Honour's Redemption Page 8

  Lucian spat, sipped, and spat again and then swallowed a huge gulp. A second later it came back up with what remained in his stomach.

  Sampson took the dipper and set it aside. “Do you think you are finished, Mr. Merristorm?”

  “Bloody . . . hell . . . hope . . . so.” His eyes refused to focus. What in damnation did I drink? His stomach twisted, churned. “What happened?” he moaned.

  “I fear easy answers are never at hand when you want them,” Sampson told him wryly. He levered Lucian to his feet. “I need your help young man if we’re to get to the coach.”

  “Coach?” mumbled Lucian.

  “Come, Mr. Merristorm,” Sampson gently urged. “My stomach growls for its supper and I doubt we have much time.”

  This made no sense but something in the man’s voice prompted Lucian to attempt to obey him. He clenched his teeth and tried to take a step but his foot refused to move. “Sorry. Can’t.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Embarrassment eked through misery. What had happened to him? Lucian closed his eyes, concentrated with all his might, and managed a step.

  “Good lad.”

  Responding to the voice and the pressure of the arm about his back Lucian tottered forward. After a few steps his heart thudded so hard he thought it must burst. He halted at the prompting of a new urge. “Sorry. Need nec’ssary.”

  When he finished in the outhouse Sampson determinedly prodded Lucian back to the coach yard. “Let’s aim for the well,” the vicar told him. “Can you see it?”

  “Why ya doin’ this?’ Lucian slurred.

  “Filia.”

  At the softly spoken Greek word Lucian turned a bleary gaze on his Samaritan. He saw it was the old man who babbled Greek. “Friendship?”

  “That’s right. You need one just now. I don’t think the men who put you on the stage were your friends. Perhaps you recall Aristotle’s Ethics.” Then the vicar continued in Greek, “'For without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods.’”

  “Fetch the dipper. I dropped it,” Sampson told Ruth as she hurried up to him.

  She returned with it in hand to find Lucian propped up against the well. “I shall take care of Mr. Merristorm. You’d best hurry, Father. Marietta awaits you inside with some cheese and bread.”

  “Best turn that bucket over,” Sampson told his daughter. He put a hand on Lucian’s shoulder.

  “Sit on it,” he told the pale wretched-looking young man. “Can you manage?”

  When Lucian nodded, Sampson looked at Ruth. “Take care.”

  Ruth drew in a sharp breath. This was her father. Mr. Merristorm’s company had proven efficacious once again. “Do hurry, Father. They said we shall be off in fifteen minutes.”

  When he walked away Ruth looked down at Merristorm. The front of his waistcoat and trouser bottoms were tainted with vomit but it was not as bad as she had feared. Ruth dampened the cloth she had borrowed from one of the inn’s maids. She went down on one knee before Lucian and lifted his head.

  “Go ‘way,” Lucian muttered. He swallowed hard and concentrated on keeping down the bile.

  “Is this how you charm ladies?” Ruth said lightly as she wiped his face and then began to towel the vomit off his greatcoat. Rinsing the cloth she took care of the bottom of his trousers.

  When she finished Ruth rinsed out the cloth again and then drew up fresh water, filled the dipper, and set it on the ground beside Lucian. Kneeling she tugged open his great coat and unfastened the carelessly tied cravat. After she pushed it back she draped the wet towel around his neck.

  Sitting back Ruth stared at the handsome planes of his face–straight nose, dark brows, firm lips. With shaking hands she unfastened his jacket. When she started on his waistcoat Lucian grunted for her to stop.

  “The air will revive you,” Ruth told him and finished. She pushed it and his coat open. To her amazement a roll of bank notes fell into her lap. Ruth picked it up. She stared at the small fortune.

  “What you doin’?” gritted Lucian.

  Ruth looked up. His head was tilted back against the well, his eyes closed. “Where are you bound?”

  “The River Styx,” Lucian mumbled.

  Ruth’s nerves jangled at this mention of the Greek place of death. She looked at the bank notes and then at his greatcoat’s pocket. Seeing a slip of paper Ruth pulled it free and looked at it. Puzzlement creased her brow.

