Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  A sudden alteration in the boy’s features turned Lucian to the door. Instinct told him to step back from Ruth’s upraised arm but her eyes riveted him in place.

  “Here,” Ruth said and shook her fist at him. “I owe you what it took to purchase Jemmy’s—apprenticeship,” she said her voice trembling, “and his fare from East Retford and—and a few other things.” She threw a wad of bills and coins at him. “Send me your address and I shall see you repaid in full.”

  As the bills fluttered through the air and the small shower of coins struck him, Lucian watched Ruth turn on her heels and stalk away. Her words rang in his ears as he focused on the money. Here was his avenue out of Whitby, back to sanity. Lucian gave a bark of laughter that nearly turned to a sob before it died away.

  Go after her. Explain it.

  Lucian saw Jasmine hanging in the air, heard her scream. He fisted his hands. “No!”

  Startled, Jemmy jumped, then he grinned and began to scoop up the bills. He glanced up as he squatted and filched the coins. “Knew ye wouldn’t ‘bandon them. ‘Specially not Miss Ruth.”

  At first it made no sense and then understanding flooded through him. “No,” Lucian began to refute but realized the boy was right. He pushed a hand into his hair.

  “Ye smell worse’n the stables,” Jemmy commented companionably. “Miss Ruth washed me face and hands first chance she got. A wonder she didn’t do the same ta ye.”

  A prickle of desire raced over Lucian’s skin at the thought of Ruth washing him. He choked and took a turn around the parlour.

  “Give her time ta cool her temper. ‘Haps ye weren’t meaning her da harm. Tell her wot happened,” Jemmy suggested with youthful wisdom.

  “Think so?” Lucian said abstractly attempting to wrap his mind around everything with little success.

  Jemmy considered it and grimaced. “Ye’ll have ta take soap and water to yer hide. Get clean clothes too,” he sighed woefully.

  The boy’s gaze made it clear this was a test. Fail it and be in his bad books forever, Lucian thought. He tried to convince himself that would be best, that he wanted no more ties but failed miserably. He drew in a deep breath and for the first time was totally aware of how foul he was.

  Standing up, bank notes and coins in hand, Jemmy assessed Merristorm. “If’n we work together we can help her—them,” he amended. “When they’re safe I’ll give ye back yer blunt and ye can be shot o’ us.”

  The boy wants a miracle, Lucian thought with a sharp pang. Deep thirst welled. He eyed the money. How far it was to an establishment where he could buy soul-numbing port?

  That’s the way to go, Lucian’s demon cackled. ‘Tis a fair amount. You can drink yourself senseless. Take it. Take it.

  Lucian reached out and enveloped the boy’s hands.

  With wide eyes Jemmy looked up at him as his grip tightened. “Sir?”

  “Put it someplace safe. We may need it,” Lucian tightened his grip and then dropped his hands.

  “Right, sir,” Jemmy chirped.

  The boy’s unearned admiration touched Lucian. With the right education the lad could accomplish anything. After a silent pledge to see to it, he straightened his shoulders and absently reached for the hilt of his sabre. Finding none there he snorted.

  “First thing is to get some weapons,” Lucian said.

  “Best see ta the soap and water first, sir,” Jemmy advised. “I can get the vicar’s shaving kit and some o’ his clothes. Yer about of a like size.”

  Lucian looked at the sitting room door. “Any ideas how to outflank the enemy?”

  Jemmy’s brows rose quizzically and then he grinned. “Put them boots on while I get what yer needin’,” the lad instructed. “I don’t know ‘bout no flankin’ but I can show ye a way around the house to the pump in back.” He scurried away.

  A strange sound startled Lucian. Then he realized he had chuckled. When was the last time he had thought to laugh, let alone smile? “The world’s turned awry,” Lucian muttered as he picked up his boots and sat on the sofa.

  Please God let me set it aright for Ruth.

  * * *

  Assured that her father was eating his porridge, Ruth stirred hers. Surely it wasn’t how it looked. I should have asked why, she thought unhappily. She took a bite and swallowed without tasting anything. No, it’s better he leaves. She toyed with her spoon and looked around the table. Both her father and Marietta depended on her. The weight of it nearly crushed her. Ruth bit her lip.

