Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  Broyal had been even thinner than his first visit upon returning to England from Spain. Fine lines of pain had edged his eyes. If only I had seen that and realized the cause.

  “I promise you, my dear,” Margonaut addressed his wife’s portrait across the room. “I shall try, to my death, to be the father Quentin should have had these years past.”

  * * *

  Folkestone, England May 19th Friday Morning

  Light rain slithered between Quentin’s narrow brimmed hat and jacket collar and trickled down his back. He flexed his shoulders and momentarily forgot the chill in the satisfaction that there was no pain in the movement.

  A sudden gust of wind shook the leaves above him. Swearing at the cold shower, he backed his mount closer to the trunk of the mammoth oak. Damme, he thought, irritated, another wasted day.

  Broyal withdrew his pocket watch. Flipping it open, he saw an hour had passed since his arrival at the place set last eve in a rundown tavern in Folkestone.

  Just thinking of the Black Bull made him twitch. His bed had been full of unwelcome crawlies. Should have taken the floor from the start, he thought wryly.

  Dismounting, Quentin looked up and down the path that was just off the road to Dover. When his mount nickered, he patted the gelding’s wet neck. “Easy, Perseus. We’ll wait a few minutes more and then we shall find you a dry stall.”

  The horse nuzzled Broyal’s pocket. Laughing Quentin withdrew a couple of sugar cubes from it and offered them to the gelding on his palm. “You’re a lot like your older half-brother,” he said remembering Hellion, lost over the side of the mountain in Spain.

  The sounds of the past rushed over him—the scrabbling grating echo of falling rocks, screams, shouts. Sweat beaded on his brow. Quentin forced the too vivid memory back by summoning the word picture he had memorized from Vincouer’s letters—Maddie seated at a writing table, her aunt embroidering at one side, two of her sisters playing with dolls and another reading a book. This image of Maddie and her family calmed him, had enabled him to endure additional agony after he was wounded near Castantino, and that hellish storm-tossed trip home to England. Why the memory did this, he wasn’t certain. He was sure that he admired Maddie’s fiery spirit.

  Quentin shook his head. An idea on how to repay his debt to Jamey had taken shape when Danbury gave him Maddie’s letters. Was it attractive only because it stood in direct conflict with his father’s commands?

  It was raining that first day I arrived at Bellum, Quentin thought back to his last visit. He remembered the pelting tap of rain against the library windows during that horrendous interview with his father.

  “Broyal, you will pardon me for not rising,” the earl greeted Quentin by his honorary title. He plucked at the lap robe covering his legs. “This weather has gotten into my bones.”

  Unconsciously snapping to attention at the first word, Quentin looked down at his father and marvelled how shrunken he appeared. He looked at the bony hand, limp on the lap robe, the craggy head with its sunken features. Concern wormed its way into his heart. “I trust you are not ill, Margonaut?”

  “No, no.”

  Quentin watched the earl force his attention to his presence. He met the accusation in the ice blue eyes with steel resolve. “I am deeply sorrowed by Thomas’ loss, my lord. He was an excellent brother.”

  “He would have made an exceptional earl,” his father cut him off with a jerky wave of his hand. “But make do we must.”

  The tears in his father’s eyes cut Broyal like broken glass. Guilt swept over him.

  “I suppose I should be thankful you survived that fiasco in Spain,” the earl growled.

  “If the Spanish generals had supported General Sir John Moore—”

  “Not a word, sir. I am not interested. You chose—”

  “Only a slightly different path than you had set for me,” Quentin interrupted, then reined in his temper. He reminded himself that he loved this difficult old man.

  Margonaut frowned deeply.

  Quentin momentarily thought it was because of the still red scar on his forehead and the fact that Bellaport’s clothes hung loosely on his large frame. Hopefully word that his wound had not healed had not reached his father.

  The marquess’ frown turned bitter.

  “You threw my needs, my wishes aside, and dishonoured your mother’s legacy,” Margonaut said.

  A sound behind Quentin stiffened him, jerked him back to the present.

  “That be a fine animal.”

