Honour's Redemption

by Joan Vincent

  Lucian watched a strange look cross the baron’s features. The baron reached for his inner pocket and then dropped his hand and smiled wryly. “Mr. Merristorm’s presence here, so unexpected you see, set me to fretting he had met an ill turn.” He motioned vaguely at the ex-captain’s still wet hair.

  “How kind of you to be concerned, my lord,” Ruth said when Lucian simply glared at his friend.

  “Perhaps you saw Sir Brandon Thornley in Whitby?” Marietta asked hopefully. “He visited us yesterday.”

  Lucian grimaced angrily at the reminder of Ruth’s near fall. The smugglers, however, posed a greater danger. After last eve’s humiliation he was intent on their defeat and not about to stay here and watch Ruth preen for de la Croix. “I have to find Captain Geary this morn,” he said and stalked out of the room.

  After a helpless glance at Lucian’s retreating back Ruth turned to the baron. “My lord–”

  “Do not be troubled, Miss Clayton,” André said. “Merristorm’s manners have always been somewhat—wanting.”

  “He really is to meet with Captain Geary about the smugglers,” Marietta offered, “and Sir Thornley afterwards.”

  A sudden sharpness in de la Croix’s eyes was gone so quickly Ruth doubted she had seen it. “You are acquainted with Sir Thornley?” she asked.

  “Only by reputation,” André murmured. “What is this about smugglers?”

  “Sairy Jane called the monster Hobbleday,” Jemmy began excitedly from the doorway. “Mr. Merristorm scared it off even though it beat some’ ‘thin terrible.”

  De la Croix gazed speculatively from the boy to Ruth. “Did the owlers have anything to do with his head?”

  “No,” Ruth said tightly.

  “Did so,” Jemmy said. He flashed a quick apology to Ruth as he scooted into the room. “Ye didn’t smell the brandy on his breath did ye?” the lad pleaded. “Can’t wash the stink away when yer soused right and proper.”

  “Jemmy, please go to Father,” Ruth told the lad. “He is in his study.”

  “But—” He looked at the baron, dismissed any hope of potential help, and turned on his heel. “Aye, ma’am.”

  “I fear I have come at a most inconvenient time, Miss Clayton. I shall take my leave.” He kissed her hand and then Marietta’s and bowed out of the parlour.

  Ruth followed him but the outer door closed before she could halt him.

  “Thet were a right pretty one,” Sairy Jane said from the kitchen door. She met and held Ruth’s gaze. “But I learnt long ago ne’er to take a readin’ any man from ‘pearances.”

  * * *

  André Ribeymon, Baron de la Croix, pulled on his supple leather gloves with more force than necessary. The boy is correct. Merristorm was not foxed. He ran his gaze across the long neglected yard, then walked down the steps.

  Why didn’t you give Merristorm the missive as his father directed. Find him now and put the dust of Whitby behind you, André thought as he unfastened his bay’s reins from the bush at one side of the house.

  “Thornley here in Whitby. Damnation. Does Merristorm know what the man arranged?” the baron murmured. He stepped into the saddle with a soft curse.

  Movement in a dilapidated building to the north of the house caught his eye. Merristorm led out a solid equine specimen and mounted. He reined to a halt before the baron.

  “How do you come to be here?” Lucian asked curtly.

  “Some business of a nefarious nature,” André said.

  Shaking off his surprise at the unexpected answer Lucian touched his heels to the gelding and didn’t object when the baron matched his pace.

  “Owlers and a vicar’s daughter,” mused de la Croix speculatively. Merristorm and Ruth threw daggers at one another with each time they looked at one another. The anger and fear and love in it meant the daggers had already touched their hearts. “Take care or you’ll risk more than your head.”

  “What was that?” Lucian asked curtly.

  “I have had some little experience with smugglers,” de la Croix said offhandedly. “Their intent here?”

  “They want this house,” Lucian half snarled. He turned a speculative gaze on the baron.

  “Hobbleday?”

  “You have heard about—”

  “From the boy.”

  “Jemmy,” Lucian said distractedly. “I thought they must have stored goods in the basement but the house has none.”