  “Do you think the creature will come back this eve?” Marietta asked.

  “Don’t speak o’ it,” Sairy Jane scolded.

  “Eat up, Miss Ruth, afore ye wear yer spoon ta nub.”

  “What? Yes,” the young woman said and set about the task. When she laid down her spoon she looked up and met her father’s gaze.

  “Where are my books?” the vicar asked.

  “There is a box of them in the cart. We had no time to bring them in last eve. I shall fetch it for you.” Ruth took her bowl to the cabinet.

  “Marietta, help Sairy Jane when you finish. After I settle Father we shall bring in the rest of our things.”

  Instead of going straight out of the house, Ruth turned right in the corridor and opened the door at the end of the short corridor. The weight on her shoulders eased slightly as she gazed at the worn desk that sat in front of a large bookcase over half-filled with books.

  The vicar’s office, she thought and slowly approached the desk. A copy of Sermons: by the late Reverend John Logan lay upon it beside the lamp with several markers sticking out of it. Paper with scribbles, as well as some blank pages sat in two neat stacks with a now dry inkwell, several quills, and a lamp. Ruth imagined her father at work writing a sermon. Tears threatened.

  Chasing away the doubt and fear she walked out leaving the door open. This has to be a sign. A sign that all will be well. With lighter steps she hurried out to fetch the box of books.

  “Jemmy,” Ruth called at the front steps. She set the box of books on the top step by the front door and called for the boy again.

  Marietta called from the corridor. “He’s out back—fetching—water,” she called amidst a flurry of giggles.

  “Come and help carry some of the books,” Ruth told her. She swiped several lose tendrils from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Marietta,” she called again when her sister did not immediately appear.

  “I didn’t remember how heavy this box was,” Ruth said when her sister finally came. She paused when she saw Marietta’s high colour. “What did Sairy Jane set you to work at?”

  “Dishes, that’s all,” Marietta said too quickly but held out her hands for the books. When she had as many as she could carry she hurried inside.

  “Turn to the left by the stairs. It’s the vicar’s study. Looks like it was made for Father,” Ruth chattered forcing brightness. “When we have everything unpacked we shall take Father over to the church.” She set the box on the floor by the chair and brushed her hands as if to dust them off.

  Marietta straightened from the books she had set on the chair behind the desk. “You cannot mean we are to remain here? Ruth, it is impossible.”

  Her heart sank at the words that had repeated after every stanza of plans to make this work. Ruth clasped her hands and met her sister’s gaze with a half-smile. “We have to make it work. We have no other choice.”

  “But the people of Whitby hate us,” Marietta cried. “And . . . and that creature last night. Jemmy said it had a tongue of fire and—”

  “He was hit on the head and has it jumbled,” Ruth told her. “Marietta,” she reached for her sister’s hand and clasped it tightly. “Father is not getting better—”

  “But this morn he was —”

  Ruth shook her head. “He is lucid less and for shorter lengths of time. You know it.”

  With a grimace Marietta freed her hand. “Then one of us has to wed.”

  “Wed whom?” snorted Ruth.

  “Mr. Merri
storm.”

  “He is gone and shall not return.”

  Marietta frowned. “But your scold did not frighten him away. Jemmy says the man means to save us.”

  “Save us,” snorted Ruth. “He can hardly stay upright on his feet.”

  “I am certain there was reason for him to over imbibe. Perhaps he does so to comfort a broken heart.”

  Ruth raised her gaze heavenward and counted to ten.

  “Besides he is quite handsome,” Marietta continued recklessly. “I do not think it would be unpleasant to be his wife.”

  “What utter nonsense,” Ruth said, her daydreams of just such a thing in the first days after London ever more a guilty folly. She stalked from the office towards the kitchen.

  There she found Sairy Jane wiping the dirt from the one of the windows. “That,” she said pointedly to her sister who had followed on her heels, “is the kind of industry that will permit us to stay here.”

  “I agree,” Marietta said.

  Ruth watched the corners of her sister’s mouth tilt upward as the young girl walked quickly past her and on to the window. Both the old woman and Marietta stared intently through the cleaned portion.