  He relaxed at the high-pitched boyish voice. “Yes, he is.” Broyal turned and faced a small barefoot lad, more wet than dry, who stared at Perseus with awed admiration.

  “Come, give him this.” Quentin held out a sugar cube. He watched the boy eye it in consternation. Digging in his pocket again, Broyal fetched out a second cube. “You can keep one for yourself if you wish.”

  A huge smile answered him. Grubby hands reached for the cubes. Without hesitation, the boy popped one into his mouth. His eyes widened with pleasure. After a few moments, he approached the large horse which eyed him unconcerned.

  “Open your hand flat and hold it up for him to see the cube,” Quentin instructed. Trusting Perseus’ impeccable manners, he checked his watch again. It was well past the appointed meeting time.

  “He be something,” the lad said as the horse gently picked the cube from his hand. He scratched the broad forehead and then rubbed the horse’s nose. “Hope some day ta get me one such as this.”

  Quentin swung into the saddle. He gave his shoulders a shake when the breeze prodded another shower from the leaves. “Can I take you somewhere?”

  “If ye be the bloke from Black Bull, I’ve a message.”

  Resisting the urge to scratch at the mere mention of the tavern, Quentin smiled. “I have a room at that establishment,” he said with light sarcasm. “The message?”

  “The gent said how he was sorry he couldna meet with ye this morn.”

  Irritation knit Broyal’s brows.

  The boy hurriedly added, “He’ll meet up with ye this night in Hawking, at Mol’s Place. ‘Tis on just the other side of Hayward.”

  “Did this ‘gent’ give a time?”

  “Nay, he said to tell ye to be pa—pat—”

  “Patient?” Broyal guessed.

  “That be the word. And ta keep yer eye out fer a cove as spills ale on ye.”

  Quentin flipped a coin to the lad.

  The boy plucked it out of the air and disappeared into the woods.

  Broyal urged Perseus into a canter. After few miles he reined to a slower pace.

  Hawking. Quentin pondered what he knew of the area. He recalled the detailed map he had studied before he visited the taverns on Castlereagh’s list.

  If I am correct, Hayward is off the main road four, mayhaps five miles.

  Coming upon a crossroads with a sign for Hayward, Quentin halted Perseus and gazed down the rutted track. 'Tis unfortunate I left the letters behind in Dover with Jenks. I could have delivered them to Miss Vincouer and seen how she fares.

  Quentin’s stomach gurgled noisily. I could find a hot meal at Hayward before going to Hawking. Mayhaps I can learn something of Maddie’s circumstances. Find out how pressing matters have become for her. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Before he could change his mind Broyal urged his mount toward Hayward.

  * * *

  Quentin drew to a halt below the swaying sign of the Two Horse Inn. The young boy who dashed out to take Perseus’ reins as he dismounted stilled his scepticism about the quality of the place. “See to him,” he ordered and strode inside the modest establishment. Cleaner than the Black Bull, it also had the aroma of baking bread and succulent roast beef.

  The innkeeper appeared at once and bowed. “Welcome,” he said eyeing the stranger.

  Broyal withdrew several coins and handed them to him. “I would like that table by the window facing the street,” he said. Politeness coated the demand. “A plate of food and a tankard of ale
.” He drew his gloves off as he finished.

  Surprised but pleased that one of the gentry would hand over the blunt first, the innkeeper bowed as he closed his fist over the coins. “At once, sir,” he said, and hurried away.

  Hanging his damp caped coat over a chair, Quentin tossed his gloves on the table. He set his narrow-brimmed beaver on the table and sat facing the street.

  The innkeeper appeared at his side. “Your food will be brought out in a few minutes,” he said as he set a tankard of ale before Broyal, then hurried away to greet another arrival.

  Quentin watched the foot and coach traffic on the street. Hayward reminded him of Beachind, the village a short distance from Bellum Castle. Beachind brought his father to mind. He scowled.

  Misinterpreting his look, the mop-capped serving woman, her ample girth swathed in an apron said, “'Twon’t rain again today, sir.” She set before him one plate heaped with roast beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions and another with a hot bun and a slather of butter.

