THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  “Aye.” Godolphin’s eyes widened at the memory. “She demanded to know how we could afford the ball each year. And where all the costumes came from we was wearin’. Coaches lined the drive, too. Each one pulled by fine horses with liveried footmen. We had music and feastin’, tables set with silver and crystal. Just as fine as what you’d see in grand homes of the gentry. Well, we felt she deserved it, ye see.”

  “And you told her the truth about the smuggling at that time?”

  “We had no choice,” Godolphin replied

  “Did the White Monks disband at that time?”

  “Well, ‘twas not as simple as that, Mr. Randolph. Bellewyck was involved, ye see.”

  Devlin’s body tensed. His fists clenched. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply, needing to restrain his horn-mad temper the more he learned about his distant, dead relation. Godolphin had not only filled in the empty spaces of his unanswered questions, but confirmed everything confessed by Christiana.

  Noting the innkeeper’s worried expression at the change in his disposition, Devlin offered the man a reassuring smile. “I am not angry with you, Mr. Godolphin. Rather, I find it difficult to hide my disgust at the mention of Lord Bellewyck. The lady told me herself she joined the Ravens five years ago. But I am curious how she convinced his lordship to let her take the place of the White Monks smuggling.”

  With a wide grin, Godolphin hunched over the table and chuckled low. “She made another set of books. They cleared the servants of any wrongdoin’. Was that not clever?”

  “Ingenious,” Devlin murmured.

  “She went and faced down Bellewyck. Gordon and old Tom took her to Bath. But his lordship still threatened to see the lot of us hanged as thieves. And if we spoke ‘bout smugglin’, the Calais gang was told—by his lordship mind ye—to slit all our throats. Well, hearin’ that, Christiana went to Blackjack. She was friends with him, ye see.”

  “How did Christiana come to know Blackjack?”

  “She saved his life.” Godolphin’s brown eyes widened for emphasis. “No more than a child, she found him badly wounded and hidin’ in the grotto.”

  “She brought me to a grotto the other night,” Devlin mused aloud. “Is this perchance the same one?”

  “There’s only one grotto I know ‘bout, Mr. Randolph. It feeds from the sea into a cave ‘neath the abbey. There’s a lake there, too.”

  Devlin scratched the budded whiskers on his chin. So, Christiana deliberately rode in that absurd, serpentine manner to confuse my sense of direction. All the while, the grotto had been beneath the abbey itself.

  He smirked and reached for the bottle of whisky. Most likely, a secret passageway could have taken him back to his bedchamber. Then again, if she’d told him they had returned to the estate, he never would have permitted her to ride back to join the Ravens.

  Brilliant strategy. The woman would make a great general.

  Neither man spoke for several moments. Oblivious to churning emotions and a whirlwind of thoughts racing through Devlin’s mind, Godolphin appeared content to sit back and savor his drink. Under the circumstances, it might have been better had the gossipy man remained silent, but Godolphin was far too relaxed with their amiable conversation to mind his tongue now.

  “Did she tell ye ‘bout the books then?”

  “The false books?” Devlin asked.

  “Not those,” Godolphin replied with a dismissive snort. “The ancient books she found at the abbey as a child. I saw one once; could nary read a word.”

  Devlin studied the chatty innkeeper. Good God, what is he talking about now? I may need a map to follow this convoluted conversation.

  “She brought ‘em to Reverend Snow,” the friendly talebearer continued. “He helped translate ‘em.” All at once, the plump innkeeper started to laugh so hard tears came to his eyes. “God rest his soul, Reverend Snow adored Miss Christiana. Said she was wise beyond her years. They spent many an hour readin’ those books of the holy brothers, comparin’ ‘em to scripture. One book was ‘bout healin’—had all sorts of writin’ for potions and herbs to cure bellyaches and the like. And one receipt she used many a time, ‘specially when his lordship came to the abbey. It makes a man sleep like a newborn babe for hours.”