  “’Tis a right pleasin’ sight e’en fer an old woman,” Sairy Jane said and then went back to the table and began to knead the dough she had left resting there.

  With slow steps, though she knew not why she was so reluctant, Ruth went to the window. She gasped and stepped a little back at the sight before her.

  “Blessed Lord,” she breathed.

  Lucian stood at the pump stripped of all but his breeches. Jemmy dumped a bucket of the clear silver tinted fluid over his head. It sluiced across Merristorm’s bare torso.

  The sight stole Ruth’s breath despite the bruises on his back. Even with the dark red and purplish proof of his beating Ruth found his physique toe-curlingly magnificent. An inner voice demanded she look away. Ruth could not.

  Then Lucian turned in the direction of the window.

  Ruth’s breath hitched, lodged in her throat. Clean shaven, the symmetry of his lean saturnine features startled her. She had thought him handsome but stunning fit the man before her. His wet hair, black as raven wings, curled in way that gave Lucian a boyish charm that lured and seduced.

  Just gazing at him warmed Ruth yet chilled her like standing too close to a fire. She could not look away. Could hardly breathe. Her fingers itched to wend their way through the black matt of chest hair.

  Then Jemmy sloshed more water over Lucian. His muscles flexed as the cold fluid washed over him.

  Ruth thought for a moment that they rippled beneath her hands. Her throat went dry as a new hunger stirred. Deep warmth burned in her abdomen. She memorised the face, then slowly let her gaze travel past the bruises, noticed how the matt of hair narrowed to a vee that disappeared below his waistband.

  Ruth jerked her eyes upward to the scars but could not help looking down to his narrow waist. Further downward her gaze roved. The wet pantaloons clung suggestively to Lucian’s well-muscled legs.

  Ruth hastily raised her eyes. She followed his hand and the long elegant fingers she knew from studying in the coach; watched as he threaded them through his hair. An image of those hands on her sparked the fire in her belly to a roar.

  “I told you he was handsome,” Marietta whispered.

  Stunningly so, Ruth silently agreed. When Lucian turned his back, she followed the curve of his buttocks down the length of sinewy leg.

  He turned as if he sensed someone watched and looked in the direction of the window.

  A blush rose across Ruth’s cheeks. She thought to run and then realized he looked at the shed where they had stabled the horse. Ruth put her hand over her heart which threatened to leap out of her chest. With a wrenching force of will, she turned her back to the window and hustled Marietta away with her.

  “It is not proper to watch him,” she said breathlessly. Her face fairly burned. Her wits were mush and from simply watching a man bathe. With an effort Ruth wrenched her mind from the sight on which it still mentally feasted.

  * * *

  Lucian gathered the shaving kit and retreated to the small shed which served as a stable to dress. While he stripped Jemmy dragged a bucket up to the wiry horse and began to curry its matted hide.

  By the time he came to the cravat Lucian was near exhausted. He tried to fashion a presentable knot, though he refused to consider why he cared for anything more than a careless loop. His hands refused to cooperate. Their trembling worsened the more he tried to still them.

  Hearing him swear Jemmy stopped currying the mangy horse and jumped down from the bucket. “Let me have a go,” he offered. The boy moved the bucket away from the horse and motioned Merristorm to him. The boy awkwardly looped the strip of cloth into a lopsided knot. He stepped back and ran his gaze over Merristorm from head to foot.

  “Can’t think thet Miss Ruth’ll stay angry with ye now.”

  After a glance in the shaving mirror propped on a cross brace Lucian couldn’t agree. His features were too harsh, too lean, too dark. His eyes were red-shot with dark circles beneath them.

  Her father’s clothes fit him too loosely to enhance. For a second Lucian wished he had his light dragoon uniform and then immediately damned such foolishness. Better by far better if he had his sabre and saddle pistol.

  “Mr. Banker.” Lucian bowed formally to Jemmy. “May I withdraw ₤20 from my account?”

  “Ain’t ye the fine one,” Jemmy said sarcastically. “Ye learn them manners from a lord?”

  The vicar’s words, sharp, clear, flowed to the fore; pricked his certainty. Lucian scowled and snapped, “The ₤20?”

  “Fer what?”

