Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  The look in Geary’s eyes when he glanced down at the vicar made the hair at the nape of Lucian’s neck stand on edge. What would have happened if they had not been close by? he wondered before Ruth’s dismay snagged his attention.

  “We must get him back to the house at once,” Ruth said.

  He could no more resist the plea in her eyes than a bee could resist nectar. Lucian glanced up. “Thornley, bring your horse here. We’ll put the vicar on it.” When Sir Brandon looked about to refuse Lucian rose. He strode to the man and took the reins from his hand.

  Taking a hold of Ruth’s elbow Lucian gently urged her to her feet. He pushed the reins into her hand. “Steady it.

  “Come, Geary. Help me get him astride the beast.

  “Thornley, get on the other side. We’ll have to hold him on until we get to the vicarage.”

  Without waiting for a reply he bent and took hold the vicar’s arm. When Sampson cringed, Lucian forced the vicar to meet his gaze. “You are safe,” he told him in Greek. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”

  * * *

  St. Cedds Vicarage

  Jemmy’s glad cry greeted them as Ruth led the horse up to the back door. Lucian caught Sampson as the old man slumped into his arms. “Come inside,” Merristorm threw over his shoulder at Thornley and Geary before he carried the vicar through the door Sairy Jane held for him.

  After he laid the old man on his bed he took Ruth’s hand. Finding it like ice, he gently chaffed it. “He will be all right,” Lucian said softly.

  Ruth nodded and then pulled her hand free. She bent to loosen her father’s cravat.

  When Sairy Jane bustled in carrying a steaming cup, Lucian stepped back. He willed Ruth to look at him. When she did not he left the chamber.

  At the top of the stairs Lucian paused. How had Geary come to search for Clayton?

  What was Thornley doing in Whitby? Sir Brandon’s accusation raised his bile but now Lucian also heard Sampson urge that he ask his father what had happened. He slammed his fist against the top the balustrade. I know what happened then.

  Jemmy, bounding up the stairs paused when he saw the grim- faced Merristorm. “He’s not—”

  “Mr. Clayton is fine,” Lucian clipped. “The two men?”

  “Captain Geary left. Sir Thornley is in the parlour.” Jemmy fidgeted, “A fine bay were brought fer ye a bit ago.”

  “Good,” Lucian told him. “You help Miss Ruth and Sairy Jane.” He went down a step, halted, and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving. Help Miss Clayton any way you can.”

  The boy nodded solemnly and went up the stairs.

  Lucian continued down them and headed to the parlour. He paused in the doorway and saw Thornley seated with a half filled glass in his hands. The reddish liquid in it he took to be sherry. With some surprise he found he had no wish for any.

  Irritation at the lack of the Riding Officer and answers to how he had found Clayton rose anew. Thornley added to it as he presented a most unwanted puzzle at present.

  Seeing Merristorm Sir Brandon raised his now nearly empty glass and tipped it toward the bottle on the side table. “Shall I pour for a glass for you?” he asked with an assured sneer.

  Lucian strode to the fireplace and turned. One elbow on the mantel he studied his friend. “You are far from London,” he noted cryptically. “I didn’t realize you had friends in Yorkshire.”

  “You won’t mind if I help myself, especially since I brought you the sherry,” Thornley said rising. He filled his glass, drained half of it, and topped it off before he resumed his seat.

  “You really don’t know why I am here?” Thornley asked and was unable to keep the note of satisfaction from his words.

  Lucian reined in a spurt of anger. “How can I?” he managed.

  Sir Brandon studied the saturnine visage, leaner now but the eyes keen with intelligence instead of dull with drink. “How do you come to be in Whitby?” He watched Merristorm study the toes of his scuffed boots and triumph filled him.

  “What a fool I have been,” snorted Thornley with feigned exasperation. “I rush to rescue your bloody worthless hide and you don’t even know it needs saving.” He surged to his feet and raised his glass. Wine sloshed over the rim unnoticed.

  “There was a rumour in London that after I left you at your rooms in the early hours of the sixteenth last that you had been kidnapped, perhaps murdered. Some strange tale of your being chucked aboard a coach bound north. When I couldn’t find you I took to the Great North Road.” Disgust creased his features. “It didn’t take long to find people who had seen you. Drunk as a loon the entire way.”