  Bells pealed inside Devlin’s skull and a nauseous feeling rose from the pit of his belly. “She,”—he swallowed what felt like a lead lump in his throat—“drugged Lord Bellewyck with a sleeping draught?”

  “Ye best keep to drinkin’ whisky ‘round our Miss Christi. Hey, that rhymes!”

  Devlin offered a feeble smile. “Does Miss Christiana still use this ancient potion to drug a person’s ale?”

  Godolphin sniggered, answer enough for Devlin.

  Suddenly, the strange, hazy confusion of this morning took new meaning. He’d been drinking ale in the Great Room the night he arrived at the abbey. And the next morning he’d wakened with the same dense fog surrounding his brain. Damn if she hadn’t drugged his ale that first day. And he must have been drinking the same tainted ale last night.

  “Those monks were a strange lot.” Godolphin studied the amber liquid in his glass. “They even had a receipt for invisible ink? Though what need the holy brothers had for such is beyond my thinkin’.”

  “One does wonder.” Devlin murmured, his mind spinning like a weather vane in a high wind. The woman he loved actually had the audacity to drug him. More to the point, if he’d been drugged last night, it was impossible he’d made love to her. In truth, he’d probably stumbled back to his bed as the powerful draught took effect.

  By God, she staged the entire scenario this morning.

  “Showed me a secret letter once,” Godolphin continued. “The invisible ink was written b’tween the lines of the real ink. Couldn’t see it ‘til the letter was held up to some heat.”

  Devlin held his breath a moment, somewhat afraid to ask his next question. “I suppose she found plenty of uses for that ink, eh?”

  “Aye,”—Godolphin’s expression turned somber—“she’s likely saved our necks time and again with her special letters. Not six months ago, a young lieutenant took a fancy to her. He’d call upon her and even confide in her ‘bout the maneuvers of his men. Well, ‘course she told Blackjack. Ye know, that besotted lieutenant carried two coded letters for Blackjack to me here at the inn. Damn fool, eh?”

  Devlin grabbed the bottle of whisky again, filling his glass. It seemed as if a bloodletting had drained his entire body, and only the Scots water of life could save him now. He quickly quaffed the drink, grateful for the surge of warmth. Still, Godolphin’s unwitting disclosure echoed in his brain. All he could think was what might have happened had Christiana been caught writing coded letters. Clearly, the village had been under suspicion for involvement in smuggling. For all he knew they were still under suspicion.

  “Damn,” Godolphin said, obviously noting his pallor. “She didn’t tell ye ‘bout the letters, eh?”

  “No,” Devlin replied, his voice deadly calm. “But she will.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I am perplexed whether

  to act or not to act.”

  ~ Aeschylus

  (525-456 BC)

  By the time Devlin returned to the estate, twilight—that enchanting hour separating light from darkness—had cast Bellewyck Abbey in half-shadow. A strange sense of urgency possessed him. Confronting Christiana in the uncompromising light of day would have been much more effective. Instead, dusk had fallen and within the abbey, deep shadows would soon lengthen to merge with the night.

  He should have been home hours ago, but the truth about the past and the sacrifices of so many people had affected him in unexpected ways. How quick he’d been to judge these people. How easily he believed them treacherous thieves and even murderous villains. For a man considered honorable by his peers, even a philanthropic humanitarian for the poor, he’d been blinded by prejudice and preconceived notions. A most unwelcome facet of his character to recognize now, and one he wou
ld move heaven and earth to change.

  To that end, he would do whatever necessary to help Christiana and the people of Bellewyck. Of utmost importance, Christiana’s days of denying her birthright and engaging in dangerous activities—however noble her motives—must end. He would make her understand and accept that despite her best intentions no one was safe.

  Ironically, the most imminent danger had nothing to do with Pemberton or the monstrous machinations of a dead and buried Lord Bellewyck. The biggest threat to everyone now was Christiana herself.

  After learning the drastic measures she’d willingly pursued to champion her cause, he found it a wonder she had escaped capture, imprisonment, or even death. In her mind the lie was safer than the truth, which meant action must be taken posthaste. If necessary, he’d pull her—kicking and screaming—out of this web of deception.

