THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  Beads of perspiration dotted the man’s brow. “I-I assure you, Your Grace, I am not the man you seek.”

  “Is that a fact?” Wanting nothing more than to throttle Vickers to a bloody pulp, Devlin folded his arms across his chest. “It is true,”—he walked a small circle about the man—“we have never met before.”

  A nervous smile played about Vickers’ lips.

  Stopping in front of the cur, Devlin crooked a brow. “But there is someone here who has met you.” He turned to the still open doorway whereupon Virgil Higginbotham entered the room with a constable. “No doubt, you recall Mr. Higginbotham. Lord Bellewyck met with this good solicitor the night he died.”

  Sweating profusely now, Vickers tugged at his cravat and swallowed hard.

  “Now then, Mr. Vickers, how does a valet come to possess furnishings from the entailed estate of his former employer—if not by theft? For that matter, how can a valet afford the lease of a town house in Westminster? And why would he give a fraudulent name on that lease?”

  “Your Grace, I did not sign the lease on this house. ‘Twas leased by my employer.”

  “Ah, yes.” Devlin stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Mr. Edmund Smythe.”

  “Indeed, yes, sir,” the valet acknowledged with a shaky smile.

  “Where is Mr. Smythe at present?”

  “He is, well, that is to say, he is a sickly man. Indeed, not long after I came to be in his employ, the poor man took ill. He…he has returned to his family home in Dorset, under the advice of his physician.”

  “Odd you did not go with him yet live alone in this fine residence.” Devlin shook his head at the man’s bald-faced lie. “And your explanation for having the Bellewyck clock?”

  “It was given to me by Lord Bellewyck in lieu of wages.”

  “Then you now admit you were employed by the late Earl of Bellewyck?”

  Removing a handkerchief, Vickers wiped his brow. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “A pity, you see, for Lord Bellewyck did not have authority to sell or barter with items belonging to an entailed estate. Had his lordship simply sold the clock outright and paid you from the proceeds, it would have been far better than having the clock in your possession. Then again, I also have evidence you not only advised the earl which estate items should be sold, but handled each transaction personally.”

  “What evidence?” Vickers asked.

  “A witness.” Devlin smiled. “Someone had the temerity to document every item taken by you and Lord Bellewyck, as well as conversations proving you a most eager participant in those thefts.”

  “Who is this witness?”

  “Did I not say? Well, I suppose you have a right to know. The Bellewyck ward.”

  “There is no Bellewyck ward.” Vickers made a caustic snort.

  “I beg to differ. Granted, you did your best to see her dead, but she is very much alive and quite remarkable. Her name is Miss Christiana Petrovsky, daughter of the late Count Petrovsky of Russia, and the former ward of William Bertram, Earl of Bellewyck.”

  “There is no such person.”

  “Permit me to refresh your memory yet again.” Devlin stood toe-to-toe with the valet. “Your former employer summoned her to Bath shortly before he died. Indeed, you personally admitted the lady to the earl’s residence and escorted Miss Petrovsky to his bedchamber.”

  “Stop calling her that!”

  “Why? It is her name, her real name. Tell me, Vickers, do you recall being sent out of the earl’s room that night?” Devlin watched carefully as the valet grew pensive. “You have wondered about it, have you not? Why his lordship did not want you present. You see, he gave the lady a strongbox.”

  “What strongbox?”

  “One containing documents regarding her birth in Russia, inheritance, and that William Bertram was the child’s true father and guardian. It also contained the missing codicil identifying your employer, Archibald Bertram as half-brother and succeeding guardian—verifying not only Miss Petrovsky’s true identity but the vast funds that were to be held in trust for her.”

  “You lie!” Vickers all but screamed.

  “I am the Duke of Pemberton. My reputation is impeccable. I suggest you not forget that.”

  Breathing heavily, Vickers rubbed his wet brow in an agitated, distracted manner. “It is not true,” he rasped. “I know for a fact those papers were destroyed years ago.” Realizing what he’d said, the man walked over to a chair and sat down, cradling his head in his hands.

