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  HONOUR’S DEBT

  Honour Series Book One

  Joan Vincent

  Prologue

  Bellum Castle Berkshire April 1808

  Major Quentin Bellaport of the 15th Hussars reined his gelding to a halt on the crest of a hill overlooking his family’s seat, Bellum Castle. A smile slowly curved his lips. Home, he thought and could not suppress, But also home to the earls of Margonaut. To the present earl, my benighted father.

  Quentin exhaled slowly, his breath a white cloud in the night-chilled air, thankful he was but a younger son. The slowly dissipating white puff was a vivid reminder that the earl’s welcome would be colder than deep winter. Sharp sadness threaded through his joy.

  Despite this, the massive pile of limestone that his mother had turned into a stunning country house beckoned him. The peculiar silhouette it cast with its absent southeast tower brought a lump to his throat. That lack of tower symbolized the gaping hole in his life. The pinhole that had been ripped to a jagged fissure years past loomed before him. It chilled him, tumbled his thoughts back to that time.

  The major’s large bay whickered his unease at his master’s changing mood. Getting no response, Hellion whinnied his longing for a warm stable and oats.

  The complaint tugged Quentin back to the present, away from his mother’s graveside twelve years past. So long ago and yet still sharp as the edge of a well-honed knife. He saw Lynette and Phillip, mere children, with fearful white-faced hollow-eyed stares. His older brother Thomas grim, but calm. Their father, pale with death-haunted eyes.

  Quentin gritted his teeth. My soul froze when she died. Anger, nay, rage warmed me for a time but that has long since proved an insufficient companion.

  Snatches of images of his father fluttered before Quentin, pages in his private book of hell. Each one bore more anger, a fury that flared ever higher on both their parts and greater rebellion on his.

  “Then came my eighteenth birthday,” Quentin bitterly mused aloud.

  The gelding snorted, tossed its head.

  “I was full of myself,” he muttered. “Just like a cursed popinjay. Couldn’t wait to announce that I had used Mother’s bequest to purchase a coronetcy in the 15th. Almost wore my uniform to supper.” Quentin pursed his lips, tugged at his right ear as was his habit when disturbed, and exhaled in an audible huff.

  “Gad, how the old tartar stunned me when he presented me with a lieutenancy in the Guards.” Regret twined with the usual anger; and, as it had of late, gained the upper hand.

  “I was furious beyond words that he tarnished my brilliant surprise. Quentin winced, then released a long slow sigh. “I never once thought, never realized until years later that I dealt him a blow—a verbal slap in the face. If only he had not insulted mother— If only I had stayed ...”

  The glint of moonlight off the windows of Bellum’s three remaining towers caught Quentin’s eye and beckoned him home. He studied the tower which held his much loved older brother’s chambers.

  How I’ve longed to see Thomas. His thoughts skipped to his younger brother and sister. I’ve missed so much of Phillip and Lynette’s childhood because of my war with the Tartar. They are nearly grown. I am tired beyond words of the battle to stay away. I’ve settled too long for flying visits and missives.

  Quentin tightened his resolve, urged the bay down the hillside, and cantered to Bellum’s mews. After stabling Hellion, he squared his shoulders and went to meet his ghosts.

  Long strides quickly carried the major to the castle’s west gate. Beyond it lay the inner garden, his mother’s sanctum where he still sensed her presence whenever he visited. His heart lightened by the thought, he hurriedly opened the gate and entered.

  The remembered perfume of roses, his mother’s scent, filled Quentin’s senses as he gazed over the moonlit garden. It was well-tended, lush. At least my lord father and I do have this in common, he thought. How well he remembered his shock when he discovered his father alone tended it.

  The major strolled down the flagstone walk straight to the Rosa Bifera, his mother’s favourite rose. Quentin fingered one of the buds now shades of grey in the night, then envisioned the lush creamy pink of the petals of a bloom.

  “Mother, I have come to try with Margonaut—with Father again.” Quentin plucked the bloom. Cradling it, he looked up at stars vivid in the velvet of the night sky. “Help me.”