  The glint in the boy’s eyes struck Lucian much like the flinty suspicion of the seasoned sergeant who had taught him the way to go as an untried lieutenant. “Something a bit safer than the blunderbuss but just as deadly.”

  “Oh, aye,” Jemmy agreed cautiously. “We go ta buy it ’gether?”

  “If Miss Ruth says you may.”

  “Ye ain’t gettin’ foxed?”

  Lucian shook his head.

  Jemmy still hesitated, then waved to the cart just beyond the shed’s door. “She said we had ta bring in the goods we left in the cart last eve.”

  “I’ll help.”

  Jemmy nodded solemnly and then giggled at a gurgle from Lucian’s midsection. “Best eat somma the farina thet were left from breakfast. It weren’t bad,” he added when Merristorm made a face. “It’ll make yer hands steadier,” he offered artlessly.

  “I’ll go ask Miss Ruth where she wants the boxes put,” Jemmy said and with a salute ran out toward the house.

  Lucian watched the boy until he disappeared through the back door then began to collect the shaving gear.

  His body ached and shivered from deprivation, his head throbbed, but the cold water if not the scrubbing had turned his mind to the task before him much as the approach of battle had often done. He arranged matters according to urgency. Protecting the Claytons came first for two reasons: Ruth and the need for answers from Sampson.

  She won’t take kindly to interference but she’s not a slow top, Lucian ruminated as he headed to the house’s back door, arms ladened. That it opened as he mounted the steps didn’t surprise him. He bowed as graciously as he could and smiled.

  Sairy Jane blocked his way and surveyed him. Evidently satisfied she asked, “Where’s yer things?”

  “I hung them over the shrubs beside the, er, stable.” At her arched brow he added, “I rinsed them well before I did so.”

  “Humph,” Sairy Jane said but tinted it with approval. She stepped back. “Put the things on the table and sit and eat,” the old woman commanded as she walked back the stove.

  “Yes ma’am,” Lucian answered meekly. “Jemmy tells me this is the best porridge he ever ate.” When the old woman looked over her shoulder he smiled innocently at her. She scowled in return. He sat and looked down at the bowl.


  His stomach threatened to turn over but at the first hurried swallow, began to settle. With some surprise Lucian found his appetite not only returned but increased ten-fold and wolfed down the rest. Scraping up the last bit he grinned the thanks of a wolf at the plate with a thick slice of bread with jam on it.

  Chomping a huge bite from the bread Lucian chewed and met Sairy Jane’s assessing gaze. The mouthful swallowed, he gave a wide smile. “A feast, Miss Sairy Jane. My humble thanks.”

  “Ye’ve a glib tongue as well as enemies,” she commented.

  Lucian cocked his head.

  “Friends don’t beat another and leave ‘em aside the road.”

  “Not in the usual run of things,” Lucian agreed.

  “Who did it ta ye?”

  “I have no idea,” Lucian answered honestly. “Likely some of the riffraff of Whitby plucked an easy pigeon.”

  She threw him a doubtful but considering look as she watched him take another huge bite. “There’s those as claims strangers did it.”

  Lucian’s pondered this. Was there something he had heard that indicated they were paid to do away with him? He turned sideways in the chair, casually looped an arm over its back. Seeing her stiffen slightly and bite her lip he decided to approach a different problem.

  “Who attacked Jemmy and Miss Clayton last eve?”

  “Don’t ye mean ‘what?’”

  With a rueful smile Lucian shrugged. “My memory isn’t as clear as it could be.”

  “I had a right smart time gettin’ ye movin’ off’n thet sofa,” Sairy Jane said, her gaze bold on him. “But ye did right well with thet blunderbuss.”

  “Bloody damme lucky it didn’t blow off both our heads.”

  “Thet occurred ta me. There weren’t nothin’ else ta do.”

  “Who?” Lucian asked softly.

  “Why?” Sairy Jane countered.

  Brow furrowed in puzzlement Lucian considered the question. “Why were they attacked or why do I want to know who did it?”

  The old woman gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “They were attacked,” Lucian said slowly, “to frighten them into leaving this house. Why, I don’t know.” He waited hoping without great confidence that she would supply the reason. After a prolonged pause he brought his arm off the chair and rose.