THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  Unable to restrain his amusement at the total absurdity of the situation, Devlin laughed. Unfortunately, his humor wasn’t appreciated by anyone, especially the housekeeper. Each swift, agitated breath sent puffs of soot into a smoky cloud about her person. Instinctively, Devlin stepped away, shielding his mouth and nose with a fine linen handkerchief.

  Someone gasped.

  Another person mumbled beneath their breath.

  When he looked up, he saw averted faces save one. Mrs. Tatum continued to study him with nothing short of narrow-eyed loathing, her palm outstretched like a beggar.

  She wore black gloves, the fingertips of which had been cut away—no doubt to give her a more secure hold when climbing inside the chimney. Like some damn primate. Still, he noted although her fingertips were blackened with soot, her fingernails had been neatly trimmed.

  It took a moment to realize she demanded something of him. Ah, the duke’s letter. What unmitigated gall. He targeted the housekeeper with his most intimidating glare. The woman returned it with matched animosity.

  “We can stand here all day if you prefer,” she said. “You did say you have a letter from the duke.”

  There was something about the way she said the duke that sounded insulting. He made a silent vow her employment would soon end, reached inside his coat, and removed the pristine letter.

  Soot from her hands marred the fine linen paper she’d eagerly claimed. Then, after breaking the seal, she read the letter with a vexed expression.

  “I understood you could read, madam. If that is not so, permit me to perform the arduous task for you.”

  She raised an unblinking gaze to meet his with sober regard. “That will not be necessary.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  “If you must know, His Grace has poor penmanship.” She spoke with an educated, imperious tone. “And he misspelled Bellewyck.”

  “I di-,” Devlin caught himself and stopped short. “I doubt that,” he covered smoothly. Little did this woman know he’d penned that letter with his own elegant handwriting and, by God, nothing was misspelled.

  She refolded the letter, brazenly stuffing it inside a black leather jerkin she wore over a black woolen shirt, patting it for good measure. She then turned to address the other servants.

  “Mr. Randolph is indeed the estate’s new steward. We are to cooperate with him in all matters. His Grace also requests we obey Mr. Randolph’s instructions regarding changes he feels are necessary.”

  “Polly,”—the housekeeper looked at the blonde maid—“Please have Lord Bellewyck’s bedchamber made ready for Mr. Randolph. According to the letter, he is to use that chamber during the duke’s indefinite absence.”

  Polly snorted then pinned Devlin with a stony glare.

  “Does this mean the Duke of Pemberton won’t ever come to the abbey?” the youngest girl asked.

  The child appeared no more than twelve years of age. She looked at him with such despair he wanted to assure her not to fret, all would be well. He studied the child with a speculative eye. Could she be the ward?

  “It seems the Duke of Pemberton has not the time to spare his new property,” the housekeeper said. Making what could only be described as a theatrical sigh, she added, “No doubt a great many social engagements take precedence. It must be quite demanding to be a duke—so many parties, so little time.”

  “Aye,” said Polly. “And ‘tis clear enough His Grace wants nothin’ to do with the abbey, just like his lordship.”

  “I hate the Duke of Pemberton,” the young girl cried. “I hope he dies a slow death.”

  “Hush, Sarah.” The housekeeper quickly looked at him, no doubt to gauge his reaction to the child’s murderous thought.

  Devlin said nothing, but God help him if the ill-mannered child was the ward. As much as his mother had her heart set on having a child at the family seat, Fairhaven, it might be less troublesome to have this one placed with a different guardian altogether.

  “You best go about your duties,” the housekeeper addressed the young girl, though an amused smile played about her mouth. “Indeed, we must all see to our duties, else what might Mr. Randolph think of us?”

  Devlin breathed a sigh of relief. If Sarah had duties, she couldn’t be the ward.

  The servants quit the room, leaving their new steward alone with the housekeeper. Then, to his stunned amazement, she turned and walked back to the hearth.

