused the stallion four years earlier after discovering the meaning of its unusual name in a twelfth century Latin text. In it Hrycus was a he-goat with an insatiable sexual appetite. He detested his father’s nickname–Hellfire–and the Hrycus Club Halstrom had founded.

  Reining the stallion to a halt, Lucian took out his timepiece and flipped it open. Only ten minutes more. A twinge of unease rippled across suddenly taut nerves.

  If only I needn’t ask permission, he fretted, then shook off his anxiety. Father said ‘tis a simple test. Miss Randolph loves me. She cannot fail it.

  But that calculating gleam in Hellfire’s eyes? an inner beast taunted.

  Lucian ruthlessly pushed down a spurt of fear. Halstrom may be licentious but he would never overstep the bounds of propriety with Jasmine, he savoured the luxury of her given name.

  “Jasmine,” Lucian murmured and conjured the petite but curvaceous form of Miss Randolph. Her heart-shaped face of delicate alabaster framed by ringlets of palest gold, and hazel eyes had bewitched from the first. It was near incomprehensible that she had chosen him.

  Over Butram, Lucian marvelled. Butram–handsomer, wealthier, older, and titled in his own right.

  Not even his fiancée’s displeasure with the demands of his work with Doctor Robinson dimmed his joy. The only thing that mattered was that the blond beauty would be his bride.

  A surge of desire roared through Lucian’s veins. His groin tightened despite his usual rigid control over such appetites.

  Father gave his word. He can no longer withhold his permission. We can be wed by special license in less than a week, he marvelled.

  Lucian could scarce credit it. He had won so few contests with his father. Thank God, I shall have the right to protect her, he silently mused. Never to his dissolute father would he admit that Jasmine had strongly hinted that her stepbrother had taken an unhealthy interest in her. That she feared his return.

  Impatience, anxiety, and triumph in turn wrenched Lucian as he cantered up to the mews of Halstrom Keep some time later. He tried to keep to a sedate stroll as he approached the Keep’s inner ward but half ran as he entered it.

  “Lucian!”

  The triumphant note in his father’s deep voice yanked Lucian’s gaze up the fifteen feet to the wall walk on the other side of the ward. The sight rent his heart as utter disbelief froze him in place.

  With a shriek Jasmine pushed out of his father’s embrace. She took two hurried steps towards Lucian on the unrailed wall walk. With belated haste she halted only to teeter on the edge. “Lucian!”

  Lucian saw his father lunge for her. Saw Halstrom miss the slim skirt of the high-waisted gown. Saw Jasmine teeter and then tumble off the walk.

  The searing heat of fear thawed Lucian’s mind and legs. He pounded across the paving stones toward Jasmine as she plummeted downward.

  The crunch of snapping bone and dull thud of flesh against stone reverberated over and over in his mind. The fall replayed before his eyes like some slight-of-hand trick. With a cry Lucian skidded to a halt on one knee beside Jasmine’s now excruciatingly skewed and still form.

  Her glassy-eyed stare and the pool of blood ever widening beneath her head shrieked death, but Lucian could not accept it. “Send a rider for Mr. Toole,” he screamed the order to fetch the local physician over his shoulder at a gaping servant.

  Filled with disbelief, Lucian stared at his love. He tentatively put out a hand. With fingers that refused to stop trembling he fingered a silky blond curl. “Jasmine,” Lucian moaned and skimmed her cheek with the back of a finger.

  The softness and warmth still there unleashed a shudder. Lucian chocked back a sob. With infinitesimal care he put a hand beneath Jasmine’s head and inched the other beneath her shoulders.

  The play of the broken skull against his hand and the warmth of her blood were surreal. Lucian clasped Jasmine to his heart. With wild denial he pushed his face into her golden locks. He breathed in her piquant rose perfume only to find it altered by death.

  “Jasmine,” he sobbed. “I did this.” To and fro he rocked her completely unaware of his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  * * *

  Two Weeks Later

  The morning sun streamed through the window. Lucian cursed it. How could it be that day still followed day? How could he live while Jasmine Randolph lay cold in the ground?

  Her grave, with the oaken coffin in its depths, again appeared before him. Lucian watched soil trickle from his hand. Its gentle but persistent thump onto the wood that concealed Jasmine was but one of the horrors that filled his sleep.

