Honour's Redemption Page 9

  “Your child?”

  “I paid fer him.”

  Ruth blinked. “Paid for him? He is your apprentice?”

  “Nay. Paid fer him. He be mine,” the man insisted.

  “How much?”

  She watched him study her and knew when greed won.

  “Five schillings and he’s yers.”

  Ruth reached into her pocket and counted out the coins. She threw them on the ground and took the boy’s filthy hand. His breaches were threadbare, his coat thin and patched. “Do you have any clothes or things you need to fetch?”

  “Nay, ma’m. Be me yers now?”

  She had used Lucian’s money but that was best not said just yet. “You are not property,” Ruth told him. “Come with me.” Her spirit sank under the new burden she had added to the cartload she already possessed, but her heart was lighter. Lucian had come to the aid of the lad. There is good in him.

  * * *

  London Halstrom Townhouse Midmorning

  “The Earl of Lade returned to his townhouse an hour ago, milord,” Benen said.

  Marquess Halstrom heard the hint of more in the lilt of the voice. Much earlier this morning Benen had reported that Scruggs had received a note telling him the house for boys that he ran for Lucian would receive a monthly stipend indefinitely. His man-of-all-work had also learned of his son’s encounter with a young woman before he went to Coutts Bank and that Lucian had helped her find her “Batty da.’”

  “I made friends with Lade’s second footman. He told me a interestin’ tale of a party his lordship had night afore last. The capt’n, er, Lord Gilchrist, were there. Drunk hisself under the table accordin’ to the lad. And the footman noticed somethin’ odd.”

  The marquess traced the bridge of his nose and waited.

  “Seems towards the end of the evening Sir Thornley kept the capt’n’s glass full from a bottle he held tight at his side. Footman said no one else drank from this here bottle.

  “Right afore they left he said the gentl’man talked about a jest Thornley had put forth. Sir Brandon said they oughta ferget it but didn’t stop ’em.”

  Halstrom raised his gaze from his desktop. “This jest?”

  “Ta put the capt’n on a stage headed up the Great North Road ‘n make bets how long it took him ta come back to London and such.”

  “Did they carry this out?”

  “Footman wasn’t certain. Lade’s coachman said the gentl’men dismissed him and the groom and drove the carriage themselves.”

  “You know Pinlar’s valet do you not?”

  “’Course, milord,” Benen said with quiet confidence. He bowed. “I’ll have what is to be had out o’ him afore this afternoon.”

  * * *

  Marquess Halstrom gave a final twitch to his cravat and turned from the mirror outside his office. “Have you seen to everything?”

  “Aye, milord,” Benen told him. He had never seen the Marquess look more elegant nor more dangerous. He raised a small velvet bag that bulged with coins. “I could start out right now.”

  “I suggest you sleep while I’m gone,” Halstrom told him. “You’ll be off when I return. Pay mind not to interfere unless Gilchrist’s life is endangered.”

  “He ne’er were one ta appreciate such,” Benen said wryly. “’Haps I should go with you.”

  The Marquess traced down the bridge of his nose. “No doubt you would be more welcome than I but a tad out of place in the ballroom.” He picked up a packet containing two letters from the table beneath the mirror. At the last minute he had crossed out “Gilchrist” and written “Lucian” on the thicker sealed parchment.

  Halstrom nodded at Benen to go and then motioned for his valet to place his evening cloak about his shoulders. Hat and gloves in hand he strode out intent upon winning this particular battle.

  * * *

  The Mandel Fete London Evening October 17th

  “Hellfire” Stranton, Marquess Halstrom waited patiently outside the Mandel townhouse. Only when his prey entered did he alight and approach the house.

  Halstrom heard the moment of silence and then the murmurs that greeted André Ribeymon, Baron de la Croix when the baron was announced. The baron’s very late arrival could only mean he had promised his sister Leora an appearance. The marquess prepared to gamble a great deal on the depth of baron’s affection for his sister.