  * * *

  The thud of the heavy wood door against the stone wall jarred Quentin awake. He turned his head to see Thomas Bellaport, Viscount Broyal, grinning widely.

  “’Tis long past time to rise, you laggard,” his brother boomed in welcome.

  Knowing Thomas’ old habit of tumbling him out of bed, Quentin snagged his brother’s wrist when he halted beside the bed. “We have not been Oppidans for many a year,” he growled in warning. Warm memories of their shared years at Eton roughened Quentin’s voice when he continued. “’Tis long past the time you could roust me.” He beamed, leaped to his feet, and pumped Thomas’ hand. “By the gods, you look in fine fettle.”

  “As do you.” Broyal smiled and clapped his arms about his younger brother.

  Responding in kind, Quentin realized again that Thomas, though two years the elder was much slighter of frame, his stature a hand less than his own. They shared the Margonaut oval face but Quentin’s chin bore a slight cleft. It reminded him he was not, at eight and twenty, the thin, sinewy young man who had stormed out of Bellum those years ago. He had changed in other ways too.

  “I am so glad you came,” Broyal continued. “How long this stay?”

  “A week, mayhaps lengthier if—”

  “If Father is not his usual draconian self?” Broyal inquired, then studied Quentin’s reaction. He chuckled. “By the Gods, it is no wonder you have done well in the cavalry. What trooper would dare cross that icy blue stare? I just realized how much it is like Father’s.”

  Quentin snorted and strode to the armoire. He tugged out a paisley robe left on a previous visit. “How late do Phillip and Lynnette lie abed?” he asked shrugging into it.

  Broyal grimaced regret. “Phillip is in London in lieu of coming home—as we once were want to do. Lynette returns next week. You shall be surprised to see what a young lady the minx has become.” Thomas’ smile slowly drooped into a considering frown.

  Realizing the trend of his thought Quentin assured him, “I’ll do my best to see that this visit does not end as the last. How fares our sire?” He saw thoughtful consideration crease his brother’s brow before he strode to the window.

  “The doctors have urged me to take more care with him. Father has reluctantly turned more estate affairs over to me.” Broyal paused. “He hints that he will deed Trewes Priory to me.”

  Quentin fastened the sash with a sharp tug. That property was once to have been his home. “Trewes is Margonaut’s to do with as he wishes.”

  “I will not accept it.”

  Irked by the longing the potential loss of the estate provoked, Quentin baited his brother, using Thomas’ honorary title of Viscount Broyal for emphasis. “Am I, at last, to congratulate you on your nuptials, my lord Broyal?”

  “I cannot escape that fate much longer,” Thomas repined. Then a grin warmed his features. “Today let us pretend we are boys again. The fishing should be excellent below Beachind.”

  “Can you secure some cheese and Corrie’s biscuits?”

  Broyal grinned. “And a bottle of port for good measure. It is very good to have you home.”

  * * *

  Conflicting thoughts vied as Quentin finished dressing for supper. Memories of his father that long ago night pressed too close. At Broyal’s entry he turned from his mirror. “I am still a green lad whenever I go before him,” Quentin commented without ne
ed of explanation.

  He saw Broyal nod approval of the blue frockcoat and white breeches Quentin had donned in place of his uniform. “The earl—Father—does care for you.”

  “Like a recalcitrant possession?”

  “That is unfair. You are more like him than you know,” Broyal snapped. “One day you will come to understand one another.”

  “I doubt you shall live to see that.” Quentin instantly regretted the flash of distress that narrowed Broyal's eyes. “All I want—” He shrugged, unable to finish, and was grateful for his brother’s commiserating nod.

  “We had better go down if you are to make a good beginning,” Broyal said.

  When they entered the salon, Quentin saw their father standing before the fireplace, hands locked behind his rigid back. He watched him turn and saw a rebuke in the earl’s sharp assessing gaze.

  “You are late.”

  Quentin bowed. “My apologies, my lord. Good eve.” He watched his father draw a deep breath. He also saw Margonaut finger the cameo of his late mother that was attached to the earl’s watch chain.

