by Ann Clement
A white marriage is no match for dark desires.
Sir Percival Hanbury is prepared to pay almost any price to regain his family’s ancestral seat. Yet the demand of its current owner, the Earl of Stanville, sets his teeth on edge.
Wycombe Oaks can be his—if he agrees to marry the earl’s disgraced daughter. With memories of his first marriage still tormenting him, Percy never intended to marry again. But if he refuses, the castle will be razed.
Lady Letitia’s beauty and fortune proved no match for scandal, costing her a fiancé and her reputation. The last thing she wants is to instead marry a boorish country squire, but the alternative is even worse.
In spite of himself, Percy finds his resistance melting in the face of Letitia, an accomplished artist who takes deep interest in his family pile. Until all that’s left is sizzling desire. And while the broad-shouldered, handsome baronet far exceeds Letitia’s grim expectations, he’s a harder challenge than his half-ruined castle.
But to trust a woman again, Percy must face dark secrets from the past…and learn to trust himself, as well.
Warning: Contains English country gossip, vengeful plots, a brooding, tormented baronet, and a feisty lady who refuses to let anything break her spirit.
Debt of Honor
Ann Clement
Dedication
To the memory of my father.
Acknowledgment
This book has only one author, but it would not see this day without the help of many others who deserve more than a token of my gratitude. Firstly, my warmest thanks go to fellow authors Pat Eckhoff, Anna James, Julia Gabriel, and Jael Wye. Your support and advice cannot be overstated. Secondly, what I learned about writing would not happen without that fantastic group of writers, the Connecticut Chapter of RWA. And I do mean, FANTASTIC. Thirdly, to Linda Ingmanson, my editor at Samhain Publishing, for taking this story under her wing and making it better.
And finally, to my husband, who bore with great fortitude many inconveniences visited upon him by the characters in this book and in the process has mastered the art of providing the distressed author with a constant supply of coffee and tea. I shall not mention many other skills he found himself forced to acquire. You have my love, as always!
Chapter One
Norfolk, England, 1804
One glance at the card his butler carried into the breakfast room on a silver salver took away Sir Percival Hanbury’s appetite for an otherwise excellent kidney pie.
The name glaring back at him in black letters was the last one he expected announced at his doorstep. Yet, despite the spiraling annoyance at the arrogance of the intrusion, hope lurched through his body like a runaway curricle. Percy put down the fork and raised his gaze to the butler’s inscrutable face, hoping in vain to find there some explanation.
Slater merely raised his eyebrows and clamped his mouth shut, probably in an effort to avoid a sneer.
Since no information was forthcoming, Percy had to ask, “Did he say what brings him here?”
“The earl wishes to speak with you, sir.”
“Indeed? Did he say why?”
“No, sir. He seems somewhat…impatient.”
In Slater’s parlance, that meant rude. Quite of a piece with Percy’s recollection of the last conversation he had held with the Earl of Stanville nearly ten years ago.
And what else might bring Stanville into his life again, if not the same reason—the Hanburys’ ancient family seat, Wycombe Oaks? Stanville had owned it for the past quarter of a century. Recovering Wycombe Oaks had been Percy’s greatest ambition ever since, but the earl had rejected his previous offer of purchase. A change of mind? Why now?
The only way to find out was, of course, to face his guest. Percy pushed the morning newspaper aside and followed his butler to the drawing room.
The Earl of Stanville stood by one of the windows, his back to the room. At the sound of the door, he turned abruptly. Pale eyes in a face betraying years of sybaritic proclivities focused on Percy with hostile apprehension.
Hope drummed up louder in Percy’s chest. Stanville’s posture emanated discomfort more eloquently than his unfriendly gaze. The earl squirmed, acknowledging Percy with only a curt nod. Then, without any preamble, he made an astounding offer.
“I suppose you guessed the reason for my visit. Well, you may have Wycombe Oaks back, Hanbury. But instead of paying me, you’ll marry my daughter.”
The air in the drawing room became suddenly too stuffy to breathe. Marry Lady Letitia Parker?
“You once wanted the place back. I’m giving you the courtesy of the first refusal—if you marry her.” Stanville’s voice lost nothing of the old brusqueness.
“I am extremely gratified by your kindness,” Percy replied after the moment it took him to recover from the initial shock. Where had Stanville gotten this idea? “However, I do not recall asking for Lady Letitia’s hand in marriage the last time we spoke about Wycombe Oaks. My offer concerned only the estate.”
The earl measured him with obvious displeasure. “Don’t be stupid, Hanbury,” he growled. “I’m doing you a favor.”
Stanville doing him a favor? The earl’s evident hatred for his family, together with the heated refusal to sell Wycombe Oaks, had taken Percy aback when he had approached Stanville almost a decade ago. Why now this sudden and utterly inexplicable desire to form a family bond?
“The choice is yours, Hanbury,” his guest prompted. “Otherwise, I shall raze that damned ugliness of a house and sell the land for her dowry.”
Panic slammed him so quickly Percy nearly took a step back. Manipulative bastard! He should have expected something of the sort.