  De la Croix’s entrance and Halstrom’s command that he not be announced assured the Marquess time to assess the situation. First he found the lady and then bent his gaze on the baron. He saw that André wore his dark blond hair, which tended to curl, rakishly long. An aquiline nose, firm lips, and a chin that proclaimed stubbornness if not strength, were at odds with the light dusting of facial powder.

  A bright red satin jacket emphasized the young man’s white skin. An intricately quilted red and white striped waistcoat, high shirt points, and an intricately tied cravat confirmed his purported reputation as a dandy. Halstrom was not surprised when André raised a red ribbon bedecked quizzing glass to his eyes.

  The Marquess turned his attention back to a beauty with very similar features. She was sauntering toward her brother with a beautiful smile that graced her eyes as well as her lips.

  Well, my friend, let us see what you do with me, Halstrom thought. He stepped into Leora Ribeymon’s path.

  Bright blue eyes widened with surprise. “Excuse me, my lord,” Leora murmured.

  Before she could step to the side, Halstrom captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “An allemande is forming, Mademoiselle Ribeymon. Please permit me to lead you in it?”

  “Perhaps a later dance,” Leora said diplomatically.

  “But I must insist, my dear.” He smiled as the blue eyes sparked with annoyance. With a firm hand to her elbow, the Marquess made to guide her toward the forming set.

  Leora braced against the pressure he applied. “I am sorry, my lord, but my brother has this set. I cannot disappoint him. Thank you for understanding.”

  “Not a milk and water miss. I am glad of that,” Halstrom told her with a smile. “It speaks in your brother’s favour.”

  With an arched brow, Leora eyed the old roué she knew only by reputation. “What have you to do with my brother?”

  “Dance with me. I shall share all with you.”

  “Please not all. My reputation will be damaged enough by dancing with you.”

  Halstrom chuckled at the asperity in her voice. “My reputation is a heavy burden but it can enhance yours. I trust your brother does not find his a like encumbrance.”

  “The first dance of the set only,” Leora said tersely.

  “What more can I ask?”

  “I dare not consider that.”

  Halstrom sensed Miss Ribeymon study him at each turn of the dance. He admired that she did not quiz him–remarkable in a woman–and wondered how she found him. If not for a vow he had made after Jasmine Randolph’s death, he would wish he were twenty years younger.

  When they turned from the top of the set a hand neatly extracted Leora. André raised his sister’s hand to his lips and tugged her against his side. “Foolish of you, my dear,” he said in an undertone.

  “But she had little choice,” Halstrom said at his side in an equally low voice. “Shall we take a turn in the garden, my lord? Unless you welcome the notice drawn by my attentions to your lovely sister.”

  Two pairs of blue eyes sparked daggers at him.

  “A brief conversation only, mon enfant,” Halstrom assured him.

  “I shall talk to you later, Leora,” André said with a too bright smile. He waved her away with an intricate flourish which ended in a low bow from the waist. “After you, my lord.”

  In the shadows well away from any other guests, the Marquess halted. He opened a silver cigarillo case and offered one to André. When the baron refused, he said, “Do you mind?”

  “Your attentions to my sister? Yes.”

  “She is very lovely and . . . spirited. Very unusual in elig
ible young ladies.”

  “You shall answer to my uncle if you are found to give her the slightest attention.”

  Halstrom lit a cigarillo. He exhaled a long slow puff of smoke. “And you, my lord? You will do nothing if I seek her out?”

  The Marquess could almost hear the young man grind his teeth. De la Croix’s eyes belied his relaxed stance. It was time to end this before he found himself facing the baron in some corner of Hyde Park at dawn. “You know my son–Gilchrist?”

  “If you mean Lucian Merristorm, yes.”

  “Have you seen him of late?”

  André’s brow crinkled, then smoothed. “I saw him at White’s a week or more past.”

  “But not since the 15th?”

  “We are not close, my lord.”

  “But Lucian has called you friend. He has worked with you.”

  “What an odd thing to say. I do not work,” André said with a derisive sniff.