  Lucian raised his eyes from his boots. “You took me back to my rooms after we left Lade’s?”

  “I doubt you remember it. Had to have my driver help carry you up those damnable stairs. Sodden drunk you’re harder to manage than a hound that wants to hare after a fox,” he said with feigned irritation.

  “I don’t remember much of that night,” Lucian admitted, galled to have to do so. It struck him that Lord Blake, Major Danbury of the 14th Light Dragoons who had oft prodded Lucian in his inimitable way to ease off the drink would be pleased to find him stone cold sober. A half smile curved his lips.

  “Smile will you, damme you,” Thornley spat. “Bloody uncomfortable journey I’ve had and for no good reason.

  “What are you about with that young woman? The boy says you live here with the family with no one for a chaperone but that odd old crone.”

  “The Claytons saw to it that I arrived in Whitby unscathed,” Lucian said tightly. A timid knock on the door turned him to it.

  Marietta posed nervously in the doorway.

  “Miss Marietta, Sir Brandon Thornley,” Lucian introduced the pair curtly as the man stood up.

  “My pleasure, miss,” Thornley said with a gracious bow.

  “Good eve, sir,” she replied then looked back at Lucian. “Sairy Jane asks if the gentleman will stay to dine.”

  “Of course not,” Thornley said at once. “I would not think to so intrude at such a time as this,” he said graciously and picked up his hat from the sofa. “I shall get a room in Whitby.”

  Hearing a knock on the front door Marietta excused herself.

  “When would it be convenient for me to call in the morn, Merristorm?” Thornley asked curtly.

  “Mr. Merristorm,” Marietta hurried back into the parlour. “A note for you from Captain Geary.”

  “Who brought it?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. The man left after he thrust this into my hand.” Marietta offered a crumpled sheet of parchment.

  “Nothing you could have done about it,” Lucian told her. He took the note and read. He scowled telegraphing a flicker of temper.

  “I have to go out for a time, Miss Marietta. Lock the doors behind me and permit no one to enter.”

  The young woman gave a nervous nod.

  “Is there something I can do?” Sir Brandon asked.

  “You might prove useful,” Lucian said cryptically. “Wait here.” He returned moments later with his sword buckled to his side and a pistol in his waistband.

  “I will return as soon as possible,” he told Marietta.

  To Thornley Lucian said, “Meet me at the front door,” and headed for the back door.

  After an awkward silence, Sir Brandon took Marietta’s hand. “Good eve, Miss Clayton,” he said brushing a kiss above it. “I shall call on the morrow to see how your father fares.”

  * * *

  The Wise Owl

  Merristorm’s visit upset Peace. She knew Geary wanted the man’s death. There were too many deaths already. For some unknown reason this revived a memory of the dying mew of her infant born before its time. Hurrying to her quarters, Peace sank down on the hard, cold, rough hearth. She hugged her legs to her chest; her forehead rested on her kneecaps. Unaware that she did so Peace rocked to and fro.

  The soft knock on the door did not pierce her concentration. Nor did the
flood of light when it opened. But at a softly spoken, “Vianne,” and a touch of a hand, Peace raised her head. With a mournful cry, she unfolded and threw herself into Geary’s waiting arms.

  He picked Peace up. Cradling her tenderly Geary sat in the rocker she favoured. Holding her against him, his cheek pressed against her hair, he rocked Peace until she stirred. “What has happened?” he murmured against her ear in French.

  Peace heaved a deep lengthy sigh and pulled back. She studied the long lean face. The dark eyes, usually shielded, sparked with concern.

  Peace turned her face away and tried to slam the door on the emotions roiling through her.

  Geary pulled her closer. “What has happened?”

  “A memory. A sad memory,” Peace said in a cold monotone.

  He took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him.

  “Some killers are eventually punished. Some never. Why does it matter?” he asked.

  Blinking back sudden tears, Peace parted her lips but words would not form.

  “What do you fear?” Geary asked. “Tell me.”