  “You do realize I have enough evidence to put you in gaol this night for theft, as well as the attempted murder of Miss Petrovsky.”

  Vickers looked up, his eyes wide with terror. “His lordship said no one would ever know. He said there was no proof—no record of her inheritance, her birth, nothing. He promised me he personally destroyed all of it long ago. And that everyone would think her nothing but a common servant.”

  “Why then did you think he summoned her to Bath?”

  “To tell her so,” Vickers said. “To laugh in her face and tell her the fortune was gone—every bit of it—as well as the evidence about her birth and connection to the estate. He wanted to crush her in the end and take away her hope for a future.”

  “Yet he gave her the very evidence she needed to support not only her identity, but the fact he had robbed her of that inheritance? Then again, Lord Bellewyck realized he could not be punished for the crimes against her. After all, he would be dead and buried. But there was someone else who could be punished, namely you.”

  “No,” the valet whispered.

  “No one else was involved. Hence, the question remains—why would he betray you as an accomplice at the end of his life? What reason could he possibly have to turn against such a loyal and faithful servant? I assure you, I have spent a great deal of time considering possible motives. He could have simply implicated you by name, but did not. There had to be another reason he wanted me to look into the past, to unearth every despicable secret and put together enough pieces of the puzzle to see the greater picture. And then I remembered what his lordship said to Mr. Higginbotham before he died.”

  Vickers looked at the solicitor, confusion etched across his features.

  “His lordship said, ‘death will not silence me’,” Higginbotham said.

  Devlin crooked an eyebrow at the valet. “That, Mr. Vickers, is a statement made by a man seeking revenge. Since he gave Miss Petrovsky the documents promised her upon his death, he cared not about the ward or her fate at that point. And because he had orchestrated the theft of her inheritance and the entailed property at the abbey for personal gain, he cared not who knew about that either. So, I considered the man—a heartless, selfish, cruel man who cared only for himself. The only logical explanation for his deathbed vendetta was that he wanted something discovered that affected him—and someone in particular he wanted punished.”

  “The poison,” Vickers gasped in a raw whisper. “He must have found out. I only did it because he was taking too long to die. And he kept talking about debtor’s prison. He expected me to go there with him.”

  “And so, you poisoned a sick man.”

  “In his food each day,” Vickers said with a nod. “No one was the wiser. Even his physician believed his death the natural course of his disease.”

  “How convenient for you,” Devlin murmured.

  Just then the richly carved Bellewyck clock chimed again.

  “It wasn’t murder…not really,” Vickers protested. “His body was rotting, slowly wasting away. And I could wait no longer. I could never go to prison.”

  “Well, Vickers, if it is any comfort,”—Devlin nodded at the constable who came forward and took the valet into custody—“a different fate awaits you now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Love reckons hours for months,

  and days for years;

  And every little absence is an age.”

  ~ John Dryden

  (1631-1700)

  Amphitryon


  Dark, ominous skies, a biting wind, and a steady onslaught of rain seemed determined to follow the glistening Pemberton coach on its return journey to Kent. Removing an engraved silver flask from his greatcoat, Devlin took a swallow of brandy. Temperate indulgence is necessary if one wants to ward off the ague. Or, so he told himself.

  Feeling the coach slow and sway, he pulled back the hunter green velvet curtain and looked outside. They had turned toward the village. In another hour, Nash would reach the arched gatehouse at Bellewyck Abbey.

  Anticipation at the thought of holding Christiana in his arms made Devlin smile. He hadn’t intended to be gone from Kent so long—a fortnight at the most. Yet investigating the finances of Lord Bellewyck, seeking out his unscrupulous associates in the rookeries, and ultimately finding that foul blackguard Vickers had taken well over a month.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured Christiana naked in his bed, her enchanting violet eyes half-lidded with passion, and her exquisite rose-tipped breasts arching toward him. Swearing under his breath, he shifted in his seat, determined to bring his unruly body under control.

