THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  “Oh, Devlin,”—she looked up at him with love in her eyes—“you do make me smile. You will always make me smile, even without beautiful gifts. Such extravagance must have cost you a small fortune. I shall be perfectly content being the wife of a steward, provided we live within our means.”

  A slight frown furrowed his brow, and he walked over to an unopened box on the bed. Rather than respond to her words, he spoke about the gowns and what his mother said were necessary underpinnings.

  She crossed to where he stood. Hugging him from behind, she rested her cheek against his strong back. “I did not mean to sound ungrateful. You have given me a wondrous surprise. I only meant gifts are not necessary to make me happy. You make me happy, and I do not want you in debt because of me.”

  He turned to face her. “And I will not have you worry about finances. Your happiness means more to me than anything, Christiana.” His gaze focused on her lips, as if eyeing a treat that might spoil his dinner.

  Gruffly clearing his throat, he walked to the door of his chamber, rubbing his neck in a distracted manner. “Much as I hate to leave you right now, I have a meeting with some men in the village about repairs to the abbey.”

  With his hand on the latch, he looked at her with a mischievous smile. “Once you have sorted through this mess, select a gown to wear at dinner this evening. There is something important I must tell you.”

  “PEMBERTON.”

  Polly and Christiana looked up from admiring the few silver pieces recently returned from the Shadow Walk.

  “What the devil is that?” Polly asked.

  Christiana stood motionless, and for a moment it seemed she could not breathe. “Someone is shouting Pemberton.”

  “The duke is here?” Polly shrieked.

  Christiana motioned for Polly to calm herself. “I will see who it is.” She walked to the doorway then looked back at her terrified friend. “Find Mr. Randolph. If he has not yet returned to the estate, have Billy fetch him from the village.”

  Upon entering the Great Hall, she hid behind the shadow of a column, trying to see who had arrived and think what to do. She had to appear calm, composed. Steady her breathing, slow her racing heart. Now was not the time for courage to falter.

  From what she could tell four fashionably dressed gentlemen had arrived en masse, complete with extravagant carriages, liveried footmen, a quantity of luggage, and meticulously groomed valets. Their arrival—not announced by servant or sealed missive—had been heralded by their unruly, loud masculine voices shouting one name upon their lips. A name they continued to shout as if summoning Zeus from Mount Olympus.

  “PEMBERTON.”

  Christiana flinched, and gripped her hands together to keep them from shaking.

  Hearing no response to their shouts, the men quieted somewhat and talked amongst themselves. Perhaps now she might greet them, and converse in a dignified, confident manner. Mindful to not be suspicious or lose her temper, she approached. However, as she neared, it proved a challenge to not react to their disparaging comments about the abbey. And if her suspicions were correct, they were slightly inebriated.

  “What, ho!” exclaimed one gentlemen as he elbowed the tallest man in the ribs at her approach. “It appears someone lives in this ruin—and a vision no less.” Straightening his coat, he combed a hand through hair resembling spun gold and observed her with a thorough, most improper, head-to-toe inspection.

  “Might I be of assistance, gentlemen?”

  The tallest man frowned, his emerald eyes narrowing in a most unsettling manner. “Damn, woman, I hope you have not cost me five hundred pounds.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Pay him no never mind, my lovely,” the handsome, golden-haired gentleman said with an air of sober civility. “Our business is with Pemberton. Kindly inform His Grace he has guests.”

  “I am afraid there must be some mistake.” She paused to clear the clump of fear out of her throat. “The Duke of Pemberton is not at Bellewyck Abbey. Neither have we received word of his impending arrival.”

  Three of the men laughed, prompting the Adonis with golden hair to roll his striking blue eyes heavenward. “For God’s sake, do be quiet. I am trying to converse with this lady.” Returning his attention to her, he smiled. “Miss, uh . . .?”

  Remembering her promise to Devlin, Christiana took a deep breath for courage. “Petrovsky,” she said. “My name is Miss Petrovksy.”