  A ticket to Whitby. But why?

  Not to follow you no matter how much you weak heart wishes it.

  Ruth again thought of the men who had thrown Merristorm onto the stage. The state he was in told her they would have had to purchase the ticket.

  The roll of notes weighed heavily in her hand. It grew weightier when Ruth thought of the paucity of their funds. She looked at Merristorm. He would drink it away.

  Shall I keep it safe for him?

  Ruth tucked the ticket back into his pocket and then stuffed the notes into hers and stood.

  “Is he better?” asked Marietta behind her.

  Ruth started guiltily.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Ruth managed a nod.

  Marietta continued, “The driver said there are ten minutes before we get underway again. Are you going to leave him here?”

  They both looked at Lucian. He had thrown off the wet cloth and had a hand on the top of the well. They watched him struggle to his feet and then lean against it and gasp the cold air into his lungs.

  “I see he is better,” Sampson said behind his daughters. “Get back into the coach. I shall see to Mr. Merristorm.” When his daughters had gone he offered a mug to Lucian.

  Merristorm took it and swallowed a small sip. He eyed the vicar as he waited for his stomach to heave. When it did not he sucked down a larger draught. As he lowered the mug, he belched loud and foul.

  “That’s the lad. Feeling more the thing?” Sampson asked cheerfully. He drew one of Lucian’s arms across his shoulder. “Don’t fret. I imagine you won’t be able to think properly until Doncaster.”

  * * *

  London October 16th Evening

  Stranton “Hellfire” Merristorm, Marquess Halstrom studied the ashes in the fireplace of his son’s unkempt flat. He toed a froth of white and it collapsed into nothing but white specs across the black gloss of his evening shoe. “You are certain Gilchrist has not been seen since he left here with Thornley last eve?”

  Benen, once footman to the marquess inwardly sighed at the use of Lucian Merristorm’s honorary title. One that the heir had long since refused to use. “Aye, milord. I talked to one or two of the lightskirts the capt’n frequented but none has seen him in over a month. Then I asked fer him at his usual hells and spoke with some of his lads.”

  The marquess turned from the fireplace. He surveyed the empty bottles that littered the floor all around the chair. He could see his son there slogging back the brandy, a mirror image of what Lucian believed about his father.

  Guilt ratcheted up another notch. Halstrom ran one of his long lean fingers across the bridge of his nose. “Talk to Scruggs and the rest of the lads. Tonight.”

  “It might not be as bad as ye fear, milord,” Benen said without conviction.

  Fear fluttered again in the back of Halstrom’s throat. It had pressed him hard ever since his encounter with his son at Couts Bank. That Benen who had cared for Lucian in the depth of his grief and disillusionment those years ago also feared the worst had brought him to this flat. “If Gilchrist has put a period to his existence I must see him buried with all honour.

  “If Thornley,” the marquess sneered the name Jasmine Randolph’s stepbrother now sported, “has done it, his bones shall be gnawed clean by the rats as he rots in the stews.

  “Go. When you finish find me in one of the hells Thornley has frequented of late.”

  Benen bowed and hurried from the despair that hung heavy in the flat.

  Halstrom paused in front of the mirror near the d
oor. The image, haggard and drawn, glared back at him. Living down to Lucian’s estimation of him had emblazoned the sobriquet “Hellfire” on his soul. Everyone believed the wages of sin and debauchery had greyed his hair and creased his face.

  Though not guilty of Jasmine’s death, Halstrom now saw clearly what had driven his son from him. False pride had forged the present grave image the marquess stared into every time he looked in a mirror.

  * * *

  Having been to three other hells Halstrom was hard put to project the hardened insouciance expected of him when he entered the Blue Boar. He forbore the proffered glass of brandy and instead welcomed the two beauties who curled into his arms.

  The marquess nuzzled the neck of the blond. His gaze however, was on the trio of men who had just entered the hell.

  His gut roiled at seeing them but this eve his son was not with the men. Then Halstrom recalled that Lucian avoided the Boar knowing the marquess frequented the place. The Marquess relaxed slightly and raised his head. The three men, Thornley, Fowler, and Pinlar, appeared in especially good spirits.

