Debt of Honor (3 page)

But he apparently could be. He
had been
.

Josepha came back with one of the old nightgowns, helped her change and brushed out her hair. All that time, Josie kept uncharacteristically silent. Judging by this subdued demeanor, the entire household already knew that Sir Percival Hanbury had jilted his bride on their wedding night.

“Good night, Josie.” Letitia yawned. “I’m so tired. You must rest too. My clothes can wait.”

On impulse, they embraced each other.

“Good night,” Josepha muttered, gently rocking from side to side, the way she used to whenever little Lettie needed consolation over a sick doll or a scraped knee. “Everything will turn out fine, you’ll see.”

Letitia patted Josepha’s back reassuringly.

“I have you, and that’s what counts,” she said softly and swallowed the lump filling her throat.

After Josepha left the room, Letitia lay down on the bed and turned to face the windows and the soft breeze of cooler night air. There was little chance she would fall asleep anytime soon.

Sir Percival ought to have had enough decency to stay in the house. He didn’t have to share her bed. She didn’t want to share it either. But now it struck her that he had never intended to consummate their marriage and had planned all along to spend the night elsewhere.

And, of course, it wasn’t difficult to guess where that elsewhere was. Her husband had a mistress.

Chapter Five

Dressed in riding clothes, Percy left the house in the direction of the stables. As always at this late hour, he quietly saddled his horse himself.

The night was bright and the sky cloudless, but he would have no trouble finding his way to Wycombe Oaks, even in complete darkness.

He had gone that way countless times over the years. Although it was no longer necessary to sneak about unnoticed like a thief peeking in through the lowest windows, no one had to know how much he yearned to touch the walls that were once home to his family. He needed to do it alone, before officially entering the house on the morrow in the presence of its staff, few as they were at the moment. For the first time in nearly a quarter of a century, he again had the right to be there.

His father-in-law, who so easily relinquished the property, together with his daughter, would be surprised to find out how much Percy knew about the estate.

It had been common knowledge in the neighborhood that unlike the previous owners who had called Wycombe Oaks their home since the days of Edward IV, Stanville exploited the land, taking from it as much as he could and giving nothing in return. The outbuildings were in a dilapidated condition, having seen no investment in over two decades. There were no stables to speak of, except those that housed a few necessary workhorses. The roof of the carriage house suffered from numerous leaks that had ruined the vehicles left behind after Stanville removed the best ones to his other estates.

Even the land refused to give what it had given before. And as the income shrank, more neglect followed.

The old mansion, blended with the remnants of the castle that had preceded it, showed signs of abandonment. Several missing windowpanes had been covered with wooden boards, rather than filled with expensive glass. Trees and shrubs were overgrown. The courtyard had been hastily cleared of saplings and weeds to make it accessible for the brief visit of the uncaring previous owner.

Percy harbored no illusions about the condition of the interior, or even its resemblance to his childhood memories.

He left his horse in the usual place and climbed over the ruined wall in the usual spot. Tonight, he could have come through the main gate and the front entrance to the house. But he preferred to let himself in through the hunting parlor, to be there alone with his thoughts.

Percy fumbled in his pocket for a key, then carefully unlocked the door. To his relief, it opened with ease. He closed the door quietly and slipped the key back into his pocket, from which he retrieved a tinderbox and candle.

In the dim light, the hall seemed almost the same as he remembered it, with the exception of the empty wall under the Gothic arch where stuffed deer heads had hung. They had always frightened him and given him a lifelong distaste for hunting. He wouldn’t miss the old taxidermy, but it was probably a sad omen of what he could expect elsewhere in the house.

Indeed, the main hall above the parlor, though prepared for Stanville’s visit, was chilling in its emptiness. The pier tables still hosted flower arrangements, but the ornate looking glasses, once above the tables, had been removed. The paintings were gone too. So were the marble busts of ancient poets, on the landing, brought from the grand tour by his grandfather.