  With a bewildered expression, he nodded. “Miss Petal-oar-ski, permit me to introduce myself. My name is Mitchell, a close friend to the Duke of Pemberton.”

  In turn, Mitchell identified his companions as the Earl of Wessex, Viscount Lyndon, and Mr. Walter Duncan.

  “Hello,” she replied.

  “Hello,” they responded in unison, smiling like idiots.

  “Right then, Miss Petal-Petal-rumspree. . .” Mitchell’s capacity to trip over his tongue whilst pronouncing her name became rather amusing, especially to his friends. He shot them another dark look. “Is there, perchance, a Mr. Randolph about?”

  The faint amusement she felt died abruptly. “Mr. Randolph? Why, yes, there is a Mr. Randolph at Bellewyck Abbey. He is the steward.”

  “Damn,” Mitchell mumbled, shaking his head.

  “Hah!” Viscount Lyndon clapped his hands. “Did you hear that? Miss Pullski says Mr. Randolph is the estate’s steward. I believe that means I win, gentlemen.”

  “P’rhaps not,” Lord Wessex said with a hiccup. “Since Miss Petunia here knows nothing about Pemberton being at Bellewyck, I suggest we address the specifics.”

  “Very well,”—Lyndon made a curt nod and folded his arms across his chest—“as I recall, Mitchell wagered the façade could not be maintained a fortnight. Clearly, this young woman knows nothing about Pemberton, and it has been months. Thus, Mitchell loses and I win.”

  Mitchell smiled sardonically. “Ah, but you wagered he could maintain the masquerade but not discern the truth.”

  “What truth?” Duncan interjected.

  “The truth about the servants stealing from the estate and murdering the ward,” Lord Wessex contributed with another loud hiccup.

  Duncan looked about the empty hall. “Suppose he’s already had the dastardly villains carted off to gaol. That explains why no one’s about.”

  “Excuse me,” Christiana interrupted. “But what is this about the ward being murdered?”

  Duncan looked at her with an expression of sadness. “I think it best you not know the gruesome details, my dear lady.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. “The ward was not murdered, gentlemen. Indeed, there has been no murder at Bellewyck Abbey.”

  “No murder?” Duncan asked. “The devil you say. Fine time to tell us, I vow.”

  Totally exasperated, Christiana looked to Viscount Lyndon. Weaving on his feet in a suspicious manner, his eyes narrowed as if trying to decipher a secret message only he could hear.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Wessex beckoned. “I have gleaned the sum of it all. You recall I was the only one who had confidence in Pemberton. I wagered he would make a perfect spy, fool the lot of them, and expose their crimes. I do believe those were my exact words. Am I right, Duncan?”

  Duncan scratched his head. “Bloody hell, I think so. What was my wager, Mitchell?”

  “You made no damn wager,” Mitchell bit out with obvious frustration. “You never wager.” Directing a comical glare at the young Lord Wessex, Mitchell then added, “How can you use him as a witness? Good God, man.”

  They all began to argue in a lighthearted banter. In truth, they reminded Christiana of impulsive, reckless boys discussing a game of chance.

  “What difference does it make?” Lyndon asked. “The fact remains Pemberton left this estate and returned to town. We agreed he must remain here until Twelfth Night, at which time Pemberton said he would reveal the truth and have all the servants tossed out—or was it shipped off to Van Dieman’s Land. I cannot r
emember. But since he left Kent—he forfeited the wager and owes us each five hundred pounds.”

  “By jove, here is the fellow to ask,” Duncan announced.

  Christiana looked to see a devilishly handsome and out-of-breath Devlin standing in the open doorway to the abbey. A moment later, the man she loved almost toppled to the floor when Polly, Billy, Gordon and even Tom Rooney slammed into his back from behind. To his credit, Devlin recovered his composure with impressive agility and walked toward her.

