Debt of Honor (26 page)

Sarah was no longer a part of his life. He would never let her usurp a moment of it again.

Where was Lettie? Where was his curricle?

Just then someone opened the entrance door. Percy turned on his heel, expecting it to be one of the footmen to tell him the curricle was waiting.

Instead, dismay mixed with anger at the sight of the intruder.

Chapter Thirty

Percy turned still.

Slater had been right.

Ethel glanced toward the servants’ door in the back, then, apparently satisfied that the hall was empty, glided toward the commode by Sir Giles’s portrait and pulled out the top drawer.

Her face fell, consternation curving her mouth downward. She reached deeper inside the drawer, but still came up empty-handed, so she pulled the drawer out until it hung by its back edge like a gaping mouth. Yet nothing helped.

“Is this what you have been looking for all along, Ethel?” Percy asked, coming out of the corridor.

She shrieked, startled and whirled to face him. Then, with agility that surprised him, Ethel launched herself at him, trying to snatch the box from his hand, but Percy quickly raised his arm beyond her reach.

“Damn you to hell,” she cried, her voice trembling with fury. “You have no right to that box. You have no right to Sarah’s journal!”

“To the contrary, Ethel.
You
do not. I pity you. Sarah revealed in it more than you’d ever wish her to.”

Her fists pounded his chest. Surprised by such a violent reaction, Percy moved back until she stopped following him. After a moment, he lowered his arm. To his relief, Ethel did not repeat the attack, yet she watched him through narrowed eyes.

“Damn you,” she repeated, her bosom heaving, “damn you, damn you!”

“Oh yes, damn me,” Percy snapped, not even trying to mitigate his own anger. “Damn me for falling in love and marrying a woman who failed to mention that neither her feelings for me nor even my fortune had anything to do with her accepting my hand. Damn me for loving her all those years and for trusting her as one would a true wife. The only thing I wish to know is why you took part in this charade. What was
your
motive?”

“You!” she cried, her face suddenly flaming. “You never paid any attention to me once you returned from Cambridge.”

Percy took a careful breath. For years, he had walked a tightrope between Ethel’s not-always-subtle overtures and his own self-preservation. Ironically, while Sarah led another secret life, he did whatever possible to avoid playing into Ethel’s hand and causing even a waft of gossip. After Sarah’s death, acting in a manner that would not make him beholden to her in anyone’s eyes added another burden to his misery. His new marriage obviously meant nothing to her.

“So that was why you agreed to help them?” he ground out.

“You can be remarkably stupid when you choose to,” she retorted.

“I came back to Bromsholme after fourteen years of absence.” He swallowed growing irritation. “You wed Marsden straight out of the schoolroom, less than a year after my return. Was that to attract my attention? Was it to attract my attention that you joined Sarah and Burdett in their scheme?”

“You were no longer of consequence to me then,” she retorted with a derisive laugh that sounded a trifle forced, perhaps even tearful. “And you have no idea how many men of the
ton
I met during my marriage who would do anything for the mere
chance
to court my favor. You were just a bad memory. It seemed fitting to let you taste your own medicine.”

“You’ve had your fill, then,” he rejoined.

Her eyes turned suspiciously shiny. “I never meant you any harm.”

“Forgive me if I don’t agree with you entirely,” he replied. “And I don’t really care, especially at this very moment.”

“You
never
cared,” she said with feeling.

Then she swiped at the spilling tears and straightened her spine. “I loved Sarah from the day Tony introduced her to me. She became my best, dearest friend, and I would do anything for her. She and Tony were made for each other. He could not marry Sarah since he was already married, and then
you
came along and took away from them the shreds of happiness they had in each other’s company, and
you
coerced her father into promising you her hand. And you wonder why I helped them?”

She pointed a finger at him vehemently. Her voice rose to an angry shrill. “You killed her! You killed her as surely as if you strangled her yourself. And you killed Tony. You are nothing less than a
murderer
to me!”

“You knew about the duel, didn’t you? Well, of course. Burdett wouldn’t keep from
you
the real reason why he was obliged to leave in such haste.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. I left the house that morning soon after my brother and waited for Tony, or for news about him, in the woods near the inn where he stayed that night. It was only bad news.” Her face crumpled again, but she managed to stop tears. “Oh, I wanted to gallop to Bromsholme and kill you with my bare hands!”