  “But your life is very odd, my dear Baron, when one makes a close examination of it.” He saw the blue eyes narrow infinitesimally and admired the young man’s skilled self-control.

  “What is it you wish?”

  “As forthright as your sister. Excellent.”

  “My lord–” André began impatiently.

  “I shall never approach your sister, without your permission, again if you do me one small favour.” He drew on the cigarillo and exhaled a long trail of smoke. If all was true of what he had learned about de La Croix the Marquess was certain he knew about Jasmine and the rumours that surrounded her death. Halstrom admired André’s restraint in view of this and would have bet his life that the baron itched to call him out. What prevented him? he wondered but turned to the business at hand.

  “Gilchrist . . . Lucian has disappeared. He is not to be found in London.” Halstrom saw the baron’s scepticism. “I do know all of the places to look. Sir Brandon Thornley, who has been in my son’s pocket these last months forswears any knowledge of his current whereabouts despite proof to the opposite.”

  “What has this to do with me, my lord?”

  “I want you to find Lucian.” Halstrom put bite to the words to show his determination. “On the day he disappeared he met a young woman, Miss Ruth Clayton and her father. They had stopped in London on their way to Whitby.”

  “Merristorm go to Yorkshire?” scoffed André. “Never.”

  “Never in your vocabulary, my lord? It is a very . . . dangerous word.” With that obscure warning, Halstrom continued. “I have with me a document that explains my suspicions and gives details.” He met de la Croix’s gaze and waited patiently for the man’s decision.

  “I have, ah, commitments that cannot be set aside.”

  “Perhaps the world should learn of those commitments?” When that produced not a flicker of a lash Halstrom added, “Mademoiselle Ribeymon is delightful. Such delicate beauty …. It has been years since I considered–”

  “What would you have me do?” André asked tightly.

  “Leave for Whitby this eve.” He watched surprise flicker in the depths of the baron’s eyes and then curiosity.

  “What do you wish me to do if I find Merristorm?”

  Halstrom smiled at the taunt. “When you find my son, you need only ascertain that he is well.”

  “Does foxed out of his mind fit your description of ‘well?’”

  The Marquess winced. His years, his misdeeds weighed heavily on him. “Make certain he is not harmed or in danger. That is all I ask. My man Benen shall go with you.”

  He saw that André considered this and sensed the keen eyes that played on him read more than he could wish.

  “Who would harm your son?” André asked as the older man drew on his cigarillo. “Why?”

  Halstrom expelled the smoke in one abrupt exhalation. “Unknown to my son,” he gave a slight bow to André, “Thornley is Jasmine Randolf’s stepbrother.”

  * * *

  The Wise Owl Whitby

  A gentle hand moved across Donatien’s scarred back. The unusual touch and the scent of bergamot enticed him back to consciousness. At first he thought it was part of a dream but then too-real pain followed.

  Donatien opened his eyes and saw that he was face down on a bed. He recognized the scent. So she did not refuse me after all. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us if she had.

  The soothing stroke of her hand; its warmth left his back. Donatien turned his head and fought pain and dizziness.

  “Lay still, Mr. Geary,” Peace told him. She pressed a cold damp cloth to the lump on the side of his head. “What happened?”

  Donatien thought to assume Geary but only used his voice. “One of the men asked if I had been to your bed. I could not permit him to insult you in that way.” He tentatively moved a shoulder. “I think they broke a rib.”

  “They?”

  “His friends joined in the fray. There were a few too many.”

  “At least a half dozen from the looks of you,” Peace said. “Do you wish to rest? I can bind the rib in the morn.”

  “Do it now. I cannot spend the night here.” Donatien rolled onto his side. A wave of nausea halted him.

  When Peace left and returned with a bowl, he gave a tiny shake of his head and instantly regretted the action. “You’ll have to help me sit up.”