  “Damn,” Devlin whispered under his breath, adjusting his disheveled clothing. Had they told her the truth? Looking at Christiana, he saw only bewilderment—not that he could blame her. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “Mr. Randolph,” Christiana said. “These gentlemen are looking for the Duke of Pemberton. I have tried to explain he is not here, but—”

  “Come now, Pemberton,” Lyndon interrupted with a deep laugh. “Makes no never mind what the lovely Miss Plum Pudding thinks. You were spotted in London and, as you know, that means the wager is forfeited in our favor.”

  Directing an exasperated glare at Lyndon, Devlin took hold of Christiana’s elbow and gently ushered her toward the library.

  “What are they talking about?” she whispered. “Why did he call you Pemberton?”

  “Christiana, come with me now. I shall explain everything in private.”

  She stopped walking and turned toward him. “I hardly think the matter private any longer. Viscount Lyndon seems to think you are the Duke of Pemberton. And you have not corrected him. Why is that?”

  Devlin glanced back at his friends, all of whom had become silent as the grave and sober as spinsters. Returning his attention to Christiana, he sighed. “I have not corrected him because…I am the Duke of Pemberton.”

  “Caw,” Polly gasped into the ensuing silence.

  Christiana hadn’t taken her gaze from his. “No, you cannot be.”

  “Yes, Christiana,”—he took a step closer to her—“it is the truth.”

  Gently taking hold of her arm again, he escorted her to the library. After closing the door, he led her to the small settee before the hearth. Her pale, dazed expression almost broke his heart. He sat beside her, holding her hands.

  “Forgive me, sweetheart. I should have told you the truth before now. But knowing how you felt about the Duke of Pemberton, I decided to wait.”

  “Why?”

  “You were just beginning to trust me as the steward, and I did not want to jeopardize that. Then we became lovers, complicating matters all the more. I tried to tell you in the grotto, but you were too determined to return to The Mermaid Inn. I was going to tell you again the next day, but that was when you told me you were the ward.”

  “I remember you wanted to tell me something in the grotto.” She looked down at their joined hands. “I thought ‘twas something else.”

  “Do you also remember the things you said about Pemberton? Even after confessing yourself the ward, you made me promise not to tell him.”

  “And you replied the Duke of Pemberton would not learn the truth from you.”

  Devlin angled his head in an effort to better study her expression. “First, I wanted to help you accept being Christiana Petrovsky. Next, I wanted to remove the dangers from your life. And then I wanted to convince you that Pemberton was nothing like Lord Bellewyck.”

  “You should have found a way to tell me before now.”

  “Yes, I should have. But I didn’t want to destroy the trust and affection you had for me as Devlin Randolph. In your mind and in your heart you made love with a steward. Was I then to tell you the man who bedded you was the man you never wanted to meet?”

  She looked at him then, tears gathering in her luminous eyes. “Was that why you said you never would have made love to me had you known the truth?”

  He nodded. “And why I vowed not to make love to you again until everything was settled. How could I when you did not know the truth about me? That would have been despicable. I had too much admiration and respect for you to do that.”

  Pulling her hands from his, Christiana stood and crossed to look out the mullioned windows. “I understand why you kept silent.” She remained still, her voice quiet. “I even understand why you thought pretending to be a steward would help learn what you wanted to know.”

  She looked down at her hands. “In truth, I suspected you were not who you appeared to be when you arrived. I thought you a spy for Pemberton—or that you might even be related to him in some way. I just never imagined you were Pemberton.”

  He walked over to stand beside her. “It is rather ironic we both pretended to be someone else.”

  “Yes, very ironic,” she whispered then looked into his eyes. “Your name is not even Devlin, is it?”

  “David,” he said. “But Devlin is the private name my family has always called me. My grandmother pinned it on me when I was a baby. She was Irish, you see, and believed it better suited my mischievous nature.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I did tell you Devlin is Irish for David. And I actually prefer Devlin.”

  “Those gentlemen are your friends?”

  “They are indeed. I have known Lyndon the longest—since childhood.”