Percy ignored that poignant declaration. “So you think Burdett is dead, don’t you?”

“Just as I knew,” Ethel hissed. “You are a coward and a liar too. Do not even think of denying the truth. I saw Tony’s shirt with a bloody stain where you shot him through the heart!”

A shirt with a stain?
Her words cut through the dull annoyance he was beginning to feel at her usurped right to meddle in his life.

“Where did you see it?” he asked sharply.

Ethel smiled triumphantly. “So, you admit to committing murder, in face of undisputable evidence?” she asked with mocking sweetness. “Why, his valet brought it with him and showed it to me as soon as the duel was over.”

“Ah, so it was Burdett’s valet who told you that he was dead,” Percy murmured, half to himself, still turning over this statement in his mind with some amazement. “Did you also see Burdett’s body?”

“Certainly not. I am a lady. Besides, you ordered it to be removed immediately, and so his valet was in great haste to be off, determined to take Tony’s body home to his wife, as was Tony’s own wish. He only met me for a brief moment to impart that horrid news and give me the ring and letter Tony had left for Sarah.”

There was challenge in her gaze, and Percy felt as if he’d just awoken from a long, exhausting nightmare.

“Well, Ethel,” he said, “someone in this affair was—or is—a coward and a liar. You guessed that part right. You just did not guess the right person. Sarah’s and Tony’s was a perfect scheme indeed. It appears now that I was not the only one duped. Tony’s valet told you a tall tale about taking his master’s body home. Burdett had no home in the country for a long time then. In truth, he sold his estate before moving to London nine years ago, before—presumably—meeting Sarah, or so I think, since it was almost a year before I married her. He was also no longer married then either. His wife died of consumption soon after Christmas of 1794, and Tony sold the estate his father-in-law gave them as a wedding gift. That was the only estate he had ever owned. His father’s entire property is entailed and will pass on to his elder brother.”

Ethel’s smirk slowly gave way to an expression of complete incredulity.

“What are you saying?” she croaked after a few seconds of such silence that they would have heard a pin drop on the stone floor.

“I didn’t
need
to coerce Sarah’s father into anything,” Percy continued. “His own daughter pleaded with him not to delay the wedding by a minute longer than absolutely necessary. She never told you why? You would have known by now if you’d found the box before me. Sarah and Burdett’s ‘shreds of happiness’, as you put it, had consequences. If it is any consolation for you, Ethel, I did not know about it—and her subsequent miscarriage—until minutes ago.”

Ethel’s eyes changed from slits to saucers, and dark blotches of color reappeared on her cheeks.

“You are lying,” she said vehemently. “
These are all lies and excuses for your dastardly behavior. I do not believe one word of what you said.”

That did not surprise him. He himself still felt off-balance with all his newly acquired knowledge.

“Your brother was my second, remember?” he replied. “Burdett’s ungentlemanly behavior on the day of the duel led us to find out more about his affairs. He no doubt will confirm what I told you when he returns.”

Suspicion and incredulity marred Ethel’s face.

“Ah,” Percy added, “I haven’t told you yet that I did not kill Burdett in a duel or otherwise. As it happened, my wife’s ardent lover and your friend apparently had a change of mind during long night hours at the inn. He never graced us with his presence at the appointed place and time. If he really died that day, it was not by my hand.”

“No,” she squeaked and shook her head. “That cannot be true!”

“Tony Burdett never arrived at the appointed place,” Percy repeated. “Your brother and I waited for him for a full hour, after which time we went to the inn where Burdett put up for the night. The innkeeper remembered him well. He had found it greatly inconvenient to have the chaise Burdett ordered ready before dawn.”

Ethel gaped at him, speechless.

“Did you give Sarah that ring after you thought Burdett dead?” Percy asked when she made a sound reminiscent of a sob.

When he had found Sarah, an ornate large ring with a ruby he’d never seen before shone on her finger. Percy wouldn’t remember it if not for its unusual size. It remained on Sarah’s hand when they closed the coffin.

Ethel nodded. “Yes. Her maid came out, and I gave her the ring with letter Tony wrote for her.”

Percy never found Burdett’s letter. Sarah must have burned it along with other papers. Her fireplace was full of ashes.

