Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  Chapter Thirteen

  Folkestone May 27, 1809 Saturday Mid-morning

  Jenks cursed his luck and shrank back around the corner. He flattened against the wall. The past late night, coupled with aches from creeping up and down a trellis covered by a thorny rose bush, had made him careless.

  That makes three times Blacky has been the same place as me, he thought. He had easily spotted the man outside the Cherry Inn. Peering around the corner, the batman studied the large man with the tall, worn, beaver hat. His black suit had the shiny lustre of hard wear, his shoes sturdy construction. He watched Blacky peer at a small notebook.

  “There he is,” a voice called out behind the batman.

  He turned, saw the excise men, and bit back an oath. Jenks watched them approach. He smiled at their surprise when he did not run away.

  “Cap’n Medworth wants ta speak ta ye,” the smaller said without pretence of a greeting.

  The larger one grabbed the batman’s arm.

  Jenks froze him with a look that had given NCOs pause in the past. He shrugged out of the man’s grasp. With exaggerated motions, Jenks straightened his sleeve. “Where might I find this capt’n?”

  “Follow me,” ordered the smaller man. “Punt, you keep an eye on him.”

  Jenks followed him with assumed nonchalance. He glanced over his shoulder. Blacky followed at a discreet distance.

  By the time they neared the building used by Captain Medworth, Jenks had formulated a plan. He located Blacky and noted an alley lay to the left.

  The smaller soldier saluted Lieutenant Topken. “Here’s the chap Cap’n Medworth wanted.”

  “Sit.” The lieutenant shoved Jenks toward some chairs against the far wall between two doors. “Any trouble?”

  “None ’tal,” Punt answered.

  “The captain will speak with you when he wants to,” Topken sneered, and entered a door to the right.

  Jenks leaned his head back against the wall. He thanked God for poor construction that proved no barrier to sound and concentrated on the conversation in the room behind him.

  “Ross assured me not a half hour ago that the Frenchman, Porteur, is at Lambert’s home. The men set to watch the house have been ordered to follow him if he leaves.”

  “Good,” Captain Medworth nodded at Lieutenant Peters.

  “What do you have?” he asked Topken.

  “Punt just brought in Broyal’s man. He’s outside.”

  “Now if only we knew where Broyal was,” Peters commented.

  Irritation flickered across the captain’s features. “If Punt knew where the man he was set to watch disappeared to yesterday, we’d probably have that gentleman now,” he admonished.

  A struggle at the door interrupted the conversation. Punt and Terry jostled each other as both tried to come through the narrow door.

  “He gave the note to me,” bellowed Punt.

  “But he told me what to tell the Cap’n,” shouted Terry. He wriggled out of Punt’s hold and shot into the room. “Cap’n, sir,” he halted before Medworth with a haphazard salute. “That note Punt has tells where Broyal be hidin'."

  Medworth jerked the torn piece of paper from Punt’s hand. He unfolded it. His scowl darkened as he read. Crushing the paper in his fist, the captain strode to the window. He stared out of it several moments, then turned.

  “Topken, assemble a troop and take it to Hart Cottage. Do nothing until I arrive. Do not allow anyone to leave the house.”

  In the outer room, Jenks stood up. He eased away from those who paid him no mind as they peered through the door to watch who would get credit for the note. The batman strolled out of the building and made for the alley and the stack of barrels just a few feet inside it. When he reached them, he shoved the barrels. They crashed to the ground and rolled into the street. Fleeing, Jenks gave a hoot of glee as Blacky leapt out of the way of the tumbling casks.

  * * *

  Hart Cottage Saturday Mid-morning

  “Maddie, is Father worse this morn?” Jessamine asked when her elder sister sat down to breakfast.

  “You do not look like you slept at all,” Ruth commented. “Do you want me to sit with Father?” she asked timidly.

  Choking on her toast, Maddie was relieved to hear Aunt Prissy answer that it would not be necessary.

  “But dear,” Miss Benton added with a meaningful look, “remember what we spoke of earlier this morning.”