Then he remembered. Lady Letitia Parker had been betrothed this spring to— Bloody hell!
“I am most obliged,” he said icily, putting two and two together. “Forgive my confusion, but I seem to recall an announcement of your daughter’s betrothal to Viscount Darnley in the Times earlier this spring. Did Lady Letitia have a change of mind? She broke the engagement? Or did he?”
Stanville’s entire body jerked as if prodded with an electric rod. The uneasiness in his eyes transformed into a furious scowl. “There is no engagement!”
Ah, so he guessed right. Lady Letitia must have become damaged goods her father could not wait to dispose of—and with as little trouble for himself as possible. But acquiring a wife together with his old home had never been a part of Percy’s plan.
“I’m giving you what you want, Hanbury.” Stanville jiggled the bait in front of his nose again. “You don’t need to pay me to get your old place back if you marry her.”
“Small sacrifice, my lord, if one considers what it cost you to acquire that estate in the first place,” Percy replied, measuring his guest with a steady gaze.
The earl’s face drained of color. “You were in leading strings then. What can you know about the business I transacted with your father?”
“All I need to know about that transaction,” Percy said, satisfied to see fear suddenly lurking in Stanville’s face.
Stanville grimaced, swallowed hard and turned back to the window. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Very well,” he ground out after a moment, “I’m open to negotiation, but don’t expect me to yield to your fortune-hunting schemes. I have the earldom to consider.”
“I daresay the earldom benefits handsomely from your sugar plantations alone.”
“That is not your business, Hanbury.” Stanville turned away from the window and shot him an annoyed glance. “My West Indian property is excluded from this negotiation.”
“I am not interested in your West Indian property, my lord.”
“Then what is this talk about the dowry? You get back a vast estate with your family pile, and a wife you need to take anyway.”
Stanville’s unsurpassed stinginess not only grated heavily against Percy’s notion of justice, it also completely mocked common sense. Baiting him with what ought to have been his by birthright, the earl seemed somehow convinced that Wycombe Oaks alone would make a sufficient dowry. A rather odd assumption if one recalled that until recently, Lady Letitia Parker—Stanville’s sole heiress—had been a coveted matrimonial prize. Or if one considered the going rate of real fortune hunters who might be willing to salvage her tarnished reputation. Her fall from grace was no reason to burden the Hanbury purse with her maintenance.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Percy turned away from his guest and walked to the nearest window. Silence fell on the room.
“Allow me to renew my original offer,” Percy said after a moment, glancing at Stanville, whose expression grew thunderous. “I shall buy Wycombe Oaks from you. The offer I made previously still stands. You know it was very advantageous then and is even more so now, given the ruinous condition of the estate. What I am willing to pay will make a handsome addition to your daughter’s dowry. She won’t lack suitors.”
“That is out of the question!” Stanville barked. “You take her with the estate, or you take nothing at all!”
Percy almost recoiled from the intensity of Stanville’s reaction. To cover its impact and give himself time, he looked out the window again.
Wycombe Oaks was within his reach. Even the prospect of accompanying baggage in the form of a wife could not extinguish the awakened yearning. But it dampened his joy significantly. God knew he did not want another marriage. Especially not to Stanville’s daughter. Apples usually didn’t fall far from the tree.
But what if Stanville made good on his threat?
“If I agree to marry Lady Letitia,” Percy said at last, “she will bring me the same dowry you offered Darnley—in addition to Wycombe Oaks.”
Stanville scowled from under the line of his eyebrows and began pacing the room. “You disgust me with your greed, Hanbury,” he growled, then stopped in front of the window again. “She is not worth half of what you are demanding.”
“Isn’t she? So it was Darnley who was worth it? Or am I to believe all you offered him was one ruined estate?”
“That too is not your business, Hanbury. Things changed. I will not harbor a wh—” He stopped abruptly and darted Percy a glance filled with fear.
Percy regretted now skipping the gossip column in the Morning Post. It would not yield any real information, but a hint about the scale of Stanville’s predicament would help. Lady Letitia must have done something extreme if Darnley backed out of the betrothal. The young viscount was a man of integrity.
The pain in his molar made Percy aware of the fact that he was grinding his teeth. He eased his jaw. Do not let him guess how much you want the house.
“Take it or leave it, my lord.” He shrugged. “No one will take her for less now, and you know it.”
His heart slammed hard when the earl’s mouth curved into a thin crescent of anger. “The chit is still intact! I had her checked.”
The remark, meant as reassurance, only left an aftertaste of disgust.
“If you say so,” Percy replied curtly. “Do you plan to send a statement to that effect to the Daily Advertiser? And why should I believe you?”
“You are no better than your father, Hanbury,” the earl gritted out. “Same rotten blood.”
Percy curbed the overpowering urge to deliver a swift physical reply. If not for Wycombe Oaks, Stanville would have already found himself outside, examining the gravel around the portico at a myopic distance. Percy clasped his hands hard behind his back and made no answer.
At last, his guest let out an angry huff. “How soon can you procure the marriage license?”
“Five days will suffice.” Elation and relief spiraled up in Percy’s chest for a short second before the suffocating prospect of a lifelong sentence extinguished the spark.