Just then Slater walked into the hallway. He glanced at the box in Percy’s hand and Ethel’s reddened face.

“The curricle is waiting, sir.”

Percy thrust the box into Slater’s hands.

“Burn the whole thing,” he said, striding to the entrance.

“Certainly, sir,” Slater murmured.

Ethel gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

“No, wait.” Percy stopped in the doorway. “Burn the entire contents, but save the box.” For the first time since his confrontation with Lettie, he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Get enough pennies or other small coin to fill it. Next time Mrs. Vernon brings her sons, they can have the treasure they found.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Letitia reached her father’s mansion on Park Lane in the early evening on the second day. Her heart beat erratically when the carriage came to a stop in front of it while she searched for signs of life in the windows.

It was mid-September, so her father should still be in the country. Otherwise, she would have to find somewhere else to stay. Between the scandal and Percy’s intention to divorce her, she might sooner jump into the Thames than gain his sympathy.

But the curtains were drawn in all the front windows, and Letitia allowed herself a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t stay at Park Lane a minute longer than absolutely necessary. Tonight, however, she would sleep again in her old bed. Putting her life in order would begin tomorrow.

Percy’s groom rolled down the steps and was waiting to help her out of the carriage. Josepha preceded her to the front stairs and tapped on the door.

After a moment, the door opened, and Jasper, her father’s footman, poked his head out, his face freezing in astonishment.

“Good evening, Jasper,” she said. “Has my father returned from Fratton yet?”

His footman’s manners prevailed at last. Jasper stopped gaping and opened the door all the way. The initial shock gave way to a genuine smile he quickly suppressed.

“No, my lady,” he replied, and Letitia felt the weight lift off her shoulders.

“Well,” she said lightly, “it does not signify. Perhaps he shall be back soon.”

“His lordship set his return date for the Saturday after Michaelmas.”

Which fell on the coming Saturday, so she had almost two weeks. Letitia bit back a smile, hoping that Jasper did not notice her relief.

“I shall stay in my old room.” She gave him her gloves and bonnet.

Jasper bowed. “Certainly, my lady,” he said eagerly. “Shall I bring tea while my lady’s bedchamber is being prepared?”

“That would be splendid.” Letitia nodded. “I shall take tea in my old sitting room, if you please. No need to disturb the drawing room until my father’s return. I shan’t be entertaining anyone. Oh, and add another cup for Josepha, if you please.”

Jasper bowed and hastened away. The downstairs would be abuzz in no time, yet Letitia’s spirits became lighter for the first time since she left Bromsholme. It warmed her to know that at least one of the servants remembered her kindly.

But the soothing kindness of his welcome faded away as soon as she remembered why she was here.

How could Percy have dealt her such a blow? The solid steadiness, the safe haven he had become over the last three months proved nothing more than a mirage. A soap bubble that burst on the first obstacle in its way. Why had she allowed herself to think that Percy might love her?

Because she was stupid enough to trust a man. Letitia chided herself for the thousandth time while climbing to the upper floor. As if her experience with Sir Walter Hasting were not enough, not to mention her father. Perhaps Viscount Darnley was not cut from the same cloth, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

She had allowed herself to believe that Percy was different too, and look where trusting him got her. Under a veneer of kindness, Percy was as cold and unjustly judgmental as her father. She could never forgive him for condemning his own child to an uncertain future.

She would never forgive herself for falling in love with Percy. Her naïveté was truly astounding.

Her nerves were so jittery she nearly jumped at the whining sound the hinges made when she opened the door to her old sitting room. The curtains were already pulled back and the scullery maid was hastily building a fire in the fireplace. The sounds of other maids’ activities drifted from her bedchamber.

Letitia gazed through the window at the familiar mass of treetops in Hyde Park. Apparently, like her mother, she was not destined for happiness. She rubbed her face, trying to prevent the pinching in her nose that heralded more tears. How could there be any left after all the crying she had done from the moment her carriage had left Bromsholme?

Last evening, by the time they had stopped for the night at the inn, her eyes were swollen to two narrow slits and her nostrils burned from constant wiping. She felt weak and tired. Her brain and her muscles had become too mushy to protest when Josie set a bowl of soup in front of her and a tankard of ale. She ate and drank like an obedient child and fell asleep almost before Josie pulled the nightshift over her head.