  Peace eased his legs off the bed. Then she put her hands beneath his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  In answer Donatien place his hand against the bed and began to raise his torso. He would have fallen back but for Peace pushing and pulling him upright. The Frenchman sat leaning his forehead against the night-rail atop her breasts. As the dizziness settled he became aware of her scent, her warmth, her state of deshabille and the firm mounds beneath it.

  “Sit up.”

  The cold command summoned Donatien back to his senses.

  Gritting his teeth he leaned back but was forced to grab hold of Peace’s waist to steady himself. He tipped his head up slightly to see her face. With her hair flowing over her shoulders and the flickering golden glow from the candelabra she looked like a Madonna.

  Donatien lowered his head and closed his eyes to shut out the image. But his hands moulded the curve of her hip, her warmth and sensuousness. He let go and clutched at the mattress to stay upright.

  “I shall be back in a moment,” Peace said abruptly.

  The pad of her bare feet alerted Donatien to her return. He met her gaze and flinched at the harshness there.

  “Drink this before I begin. It will warm you and lessen the pain.”

  “You sound very certain of that,” Donatien tried to jest as he took the cup.

  “With your scars you should also be certain.”

  Donatien drained it. When he handed it back he saw his hair ribbon threaded through her fingers.

  “Why is it red, monsieur?”

  The bitterness in her eyes told him she was thinking of those women who wore a red ribbon about their necks, a style known as á la guillotine. “I was visiting Paris during the early days of the Terror. I would not mock those who died.”

  Peace dropped the ribbon. She picked up a roll of white cloth and indicated he should hold one end against his chest. When her fingers brushed his as she came back around, she whispered, “How do you know my name?”

  “It is common knowledge.”

  “My name before I came here.”

  “Vianne.” Her tremble signalled a victory. For the first time that he could recall, Donatien thought before he spoke the half-truth. “I met the Comte Bettencourt and his wife before the Terror swallowed sanity. They spoke of their daughter, Vianne. You are the image of Comtesse Bettencourt.”

  Peace stilled, then jerked the cloth about his ribs tight.

  Donatien gasped. “You should not be in this place,” he whispered as she reached around him to pass the strip. It earned him another wrench of the cloth but he stifled any expression of pain.

  “What would you do, Mr. Geary? Marry the French aristo and
take her home to your family?” Peace laughed harshly as she tied the strip. She placed a hand over the scar on his right arm.

  “From this and the scars on your back, it appears you did not escape fate any more than I.”

  The truth of it smote Donatien. He trembled as he rose to his feet. In Peace’s gaze he saw his past torment reflected. Saw compassion and understanding, and feared his need.

  Forgetting his pain, Donatien encircled Peace with his arms and clung to her.

  * * *

  Peace stood rigid in his hold. But her long restrained emotions struggled against their tethers. Recalling all she had to loose, she put her hands against his chest and pushed while she stepped back.

  “Your blouse and jacket are on the chair, sir. You did say you had to go?” Regret and something else she dared not investigate flickered in his eyes.

  “Of course, madam. May I call next eve?”

  To ask the question you have not? Peace picked up her shawl and wrapped it about her like a shield. “If you must,” she whispered and left him. She sat in her husband’s bedchamber until she heard Geary leave.

  Peace contemplated the boxes of flintlocks and considered the danger the Riding officer posed not only to her heart but also to her life. In the end she was certain of only one thing. I will succeed and leave Whitby forever.

  * * *

  Yorkshire October 18th Midday

  Lucian’s head snapped back and hit the wood above the meagre padding of the coach seat. “God dammit,” he swore and groaned when he touched his face.

  “I image that does hurt,” Sampson Clayton told him sympathetically as he eyed the swollen cheek and eye. “But please stifle the foul language. Ladies present, you know.”

  Lucian looked blearily at the vicar. “I’m still on this bloody coach?”

  “Haven’t gotten off it since York,” Sampson told him. “’Twas a rough sort that convinced you to continue with us. One of them gave me this–”

  “Father, no,” Ruth protested on the other side and grabbed for the bottle but Lucian grasped it first. Her hand closed over his and then she pulled it back as if burned.