  “I see.” She crossed her arms and faced him. “Then perhaps you can explain this wager they kept mentioning. From what your friends told me, you came here believing us thieves and murderers. Is that true? Was coming here a game to you, Devlin? Did you come to Bellewyck Abbey because of this wager amongst your friends?”

  He walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a leather packet containing some papers from London. After finding the one he sought, he extended it for her to see.

  “When Higginbotham informed me of Lord Bellewyck’s death, admittedly, I could not have cared less. I never knew I was remotely related to the man. And I had more than enough properties to keep my interests occupied. But then I learned Bellewyck had a ward. A child no one knew anything about. A child the servants claimed never existed. That prompted me to come here. You may as well know I have an Achilles Heel where children are concerned. I wanted to find the ward—or learn what happened to it. In retrospect, I should have known it was you. But, my sweet, you had a clever answer for everything.”

  Christiana smiled sadly. “Apparently, we were so busy trying to hide the truth about ourselves we saw nothing else.” She took the document from his hand, and gave Lord Bellewyck’s Will a cursory glance.

  “What about the wager?” she asked.

  “It happened more out of boredom than intended cruelty. Lyndon suggested since I planned to visit the estate, I could best learn what I wanted to know posing as a servant. Before I realized what had happened, wagers started being made about whether or not I would be able to succeed at the pretense.”

  “More out of boredom than intended cruelty? They said you boasted about sending us all to Van Dieman’s Land. Is that not cruel? Is it not cruel to wager with people’s lives? Bellewyck made wagers, too. He wagered on whether or not I would fall to my death. It remains a very vivid memory.”

  “How can you possibly compare me in the same breath with that monster?”

  Tears glistened in her eyes and she swallowed hard.

  “For God’s sake, Christiana, do you honestly think I would intentionally play with the lives of innocent people? Yes, the wager was wrong. Yes, I believed the worse about you all before I came here. I might add, when I arrived, my opinion seemed justified. All of you resented my presence, and were secretive, guarded, and deceptive. You even drugged me. Although I understand now the reason for such drastic measures, the truth remains you were all involved in treachery.”

  “Was seducing me a means to an end?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “By God, I will not respond to that question.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “No, Christiana, you do not see. The fact you asked that after everything I have done, everything I have tried to do to prove myself to you,
is beyond offensive.”

  Picking up the leather packet, he gave it to her. “Perhaps you should look these papers over now. I had intended them to be a wedding gift. But you may prefer to use them as the means for your long desired freedom.”

  Christiana looked at the packet in her hands. “Devlin, I am trying to understand.”

  “Are you? Your mistrust is not about me, or my character, but based on the unfair belief that anyone with a title is just like Lord Bellewyck.”

  She blinked wide-eyed at his comment.

  “He is dead, Christiana. The past is dead. I have tried to prove myself to you—again and again. Now, you must choose for yourself whether or not we have a future together. Whatever you decide, I will respect.”

  He then started walking toward the door to the library.

  “What will you do now?”

  “My friends are waiting.” He paused with his hand upon the door latch. “I intend to see they have been made comfortable. I would very much like you to join us this evening for dinner. It will give you an opportunity to know them better. They are not perfect, nor always wise, but they are my friends.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “What sunshine is to flowers,

  smiles are to humanity.

  These are but trifles, to be sure;

  but, scattered along life’s pathway,

  the good they do, is inconceivable.”

  ~ Joseph Addison

  (1672-1719)

  Surrounded by her friends, including Nash—who admitted he’d been assisting the Duke of Pemberton with his deception—Christiana sat in numb silence in the warm kitchen of Bellewyck Abbey.

  No one spoke—and with good reason. On the table were various papers from the packet Devlin had given her. One document stated a generous annuity had been established for each of the Bellewyck Abbey servants. Apart from that, the servants had been given a dramatic increase in wages reverting back fifteen years. Devlin had also designated a monetary gift to every person in the village for their dedication and loyal service to Miss Christiana Petrovsky.