The door whined again, admitting Jasper with the tea tray.

“Mrs. Wardle is asking whether you prefer to eat dinner downstairs or up here, my lady,” he asked while setting the tray.

“Up here. I’d like a bath beforehand, if she can spare some hot water.”

Jasper bowed. “Very well, my lady.”

As soon as he left, she poured herself a cup and walked to the window. Hyde Park was solemn in its autumnal dusk, the last faint rays of sunlight still lingering on the top branches amid their changing colors.

There were so many decisions looming ahead of her for which she was ill prepared. What if she had a son? He would be the rightful heir to the baronetcy. She would have to fight for his birthright. But if she stayed in England, Percy could take the child away from her. No one would stop him. And if she went to America, how was she going to assure her son’s proper upbringing, alone and probably with little money?

Reality began to sink its teeth into her mind. Where did one find out about ships leaving for Boston or Philadelphia? She couldn’t ask her father’s servants, and even less so Percy’s coachman and groom. Did she have enough to pay for the passage? Percy was very generous with her pin money, and as all bills went directly to him anyway, she hardly used it. But some of what she had saved had been already spent on the travel from Norfolk. What if she did not have enough?

She had no idea how much passage to America would cost—and that was only the beginning. There she would need to find a house for herself and Josie, and for the baby that would come in the spring. How long would it take her to earn anything on her own? Miniatures and decoupage might bring some money, but would it be enough?

Her heart raced in panic just thinking about it all. And then she felt the pervasive chill of fear wrapping its ugly tentacles around her heart—what if she couldn’t make a living painting? She had nothing to give to her child. Nothing beyond her love. But her love would not feed him.

The door hinge’s dissatisfaction with life made itself known again. Letitia glanced over her shoulder.

“There is a cup for you on the tray, Josie,” she said. “Did you go downstairs?”

“I did.” Josepha walked over to the tea table and poured tea. “Everyone sends their best wishes.”

“Thank you, Josie. I’m sure your mother was very glad to see you.”

Josepha nodded. “Eliza asked about you, of course.”

“Did you tell her, Josie?”

“No. Everyone came to the kitchen at once. I told them we might stay here for a few days before you resumed your journey.” She stopped, walked to the slightly open door to the bedchamber and closed it.

Letitia sat in one of the armchairs.

“Tomorrow, we will find this Mr. Welch. I hope he’s a better sort than my father’s solicitor.”

Josepha ran her thumb over the image of a trilling nightingale on the saucer, her brow creased, the usual smile gone.

“Are you sure this scheme of yours will work?” she asked. “Your husband is not a vengeful man. After what you told me yesterday, it still pains me to think about the hurt his first wife inflicted on him. It does not justify his behavior toward you, to be sure. However, I am willing to wager he’s already come to his senses and wants to make amends.”

“The only amends I want is the acknowledgment that the child is his. Don’t expect me to return to Bromsholme.”

“You are his wife.”

Indeed. A wife, but not a person in her own right as far as the law was concerned.

“He doesn’t
trust
me, Josie.” Her voice cracked despite her effort to sound unconcerned. “I thought we were friends, not just lovers, but I was so wrong.” She blinked rapidly when the burning behind her eyelids returned with full force. “I cannot live in fear that whatever I do might be turned into a proof of my fallibility.”

Josepha sighed. “This is a madcap undertaking, this going to America,” she grumbled. “Your aunt in Wiltshire would be delighted if you stayed with her.”

“Aunt Lydia?” Letitia asked. She had thought about it. “If Percy acknowledges the child and agrees to a separation, you and I could move in with her. But I cannot add to her burdens now. How much can a rector’s widow spare, even if he once had a good living? No, my savings would dwindle soon to nothing, without any chance to replenish them. I prefer to go to America without delay.”

She could not admit to Josie, and least of all to herself, how this decision frightened her.

It kept her tossing in bed long after Josie bid her good-night, despite feeling exhausted. Yes, Aunt Lydia would welcome her with open arms, but she would also never defy a husband’s authority and would find it troubling that Letitia insisted on leaving Percy.

