THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  “Good morning,” said a lilting voice.

  With a start, Devlin turned his head. Christiana stood beside the bed—a vision of loveliness. Her dark hair, no longer in plaits, glistened in the sunlight, falling loose about her hips. She smiled with what could only be described as an invitation to seduction.

  He admired her womanly form, grinning like a besotted fool. Then he realized she wore one of his shirts, and nothing else. Sitting up quickly, he cradled his aching head with his hands, waiting for the dizziness and rocking motion to subside.

  He looked again at her attire, swallowing hard to see shapely limbs and bare pink toes. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

  “I had nothing else to wear.” She spoke in a near whisper then looked down.

  “What are you talking about? What happened to your bedclothes?”

  When she continued to stare at the floor, he followed her gaze and saw her nightdress, torn from collar to hem, completely shredded. Swearing under his breath, he all but jumped out of bed, fastened his trousers then glared at the nightdress as if it were a dead snake.

  “How the deuce did that happen? What are you saying, Christiana?”

  “I have said nothing but good morning, Devlin.” She looked at him with wide-eyed innocence

  “What happened last night?”

  “Do you not remember?”

  He swallowed hard, desperate to think through the muddled shadows of his mind. The last thing he remembered was leaving this room and her in his bed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I fell asleep before the fire.” He pointed with an outstretched arm at the hearth in his bedchamber. “And not that fire, by God.”

  She studied him with a wary expression.

  “I remember distinctly stirring up the logs in the fireplace downstairs,” he continued whilst pacing. “I also found some bottles of ale in the sideboard and thought ale would warm me. And that was all. I most definitely had no thoughts of seducing you.”

  Agitated and confused, he looked at Christiana—lovelier in his white shirt than any woman at St. James’ Court dressed in the finest silks and jewels.

  Is it possible I got so foxed last night I made love to her without her consent?

  Judging by his expression and the heated gaze steady upon her, Christiana knew Devlin still desired her as a woman. And she enjoyed a brief measure of triumph her little experiment had worked so well. Yet just as quickly, devastating anguish lined his features.

  “I vowed it would not happen again.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  He sounded hurt, ashamed at the thought he might actually have bedded her. She watched in stunned silence as he sat down in a chair and cradled his head in his hands. The sting of tears burned her eyes yet she refused to cry.

  “I truly am a fool,” she whispered, glaring at her torn garment on the floor. “What was I thinking? Bind him to me so he will not tell the duke.”

  “What did you say?”

  Christiana quickly looked up and saw he studied her with a suspicious expression. “Nothing,” she answered.

  “You said something about not telling the duke.”

  “No, please do not tell the duke.”

  Devlin’s expression shifted to what looked like anger. He crossed the room and took hold of her shoulders in a firm grasp. “You were seduced against your will and still you won’t speak the truth.”

  “You do not understand,” she cried.

  “Oh, I understand. I understand I came back to this room and bedded you like some foxed lecher.”

  The look of self-loathing on his face nearly destroyed Christiana. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them away or hide them.

  “And now I have made you cry.” Releasing her shoulders, he stepped away. “I swear to you, I do not remember.”

  “Please, listen to me, Devlin. I have not accused you of anything. You have done nothing against my will.”

  He laughed caustically. “Oh, I am quite sure I employed sufficient tactics to seduce you. I am not an animal after all, just a dishonorable rakehell who cannot control his bloody quim-stake.”

  Stunned by his tone and crude language, Christiana couldn’t think of what to say as he quickly strode across the room to leave.

  He yanked open the door. The rise and fall of his shoulders accentuated each rapid breath. Then, his head and shoulders slumped as if greatly burdened. “Bellewyck took your childhood”—he turned and looked at her—“and I have taken your innocence, not once but twice. Clearly, I am no better than that evil monster.”

  She ran to his side. “You are not a monster. And you are nothing like him, Devlin Randolph.”