  “Perhaps none you can find,” André speculated.

  Lucian met the clear-eyed steady blue gaze. Somehow the unspoken offer of help, instead of prompting the instant angry dismissal, unaccountably warmed him and lightened his spirits.

  “Last eve,” Lucian began and told the whole back to being dragged to their aid by the old woman.

  “How did you come to be in Whitby?” the baron asked.

  Lucian frowned with annoyance at the irrelevant question. The inquisitive glint in De la Croix’s gaze reminded Lucian that his presence in Ruth’s home presented a danger to her reputation. Unanticipated chagrin added colour to Lucian cheeks. “I must have thought it a great jest to purchase a ticket for the Great North Road when I was in my cups,” he said.

  “Miss Clayton,” Lucian paused. At the gleam in André’s eye he hastily added, “That is, her family kindly took me up when they found me beaten outside of Whitby.”

  “A cautionary tale,” murmured the baron as Lucian reined to a halt before the Wise Owl. “Perhaps you could convince them to leave the vicarage?”

  “It’ll be easier to persuade the smugglers that the Claytons are no danger.”

  “That I should like to see,” de la Croix said and smiled.

  His throat constricted at the admission but Lucian said, “I would appreciate your help.”

  “It shall be but a favour returned,” André said, his features darkening with the memory of the French spy’s escape despite Merristorm’s help. “You trust Captain Geary?”

  Lucian shrugged away an itch of unease. “I don’t know. At the moment he and Sairy Jane are my only fonts of information.

  “Sairy Jane?”

  “The Claytons cook,” Lucian said as they dismounted in front of the Wise Owl. The few customers in the place stopped speaking and stared at the two men.

  “Perhaps I should not have worn the puce stripes,” the baron said with an assumed injured air.

  * * *

  The Wise Owl Oct 22 Near noon

  Geary sauntered into the Wise Owl and ignored the swivel of heads and eyes upon him. He noted that Luke Walton and two of his cohorts sat nursing pints of ale at the table set back and away from the others for more privacy.

  “Where have you been?” Peace asked at his elbow.

  A slow smile of appreciation curved Geary’s lips as he looked down at the diminutive woman with dark blond hair. She could move as silently and as surreptitiously as he.

  “We must talk,” Peace insisted, a hand on his sleeve.

  “Everything went well last night. Didn’t Walton tell you?” he asked.

  “He told me of your encounter with a certain gentleman. It was not well done,” Peace said quietly.

  Geary arched a brow. “He lives.”

  “’Tis the jest dealt Merristorm.” Peace studied him for a long moment and then sighed. “It is very dangerous to permit personal pique to guide one’s actions.”

  “For personal thoughts of any sort of guide one,” Geary threw back. “What is the true reason you do not wish to see Merristorm harmed?”

  Peace Jenkinson sensed Geary stiffen beside her. She followed his gaze to the door now closing behind Merristorm and a stranger. “Unholy God,” he swore under his breath.

  A ripple of movement tugged at Peace’s senses just as Merristorm’s gaze caught hers. She nodded in reply to his greeting. Certain Geary had slipped into her private quarters as she studied the elegant but effeminate young man with Merristorm.

  Ruffles at lace and throat stirred memories of a harmless flirtation before the revolu
tion as the dandy pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to his lips. Peace’s stomach roiled.

  “Good morn, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Merristorm greeted her. “My friend Baron de la Croix. ”

  With skills honed by her scrabble to survive, Peace halted the instinctive urge to drop into a low curtsy in answer to the baron’s flourish. She met his gaze as he raised his quizzing glass to his eye. The arrogance and boredom was much like his father’s. Peace gave her attention to his companion.

  “What is it you wish, Mr. Merristorm?”

  Merristorm belatedly removed his beaver. “Have you seen Captain Geary this morning?”

  “Non,” Peace answered. “Would you care for something to drink?”

  Certain that her accent was Parisian André asked, “Vous êtes un émigré?”

  “Oui,” Peace said her tone one of curt dismissal. “I no longer speak of those times,” she whispered.