  “You arrived during the night?”

  At this lighter tone Quentin relaxed. “Yes, my lord.”

  “No matter what Broyal has told you, I am tolerably well,” the earl groused. “He carps on about the physicians but has yet to wed and sire an heir.”

  Broyal ignored the worn refrain. “I told Quentin—”

  The earl ignored his eldest and jabbed a finger at the younger. “At least the one who cares about Bellum is my heir.”

  To Quentin’s relief the butler appeared at the door and intoned, “Dinner my lords. Sir.”

  With a quirk of his brow to his brother as his father stalked out of the room, Quentin followed.

  At the end of the nearly silent meal, the table was cleared and port served. Margonaut’s gaze moved from his eldest to his second son and hardened. “Dammed fool notion, this idea of helping the bloody Spaniards.”

  Quentin drew on the cigarillo he had lit and blew out the smoke in a slow steady stream while he willed calm. “Canning spoke in favour of it. In the opposition, Sheridan supports it.”

  “Bah! They will have the same end as when they sent Moore to aid the king of Sweden,” Margonaut challenged. “They should have known the Swede was hopeless—a mad fool.”

  “That was unfortunate,” Quentin conceded.

  The earl scowled at this son’s unusual reasonableness.

  “But you could not expect Moore—” Quentin continued.

  “The corn is doing well in the west fields,” Broyal said with false cheerfulness.

  Margonaut glared at the viscount and then wagged a finger at Quentin. “Hear your brother? If only you would follow his example.”

  “Father,” Broyal began to protest.

  “And you,” the earl turned an icy gaze on his eldest, “shall quit this dithering and wed the Earl of Lamborn’s chit.”

  “Enough, Father,” Broyal said.

  The sharp warning tone of the words surprised Quentin. His father’s reaction did not.

  The earl slammed his fist against the tabletop. “You have denied me too long, Broyal.” He jabbed a finger at Quentin. “I will not stomach this one filling my shoes.”

  Broyal reddened. “Father, this is—”

  “You will do as I command,” Margonaut barked.

  The tightening of Broyal’s jaw, the flash of pain across his features prodded Quentin. “When will you learn you cannot order our lives?” he snapped.

  “You dare to say Broyal should follow your lead?”

  “Quentin, I can—”

  “Let him answer,” Margonaut snapped.

  Quentin tugged at his right ear seeking to regain control of his emotions. He pushed back his chair and rose. “I think it best I do not.”

  Margonaut threw down his napkin. “What is this? You were not so slow to throw the inheritance from your mother in my face.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Quentin—” Broyal began desperately.

  The earl rounded on Broyal. “Keep your tongue behind your teeth.”

  “My lord, I did not come home to brangle.” Quentin hoped his tone conciliatory.

  “No,” snarled the earl. “You would rather gallop at everything and do nothing. You dishonoured your mother’s—”

  Wrath flared through Quentin. He rose, turned on his heels and from the table.

  Broyal caught him at the foot of the stairs. “Do not go like this,” he entreated. “Let me talk to him.”

  A sharp tattoo of steps announced the earl. “Let him go, Broyal,” Margonaut angrily quavered. “We are well rid of him.”

  Quentin met his father’s gaze; dared him to do or say more. For an instant he saw a flash of doubt in the old man’s eyes. It dampened his anger. A deep enveloping emptiness yawned before him. Would the wounds his foolishness and his father’s stubborness had gnawed in his life never heal?

  * * *

  Hart Cottage Hayward, Kent April 1808

  Uneasiness gnawed at Maddie Vincouer’s enjoyment of the warmth and beauty of the sun’s glitter across the oriel windows in the sitting room. Unable to quell her disquiet, Maddie left her young sisters and hurried to her ailing father’s bedchamber.