  Rather than spend the remaining hour watching tiny gold tassels dance about on curtain hems, he opted to take a short nap. Stretching his legs onto the opposing seat, he folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

  He woke with a start.

  Bloody hell, is someone pelting the coach with rocks?

  Looking out the window, hail the size of peas bounced off the road. His thoughts went immediately to Nash and the horses. He heard the coachman shout for more speed. The dastardly hail didn’t last long, but was replaced by a crosswind so fierce it seemed death itself chased them down.

  “Thank God,” he murmured when the coach entered the stable yard.

  As soon as they stopped, Devlin stepped down to help secure the coach and horses. After the four bays were dry, warm, and contentedly fed, he turned to the man he now considered an irreplaceable servant, and a valued friend. Resting a hand upon Nash’s shoulder, he commended the exhausted coachman’s efforts and gave him the flask of brandy.

  Anxious to see Christiana, he raced to the abbey in the downpour. He then made a quick search of the main rooms, disturbed by unlit hearths and shuttered windows.

  He stood in the columned Great Hall, hands resting low on his hips. “Where the devil is everyone?”

  Great claps of thunder, one after another, reminded the tempest was at its peak. The tumultuous storm pounded the countryside like cannon fire from a ship-of-the-line engaged in battle. Candle in hand, he made his way to his bedchamber and removed his wet clothing. After donning some dry clothes, he knelt before the fireplace and prepared to kindle a fire. Yet his thoughts turned toward the mechanism to access the secret passageway. He found the iron ring and released the door. Standing, he watched the wall panel open.

  At once, he noticed some of the wall torches were lit within the passageway. “She must be in the Shadow Walk with the others.”

  How long it took him to walk the winding path, he could not say though it seemed far longer than it had with the guidance of Christiana. He did not hesitate until reaching the divide on the descending path. “The right way is the wrong way,” he whispered.

  A short time later he came to Christiana’s treasure room, noting many items missing, returned to the abbey during his absence. Yet emerging once more into the yawning cave, frustration at not finding anyone turned to grave concern.

  Opting to continue deeper through the cave, he proceeded with caution. Just when he’d decided to return to the abbey, he noticed a peculiarity on the floor beside him. He stared at a pool of water, clear as glass. A light flickered in the water’s reflection, but not from his torch. The light came from someplace else.

  “There must be an opening on the other side.”

  Making his way carefully about the perimeter of the pool, he found an earthen path. A torch flickered from an iron basket, and beside the basket stood another door.

  “There is nothin’ to be done now, but pray and wait,” Bertie said in a quiet voice.

  Christiana nodded. She could not speak. Her heart ached far too much. Glancing across the room, she studied the somber faces of her friends. Tom sat at the table next to Gordon and Billy. Dearest Polly, always trying to be helpful, poured the men a cup of hot tea. They were here for her and each other.

  Returning her attention to the fragile figure on the bed, she studied the shallow rise and fall of Jasper’s chest. Taking hold of his now crippled hand, she thought about all the happy moments she’d spent in his company.

  Does he even know I am here?

  Bringing his hand to her cheek, she closed her eyes.

  “What’s this,” a thin voice said. “Weepin’ over me.”

  Although his speech sounded slurred, Jasper had spoken. She smiled into his pale eyes. His gaze drifted to the far side of the room where the others talked in soft tones. “Gordon can take over the brewery. He knows the way of it. Billy can help him.”

  She nodded, determined to be strong.

  “Is that damn steward back yet?”

  “I received a letter yesterday. He promised to be back within the week.”

  With a slight frown, Jasper studied her. “There is somethin’ I want ye to know.” He paused so long she thought he had not the strength to continue. Then, he spoke in a thread-like voice. “I was so proud ye told him the truth. Ye’ll have a fine future if ye put aside yer fears.”

