THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  At long last, she sighed.

  He duly noted the tone, quality, and duration. Not the artful, affected sigh women used for dramatic effect. This was that long-suffering, heartfelt, exasperated sigh that females must inherit at birth. The one they summoned forth like a secret weapon from their personal arsenal. And it had the demoralizing way of making an intelligent, grown man feel like an irritating, witless boy.

  “Oh, very well,” she said, as the sigh faded. “Since it appears to be the only way I might continue on my way. But do be quick about it, will you?”

  “Hardly the most cordial concession,” he remarked with a wry grin.

  Several moments later, Devlin found himself riding at the most sedate pace he’d ever sat a horse. For someone who claimed to be in such a hurry she went about it strangely. He lost count of the times he had to pull Luther back from gaining too much ground ahead of his riding companion.

  The woman also refused to acknowledge his presence. Indeed, whenever he glanced her way, she steadfastly looked ahead—anywhere but at him. Although tempted to tease her about the energy she expended to ignore him, he focused on her sorry mount.

  “How old is that animal?”

  “Old enough,” she snapped. A heartbeat later, she looked at him in a reproving manner. “Tell me, Mr. Randolph, do you make a habit of asking the age of every female you encounter?”

  He laughed; there was no help for it. Not a surprise the first comment she’d made to him during their ride would be a chastisement of some sort. Still, at least they were talking.

  “I fail to see the humor,” she huffed indignantly.

  “I am sure you do not.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are an impossible man?”

  “Impossible but astute,” he answered with a wink and a smile. Feigning a conspiratorial whisper, he added, “I hate to mention this, my dear Miss Tatum, but it might have been faster had you simply walked to the village.”

  “Perhaps,”—she returned her attention to the road—“but Blossom enjoys the exercise.”

  “Ah,” he said with a nod.

  More silence ensued. He forced himself to remain serious as she nibbled frantically upon her plump bottom lip, once more ignoring his presence. When he thought she’d not make any further attempt at conversation, she did.

  “Do you breed?”

  Devlin almost choked. He stared at his housekeeper, her face guileless as a nun. It seemed an eternity before he realized she meant horses. Still, why would she ask such a question? He glanced down at his prized Luther and then at the pathetic Blossom.

  They rode abreast of each other, and the notion occurred that with very little effort he could lift Miss Tatum off her sorry mount and into his lap. Instead, he leaned toward her and grinned. “I can say without any reticence that Luther would never be interested in, oh yes, Blossom. Lovely name, by the way. It suits her.”

  “I am not a half-wit, Mr. Randolph. I know the difference between a rich-blooded stallion and a tired mare. I simply thought you might have been raised around horses. I understand you pay particular attention to Luther despite the presence of Nash to now tend the stables.”

  “I see. In other words, you are surprised I not only know how to care for Luther, but that I prefer to do it myself.”

  “I am only surprised you did not prefer the position of stable master rather than steward. You seem better suited to that vocation.”

  “I should be insulted.” Devlin masked his amusement with a frown. “You might at least try to hide the fact you believe me incapable of doing the job for which I have been hired.”

  She arched a delicate ebony brow. “I am nothing if not—”

  “—astute?

  A twinkle of amusement danced in her eyes. With what could be interpreted as a come-hither expression, she said, “I was going to say honest.”

  He simply didn’t know what to make of her. Male vanity entertained the thought she flirted with him, but it seemed just as likely she tried to rouse his temper.

  “Honesty is a virtue.” He caught her looking askance at him. “Or, so they say.”

  “You still have not answered my question,” she reminded.

  Pleased Miss Tatum not only conversed with him, but had found some element of humor in their conversation, a surge of masculine pride expanded his chest. “I assure you, the Duke of Pemberton has the utmost faith in my abilities as steward. He as much as told me—to my face, mind you—that he would trust no other man with this endeavor. Indeed, I daresay His Grace trusts me with his very life.”