  Never had he been treated with such contempt or ambivalence. It was, without question, the most infuriating encounter he’d ever had with anyone, let alone a woman. He watched her once more sift through the accumulated ashes with the toe of her boot.

  Refusing to be ignored, he loudly cleared his throat.

  “Your bedchamber can be found on the second floor of the tower, Mr. Randolph,” she said without looking back at him. “Last door on the left.”

  The woman thence disappeared before his eyes. Devlin’s jaw dropped open like some mooncalf. He neared the hearth and heard her climbing inside the chimney again.

  Is the woman mad?

  He peered up into the darkened flue. “Madam, what, in God’s name, are you doing?”

  “What the devil does it look like?” she answered savagely. He heard her stop in her ascent and sigh. “And I would not stand there were I you, Mr. Randolph. You might soil your fine clothes or breathe in some soot.”

  The sound of soot breaking away prompted Devlin to quickly step back. He barely managed to avoid having his superfine sage coat sullied by a considerable cloud of filth.

  “She did that on purpose,” he grumbled.

  A slightly husky, not altogether unpleasant laugh drifted down the chimney. “Mr. Randolph, I should warn you that voices carry quite well inside a chimney. Even the slightest whisper, so ‘tis best to mind your tongue.”

  Devlin swore under his breath, and she laughed again.

  “Ah,” she cried. “There you are.”

  “Is someone else up there with you?”

  “My, you are clever,” she answered. “Pardon me whilst I have a spot of tea with the Queen.”

  Catching his mouth hanging open again at the scandalous impertinence of her remark, Devlin promptly closed it, and barely controlled his desire to blaspheme. Hands braced on his hips, he considered his next move in this curious game of intrigue.

  “What a prig.” The housekeeper muttered.

  Clearly, she must have assumed he’d quit the room.

  “Mrs. Tatum,” he said with deadly quiet. “Voices carry quite well from this end of the chimney as well.”

  No response. Instead, she resumed scraping soot in earnest. Realizing the woman would like nothing better than to ruin his finely tailored clothing, Devlin moved away from the fireplace altogether.

  “One more thing, Mrs. Tatum,” he called. “I expect you to meet with me after supper this evening. I shall await your presence in this very room. Do bathe.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Stand still, you ever-moving

  spheres of heaven,

  That time may cease,

  and midnight never come.”

  ~ Christopher Marlowe

  (1564-1593)

  Dr. Faustus

  Solitary footsteps echoed a steady procession as Devlin paced before the Great Room’s ornate fireplace. The sound another reminder he’d come alone to a house filled with strangers—any one of whom might be a thief or worse.

  Cold, ancient stones, lingering shadows, and deathly quiet further emphasized his sense that something was terribly amiss at the ancient estate. He paused to stare into the vibrant firelight, but felt no warmth from the flaming heat.

  Pretending to be someone else did not sit well with him.

  How can I stay true to a bloody wager when a child’s welfare might be at risk?

  At the same time, how could he win the confidence of the servants unless he continued the masquerade? Clearly, they resented the Duke of Pemberton and were displeased he’d sent a steward.
Even now they kept their distance, especially the ridiculous housekeeper. He’d not seen the woman since morning when she’d scampered up the chimney.

  “Mr. Randolph?”

  Startled, Devlin turned toward the doorway. The cook entered carrying a tray. Of all the servants, Mrs. Lloyd seemed the most amiable. Still, she’d been guarded when he’d questioned her earlier. He studied her demeanor now as she approached and set the tray holding a large tankard upon a sideboard near the hearth.

  “I thought ye might enjoy a bit to drink while ye wait upon our housekeeper. The abbey can be dreary as a tomb at night.” She extended the drink to him. “This is one of the brewery’s special blends—a very old receipt, most comfortin’ on a chilly night.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lloyd. Tell me, do you perchance know how much longer I am to be kept waiting by the housekeeper?”

  “No, sir, but I expect she will be here as soon as she can.”