  “I am so pleased you like him.” She kissed his brow. “He does not think you do, you know.”

  An almost amused expression came to the brewer’s face. “I like him well enough. More important, I trust him.”

  A rumbling sound distracted Christiana. She turned with a start to see Devlin enter the brewery through its secret panel.

  “What the devil is going on around here?” Devlin’s voice shot forth like a cannon blast. “A tempest is raging outside. Do you realize I have been looking everywhere for all of you? Fine welcome home, I must say. I race back from London to tell you there is nothing to worry about and find the house deserted. I was even worried about you, Rooney.”

  Christiana’s heart lightened to hear Devlin’s disgruntled concern. With a sigh of relief, she looked back to Jasper only to see the old man’s eyes slowly closing, a gentle smile lingering upon his lips.

  Making his way through the far end of the brewery, Devlin frowned at the servants sitting around the oak table with stunned expressions. Then, he saw Christiana standing beside a bed, a bed in which Jasper Collins slept.

  At once, the somber atmosphere in the room and the possible reasons for everyone being gathered in the brewery were understood. As he neared Christiana, he saw tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “My God,” he whispered. “What happened? Was he injured? Is he in pain?”

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Not anymore.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “ ‘Tis fate that flings the dice,

  And as she flings,

  Of kings makes peasants,

  And of peasants, kings.”

  ~ John Dryden

  (1631-1700)

  Devlin studied Christiana as he set down his cup of tea. In the fortnight since Jasper’s death, she’d become quiet and reflective. He understood her grief. He understood her love for the old man, and the important role he’d played in her life. But Jasper Collins had attained the ripe old age of ninety-three, a remarkable accomplishment for any man. And if they were to be married posthaste, there was much he had to tell her—beginning right now.

  “I spoke to my mother about you before I returned to Kent.”

  She looked at him with surprise. “Your mother?”

  “I do have one, you know,” he said with a grin.

  A glimmer of amusement sparkled in her eyes. “And here I thought you simply sprouted from my imagination.”

  “Ah, but you do have a delightful imagination, my sweet.”

  A soft
, telling blush rose to her cheeks, and she looked down at her plate.

  “Are you not curious what I told my mother?”

  “Well,”—she tapped the rim of her teacup with a fingertip—“Considering the possibilities, it does tend to boggle the mind.”

  With a light chuckle, he stood and walked over to her. She glanced up at him, and he extended his hand. “Come with me.”

  “Why?” she asked with a wary expression.

  “Because, my darling, I have something to show you. More importantly, I have something to tell you.”

  A short while later they stopped outside his bedchamber. Christiana delicately cleared her throat. “I do believe I have seen what you intend to show me, Devlin.”

  “Is that a fact?” he asked, opening the door.

  She nodded with a coy grin and entered the bedchamber.

  The first thing Christiana saw was a hooded cloak of black velvet draped across a chair. Then she spied a cashmere shawl. From that point, she didn’t know where to look. About the room were displayed the most beautiful gifts—a pair of leather half-boots, five pairs of embroidered slippers, assorted gloves, and even an exquisite ivory fan opened on the bedside table. Upon the bed were three beautiful gowns and two nightdresses so fine and delicate they seemed impractical for sleep.

  “How did you do this?”

  “Polly gave me your particulars,” he said with a wicked grin. “And, well, my mother helped with most of the selection. My tastes were more for my enjoyment than practicality.”

  “Your mother helped purchase these things for me? What must she think?”

  Drawing her into his arms, he smiled. “She thinks I am determined to marry you.”

  “You told her you intend to marry me?”

  “I did.”

  “But you have not spoken of our future since returning from London.”

  “I wanted to give you time to accept Jasper’s death before I broached the subject again. I sympathize with your sadness, sweetheart, but I have dearly missed seeing you smile and hearing your laughter. And, having two sisters, I learned at quite an early age the surest way to see a woman smile is to gift her with a new gown or two.”