  The house was quiet. The servants would soon retire for the evening after finishing their daily duties. Unable to find anyone about, he made his way toward the staircase. Much to his surprise, Polly entered the hall, stopping short at the sight of him.

  Well, he’d learned one thing during his time at Bellewyck Abbey. Never let his opponent know his thoughts or his disposition.

  “Hello Polly,” he said with a smile. “Did Miss Christiana tell you to find a room for yourself among the guest chambers?”

  “I-I-I don’t want one.” Her eyes looked big as green saucers.

  “Come now,” he teased. “Surely you have no fear for your virtue around me?”

  Her mouth dropped open then abruptly slammed shut, prompting him to bite back a laugh. For all her bravado, Polly Darrow was an innocent.

  “Would you be so kind as to locate Miss Christiana? I wish to speak with her privately in the Great Room before she retires for the evening.” Remembering his unruly state of dress, he frowned and rubbed his coarse jaw in a distracted manner. “And ask her to make arrangements for a bath to be prepared in my chamber straightaway.”

  Bestowing him with another appalled expression, the blonde maid stormed out of the hall toward the kitchen.

  Realizing the need to act quickly, he took the stairs two at a time, and looked in each guest chamber until he located the room Christiana had selected to use. Quite expectedly, after their strained encounter this morning, her meager belongings had been placed in the chamber farthest from his own.

  A cursory inspection revealed a few articles of clothing, but no strongbox or treasured books in Latin. However, just as he turned to leave, he glimpsed something red peeking out from beneath a pillow on the bed. It appeared to be a journal or diary of some kind. Thumbing through the pages, he immediately recognized Christiana’s distinctive script.

  Placing the small book in his coat pocket, he walked by the window and caught sight of Polly sprinting across the drive toward an obviously surprised Christiana. Despite the quickly fading light of the courtyard, he noted Polly waving her arms about like a windmill. The maid’s agitated behavior prompted Christiana to shake her head, as if making some sort of adamant denial. No doubt, Polly denigrated him, sagely warning her friend to return to the servants’ quarters with all due haste and lock her door against the lecherous Mr. Randolph.

  “You are too late, Polly. Your dear friend is about to have another lesson in what happens when one plays with fire.”

  Christiana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to strengthen her courage. She looked down at her gown, smoothing out the skirt of her faded green sprigged muslin. Satisfied she at least looked composed, she knocked on the Great Room doors and heard Devlin’s deep voice bid her enter.

  Standing before the fireplace, the immaculately attired and groomed steward closed his timepiece and tucked it away in a waistcoat pocket. “I am pleased you decided to join me. Come, sit down.”

  Her legs, as if with a mind of their own, seemed unwilling to move. Yet somehow she managed to approach the massive hearth and took the large chair he indicated, the one he’d fallen asleep in the first night he came to the abbey.

  No sooner had she settled her skirts about her than he spoke.

  “I wanted to tell you I shall be leaving Bellewyck Abbey within the week.”

  She stared at him, swallowing the bitter bile of terror his words conjured.

  “Consequently, you must send word to this Blackjack villain. I wish to meet with him as soon as possible and end your involvement in his smuggling operation.”

  “Why you are leaving Bellewyck?”

  “I have business to attend in London.”

  She jumped to her feet. “You go to the duke!”

  Devlin arched a brow. “Have I not already promised Pemberton will not learn your identity from me? Now, do sit down and listen.”

  Christiana eyed Devlin warily and, against her better judgment, sat in the chair again. Then she noticed a red book in his hand. Whilst all color surely must have leached from her face, her breath seemed trapped inside her lungs for a hellish eternity.

  Struggling to remember when last she saw her diary, Christiana blinked through the haze of confusion. She’d gone down to the Shadow Walk to retrieve the strongbox for Devlin. Before leaving the locked box in his bedchamber, she’d opened it to check the papers inside. Only then did she realize she’d placed her diary in the box after its last entry. Although she’d intended to return the journal to the Shadow Walk, a red-faced Billy had dashed into the room saying Jasper had fallen. With no other choice, she’d hidden the book in her new bedchamber. The only way Devlin could have her diary in his possession now was if the man had been snooping about her new bedchamber.