To his left was his father’s study. He pushed the door open. The room was completely empty; even the fireplace mantel had been removed. A surge of outrage washed over him.

The door connecting the study to the library stood ajar. What little remained of the collection was piled haphazardly on bottom shelves. A disemboweled sofa, serving as a support for a now-tri-legged table, stood in the center of the room.

A glance into the drawing room confirmed the same sad state of affairs. In the dining room, a breakfast table and two chairs—an attempt to provide Stanville with a dining space—were dwarfed by the size of the room and its fireplaces.

All that remained from the splendid old chandeliers that had hung in the great hall of the old castle were the hooks in the beams below the ceiling.

Stanville had emptied the house thoroughly. How many of these things graced his other homes? How many had gone to Christie’s auction rooms to supplement his purse already bursting with income from the sugar plantations? Oh yes, on that too Stanville had capitalized to the maximum. All of London knew that most of his household staff were slaves he’d brought with him after each visit there.

Percy straightened his shoulders. He would not succumb to dejection, despite the weighty sadness of an irretrievable loss. His old home, though terribly neglected, was nevertheless his again.

He was about to make his way upstairs when the light on the landing became suddenly brighter.

An old but sharp voice he immediately recognized cut through the silence of the building, “Who’s there? Don’t you dare touch anything, thief! Others are coming.”

“Good evening, Perkins.” Percy turned toward the lantern and smiled.

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Oh heaven be praised! Is this really you, sir? Mary and I prayed for years to see this moment. Oh, God is merciful.”

The lantern swayed to the floor. Behind it, the old footman bowed and sniffed.

“I am glad to be back too, Perkins.”

“Shall I bring you some refreshment, sir?” Perkins asked. “Mary already prepared something to welcome you tomorrow.”

“No need, thank you. Let Mrs. Perkins sleep without interruption. She will have her hands full after tomorrow. And you go to bed too. I have the key to the hunting parlor and can let myself out.”

“Perhaps I can light more candles for you, sir?” There was an almost-childish eagerness in the old servant’s question.

“No, thank you. One candle will do. I just need to see the house by myself, if you please.”

“Very well, sir.” Perkins straightened to attention, though he was grinning and the tip of his nightcap hung behind his ear like a giant, misplaced earring. “Mary and I will be waiting tomorrow to give you the full report and show you the house again. Will Lady Hanbury be coming with you?”

Who? Oh, he almost forgot he had acquired a wife earlier today. Naturally, Perkins knew about their nuptials, since Stanville had stayed here for a week.

“I do not think so, Perkins. Not tomorrow.”

Perkins bowed again and turned to go, but before disappearing in that mysterious way servants had of vanishing into the woodwork, he suddenly seemed to remember something.

“My best wishes for your happiness, sir,” he said and, with a smile, evaporated around the staircase.

“Thank you, Perkins,” Percy muttered.

For a moment, he’d completely forgotten about Letitia. He didn’t want her in his thoughts tonight. There would be plenty of time, his entire life, in fact, to remember about Lady Letitia Hanbury’s happiness.

Alone again, he looked around.

The walls above the staircase were completely empty, and so was the long gallery once adorned with paintings. He had not expected anything else, yet a sharp stub of regret twisted in his heart like a knife. He could buy any paintings, but not the family portraits. What had Stanville done with them?

Most bedrooms remained partially furnished, some pieces under dust covers. Stanville must have stayed in the state bedroom. Its furnishings consisted of a splendid old bed and a few hastily added pieces to provide his lordship with a modicum of comfort in the house he had raided of its belongings years earlier. Somehow, Stanville had not removed the richly carved bed, but the elaborate canopy Percy used to admire for its embroidered battle scenes was gone.

Without realizing it, Percy slowed his step as he walked toward the eastern end of the house. There, at the other end of the gallery, were his parents’ rooms.

He stopped when he reached the narrow passage that separated their apartments from the gallery, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

It all came back in an instant.