  “How very gratifying…and dramatic, to say the least.” The sarcasm in her voice could not be mistaken.

  She promptly directed her attention to their journey again, and he couldn’t help but struggle against another smile. What an intriguing young woman. He found himself fascinated with what she might say next, and how she felt about a great many things. Of one thing he was certain. Miss Tatum didn’t like the Duke of Pemberton, which was a bit awkward under the circumstances.

  “Back to your question about breeding, Miss Tatum. Do I look like I have the coin to breed horses?”

  “You might.” She continued to look straight ahead. “Were I to judge you by appearance, much as you are inclined to judge others.”

  He pretended a contemplative expression. “You may be right. By jove, I think you are. I do possess a tendency to judge people by their appearance.”

  She made an almost indecipherable shaking of her head as she studied the road.

  “Looks can be deceiving, can they not?” he continued. “The first time I saw you I believed you a boy.”

  Miss Tatum pulled back on Blossom’s reins and came to a stop. He followed suit.

  “What a curious coincidence.” She studied him with an expression of pure innocence. “When I first saw you, I believed you the kind of man that preferred the company of boys to women.”

  Devlin almost became unseated for the first time in his life. “You cannot be serious. You thought that I—me—that I…”

  With a delicate shrug, she nudged her mare and continued on her merry way.

  Initial shock gave way to a struggle between laughing hysterically and curiosity. He caught up with her easily.

  “Might I enquire what made you think I was attracted to men?”

  “Well, ‘twas rather obvious.”

  “Was it indeed?”

  She nodded and coerced Blossom to proceed at what must be the mare’s interpretation of a trot. “For one thing, there is your manner of dress.”

  “You are hardly in a position to critique fashion, Miss Tatum, but I vow I am exceedingly curious.”

  “Very well.” With an air of confidence, she slowed her mare to a plodding walk. “Your shirts are far too elegant, impractical, and costly for a steward. In truth, I have not seen members of the gentry wear such finely made shirts. And your trousers are, well, a bit tight-fitted. I can only presume you want to emphasize certain masculine features—the length and power of your limbs perhaps?”

  He had to look away, but couldn’t prevent his shoulders from shaking with mirth. It was true some men padded their clothing, but he’d never had the need to resort to such deceptive methods. And if she’d been as observant about his body as she claimed, she must have noted the struggle he had with a rather unruly part of his male anatomy—especially in her company.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  He could hardly hide it now, but forced himself to concentrate on Luther’s mane. When able to control his amusement, he managed to speak. “And this is what you base your theory upon? My shirts are finely tailored and my trousers emphasize certain—um—what was it? Ah, yes, masculine features. I must say, I am flattered you have taken the time to notice so much about my—appearance. I have been under the impression you detest me—pompous, arrogant wretch that I am. Those were your exact words, I believe?”

  And then he heard her laugh. It shot through him like fire branding his soul. Church
bells seemed to peal across the countryside. Beams of sunlight rained down from the heavens. The entire world appeared brighter, more in harmony. He shifted in his saddle and stared at her, astounded that so simple an emotion could conjure such magic.

  At the same time, Devlin found he could no longer laugh or smile. The seductive sweetness of her womanly laughter washed over him like warm honey, igniting his desire anew.

  He studied every aspect of her face and form.

  To hide such a lovely feminine body beneath dark trousers and boyish clothing seemed a crime against nature. And that black woolen cap covering her glorious hair was nothing short of sinful. Suddenly, it dawned on him. She wore her chimney sweep clothing. Then he noticed the satchel tied to her saddle with the telltale canes and brushes of a sweep’s trade.

  Reaching over, he took hold of her reins and brought them both to a stop. “You are not employed by Bellewyck Abbey to clean chimneys in the village, Miss Tatum.”

  “My free time is my own.” She tried to slap his hand away.

  “Not when you use tools provided by Bellewyck Abbey.”