  “Thank you—”

  “Oh, my, those Vincouer girls are going to be in such trouble,” the woman cooed. Noticing her patron’s brows arch in question, she motioned toward the window.

  Quentin scanned the street.

  The woman thrust out a hand and pointed. “There, in front of the confectionary.”

  The sight of three young girls in animated conversation as they gestured at items behind the confectioner’s window brought a smile to Quentin’s lips. All of them were damp from the morning rain. They had managed to dirty the hems of their day gowns as well as get splattered with mud.

  After the tallest entered the shop, the smallest looked repeatedly down the street. Suddenly she tugged at her sister’s skirts. Quentin looked further down the street and saw a young woman striding toward the girls, her face set in stern lines.

  The young woman from Vincouer’s sketch. Maddie. Quentin’s heart lurched, leapt to his throat, and ricocheted to his feet.

  “They’ll be the death of Miss Vincouer.”

  Quentin tore his eyes from Maddie. “What?”

  The serving woman clucked her tongue. “You’d think with their father so ill, they’d behave proper like. Too bad her brother is so young. ’Tis not right for a woman to have the handling of the bills and—”

  Quentin unknowingly half snarled.

  She followed his gaze back to the feminine cluster. “Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to carry on so,” she said and then hurried off.

  Quentin watched Maddie stride up to her sisters. It was evident the girls gave voluble excuses, and then grew silent as she stood, wordless, before them. He saw her open the door of the confectionary shop and beckon her sister to come out.

  When the taller girl joined the group, Maddie spoke, her features earnest. Then they turned and walked away. Something twisted inside Quentin at her tired expression, at the way she straightened her shoulders as if to better bear a burden.

  A similar weight lay on his. Phillip and Lynnette inspired fierce affection. Quentin resolved never to allow either of them to suffer because of he and his father’s quarrel.

  Then Maddie turned and stared in the direction of the inn. He savoured the view. Vincouer drew her likeness true. She has his look about the eyes. I wonder if she is as trusting as he? Her hair, what he could see of it beneath her bonnet, was raven black, her chin delicate.

  She is too thin, Broyal thought even as he admired the feminine curves outlined by the rain-dampened muslin. Quentin watched Maddie saunter towards the inn. His pulse leaped; his mind bid him look away but he could not. When a man screened her from his view, an unreasonable annoyance rose.

  “Ma’am?” he called to the serving woman a table away.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Do you know the gentleman speaking with Miss Vincouer?”

  She looked at the pair in the street but saw only the man’s back. “Can’t rightly say. Might be thet Mr. Lambert.”

  Quentin watched the man take Miss Vincouer’s hand and place it on his sleeve. She smiled. Envy stirred.

  * * *

  Hawking Friday Evening

  Mol’s Place, a weary worn stub of a building, stood just outside of Hawking. The air inside it was heavily ladened with sweat, ale, and the suspiciously sour. Quentin determinedly sipped the ale in the grimy tankard and then set it on the cracked table before him. The omnipresent dust and grime made him thankful he had had a hearty meal earlier.

  A casual glance around the murky room revealed less than Broyal wished to know about the inhabitants. The proprietor was a swarthy, meaty fellow with the look of a seasoned sailor. A worn jerkin of the type Quentin had seen in Folkestone’s harbour covered his striped jersey.

  Except for a man slumped across a table not far from him, the others sat in small groups. All flashed wary eyes at Quentin from time to time and muttered. He shifted uneasily but had no choice but to wait.

  A short time later the door of the tavern thudded open. A gust of wind stirred the dank air. In tumbled two men and a woman.

  The woman looked around the room. At sight of Broyal she grinned and slowly swaggered up to him, leaned on the table, and waggled her ample breasts in his face. “Cor, ain’t you fine.”

  Quentin lifted one eyebrow. “Good eve.”

  “’Haps ye do me a favour and I do ye one?” she winked.

  “Lizzy,” one of the men who had entered with her hissed. When she didn’t respond he grabbed a fistful of her dishevelled hair. “Yer with me.” The man tried to jerk her away from Broyal’s table.

  Quentin grabbed his wrist. “Leave her be.”