  He laughed—a harsh, cynical sound. A moment later, he grew solemn and looked at her with an expression of pity. “Christiana, you know nothing about me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Courage is that virtue which

  champions the cause of right.”

  ~ Cicero

  (106-43 BC)

  De Officiis

  How can I not remember making love to Christiana?

  Again and again, the question repeated in Devlin’s thoughts. After riding hard and fast about the countryside all morning, the question remained unanswered. More disturbing was the knowledge this hadn’t been the first time he’d wakened under a cloud of uncertainty, not knowing where or how previous hours had been spent.

  Midday, hunger and thirst prompted Devlin to rein in at The Green Dragon. Before he entered, however, a quick glance down at his appearance prompted a scowl. He’d left the abbey in such a hurry he still wore yesterday’s now rumpled clothing. And his fine boots were in sore need of blacking. Self-conscious, he stroked his jaw and felt stubble from two days growth of dark whiskers. What a scandal if the Duke of Pemberton were seen in such a disheveled state. Thank God none of his mother’s friends could see him now. Even Hastings, his valet, would have a fit of apoplexy.

  He found an empty table in the corner of the common room and ordered a plate of food and drink of Scots whisky. In no time at all he ordered another. No one approached, but the proprietor of The Green Dragon kept glancing his way with a curious expression. And it proved impossible to ignore Godolphin whispering rather loudly concerning ‘the steward’s dour mood’ to a heavyset man Devlin recognized as the village blacksmith.

  As the hours lengthened, other men of the village came to the tavern. Judging by their frequent stares, they were also questioning the presence of the abbey’s new steward. Their conversation drifted to Devlin.

  “Appears a might burdened, don’t he?” the smithy asked.

  An earnest discussion ensued amongst the other men. Several moments later, Godolphin approached his table with a bottle of whisky. An expression of wary concern lined the man’s weathered features.

  “Is there somethin’ I can do for ye, Mr. Randolph?”

  More sober than he appeared, Devlin clenched his back teeth at the sound of the fictitious name. Damn this idiotic charade. He never should have accepted the blasted wager. Had he come to Bellewyck Abbey as himself—like he’d intended—none of this would have happened.

  I tried to not get involved with her.

  “Blinded by lust,” he grumbled aloud.

  “Beg pardon, Mr. Randolph?”

  Devlin stared at his half-empty drink. When did he lose control of his life? Had it started when they met or their first kiss in the hop garden? In truth, that first sweet taste had weakened his resolve. Without question it inspired more intense erotic musings that kept him awake, painfully aroused, and in sore need of release.

  Neither could he forget that when they gave into temptation and made love, it had been beyond his greatest expectations. More powerful than anything he’d ever experienced.

  He had to be honest with himself. From the moment he first met Christiana, the stubborn, exasperating, impertinent, absurdly secretive housekeeper had challenged his mind and chiseled away at his heart. Like a victorious army of one, she’d conquered him�
�mind, body, and soul. Something a legion of conniving women and their scheming mothers had never been able to achieve.

  Remembering Godolphin’s presence, he looked at the man.

  “I just learned the identity of the Bellewyck ward.”

  Godolphin took a seat at the table. “Is that what ails ye, Mr. Randolph?”

  Devlin quirked a brow and studied the intrusive innkeeper. In another life, Godolphin would be chastised for having the audacity to take a seat in the presence of the Duke of Pemberton—let alone engage in conversation with him. Strange, but now he welcomed Godolphin’s company.

  “What ails me, Mr. Godolphin, is that I failed to realize the truth before now. The entire village must think me a fool. Signs were there all along. Even covered in soot—” Uncomfortable speaking on the matter, especially with a stranger, he grimaced. “Well, it bloody well makes no difference now.”

  “No need to feel embarrassed, sir,” Godolphin said. “Love is blind, they say.”

  Devlin barely managed not to choke on his drink at the impertinent remark. Just how much did the people in the village know about his relationship with Christiana? For that matter, to what extent were they involved in the secretive, quite illegal, goings-on at the abbey?