  How dare he take my private property?

  Just then, he opened the little book and flipped through the pages.

  An involuntary cry of distress escaped her lips.

  Devlin lifted his gaze to her with a quirked brow. “Whatever is the matter, Christiana? You look positively ill.”

  Unable to speak, she watched in helpless horror as he pocketed the diary and walked over to the cellaret. After pouring himself a drink, he returned to her side. Frantic, unable to take her eyes off the item in his pocket, she contemplated how to pinch it without his knowing?

  Hearing Devlin clear his throat rather tellingly, she looked up and found him extending a mug of ale. She made a quick glance to the cellaret, and bit back a gasp at the subtly marked bottle of ale.

  He moved the mug a fraction closer to her lips. “Drink this.”

  “Thank you, no.” She shook her head. “I am not at all thirsty.”

  “I did not ask if you were thirsty, Christiana. I want you to drink this because you look unwell. And since there is no brandy or port about, needs must and all that.”

  Not wanting to raise his suspicions, she gingerly accepted the glass. Then, under his watchful gaze, she took a tentative sip, shuddering slightly at its telltale taste. When next she looked at Devlin, he was reading her diary.

  “By the way, I spoke with Mr. Godolphin today.”

  “Oh?”

  “We had a most enlightening conversation.”

  Raising a hand to her forehead, she tried to think. Although curious what Mr. Godolphin had said that might be considered enlightening, nothing mattered but getting back her diary. Not only did it contain her personal thoughts, a great many of which were about the sinfully handsome beast before her, but there were entries regarding the Ravens, the identity of its members, and her involvement in various runs.

  “He told me about your childhood and how the villagers adopted you, so to speak.” He raised his gaze from the pages of the book and smiled. “Incidentally, you must sing for me sometime. I understand you have a lovely voice.”

  “W-what else did he tell you?”

  “Oh, a great many things,” he said. “He told me about Reliance and how she organized the White Monks to care for you.” Another moment of perusing the pages and he closed the book, returning it to his coat pocket.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he studied her with a
thoughtful expression. “By the way, you really should be more careful—especially if you want to remain anonymous about your charitable acts in the village. It seems both Godolphin and I have seen you wandering about in your white monk’s habit.”

  “You talked about that?”

  Devlin grinned. “He also told me about the annual ball to celebrate your birthday. I hope there is one planned this year. I do so love masquerades.”

  Christiana inhaled so quickly she started to cough.

  “Come now, take another sip. God knows you have expounded its benefits to me since first I arrived at the estate.” Kneeling before her, he shook his head. “You truly do not look well, my dearest. And is it any wonder what with all the worries and dangers you have endured protecting everyone.”

  She felt ill. Devlin had an unmistakable air about him that said he knew everything. As if that had not been enough to make her hysterical, he intended to depart for London within the week—and she’d just imbibed the drugged ale. Determined to conquer the nausea sweeping through her body, she swallowed hard. “What will you do?”

  “Pardon?”

  “In London, what will you do?”

  With a shrug, he stood. “As I said, there is some business of a personal nature I must attend. I should be back within a fortnight.”

  “Y–you are coming back?”

  Devlin smiled. “Of course, I am. Did you think I would abandon you when there is still so much to be settled between us?”

  An impulsive cry of relief escaped her lips just as a single tear slid ever so slowly down her cheek. The onslaught of tumultuous emotions proved so powerful, she began to weep in earnest, whereupon Devlin pressed the mug of ale once more to her lips.

  “There, there,” he soothed. “My mother has often said a good cry is sometimes necessary for women. A means to purge the soul of all its worries and concerns, so to speak.”

  With an absent-minded nod, she took several large gulps of the ale, somewhat surprised when he abruptly took the mug away.