  From Benen’s reports he knew Thornley had latched onto Lucian like a leech. So why was his son not with him this eve? I was a dammed fool. He wouldn’t have listened to me but maybe Benen could have warned my boy away from Thornley. It was evident that Lucian had no idea Thornley was Jasmine’s stepbrother. Nor could his son know what the marquess had learned a month ago: “Sir Brandon” had over the years followed Lucian’s career with, as far as the Halstrom was concerned, too avid an interest.

  “Pardon me, my dears,” the marquess tweaked the young women’s cheeks in turn. “Here are some chips. Take a turn at the faro table.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” First one and then the other beauty kissed him lingeringly before they strolled away with a seductive sway of hips.

  Halstrom proceeded to go from table to table and casually visit with acquaintances. Along the way he accepted a glass of wine from a waiter. He sipped it and kept an unobtrusive eye on Thornley and his friends. When all three concentrated on the roll of the dice at a table, the Marquess walked up behind Thornley.

  Sir Brandon picked up the die and cast back his arm as he prepared to throw them. His elbow struck Halstrom’s glass. The wine in it sloshed across Thornley’s sleeve.

  “Really, sir, take care,” Thornley said with a backward glance. Seeing who was there his hand dropped. The die dribbled out of the cup in his hand and on to the table. A general groan at the costly slip went unnoticed as the ominous gaze of the marquess froze Thornley.

  “My lord,” he bowed curtly. “I was unaware you stood so close.”

  “You are unaware of much,” Halstrom purred.

  But for a lighter complexion and lines formed by years of debauchery, the marquess could have Merristorm. Belatedly, the words sank home. To cover his sudden uneasiness, Sir Brandon irritably brushed at his damp sleeve. “My lord?”

  “Where is my son this eve?” Halstrom asked.

  “I am not his keeper,” Thornley replied. His satisfaction in the deed done so lately rose.

  “But you have been just that these past months–from what I have heard.”

  Thornley read a disturbing intelligence and suspicion in the marquess’ dark glittering eyes. He was surprised they were not as dulled by drink as Merristorm’s, for he knew the son to be a wan image of the father’s habits.

  “My son?” repeated Halstrom.

  Fear niggled at Thornley’s contentment in his plan as carried out thus far. The Marquess’ unexpected interest in Merristorm gave him a queasy turn.

  “He will not stand to have your name mentioned in his presence,” Thornley sneered.

  Like Lucian, Halstrom was taller than Thornley. He looked down the bridge of his nose at Sir Brandon. “It shall prove perilous for you to take the father for the son.”

  * * *

  The Wise Owl Whitby

  Peace pondered what she knew of Brainerd Geary. She had successfully stifled the attraction that drew her to the man. He was a danger to her plans. They were so close to fulfilment she could not risk anything. Two deaths had made the smugglers more wary even of her. She hated the decision, the order she had given, but it was done.

  It was past one o’clock, when Peace locked the tavern door. She had just pulled on her night-rail when a quiet knocking on the exterior entrance to her private quarters startled her. There was only to be one knock. What?

  Peace stared at the door as if French revolutionaries were on the other side. With a forefinger to her lips she suppressed any sound. She sighed inwardly It is done. Geary will trouble me no longer. She tried to feel relief but a swell of sadness unlike any she had felt since before the days of terror swept over her.

  Back in the small room Peace had made into her bedchamber after Jenkinson’s death, she brushed her hair. She tried to sooth the tinge of regret and disappointment that still lingered. It was the only thing I could do.

  A scrabbling noise halted Peace’s hand in mid stroke. She rose and drew a thick wool shawl about her shoulders.

  A muted trembling call for Vianne outside the exterior door chilled her. It took her back to the past. No one had called her by that name since long before the day she had staggered, starved and fear-crazed, from the boat in the harbour at Whitby.

  With knees that threatened to collapse at every step, Peace went to the door. She leaned her ear against it.

  “Vianne, help me.”

  Peace did not recognise the weak hoarse voice. She backed away from the door. Then the hearth caught her gaze. She closed her eyes, slid her tongue nervously across her lower lip remembering her husband’s blood.