  After the woman departed, Devlin turned his attention to the Great Room. Higginbotham hadn’t exaggerated about the estate being all but in ruins. This particular room was without adornment, apart from the magnificent fan-vaulted ceiling and marble chimneypiece.

  Recessed shutters provided a stark contrast to the expensive silk and velvet window dressings found at other Pemberton holdings. A few pieces of worn, mismatched furniture had been placed about the room without thought for style or design. The room more resembled a medieval stronghold with a dozen suits of armor standing ghostly sentinel.

  No marble flooring polished to a high patina. No finely woven carpet or even an oilcloth. Instead, the light afforded by the flickering firelight and brace of candles on the sideboard showed wooden floorboards—although sound beneath his feet—were faded almost white from numerous washings.

  He sipped the ale, pleased by its taste. Not as dark and heavy as the ale served at supper, this one had a slightly fruity flavor. Cherry, perhaps. Making himself more comfortable, he sat in a chair facing the fireplace.

  Thinking and drinking. Drinking and thinking.

  One by one, sparks of amber broke away from the fire, pulled by an invisible current up the chimney where they’d be extinguished in the night air. They reminded him of time passing without restraint into eternity. Moment by moment. Hour by hour.

  Time—a precious gift for any man.

  Time—the one aspect of life that couldn’t be harnessed, altered, or denied.

  Time—constant and ever swift in its daily flight could steal moments, days, even a person’s lifetime—whether rich or poor, young or old.

  And despite the housekeeper’s remark the Duke of Pemberton had been too preoccupied with his social calendar to come to the estate, nothing could be more removed from the truth.

  He had responsibilities and obligations. Wasting time wasn’t one of them.

  I never should have agreed to this blasted wager.

  Raising the tankard of ale once more to his lips, he considered how much longer he’d have to wait until the housekeeper made her appearance. With a derisive snort, he murmured, “No doubt it takes an inordinate amount of time to remove soot from one’s person.”

  Standing in the shadows of a stone column outside the Great Room, three women watched the stranger seated before the fireplace. Even from their distance, firelight reflected on the man’s black Hessian boots, polished to glossy radiance. Tight-fitting doeskin pantaloons hugged long, well-muscled legs. At times his head nodded toward his chest, only to lift as if fighting the inevitable pull of sleep.

  With a shudder, Bertie Lloyd pulled a knitted shawl close about her shoulders. “Why is it takin’ so long?” she whispered.

  “I suspect because he’s so tall,” Christiana said in a soft voice.

  “That he is,” snickered Polly. She nudged Christiana in the side with her elbow. “Just look at them long legs of his.”

  Christiana frowned in a reproving manner, but Polly only grinned. “Well, there’s no use denyin’ it. Not one of us has seen a more comely man. Strong, too. He lifted me like a sack of feathers. Admit it, he is ever so handsome.”

  The cook started to argue the point until Christiana shushed their whispered bickering with a finger poised at her lips. She listened for something—a groan, snore, anything to indicate the sleeping potion had taken effect. Then, it happened.

  His hand dropped. The empty tankard of ale dangled precariously from his fingers.

  Polly gasped. “If that thing falls, it’ll echo like a cannon blast.”

  “He’ll wake for sure,” Bertie contributed.

  “Someone should take it out of his hand.” Polly’s large, expressive green eyes stared unblinkingly at Christiana, leaving no doubt who that someone should be.

  Christiana sighed and tiptoed toward the fireplace. Cautiously, she watched the sleeping man’s face, and removed the drinking vessel from his grasp. She held her breath, expecting him to move or jump up from the chair and rail at her.

  He remained still.

  She studied the man’s features at rest. Comely didn’t begin to describe Bellewyck’s new steward. The dashing Mr. Randolph possessed the form and countenance one expected from a mythological Grecian deity—despite the fact his pantaloons were nothing short of scandalous. Though he’d loosened his snowy white cravat, his finely made shirt and bottle-green, embroidered waistcoat still made him the picture of a true gentleman.

  ‘Twas then she noted how strangely still and quiet the man slept.