  Before another word could be said, Malcolm straightened with the verve of sudden inspiration. “I will take all of you on a picnique.” He motioned to his younger sisters and winked at his eldest. “We have dawdled here too long. Go upstairs and fetch your bonnets, but be very careful not to disturb Father.

  “Maddie,” he continued. “Can you accompany us? I am certain Aunt Prissy can handle the nursing duties.”

  “Do come,” Jessie begged. “It has been ever so long since we’ve done anything fun. We hardly see you anymore.”

  Maddie scooted her chair back and hugged her little sister. “I would like to come.” Looking over Jessamine’s head at her brother, she continued, “but Captain Medworth will call today to speak with Father. I must be here.”

  “Perhaps I had better remain, also,” Malcolm offered.

  “You cannot disappoint everyone after promising such a treat,” Maddie told him. She waved aside the volley of protests from her sisters. “I am going to explain to the captain that Father will not be well enough to see him for several days.”

  She released Jessamine and stood. “I will tell Corrie to pack a luncheon. Where do you mean to take them, Malcolm?”

  “Limes Point,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  With a shake of her head Maddie left the dining room. She smiled at the girls’ excited babble. Instructions given to Corrie, she headed up the stairs. Outside her father’s chamber she paused and then entered her room instead.

  Maddie stared out of her window. Her thoughts jumped from ways to delay Captain Medworth to the man in the next room.

  How could I have behaved with such abandon?

  The fiery blue of his gaze the moment before his lips had captured hers last eve came back with full force. The pleasure of his lips, the sensations aroused by his indefinable scent and the press of his hard body pushed all else aside. If only things were different. If only it were possible. She sighed.

  “But it is not,” Maddie told herself. She lay on her bed and closed her eyes to rest. But visions of Mr. Broyal and dreams of what she yearned for in her heart beckoned her.

  * * *

  A repeated rasp in the room next door roused Maddie from her unintended nap. Recognizing the thud of drawers being open and closed, she sat up. Whirling out of her room, Maddie sailed into her father’s chamber. She found Quentin examining her mother’s jewellery case.

  “What are you doing?” Maddie flew to his side, reached for the object in his hands. “How dare you?”

  His larger stronger hand captured one of her wrists. “Quiet,” Quentin hissed. “What if someone hears you?”

  Ceasing to struggle, Maddie stared at the miniature in his free hand. “What are you doing?”

  “I was curious to see what your father looked like,” he answered and placed the cameo back in the jewellery case. “My mother kept a miniature of my father with her favourite jewellery. I thought yours might do the same.” He released her wrist.

  “I am sorry if I upset you. When I realized your parents had once shared this room, I—”

  “Invaded their privacy,” she finished, tears welling.

  “Maddie.” Quentin drew her into the circle of his arms. He held her close, brushed a kiss on her hair. “Let me help.”

  “Help?” she mumbled into his shirt and leaned her head against it. How very tempting.

  How very impossible. She realized then that he had again used her given name, but she could not object. The sound of it on his lips was too sweet.

  Quentin felt her shoulders stiffen before she placed
her hands on his chest and pushed back. Keeping her within his arms, he gazed down at her. Her troubled eyes twisted his heart. He took in her watery smile, stepped back, and tugged on his right ear.

  Maddie stared at the action, aware of an impression that it meant something to her but she could not pull it into focus. “How can a criminal help me?” she asked. She steeled herself when she saw him flinch at her words.

  “I am not a criminal—”

  “Nor a free trader?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  Quentin shied from the tremulous note in her voice. “I can help you, Maddie. If you will let me.”

  She cast aside the niggling thought that she had missed something and concentrated on her aunt’s early morning suggestion. “You must leave tonight.” Watching him, his features blank, Maddie reached into her pocket. “I—we thought you would have need of this.” She held out a ten-pound note.

  Comic disbelief flared across Quentin’s features. “Why on God’s earth would you—” His brain catching up with his anger, he clenched a fist. “When Medworth calls today, you must tell him he may speak with your father on the morrow.”