  “Your family?” he asked.

  “Guillotined,” she said harshly, then turned to go.

  Lucian reached for her elbow.

  White hot anger roiled in Peace’s eyes.

  Immediately releasing her Lucian asked, “Do you know where Captain Geary might be?”

  “Non,” she said pointedly.

  “Mrs. Jenkinson, someone is intent upon driving the Claytons from St. Cedds Vicarage. Would you know whom or why?”

  The harsh edge of Merristorm’s blunt question startled Peace. “Mais non.”

  “A smuggling run was unloaded near the vicarage in the early hours of the morn,” Lucian said loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the tavern. “I neither know where the goods are nor do I wish to. The Claytons do not intend to interfere with any local custom. They just wish to live in concord with their neighbours.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I rather imagine that should reach the pertinent ears, if it has not already,” Baron de la Croix said dryly.

  “Yes,” Lucian said running his gaze over those in the tavern now studiously engaged in conversation or contemplation of table top or floor. “I’d give a bottle of Napoleon’s best to know which of them the leader is.”

  “Mrs. Jenkinson?” André proposed lowly.

  “I imagine her husband was,” Lucian acknowledged slowly. “But—”

  “A woman has neither the brains nor the will?”

  “Women have will enough to move a bloody mountain,” Lucian said thinking there was will and intelligence aplenty in Ruth. She had managed to keep her father’s condition a secret for perhaps years, had negotiated a new parish for Sampson, and gotten the family safely to it. Even a man wouldn’t have taken owlers into consideration. “Both,” he repeated with pride.

  André obliquely noted the tone and the pride in the man’s eyes. Ruth Clayton the source. It confirmed what he had already surmised about the pair. “Weapons can only be meant for France. They wouldn’t gather them unless they mean to ship them very soon.”

  “My thought also.” Lucian massaged his still aching forehead. “How do we stop them and keep Ruth—the Claytons, that is—safe? She will not listen to any argument.”

  “Perhaps she would if you told her who your father is—” Though prepared for ill humour at the suggestion the gaze Merristorm scorched him with warned André the break was as deep as reported. The document he carried from Halstrom grew heavier in his pocket but that was for later.

  “Surely Mr. Clayton would see reason behind your concern.”

  “If only I had him to reason with,” Lucian said.

  “Why do you not?”

  “He is not . . . well,” Lucian said with dismissing finality.

  De la Croix shrugged. When the silence grew lengthy he asked, “Any idea why Thornley came to Whitby?”

  “None,” Lucian snapped.

  André saw heads turn to the door. He looked up and fingered the lace on his cuff and began to draw out the square of linen tucked beneath it. “Ahh, Sir Brandon Thornley,” the baron noted with a flick of his lace handkerchief. None too happy that I am here.

  * * *

  Peace slipped through the door to her private rooms and quietly shut the door.

  Geary stared down into the fireplace, his back to her.

  “Did you hear Mr. Merristorm say the Claytons only wish to be left alone?”

  Geary nodded. “Who is the gentleman with him?”

  “His name is Baron de la Croix.” She watched his back. “But you knew that.”

  “Yes,” Geary said and slowly turned to face her. “If he recognizes me, he shall try to halt the shipment.”

  “But why?”

  “He is an agent of the government,” he lied easily. “He probably was sent to spy on me.”

  “What shall we do?” Peace asked.

  Geary’s harsh features lightened. “We,” he repeated and touched her cheek. After a moment he dropped his hand and turned back to the fireplace.

  “The ship may arrive this eve. On the morrow at the latest.”

  “The Claytons will not interfere. They are not to be harmed,” Peace said. A muscle twitched along Geary’s jaw. She came up close behind him and put a hand on his arm. “Nor Merristorm,” she whispered.

  He turned and took her in his arms. A tremor ran through her. “You have never said where you shall go,” Geary said. The flash of panic in her eyes told him he had guessed aright. “Tell me,” he urged.

  “Why?”

  The fire that simmered whenever he touched Peace leapt into a wall of flame. Geary struggled to bend his passion to his will. “Because of this,” he brushed a lingering kiss on her right cheek. “And this,” he nibbled across her collarbone.