  “Mr. Randolph?” No reply or indication he’d heard her. “Mr. Randolph,” she repeated and patted his cheek. His jaw went slack. Christiana bit back a scream.

  Had she killed the man?

  When the drugged ale served him at supper had no effect, she’d had no choice but to give him a stronger dose. Had it been too much? She leaned down and rested her head against his chest, relieved to hear steady breathing and the strong beat of his heart.

  Thank heaven, just sleeping.

  Then again, what if he pretended to be asleep? Her gaze flitted to his face. His eyes remained closed although the man’s long, dark lashes proved fascinating from this angle. And his neck, now exposed from the loosened cravat, was long and mysteriously seductive, shadowed with budding whiskers.

  Realizing she still rested her head on the man’s chest like a brazen, besotted fool, Christiana stood and chastised herself all the way back to her friends.

  “The man is dead to the world,” she said.

  “Saints above,” Bertie gasped. “We’ll hang for sure.”

  “Don’t be daft, Bertie,” Polly whispered heatedly. “She means the sleepin’ draught worked this time.”

  Handing the empty tankard to the cook, Christiana feigned a thoughtful mien. “Killing Mr. Randolph does sound tempting—if not for the fact his demise would bring about a most unfortunate and unwelcome visit from the Duke of Pemberton.”

  Bertie looked aghast, and Christiana kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Do not look so panicked, dearest. I have no intention of risking my immortal soul any more than I have already.”

  “Well, what do we do now?” Polly asked

  Christiana looked back at Mr. Randolph. “God willing, he will sleep ‘til morning.” Turning to her friends, she sighed. “Polly, you need to search his belongings. It should not take long; he arrived with little. Most likely the remainder of his things will follow in a day or so. Still, he may have something else from the Duke of Pemberton. Perhaps the report prepared by that solicitor during his visit to the abbey.”

  Polly grinned. “I expect ye taught me enough readin’ to know the difference between a love letter and somethin’ from a bloody duke.”

  “Please do not make a mess,” Christiana warned. “Take care to put everything back the way you found it. If you come across anything suspicious, bring it to me.”

  “I will,” Polly nodded.

  “In the meantime,”—Christiana continued—“I must hide the reserve ale in the caves until delivery can be made. Tom and I ha
ve already secured what contraband we had on hand.” She then looked at the cook. “Bertie, one of us must keep an eye on Mr. Randolph. Can you do that?”

  The cook paled. “What am I to do if he wakes?”

  “Tell him I came to meet with him, but found him asleep. Believing him travel weary, I thought it best we speak in the morning. I should be back by then.”

  “What if ye’re not?” argued Polly.

  Christiana bit her lip and looked once more toward the sleeping steward. “Then Mr. Randolph will be the least of our worries.”

  “Is all this necessary?” Bertie asked. “Just because the man asked some questions could only mean he’s curious about his new situation.”

  Christiana arched a brow at the matronly cook. “Did you not tell me Mr. Randolph complained about the abbey and questioned its sparse furnishings when you served him supper? That he became upset we had no wine cellar?”

  “Well, yes.” Bertie answered.

  “And did you not also tell me he questioned you about Bellewyck’s ward?”

  “You did, Bertie.” Polly nodded for emphasis.

  The cook sighed. “Yes, he did.”

  Christiana smiled gently at the older woman. “Dearest Bertie, I know this is difficult for you. ‘Tis difficult for all of us, but we cannot afford to make mistakes now. One false step could mean imprisonment or death.”

  All but hidden within the heavy folds of a man’s greatcoat, its three broad, falling collars flapping wildly in the wind, and an oversized, weathered cocked hat worn low over her brow, Christiana stared hard at the notorious Eight Bells Tavern.

  “Is it there?” she asked, her voice almost drowned by the whining wind.

  Gordon Darrow shook his head. Tall and angular, Polly’s widowed father possessed a still youthful countenance despite his age. But his stern expression conveyed he wasn’t pleased they had come to the tavern tonight.