  “I told you—my father is in Tunbridge Wells.”

  “I suppose Mr. Vincouer went there without a stitch of clothing?” Quentin gestured at the armoire. “The wardrobe in this room and the one in the dressing room overflow with his clothing. He is not in Tunbridge Wells.”

  Maddie clenched her jaw, fought back the disaster racing towards her.

  More gently he asked, “Has Medworth ever seen your father?”

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Maddie,” Quentin voice caressed her. “Please trust me. I have a plan. On my honour, I—”

  “Honour?” The pledge seemed ludicrous when made by a man who could not walk about freely. “Mr. Baylor doesn’t think you even gave us your true name, Mr. Broyal.”

  A sharp knock interrupted them. Pricilla scurried into the room. “Captain Medworth awaits you,” she told Maddie breathlessly. “He has a troop of men with him.”

  “Do what I asked, Maddie. Tell Medworth to come back tomorrow,” Quentin entreated. “Trust me.”

  “You have to come now,” Aunt Prissy urged. “The captain is very upset.”

  Maddie refused to be rattled by her aunt’s ashen looks. She forced a sedate pace down the stairs. Her steadiness faltered when she met disgust and anger in Medworth’s eyes. Pausing on the last step, she forced a slight smile. “Let us go to the sitting room, Captain.”

  “No,” he clipped.

  Her confidence shaken by his unfamiliar coldness, Maddie lowered her gaze. “Please, Captain,” she entreated. Alarm filled her eyes at sight of the soldiers standing just beyond the steps of the open door. Taking his arm, she tried to guide him towards the sitting room. “I have good news for you,” Maddie said and increased the pressure on his arm.

  “Good news?”

  “Yes.” She forced a smile when he followed her lead. “Mr. Balfor told me Father will be able to speak with you on the morrow.” Maddie preceded him into the sitting room, took a seat. She motioned the captain to do likewise.

  Medworth looked down at her. Chagrin and disbelief roiled in his eyes. He took her hands in his and pulled her upright. “I must see your father today, Miss Vincouer.”

  “Please, call me Madeline,” she said with a forced simper. The regret flashing across his features filled her with dread.

  Releasing her, Medworth reached inside his jacket and drew out a torn piece of paper. He handed it to Maddie.

  Her hand trembled at his look. Maddie met his gaze calmly as she accepted it. “What is this?”

  “Read it.”

  Unfolding it, Maddie stared. The words wavered before her eyes.

  If you wish to find your wounded free trader, search Hart Cottage.

  * * *

  “What in the hell are you doing back here?” Broyal asked as Jenks fell into the room.

  Miss Benton gaped. “Good God!” she exclaimed.

  Jenks swore under his breath. “I barely made it back, sir. I managed to put Perseus in the stables but that won’t do you much good. The Preventives mean to search the house,” he told him. “They are surrounding it.”

  Quentin paced; his choices drastically narrowed.

  When Miss Benton continued to gape, Jenks demanded in a loud whisper, “What are you staring at?”

  “For a moment I could have sworn you were—”

  “We shall have to do it,” Quentin cut her off. His fierce look silenced a renewal of the objections Jenks had broached the night past. “It will be a bit rough with Maddie not knowing a thing about it, but you,” he rounded on the older woman, “Miss Benton, can help smooth that over.” He turned back to Jenks.

  “Get ready.”

  “You aren’t strong enough to pull it off,” Jenks protested. “Besides all you need do is tell Medworth,” he remembered the woman’s presence and ended, “the truth. This other madness is too far-fetched. In fact,” he put his hands on his hips and took a belligerent stance, “I think your brain has been addled by—”

  “Enough. Do it.”

  Miss Benton jumped at the snap in Quentin’s voice. Putting a hand to her heart, she watched Jenks, muttering under his breath, stalk into the dressing room. “What on earth do you mean to do?”