  Geary gazed down into Peace’s desire-filled eyes. Without a word he dropped his lips to hers. For the first time in years he was happy for one aspect of the Duc d’Veryl’s and Marquis de Sade’s training. With delicate finesse he carried Peace into a spiral of desire only to find the maelstrom he released scorched him also.

  Peace pulled back with a cry. She put her hands to her lips, her eyes wild. Slowly she wrapped her arms about her abdomen. “No,” she whispered, her eyes a plea.

  “I cannot remain in England after this,” Geary said flatly.

  “But why?” Peace asked, bewildered by the sudden change.

  Damning his near catastrophic slip, Geary turned from her and became Geary. “You could come to France with me.”

  “That is impossible,” Peace said coldly. “Non, two nights more and Peace Jenkinson shall cease to exist.”

  His heart contracted beneath a new strange ache. Bernard Geary as well, he thought.

  If only.

  He silently gasped at the phrase abolished from his vocabulary from the day he turned four and ten. The day he had decided one day he would see the Duc de Veryl to his grave.

  * * *

  “How is Mr. Clayton?” Thornley asked Merristorm after an introduction to de la Croix. He looked over his shoulder and called to the man behind the bar, “Your best brandy and three glasses.

  “What’s wrong with the vicar? Looked like he had run a touch mad.”

  “He has not been well. He was merely confused after getting lost,” Lucian said.

  The bartender thumped a bottle of amber liquid on the table and stuck a dirty palm in Thornley’s face. “Yer blunt.”

  Lips curved in distaste Thornley drew some coins from his jacket and dropped them in the man’s hand. “Glasses,” he said curtly, “clean glasses.”

  Lucian ducked his head to hide his amusement. He sobered when he wondered when he had last cared whether a glass was clean or not. “What brings you to Whitby?”

  “I need not ask what brought you here. Thought it all a prank especially after I met Miss Clayton,” Thornley sneered.

  Anger at the insult dealt Ruth filled Lucian’s mouth with distaste. He thought of that pistol pointed at his gut last eve and wondered again how he had ever thought this man a friend. “What prank was that?”

  Thornley leaned forw
ard and cocked his head at the baron.

  “You need not hold your tongue on my account,” de la Croix said casually. “I am quite accustomed to Merristorm’s wild starts.”

  “I thought it all a hum when you told Lade you meant to try the Great North Road. Damnable journey. Greatly feared I’d find you dead in a ditch along the way.”

  The look in the man’s eyes made Lucian’s skin crawl. And came to find me when you didn’t? The unreasonable suspicion grew as a waiter clattered glasses onto the table. A snippet of conversation at the vicarage came back to him. He said he thought I’d been kidnapped. A hum?

  Thornley jerked a clean handkerchief from his jacket and wiped each glass in turn. He babbled about his ride through the wilds of the north while he did so. When the glasses were filled Thornley pushed the first in front of Merristorm before handing one to de la Croix. Raising his glass he tilted it toward Lucian. “This always eases what stirs your bile.”

  When Merristorm did not even look at the glass Thornley sat back in his chair. “Ne’er knew you to refuse a drink. Was it being thrust on to the mail coach or your companion once there that gave you this new enthusiasm to avoid liquor?” he mocked.

  Lucian narrowed his eyes but kept a grip on his temper. “Thrust on a coach?”

  Thornley jerked his gaze away but not before Merristorm saw panic flare in his eyes.

  “Had to be didn’t you?” Thornley blustered. “Abducted and all.” He drank and then snorted. “You’re full of wild starts, damme you.”

  Lucian shrugged up a chair and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Thornley. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” Lucian snapped without looking back.

  De la Croix fingered the lace at his throat. “Deuce of a temper,” he simpered.

  * * *

  St. Cedds Vicarage October 22nd Late afternoon

  “Sir! Sir,” Jemmy screamed as he plummeted out of the front door and down the steps.

  The gelding veered away from the lad, half reared and kicked out its rear legs. Merristorm reined him down.