“The sooner the better. I hate this imprisonment of my person here while there is business to attend to in London. Make haste, Hanbury.”
“I am ready to sign the papers now.”
The scowl on Stanville’s face deepened as the earl plucked a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. “You are an unscrupulous bastard skinning me alive, Hanbury.”
Percy made no answer. The elation at having achieved what had been his dearest desire since the age of six was trampled by the feeling that this could be a truly Pyrrhic victory.
Chapter Two
Lady Letitia Parker walked unhurriedly along the narrow road bordering the fields, keeping to the shade cast by a line of old, large-canopied trees. She would rather put up with the pervasive afternoon heat than suffer the depressing gloom of the country house her father had chosen for their temporary home in Norfolk.
Wycombe Oaks was a ruin. No one had lived there in years, and the last resident had stripped it of everything that might make it a home. A hasty attempt to improve this sad situation while they stayed there only shed brighter light on the building’s progressing demise. The room she had been given was haphazardly furnished with a collection of odd pieces, some looking as if they had come directly from the servants’ quarters. Faded wallpaper had peeled off in corners and hung in loose despondence below the ceiling. Windowpanes were opaque with dinge. The room portrayed quite accurately her life since it had fallen to pieces ten days ago.
Delayed five years, first by her mother’s death, then by her father’s prolonged stay in the West Indies, her first season had ended in disaster. Vicious and utterly nonsensical gossip had trampled everything in its way and left behind only mindless destruction. Nothing had prepared her for such savagery in the midst of high society.
At first, the season unfolded along the well-established path: the presentation to the Queen, the coming-out ball, admirers swarming around her, and the betrothal arranged by her father. Naturally, her marriage was meant to give the Earl of Stanville an alliance he wanted. The man fitting that category turned out to be Viscount Darnley.
To the ton, Viscount Darnley epitomized the idea of the most eligible bachelor. Young, wealthy and well connected, he was a suitor many only dreamed about and a high prize on the marriage mart she’d snatched without even trying. And yet, her heart did not stir for him once. Why would it? His always polite and stiffly proper demeanor bespoke the viscount’s desire to marry the Earl of Stanville’s fortune, not his daughter.
The familiar old pain, still cloaked in a piercing disappointment, returned together with the recollection of the once beloved face of Sir Walter Hasting. Walter had been her childhood friend. Her first love. And an excellent actor.
Letitia bit her lip and fingered the straps of the military knapsack slung over her shoulder. It had belonged to her brother before he fell in Egypt six years ago. The Stanville wealth, or at least its unentailed part, became her sole inheritance then, but she valued it less than the old, stained knapsack she took with her everywhere.
“Oh, John,” she whispered, “how I miss you and Mama.”
She blinked rapidly and gazed at the intense blue of a mid-June sky.
When Viscount Darnley withdrew from the engagement after that silly business with Lord Ogilby, her father’s ire had erupted like Vesuvius, spewing an unending fury and an ultimatum—instant marriage to another man of his choice, or transportation to Botany Bay. The threat was not idle.
Her father’s business ventures seemed unlimited. She had once found at Fratton Hall a report from his man of business. It contained tallies from the slavers the Earl of Stanville owned and employed for the transport of convicts. As many died as survived the voyage to the antipodes. Terrified by this recollection, Letitia had chosen marriage in England over certain death on the high
seas. At least she knew what to expect—a red-faced, obese squire who, for a proper portion of the Stanville fortune, would generously overlook the scandal attached to her name.
She forced away the thought of her impending nuptials. Today was her last afternoon as Lady Letitia Parker.
At the end of the wood, she turned left and followed the narrowing path that soon left the trees behind and meandered through a meadow. The fragrant heat sitting heavily atop the ripening grasses swallowed her almost instantly. Letitia pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of moisture collecting under the bonnet’s rim.
This could be her last day of freedom to sketch outdoors. She still cherished the hope of having her own painting studio—a real studio, not a small easel tucked away in a poorly lit spare room.
“A lady does not dirty her hands with an artisan’s work,” her father had shouted when he discovered what she had done with the sitting room off the yellow parlor during his absence. “A lady makes watercolors, and that’s all you’ll do!”
A few small oils she had painted during those three years of his absence, lucky to escape his punishing hand, now rested hidden among her clothes. She doubted the squire would let her have a studio in his house—which was probably as horrible as the squire himself—but she wasn’t ready to extinguish the feeble flame of hope just yet.
The path narrowed until Letitia could put only one foot in front of another, and disappeared altogether by the time she reached the bottom of a large outcropping. She had discovered the outcropping the day before and hoped it offered a good view of the village outlined on the horizon.
Within minutes, Letitia sat comfortably perched on a cliff at the top, the gently rolling fields stretched out below. With her back turned to her derelict temporary home, she relaxed against an old oak hugging the cliff with its gnarled roots. The view was indeed excellent and well worth the climb. She turned the page in her sketchbook when the sounds of rustling and of steps approaching from behind her back sent a cold shiver of apprehension down her spine.