  Christiana had confessed the villagers helped protect her from Lord Bellewyck, as well as maintain the deception regarding her identity. Neither could he forget Godolphin directed him to The Mermaid Inn the other night—or that Blackjack contacted The Green Dragon’s proprietor when Christiana had been injured. Logic dictated, at the very least, Godolphin must be involved in the smuggling operation.

  Still, he needed to be sure.

  Draining the whisky from his glass, Devlin leaned forward in a somewhat conspiratorial manner. “I know about the smuggling.”

  A frown creased Godolphin’s brow.

  Devlin nodded. “I actually believed his lordship had killed the ward. That the abbey servants thence blackmailed him in exchange for their silence.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “I had it all charted out in my mind. The earl could do nothing about their blackmail for fear the servants would expose the murder of his ward. Clever, eh?”

  “Aye,” Godolphin said.

  “Ah, but then I discovered, quite by accident mind you, that the beautiful Miss Tatum is a pistol-wielding smuggler. And, even more amazing, the missing ward of Bellewyck Abbey.” He narrowed his gaze at Godolphin. “Which reminds me, you almost got me killed the other night. If not for the timely intervention of a smuggler named Christian, I might very well be dead at this moment.”

  Godolphin paled. “Ye do not believe I wanted ye dead, Mr. Randolph?”

  Devlin made no reply.

  “I am sorry ‘bout that, Mr. Randolph, but ye did come in here sayin’ ye wanted to speak with Blackjack.”

  “True. I suppose I cannot fault you for obliging my request.”

  The innkeeper’s blunt features dissolved into a smile. “Ah, I knew ye was a fair man the moment I met ye, sir.”

  “Indeed,” Devlin murmured.

  Godolphin leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible whisper. “If ye do not mind me askin’, sir, what is it ye plan to do with all ye know?”

  Devlin stared hard at the older man. “That depends.”

  “Depends?”

  “On how honest you intend to be with me hereafter.”

  “Well, as to that, knowin’ how our dear lady feels ‘bout ye, there will be no more secrets b’tween us. I can promise ye that, Mr. Randolph. I am an honest man, ye see.”

  “Is that so?” Leaning back in his chair, Devlin crossed his arms. “Then you shan’t mind telling me about his lordship and this smuggling business.”

  Godolphin motioned for a serving wench to bring him a glass. Glancing back at Devlin, he grinned. “I hope ye’re not in a hurry to get back to the abbey.”

  “Not at all.”

  When the servant departed, Godolphin poured himself a drink then took a long swig of the whisky. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but his lordship was a sorry bastard. He would have put the child in a grave without a second thought. No mistakin’ ‘bout that.”

  “We have no argument there,” Devlin said.

  “Right, then,”—Godolphin scratched his head of thick chestnut hair—“so, ye see, there was nothin’ the White Monks would not do for our little girl.”

  “White Monks?”

  “Aye, Reliance thought up the name. God rest her soul.” He paused a moment, and a sad smile flickered across his wide mouth. Then, as if remembering the conversation, he gruffly cleared his throat. “Ye see, long ago there was a monk from the abbey. Legend has it he came down at night and did good deeds for those in need. No one knew his name. Those that caught a glimpse of him only saw the robes of a white monk. ‘Twas Reliance who said we should do like the legend and help Miss Christiana. But instead of bein’ just one white monk to do a good deed, there were many.”

  “How many?”

  “The entire village, and what servants that lived at the abbey o’course.” The innkeeper paused to take another long sip of his drink, savoring its aftertaste with a sigh.

  “How did it come about?” Devlin prompted.

  “Reliance told Reverend and Mrs. Snow how his lordship was treatin’ the child, ‘specially after that fine Mr. Evans died. So, we had a meetin’ and agreed Miss Christiana would become our ward. We vowed to protect her, feed her, and teach her what she must know when she became a fine lady one day. Most things we did on our own, but—well, we did need some blunt now and again.”