  “Ye ain’t got no cause ta stop me,” he whined, but released the woman. “Ye should mind yer own business, yer honour,” he snarled and pulled a curved knife from a sheath on his belt.

  The rush this sudden danger created surged through Quentin. He smiled lazily. “My father always bade me think before I act.”

  “This fine gent thinks he’s at one a them fine clubs in Lunnon. We’d best teach ‘im a thing or two.” He moved the knife towards Quentin’s throat.

  The metallic click from the Manton pistol in Broyal’s hand stopped the man cold.

  “I thought you might see reason,” Quentin told him. He raised the pistol and pressed the point of the barrel against the man’s paunch.

  A stranger in a dark suit with a black wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face laid a hand on the knife holder’s arm. “Toby, put that away. There is no need for it among friends.” He tossed a couple of coins on the table.

  Toby’s doxy swept them up and in doing so appeared to jostle the stranger’s arm. Ale splashed onto Quentin’s sleeve.

  “Sorry, sir,” the stranger offered. “Mayhaps I could buy you another tankard?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Partridge be my name,” the man said by way of introduction. “Jonah Partridge,” he added, removing his hat.

  The man with Maddie Vincouer. She had graced this possible traitor with a smile. What connection could she have with this man?

  “Quentin Broyal,” the viscount replied coldly.

  Chapter Seven

  Hart Cottage May 19, 1809 Late Friday Afternoon

  “Aunt Prissy, how could you?” Maddie tried to keep the consternation from her features and her voice but failed. “How could you give the girls permission to follow me into Hayward when I had told you they were to stay home today? ‘Tis dangerous—”

  Pricilla Benton looked up from her embroidery with a troubled frown. “But my dear, you went alone did you not? I am sure that nice Captain Medworth—on one of his visits—said he was going to clear the countryside of danger.”

  Maddie fought down the urge to throw up her hands. “He was speaking of smuggling as you well know. Please, Aunt, promise me you will not let the girls leave the park again unless someone goes with them.”

  “But why?” Aunt Prissy puzzled. “Did you not hear the captain?”

  “Damme and blast the captain,” swore Maddie
heatedly.

  “Ahem, excuse me, miss,” Maves, the butler spoke from the open door of the sitting room. “Captain Medworth here to see you.”

  Captain George Medworth stepped around Maves. “I hope you do not mind if I join you.” In spite of Miss Benton’s look of utter horror and Miss Vincouer’s high colour he continued as if he had not overheard the latter’s prior exclamation.

  “Excuse me if I have come at an awkward moment.”

  A high trilling laugh echoed in the drawing room. Maddie, aghast, realized it was hers. “Of course not, Captain Medworth, I was just—just speaking of my sisters’ untoward behaviour this morning. Shockingly unladylike,” she twittered with an interior groan as she fluttered her handkerchief.

  The captain looked from Miss Vincouer to Miss Benton clearly puzzled at this unusual display.

  “Maves, please take the captain’s hat and gloves,” instructed Aunt Prissy. “He must think us beyond redemption to gape at him like this.”

  While the tall, broad shouldered Preventive officer handed his bicorne and his gloves to the butler, Maddie got her demeanour in hand. “Maves, bring the tea tray,” she requested. “Ask Corrie to send in the scones she made this morning.”

  “They are marvellous, Captain. You are fortunate to chance by just when they are still fresh,” Aunt Prissy prattled. “But then you always seem to be passing by,” she ended artlessly.

  “Please, do take a seat,” Maddie interrupted. She moved away from the settee and sat in the winged back chair near her aunt’s. The amusement that flickered across Medworth’s face as he strolled to the settee opposite the two women and sat reassured her he had not taken insult.

  “How is your father, Miss Vincouer?” he drawled. “May I hope to visit with him this afternoon?”

  Maddie lowered her gaze. “I fear not. He had a very bad morning and now sleeps.”

  “I see.” The captain leaned back in the settee and crossed his legs. “I am sorry to hear that. When I called the week past, in the morning, he had just had a poor night. The week before that a poor afternoon. I am most untoward in my timing, am I not?”