  She pinned him with an affronted expression. “Bellewyck Abbey did not provide me with my brushes, Mr. Randolph. If you must know, they were given to me as a gift.”

  “A gift from whom?”

  “From the man who taught me to sweep chimneys.” She jerked the reins from his grasp and looked toward the narrow cobbled bridge leading into the village. “He left them to me when he died.”

  Devlin didn’t know how to respond. What could he say? For all he knew the man had been another relation. Perhaps she needed the extra coin earned by sweeping chimneys? In truth, the pitiful wages Bellewyck paid his servants was unconscionable and something he intended to remedy—provided they were not thieves, of course.

  Sadly, their brief moments of lightheartedness had ended. They continued on their way in silence, both looking ahead yet very much aware of the other’s presence. It wasn’t until they came to the village green that he felt comfortable enough to broach the subject again.

  “Miss Tatum, if it is perchance a matter of an increase in wages, I could write Pemberton on your behalf.”

  She directed Blossom into The Green Dragon’s stable yard. A lanky young man ran out to greet her arrival, all eagerness to please, especially when she bestowed a radiant smile upon the groom. After dismounting, she looked back at the man she believed nothing more than an incompetent and wretched steward.

  “Why would you ask Pemberton to increase my wages, Mr. Randolph? You have taken every opportunity since your arrival to threaten me with dismissal.”

  She would toss that in my face.

  He dismounted, watching as she removed her tools then rest the cumbersome bundle over one slender shoulder with practiced ease.

  “Perhaps you have since impressed me with your diligence.”

  Her lips pursed together, she eyed him dubiously. He had the uncomfortable feeling she might think him mad. In truth, the longer he remained at Bellewyck Abbey, madness seemed a distinct possibility.

  “Write Pemberton, if you wish.” She spoke with a delicate shrug, considering the weight of the sweep tools upon her shoulder. “He will do nothing. ‘Tis obvious Bellewyck Abbey holds little interest for him; the servants even less.”

  “Why do you think so poorly of Pemberton?”

  “Why do you think so highly of him?”

  Devlin stood bewildered while she approached the tavern door. He caught up with her in two strides.

  “Miss Tatum, perhaps you should learn more about the Duke of Pemberton before you pass judgment. Did you not accuse me of judging people by appearances? Have you not done the same about Pemberton without knowing him?”

  “I know a great deal about the Duke of Pemberton. After Lord Bellewyck died we were understandably curious about his heir.”

  “You were? And might I enquire what you learned that so earned the man your disfavor?”

  “Not that it will lessen your good opinion of the man, but the Duke of Pemberton is a noted rake.”

  Her violet eyes looked up at him, her expression reminiscent of an affronted spinster. Whatever she’d been told about the duke, he was about to hear.

  “A friend told me,”—she spoke in a secretive whisper—“the London papers are ripe with sordid tales of his romantic exploits. He keeps mistresses all over England. Needless to say, a man who loves so recklessly does not know how to love at all.”

  Her words hit hard, far worse than anything he’d received from Duncan in a sparring match. He’d been called a rake many times. But coming from this particular woman, the armor of indifference he’d mastered whenever people gossiped about him had been duly pierced.

  Just because a man had a healthy appetite when it came to sex, did not make him a lecher. And when did the absurd rumor commence about him having a harem of mistresses?

  Bloody Balderdash.

  Realizing they conversed openly on a public street, and had begun to gather the interest of others, he drew her aside. By the stars, he would thwart her low opinion of him, or rather the Duke of Pemberton.

  “Perhaps love does not come easily to some, Miss Tatum.”

  “I daresay love does not have a prayer to find men such as Pemberton when wealth and power blinds them to real emotion.”

  Devlin struggled to control his rising indignation. “I find your opinion about His Grace rather unkind and cynical. Do you mean to say you believe the Duke of Pemberton incapable of love?”

  She laughed softly, a gentle, sensual sound that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. “You believe he is?”

  “Yes,” he replied emphatically. “In truth, I believe all people desire to love and be loved in return, regardless of their station in life.”