  Nightly kaleidoscopes of memories threatened to drive him mad. Jasmine, eyes wide and face contorted with fear, hung suspended high in the air. The billow of her skirt, her shriek, the stone splinters loosened by her steps, sharp pops against the stone paving before the last dull thud bombarded him.

  If only I hadn’t brought her to the Keep. If only I hadn’t left them alone. If only.

  Guilt spiralled with each breath Lucian drew. Its weight crushed, consumed. He leapt from the bed and sucked in great gulps of air. His skin crawled; his stomach lurched with the threat of dry heaves. He staggered back and sagged down on the side of the bed.

  As the haze before him slowly cleared, Lucian realized he was not in his chamber at Halstrom Keep. I’m going mad. I’d be better off in the grave.

  “Lord Gilchrist,” he heard his valet cry and then the man was at his side.

  “No. I renounced my inheritance,” spat Lucian. “I am only Merristorm.” He grabbed the startled man by the upper arms. “I have no father. I am no one’s heir.”

  “But, my lord,” burbled the horror-stricken man. “You don’t know your mind. You haven’t eaten properly since ... if only you’d partake of at least some broth.”

  Lucian heaved upright, shoved the man away.

  The valet fell hard. He stared up at the young man. “It wasn’t the marquess’ fault,” he dared in desperation.

  Lucian’s face, already haggard and ashen, paled, contorted. He wavered on his feet. “Out of here–don’t come back–ever.”

  “Do as he says,” Marquess Halstrom said quietly from the door of the small inn in Matching Green which stood not far from the church yard and Jasmine Randolph’s grave. “Take down the portmanteau you packed last night. The coach awaits.”

  Lucian clenched his teeth against the gag reflex his father’s voice triggered. The words swam beyond his understanding. When a gentle hand lightly touched his arm, he shuddered.

  “Drink this,” a quiet female voice urged. A glass was pressed into one of his hands and brought the other up to it. “Drink this. It’ll ease the pain.”

  His vision forced into focus, Merristorm looked at the large-boned woman who had raised him and had also been his mother’s nanny. He thought he heard his mother, dead these past twelve years, whisper, “Trust Nelda.”

  “It’ll ease you,” insisted the nanny again. She lifted his hands and the glass in them towards his mouth as if he were a lad of six.

  Lucian wondered at the wetness on his cheeks. He looked at the kindly face as the rim of the glass touched his lips. “Please, Nelda, it hurts more than I can bear.”

  “Shush. Drink child,” Nelda whispered and tilted up the glass.

  Merristorm hungrily gulped down the promised relief. When she pressed him back, he laid down without protest.

  The nanny patted his shoulder and kissed his brow. She watched Marquess Halstrom closely
as she walked to the door. His eyes were on his son, the marquess’s features carved from palest marble. The tears glinting in the stark dark eyes gave her pause.

  “Your servants say she didn’t want to wait for Lucian to come into your title. That she made a bid for you,” she dared. “He’ll listen to reason when–”

  “Will he live long enough to do so?” Halstrom demanded cynically. He motioned toward the duelling pistol case beside the bed.

  “He wouldn’t,” protested Nelda.

  “He was besotted with the creature. Thinks her death his fault. He’s run near mad with guilt.”

  “You aren’t sending him to a mad house?” she gasped.

  “Think you that well of me?” An invisible shutter fell across Halstrom’s eyes. He guided her from the room and closed the door behind them.

  “I send him to his mother’s mother.”

  “To Purse Caundle in Dorset?” whispered the stunned nanny. Never had he unbent towards his mother-in-law nor permitted his son to visit her.

  “Pray it is not too late.”

  * * *

  Marquess Halstrom carried his son down the stairs and with great care placed him inside the luxurious travelling coach. He watched as a young man from Halstrom Keep close to Lucian’s age and much favoured by his son settled Lucian in one corner amid pillows. When he finished Halstrom took a hold of his arm.

  “See no harm comes to him, Benen.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “I’ve seen to it that he’ll be joined by friends from university. Divert him any way you can until they arrive.”

  “He’s as safe with me as me brother, milord.”

  Halstrom closed the coach door and waved the watching coachman to set the teams in motion.

  Inside the young man put his feet up on the seat beside Merristorm. “I’ve just the thing ta keep ye sane, milord.” From beneath a pillow beside him he drew out a bottle of Halstrom’s brandy given him by Lucian’s valet. He held it up as if the drugged earl could see it. “This be a fine tonic fer all yer cares.”