  The harsh demand vibrated in the air. What Peace saw in his eyes renewed the hope she had tried to subdue since meeting him.

  With a sigh, Peace leaned into him. He could not change the past, only the present. “Do not harm the Claytons.”

  After a very long silence he whispered, “My word.”

  Leaning forward, Peace placed a fleeting kiss on his lips. She snuggled against Geary’s shoulder and twined a hand about his neck.

  The touch of Peace’s lips loosed the desire Geary had reined with a steel hand. The gentle stroke of her hand stoked its flame into fire, into heat that tempered the long-honed steel of his will power.

  Peace traced the edge of his ear and his steel will evaporated. Passion pulsed, threatened to snap its leash. The strength of his emotions frightened the Frenchman. He trembled, as he had not since a child prisoner in his father’s chambre des horreurs. Shaken to his core, Donatien stood and set Peace away. Without a word, he strode out the door.

  * * *

  St. Hilda’s Abbey October 21st Early evening

  Though sorely tempted to ask questions about the night at Lade’s, Lucian held his tongue. He tried to recall details of that night but it proved a fruitless task. He turned his thoughts to Thornley. Viewing their so-called friendship for the first time with sober eyes Lucian realized that despite the outward appearance of friendship, Thornley despised him. That made his presence in Whitby even more of a puzzle but one that would have to wait until Ruth was safe.

  Lucian found Church Street from Geary’s directions and soon saw the abbey and beyond it to the north and east St. Mary’s Church. The solid outline of St. Mary’s Norman tower stood in stark contrast to the crumbling tower of St. Cedds.

  Prosperity versus poverty. Safety versus danger. I must not fail, he thought, heavy-hearted with worry for Ruth. He rode slowly past the abbey and down the south wall, the whole a heap of ruins. Reining to a halt he studied St. Mary’s cemetery which lay before him with its ancient cockeyed planting of tombstones. An odd place for Geary to suggest for him to leave his mount.

  “Why have we come here?” Thornley asked in a low voice.

  Lucian glanced at him and didn’t wonder at Thornley’s uneasy grimace.

  “I’m not of a mind for a jest,” Sir Brandon added.

  “Stay or go as you wish,” Lucian said. He prodded his gelding forward and halted near a gravestone with a protrusion. Lucian tethered his horse not unaware of the irony that it was to a small angel.

  “This Captain Geary is to be trusted?” Sir Brandon asked.

  “I’ve no reason not to.” Lucian loaded and primed his pistol. To his surprise Thornley had one in hand when he joined him.

  Sir Brandon raised the pistol until it pointed at Merristorm’s midsection as Lucian neared him. “There is something I have been meaning to tell you,” he said. He flashed a smile, teeth white in the moonlight.

  His steely undertone stirred the hair on the back of Lucian’s neck. A threat? he wondered, not truly believing it. He eyed the pistol and raised his gaze to meet Thornley’s. The look he met washed away any doubt.

  Both men stiffened at a short low whistle that drifted from the abbey.

  “He awaits us,” Lucian said but didn’t move.

  Thornley tilted his pistol upwards and studied the ruins.

  Stark against the dark sky, the broken outline stood like the ribs of the whales harvested by the Whitby whalers. Even fragmented the abbey stood in majesty as its past title of Westminster of the North had once attested.

  Lucian’s gaze followed the clean lines of the pointed arches to the grandeur of what remained of the northern transept. Even as he searched for some sign of Geary the ruin reminded Lucian of time’s heavy toll. Had he run out of time?

  “Where is he?” Thornley asked. He started to walk toward the ruins.

  “Move carefully,” Lucian cautioned. He greatly disliked the unbroken view anyone in the ruins had of them. Crouching, Lucian followed. He kept an eye on the ruins as well as Thornley, the “friend” who moments ago had brought the taste of enmity to Lucian’s mouth.

  Another short whistle sounded within the ruins.

  “You seek to capture smugglers,” Thornley threw over his shoulder. “Perhaps this is a trap?”

  “Then we’ll be ready for it. Go to the northeast end and enter the abbey there,” Lucian said coming even with him. “I’ll slip through one of the windows on the west side of the tower. With luck we’ll catch whoever is there between us.”