  “I think you are counting on my doing quite a bit,” Quentin accused. He strode to the wardrobe and pulled out the garments Jenks had brought him. “Listen to what you must do while I change.”

  He made a silent apology to his mother for breaking every rule for good behaviour she had ever instilled in him. “Do not waste our time with untruths, Miss Benton. Not if you want to avoid gaol.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Prescott House Saturday Afternoon

  Having rushed on foot from Hayward, Petit staggered to a halt behind a clump of evergreens a hundred feet from Lambert’s residence. Excise men lounged several feet away. Petit pursed his lips in distaste at the black bunting on Lambert’s door, a reminder of that gentleman’s demise.

  Straightening his jacket and cravat, he walked forward. He ignored the laughter and catcalls of the soldiers. He entered the house without knocking. As soon as the door closed behind him, Petit dashed up the stairs as fast as his stubby legs could manage. At the door he collected himself, calmed his breathing and then entered the library with a measured tread.

  Petit halted six feet in front of the huge desk which dominated the book-lined room. Clasping his pudgy hands behind him, he waited with painfully garnered patience.

  The balloon clock on the mantle ticked out the seconds. Its metallic clicks accompanied the scratching of the pen the man at the desk wielded with unhurried strokes. Laying it aside when he finished, Donatien sanded the document. He folded and sealed it with precise movements of his long-nailed fingers. Only then did he look at the dwarf.

  At his master’s nod Petit moved forward three feet and bowed deeply. “The news is not good, monseigneur. Capitaine Medworth is to search the home of Monsieur Vincouer.”

  Donatien steepled his forefingers. “Why is he doing this?” he asked in French.

  Petit pulled on his forelock before answering in kind. “A note given to him this morning prompted the orders.”

  Donatien tapped his forefingers against each other. “What is the captain looking for? Who wrote this note?”

  “The message implied he would find the wounded free trader there. Who sent the note is not known, monseigneur.”

  Rising, Donatien flowed around the desk with a document in hand. He opened the safe behind a painting and placed the paper inside before withdrawing a long box. After he closed the safe, the Frenchman walked up to his servant.

  Petit stared at his master’s highly shined shoes; saw Donatien’s green breeches reflected in their large gold buckles.

  Donatien dangled a thick gold chain in front of the little man. “M. Lambert no
longer has need of this. It was his last piece of family jewellery. Sad, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui, monseigneur,” Petit responded carefully.

  “And M. Broyal? Is he with the Vincouers?”

  “It is probable,” Petit answered, his eyes held by the dangling noose of gold. “It is hardly possible M. Vincouer suffered une hemorage in his grave.”

  Donatien permitted a sneer to curve his thin, rouged lips. “And it had all gone so well to this point.” He paused, “Except for that little mistake with M. Lambert. I shall be irritated if forced to move our—our collection in the short time remaining. Captain Medworth becomes a nuisance.” He snapped the long thin fingers of his free hand.

  Swallowing nervously, Petit nodded at the dangling necklace. “An accident can be arranged for le Capitaine?”

  With a tired sigh, Donatien tossed the necklace to him. “No, let us pray Mademoiselle Vincouer continues to be quick-witted. But I hoped M. Broyal would prove a valuable, ah, how shall I say it, resource.”

  He clasped his hands loosely behind his back. “Will we have a report on what the captain finds?”

  “Naturellement, monseigneur.”

  Donatien motioned languidly to the necklace in Petit’s hand. “Use it to guarantee loyalty.” He returned to his seat behind the desk.

  “We will do nothing about Medworth at this time. But begin arrangements so that we may move the collection at the least hint of eminent discovery. There is less than a week before the vessel arrives to take it away.” He waved dismissal.

  Petit bowed very low and backed from the room.

  Donatien laid one hand over the other on the desktop. Who could have sent that note? he pondered. What was meant to happen? How interesting if I could discover that. A sinister smile twisted his lips.

  * * *

  A lean, swarthy-faced man motioned to Petit as he headed toward the rear of the house. “In here.”