  She grinned impishly. “Ah, but true love knows no station in life, Mr. Randolph.”

  Devlin snorted with derision. “That, my dear Miss Tatum, is nothing but romantic drivel and well you know it. You do not actually believe a simple flower girl and a nobleman could fall in love, marry, and live happily ever after.”

  “I do, if they truly love one another.”

  “How like a woman.” He shook his head. “Has it not occurred to you in these absurd flights of feminine fancy and nonsensical romantic musings, that once the bloom of love fades, they will have naught in common? The differences between their stations, family connections, indeed their very manner of speech, would ultimately destroy any affection they might once have felt toward one another. Family connections, breeding, society, even education—these things matter more than you realize. Why, the very foundation of British civilization is based on strict principles of conduct and structure.”

  “And you call me cynical?”

  Stepping forward, she touched his forearm. He could have sworn his heart slammed to a halt in his chest.

  “Love is always a struggle, Mr. Randolph. Perhaps that is why the rich place such little value on it. I am not ignorant to the ways of the world. The wealthy merchant has no greater desire than to marry his daughter off to a titled gentleman. And the peerage would never deign to converse with one in trade unless, of course, their family’s fortunes were in grave jeopardy. Alas, true love is for the peasants. ‘Tis the treasure that strengthens us against the struggles and misfortunes we must endure in life.”

  Devlin studied her thoughtfully. “Are you deliberately trying to vex me? I cannot help but notice you delight in making disparaging comments about the peerage and especially the Duke of Pemberton.”

  “An even more curious question is why do you find my viewpoint so unacceptable?”

  “What I find unacceptable is disrespect toward the Duke of Pemberton. He is our employer, Miss Tatum. As such, he deserves our loyalty.”

  “My loyalty is to Bellewyck Abbey, and that should be enough for a duke who cannot be bothered to visit his new estate. Besides which, I have good reason for being suspicious of any heir to Lord Bellewyck.”

&
nbsp; She turned toward the inn, but paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “I am sorry if my words offend you, Mr. Randolph. But, you see, I believe respect is earned by deed and not bestowed due to someone’s birthright. You cannot force someone to respect you any more than you can force someone to love you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You are a king

  by your own fireside,

  as much as any monarch

  on his throne.”

  ~ Cervantes

  (1547-1616)

  Don Quixote

  Having been summoned to the dining room, Christiana found Mr. Randolph finishing breakfast. Immaculately attired, he smiled at her as if the sun and moon were out in unison.

  Goodness, but the man had a fickle disposition.

  Returning home yesterday from the village, Mr. Randolph had been in an exceedingly foul mood. His disgruntled expression upon seeing her once more covered in soot had been her first warning. His ill temper provided a stark contrast to the man’s teasing smiles and laughter on the way to The Green Dragon. The man even ordered her to stay a fair distance behind him on the ride back to the estate. Neither did he make one attempt to converse. Even after entering the abbey, he’d glared and grumbled beneath his breath.

  “I trust you are well this morning, Miss Tatum.”

  “Indeed I am, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Excellent.” Leaning back in his chair, hands steepled prayer-like, he studied her for what seemed like a fortnight.

  “I dislike dining alone, Miss Tatum.” His voice had that seductive, velvet tone that captivated her interest and altered the cadence of her heart. “I believe I told you to take your meals with me. Had you done so, there would have been no need to seek you out again.”

  “I shall keep that in mind, Mr. Randolph.”

  He frowned, obviously displeased with her reply.

  “Yes, well, I would like you to accompany me during my meeting with Jasper Collins. Afterwards, we shall make a complete tour of the brewery operation.”

  “As you wish.” She turned to leave.

  “One moment, Miss Tatum; I have made a decision regarding your duties and obligations as housekeeper at Bellewyck Abbey.” Rising, he crossed the length of the dining room to stand in front of her. “First off, you will no longer clean chimneys.”