  They crept their separate ways.

  Lucian cursed when a cloud drifted over the moon and cast everything in dark shadow. Still uneasy about the early incident with the pistol Lucian looked to make certain of Thornley’s direction. Assured the man was bound to the east he hurried to the west side of the tower. Lucian paused, his back to the cold stone. An eerie silence deepened the gothic gloom.

  Impatient, Lucian threw his leg over the window and was ready to drop to the ground inside the nave when he heard a tiny scrabble of stone on stone deep within the north transept.

  Northwest corner, Lucian thought as he dropped lightly to the ground. The best hiding areas were in the tower and to the east so he hurried to the west side of the nearest clustered column.

  The sky above the roofless ruins lightened. Lucian dashed to the large clustered column nearest the northern transept. As he did so the cloud slid off the moon. A shaft of light pierced the middle lancet window in the second tier on the east end of the abbey. It cast its beam over Thornley who stood in the centre of the presbytery.

  With an oath Lucian tore his gaze from Sir Brandon to the north transept. Certain he had heard something at the base of the octagonal turret he swept the gloomy shadows and saw a man standing at the eastern edge of the transept staring at Thornley.

  Lucian glanced from the man to Thornley who stood as one paralyzed by the moonlight. A cold chill dashed up his spine though he had not heard of the curse that St. Hilda, the abbess of ancient times, promised for those who stole through her abbey with black deeds in mind.

  “Do not move,” Lucian said and stepped from behind the massive pillar with his pistol pointed at the stranger’s back. The man slowly turned and he recognized Geary. Tilting his pistol upward Lucian looked to Thornley and saw the man was finally in motion.

  “Captain Geary, you met Sir Brandon this afternoon,” Lucian said in explanation. “You wrote that the matter was urgent,” he snapped.

  “The abbey was the safest place to meet,” Geary explained. “Curses and such keep the gang away except on nights they signal incoming ships,” he told them. “The best vantage point to see where the smugglers meet is near the stairs to the harbour. When the signal comes we shall have to move with haste.”

  “To where? And why?” Thornley demanded.

  “I’ve learned the leaders of the gang will meet this night,” Geary told them. �
��If we can capture them the gang’s teeth are pulled. We may get the goods as well.” He met Lucian’s gaze. “Their men will bargain,” Geary added. “The ships are expected any day.”

  Doubt stirred in Lucian. This was far too risky, too uncertain of success.

  Thornley halted and put out his hands to stop the man on either side of him. “Did you see that flash of light? On the pier below? There it is again.”

  “Bloody hell. They were supposed to meet at The Porpoise and Whale at the bottom of the stairs and to the south,” swore Geary. “Follow me,” he commanded and raced toward the donkey track alongside the stairs that led down to the quayside.

  With an eye on the point where the light flashed, Lucian judged their chances of reaching it before the gang disappeared as very unlikely. He looked at Thornley who hadn’t moved.

  “This is bloody insane,” Sir Brandon protested.

  Lucian looked to the track and saw Geary had disappeared around the curve.

  A shot rang out below and then a second.

  “It was a trap. For Geary,” Lucian said. When a third shot boomed he sprang forward with the fervent hope that he could find his way down the track and yet remain concealed.

  He hit the gravel and slid. Flailing his arms Lucian managed to keep his feet but slammed into the wall with a thud. With an oath Lucian scrabbled down the path hugging the wall. More than half way down he saw the flash of a pistol then heard the report. He fired in the direction of the flash. A screech of pain rewarded him.

  The scrabbling of boots over loose pebbles warned Lucian that Thornley followed. He slowed his descent, rammed his spent pistol into his waistband and unsheathed his sabre.

  Below Lucian caught sight of a man’s pale face and the vee of a white shirt. Geary. Lucian slowed to a walk, his eyes keen for sight of the attackers.

  Another shot rang out. After the echo died there came a shout and a clamour of dull thumps that grew ever nearer.

  Only when two figures flashed past Geary did Lucian realize the thumps were produced by cloth-bound shoes. A separate rumble went the opposite direction.