  At the top of the stairs she paused to check her appearance. Her dark brown eyes which she had been told usually sparkled with wit and not a little mischief, showed her troubled thoughts all too clearly. She tried to lighten her mood, forced a smile as she brushed back a tendril of her raven hair that had escaped her usually neat bun at the nape of her neck. So like Mother’s, Father always says, she thought. But my feminine version of the squarish Vincouer face came most decidedly from him. Maddie sighed, brightened her smile and continued to her father’s door.

  When she entered, Maddie saw her uncle, Albert Vincoer. She stiffened but then flashed a smile. When he gave a nervous twitch to the papers in his hand and cleared his throat, uneasiness gnawed at her again.

  “Ahh, yes, Maddie. Draw up that other chair.” He paused, bit his lip and then asked, “How long since your mother died bearing Jessamine?”

  Though puzzled by the question’s odd wording Maddie said softly, “Six years.” She took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of her father’s sickbed and gently touched his forearm when Matthew Vincouer plucked at the bed covers.

  “I do not think this wise, Albert.”

  “Brother, you have put off the telling too long—as is your habit,” Albert said, a gentle but very unusual reproach clear in his tone. “Do you wish your daughter unprepared—not warned and thus taken unawares for what shall happen when you die?”

  Maddie bit her lip and winced at the harsh truth of the inescapable closeness of her father’s impending death. Four years of a debilitating illness had left Matthew Vincouer’s skin translucent. That and his sunken eyes as well as his growing lethargy and weakness were undeniable signs of her uncle’s truth.

  Maddie smoothed back a wisp of her father’s white hair at the peak of her his forehead. “Be at ease, Father.” She cast a warning frown at her uncle. “Uncle Albert will not upset me.” She looked directly at him. “Will you, Uncle?”

  With a resigned moue, Albert shuffled his papers but he met Maddie’s gaze steadily. “Only Hart Cottage and its small income are in your father’s name,” he said bluntly.

  When her father would not meet her gaze, question and then alarm rose in Maddie’s breast. “Our quarterly allowances are from Father’s investment in ’Change,” she protested.

  Her uncle shook his head. “The bulk of your expenses are covered by an account set up by my father before his death.”

  “Grandfather Vincouer? But how can that be? He never acknowledged us.” Suddenly her father’s bony fingers gripped her hand tightly.

  “You should learn this from me,” Matthew said. He drew and released a laboured breath. “Our father’s will divided his estate between my brothers Percival and Albert and a trust he
set up for your brother Malcolm.”

  “Yes?” Maddie said. The renewed clench of her father’s fingers portended unpleasant news.

  “With my ‘bookish’ nature I was never one of Father’s favourites,” Matthew continued. “His antipathy was— aggravated when I married your mother.”

  “Indeed,” Albert added, “I was certain he would disown you when you refused the heiress he found for you.”

  Matthew loosed a weak chuckle. “It was the only time in my life I naysayed him. But you, dear brother,” he continued with a grateful smile, “convinced him to set up that trust for Malcolm."

  “But the provisos he dictated bore the stamp of his unforgiving nature.”

  “In all fairness, Father could not have foreseen that Percival would precede me in death,” Mathew said, his gaze set past Maddie’s shoulder. “I was the frail one.”

  “Then you are to be the children’s guardian?” Maddie asked her uncle.

  Albert grimaced. “Percival was the eldest. Unfortunately his eldest son assumes that responsibility.”

  Maddie blanched. “Sanford.”

  “I know our nephew is not an easy person—”

  “What do you mean? What authority will Sanford have?” Maddie demanded tersely.

  When Matthew remained silent, Albert spoke. “Power over Malcolm and your sisters and all income until your brother reaches his majority.”

  “Not complete control?” demanded Maddie.

  When he nodded, she bristled. “But I have reached my majority. Why can I not—”

  “You are a woman.”

  Maddie looked at her father. Her face told Albert how aware she was of just how close death hovered. He mentally ticked off the years, his heart sinking as he knew hers must. Malcolm would not reach his majority for six long years.

  “Sanford was always an unhappy, grasping child,” Matthew sighed. “Albert fears he has not changed over much.” He clutched Maddie’s hand. “There is one way to avoid this peril. The guardianship can go to your husband.”