He held so much power over her life, given him by law. And he still held hostage her heart, which she had given him so willingly. No, Letitia amended that last thought. He had
stolen
it from her. Charmed it out with his kindness, his liberality, his wisdom and later with his kisses and with every night they spent together, piece by piece, until there remained only emptiness inside her, because he had not given her his heart in return.

She had almost made up her mind to throw out her latest sketchbook. It would remind her too forcefully about all those evenings he had spent posing or when they had sat in his library, reading, laughing, talking about anything and everything, and invariably ending up in his bed. Those evenings were firmly in her past.

Best not to think about them at all.

She immediately saw Percy sitting at his desk, his back to the fireplace, his dark head bent over some paperwork before he joined her on the sofa, taking the sketchbook from her hand and setting it aside, or at the library table, going over more old watercolors of Wycombe Oaks interiors, his arms around her waist, his cheek resting on her hair.

Damn him.

Only two days ago, she had been in heaven. They couldn’t satiate their hunger for each other after ten days of separation. She had told him she loved him. He… Well, she hadn’t let him finish when he began to speak, so sure of his intentions. Now she wished she had.

Why did he believe Sarah, that conniving woman who had sowed the seeds of distrust in his heart? Especially after he had learned firsthand how untruthful Sarah could be?

God, how was she going to bring up their child alone?

How was she going to live alone?

She turned to her other side, and a lock of hair fell over her face. She brushed it away with irritation. Percy loved her hair so short, and she had basked in his openly admiring gaze.

The burning behind her eyelids returned. How insignificant her hair was in this whole affair.

He liked to twine it around his fingers and play with it, to hold it to one side so he could kiss her behind her ear. Another thing that would never happen again. Just like she would never again fall asleep by his side.

She curled up, pulling the blankets tightly around herself. Her old bed was narrower than Percy’s stately piece at Bromsholme and it reminded her more of a yawning, empty cave than cozy softness and comfort.

Letitia turned again, but her old mattress had morphed into a bed of thorns since she left London in June. Not a single comfortable spot to rest on it.

She threw off the covers and climbed out. The logs in the fireplace, glowing red, pulsed with heat and sent an occasional spark into the chimney. She lit a candle, put on her robe, took the shawl hanging over the chair’s back and left the room.

Her father’s study appeared the same as always. At least she could not tell the difference with the night’s shadows swallowing most of the room. Letitia had never been a frequent visitor here. The study was her father’s favorite room and a place of business. She used to sneak in and study the beautiful painting when he was not in London.

Today, the dust covers on the furniture were a reassuring sign of his absence. Letitia had planned to come in here in the morning to see the familiar portrait again, now that she knew who the sitter really was, but since she could not fall asleep, there was no harm in doing it at night.

Percy’s mother, immortalized on the canvas by Sir Joshua Reynolds’s masterful hand, gazed at her in the dark with the same serene smile with which she had always greeted her in the daylight.

Her mother called the enigmatically smiling young woman her father’s cousin, unfortunate to die young. But why, if her father was related to Percy’s mother, had there never been even a mention of the Hanburys until he had arranged her marriage?

The taller peaks formed by the dust covers on the desk and other tables betrayed the location of candleholders. Letitia uncovered and lit them all. The shadows receded, and Lady Hanbury smiled with more warmth at her from her place on the wall.

Letitia pulled up an armchair and turned it around to face the painting, then peeled off the dust cover.

“Good evening, Mother,” she said, sitting down. “You are my mother now too. You may laugh at me if you wish. I have admired your portrait for so many years, and yet, how would I know that one day I too would become Lady Hanbury? I can tell you all about your son. He is no longer the little boy you left behind. He is a grown man. And he married me. And I…well, I wish he loved me a little. Because I am afraid to have a child all alone. What if I die, like you? Who will take care of the baby then?”

Her throat became so tight she feared she might choke on the lump that filled it completely. There were not enough muscles in her face to stop the tears from coming. She wiped at them with her hand and sat quietly for a moment.

“Do you want to know about your son?” she whispered at last, watching the immobile smile of her mother-in-law. “He has grown into a beautiful man, you know. I think I can say so with some authority because I paint. I painted him as Endymion. He used to bring me flowers from the garden almost every morning. And we used to spend evenings together. Sometimes he read aloud to me. I thought he was happy. And I wanted Wycombe Oaks to become the most beautiful home he had ever seen.”