  “Hence the smuggling?”

  “Not at first,” the innkeeper said. “Old Jasper had this special ale named after the ancient monks. We sold it here and there—nothin’ grand, mind ye. ‘Twas when we started sellin’ to the big merchant ships that we turned quite the profit. Men from the village helped at the brewery to meet demand.”

  “I see,” Devlin murmured. “And when Lord Bellewyck learned of the profit you were making, he threatened to take Miss Christiana away unless you smuggled for him.”

  A contemptuous expression came to the innkeeper. “Aye, and for a murderin’, ruthless smugglin’ gang out o’ Calais. They wanted barrels of ale, special made with a false bottom. The top was filled with ale; the bottom was—”

  “Contraband?”

  Godolphin finished off his drink then quickly poured another. “Gold, spices and some jewels—mostly books and papers wrapped in oil skins. Never got a good look m’self, but ‘tis certain that bloody Calais gang smuggled more than lace and brandy. ‘Twas all we could do to survive back then. Any profit went to his lordship, may he burn in hell.”

  Raising his glass to his lips, the older man paused. “Mind ye, we would do it again to keep our young lady safe from the clutches of Bellewyck.” Suddenly overcome with emotion, a teary eyed Godolphin blew his nose loudly with a handkerchief.

  “I have no doubt you saved her life.”

  Godolphin’s chest swelled with obvious pride. “Well, she is like a daughter to me, to us all really. She sings like an angel, too. Sometimes, when she comes to The Green Dragon, I coax her to sing me a lively tune. And for certain there is not a more generous soul that walks God’s earth than our Miss Christiana. I suspect she gets that from Reliance. The dear woman was a saint.”

  With a guarded look, Godolphin whispered. “Promised I would ne’er tell of it, but just to prove how generous Miss Christiana is—I’ve caught her many a time in the village doin’ some act of kindness for one of our poor families in need. Why, just the other night she was here wearin’—”

  “The robes of a white monk.” Devlin interrupted.

  “Ye know ‘bout it then, eh?”

  Devlin smiled. So, his beloved Christiana had decided to further perpetuate the Legend of the White Monk. He could well imagine her venturing into the village under disguise to do some act of charity for the people who meant so much to her. It also explained what she did with her share of earnings from sm
uggling. And why she continued the illegal activity even after Lord Bellewyck’s death.

  “How did Miss Christiana learn about your smuggling?”

  When the innkeeper tried to pour them both another drink, Devlin realized the need to keep a clear head and covered his glass with his hand. Godolphin leaned across the table and whispered. “She recognized us.”

  “How? Did she follow you on a run?”

  “No, no, no.” Godolphin shook his head for emphasis. “It happened at the birthday ball.”

  The what? Apparently, his confusion as to what the talkative man was referring must have shown on his face.

  The innkeeper grinned. “Do ye mean to say ye’ve not heard ‘bout the birthday ball?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “Miss Christiana’s birthday is Christmas Day. So, we had a masquerade ball at the abbey each year—to celebrate. It started when she was a tiny girl. After all, none of us wanted her thinkin’ she was forgotten and alone. We pretended to be friends of her dead parents, come from far away to keep a promise to wish her well on her special day. Ah, but they were happy times.”

  Devlin stared at the table’s scarred surface, finding it difficult to swallow. This was the rumored masked Yuletide ball? A birthday celebration for the Bellewyck ward?

  “We fooled her easy enough in the early days.” Godolphin continued. “Then, five years ago, she recognized Giles Yates.”

  “Giles Yates?”

  Godolphin jerked his thumb in the direction of the smithy. “Giles Yates.”

  Devlin studied the behemoth of a blacksmith across the room. The size of a bull, no matter the costume, it would prove difficult—if not impossible—to hide the smithy’s true identity.

  When Godolphin said nothing more, concentrating more on his drink than conversation, Devlin prodded. “You were saying she recognized the smithy.”