  She tiptoed back to the door and put a hand against it. “Who are you?” Her heart thudded fearfully as a clock’s loud tick boomed the seconds.

  “Geary.”

  It cannot be– Peace wrenched open the door. A tall figure fell forward almost knocking her down. She recognized the red hair ribbon and shuddered.

  “Help. Please,” Geary moaned and sank to the floor at her feet.

  Chapter Seven

  East Retford, Nottinghamshire Early hours of October 17th

  “Think I’m hellfire incarnate?” Lucian asked the bolder of the two widows who had continued to lecture Ruth for being kind to him. “They call my father “Hellfire” Stranton and damned he is. ‘Haps I’ve brimstone for a soul.” His heavy handedness he didn’t regret until he saw the younger Clayton chit duck her head to escape his raking gaze.

  ‘Tis but the truth and the sooner learned the safer she’ll be, Lucian thought but did not mean Marietta.

  He staggered down as soon the coach halted. His seat by the door told him he had entered it last. But Lucian had no idea how or why he had gotten back on the stage. He’d have sworn he was too foxed to mount the steps. “Where in the bloody hell are we?” he asked one of the hostlers.

  The widows stepped down from the coach radiating disapproval.

  Lucian would have laughed except for the admonition one of them hurled at Ruth. Swearing under his breath he wondered if they really believed he would ravish them given the chance. If the widows knew he stuffed his hands deep in his greatcoat’s pockets to conceal their shaking the women would laugh at him. Would Ruth?

  “Damnation, I’ve gotta find a bottle of brandy,” Lucian swore loudly as he made for the outhouse behind the coaching inn. That Ruth knew about his hands he was certain. The concern in her eyes gnawed at him. The dammed woman takes care of everyone. Even helped that bloody dried up turnip of an old biddy. His feet stuttered to a standstill behind Sampson Clayton. He saw the old man clutch at his crotch.

  Why is she so considerate of this feeble minded old sod? Damme him, he’s run the whole family aground or I’m a Bedlamite. Lucian shifted forward as the vicar entered the outhouse. Despite that she treats him with god awful patient kindness. He thought of his own father and shuddered. How can she still love him when he’s ruined her chances?

  His ne
ed urgent, Lucian brushed past the vicar when he came out. Finished, he pulled up his pantaloons and strode out intent for a drink. Three steps from the outhouse the crack of a whip closely followed by a child’s cry of pain halted Lucian.

  He took a determined step forward but a stream of invectives and a young high pitched voice’s plea stopped him again. Swearing Lucian swung around. With anger hastened steps he followed the thud of a fist and howl of pain behind the stables.

  In the dim light cast by the moon Lucian saw a bearded hulk of a man towering over a small hunched figure. As he approached the man stepped back and raised the whip. Before he could bring it down Lucian tore it from the hulk’s hand.

  Throwing it down he blocked the man’s blow and swung up and under it. The man’s head snapped back and Lucian gave him a one-two punch to the stomach. Breathing hard he swayed on his feet as the hulk crashed to the ground. Before he could gather his wits Lucian heard a gasp and the rustle of skirts as a woman dashed around him and went down on one knee beside the figure huddled on the ground.

  “Are you badly hurt?” Lucian heard Ruth ask as she helped the lad to his feet.

  He glared at her. Didn’t the chit know better than to endanger herself? Lucian looked and saw that the man still had not stirred. Teeth clenched against a reprimand, he turned on his heel and made for the pub.

  “Where’d the gent go thet saved me?” the boy asked looking around Ruth.

  A quick glance revealed they were alone with the man on the ground. She turned her attention back to the child. “What is your name?”

  “Jemmy, ma’m.” He gaped at the downed man.

  Ruth felt him shiver. “Why did that man hurt you?”

  “Sed I didn’t muck the stalls good ‘nuf. But I did. He ben drinkin’ and he gets mean, you ken.”

  The bearded man struggled to rise. He got to his feet much faster than Ruth believed possible. She put her arms about the boy and drew him against herself.

  “Ye got no business wit the lad. He be mine,” snarled the groom.