He was five again, standing in the same dark corner of the passage, hoping no one would notice his presence. He was not supposed to be here, but he’d slipped out of the nursery after his nanny fell asleep in her chair while he was playing with his soldiers.

He wanted to see a brother or sister whose arrival had been expected for months by his jubilant parents. Percy was their only child, and they were beside themselves with joy when his mother was expecting again. He had been expecting too. He wanted to see the baby who would share with him the empty nursery and maybe would grow fast enough to become a playmate. He longed for the company of another child. Although his father had begun taking him along when riding around the estate, the sporadic contact with other children in the village was not enough. He wanted someone who would be there all the time.

He also missed his mother. He had not seen her since she had retired to her bed after breakfast the day before, suddenly taken with pain. Since then, the entire household had turned upside down. Servants were riding out in a hurry and coming back with strangers. He was not allowed out of the nursery, but watched carefully from its windows whenever sounds from the driveway reached the top floor.

On the second day of confinement, the walls began to crush down on him. Once he’d even made it downstairs before being ushered upstairs by a very upset Mrs. Dale. Apart from the frustration with the sudden lack of freedom, Percy sensed something was wrong. No one in the house had ever behaved in such a panicked, hushed way. He had never seen his father in such a frantic state—unshaven, hair unpowdered and unchanged, crumpled clothes.

And Mrs. Dale, although she had always been kind and grandmotherly to him, became now even more protective, trying to keep his attention away from what was happening downstairs. Percy did not protest, but as soon as her chin fell over her bosom and she began to emit soft snores, he ran downstairs.

No one had told him anything, yet Percy knew with absolute certainty that that highly unusual state of affairs had something to do with his mother and the baby that had made her slim figure swell so much.

He was very afraid. He needed to see her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her very much, and that it was all right to send the baby away if it didn’t want to come live with them.

But his courage fled him when he reached the dark passage. Too many people moved frantically around. They would never let him in her bedchamber. He had not thought of that. He’d hoped she would be alone and he could quietly sneak in and sit next to her on the bed, as he often used to do.

Other unfamiliar things alerted and frightened him even more; above all, a strange and unfamiliar smell that permeated the passage.

A maid who passed him was weeping. Percy suddenly felt his heart in his throat and blinked against tears. He forgot to be brave and not to cry. He only wanted to see his mother now. Something was very, very wrong.

Heedless of adults, he dashed out from his hiding place and ran across the corridor. In the door to his mother’s room, he nearly collided with two loudly sobbing maids carrying out a huge basket of bloodied sheets.

Terror swept over him. He pushed past the girls and into the room before they had time to close the door.

His father was there, kneeling by the bed, holding his mother’s motionless hand and howling with pain. Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, stood at the foot of the bed crying, as did his mother’s maid. Two other girls, whom he recognized as the kitchen staff, were cleaning out more bloodied sheets and wiping their wet faces with dirty hands. A stranger in black clothes was packing some strange instruments in a vast, black bag. And the smell that assaulted his nostrils in the passage was overwhelming here.

In the midst of all this, his mother, her face paler than the pillow on which her head rested, lay motionless, her eyes closed. Although Percy had never seen a dead person before, he knew with the inexplicable instinct of a child that his mother was no more. He didn’t want to believe it.

“Mama!” he cried and threw himself on the carpet next to his father.

“Someone take the boy out,” said the stranger with the black bag. “This is not a place for him.”

But his father’s arm came about his small shoulders, and he was suddenly pulled into the heat and sweat and tears, and held there, as in a vise, against a hard, masculine chest.

“We lost them, Percy.” Sobs racked his father’s body. “We lost them.”

Percy wriggled enough to cast another look at his mother’s colorless face. She reminded him of one of the tombstone figures in their church. He knew somehow that that was where she belonged from now on. She’d crossed from one world to another, just as Mrs. Dale had told him happened to everyone who died.

He hid his face in his father’s shirt and began to cry.

Percy hissed and opened his eyes when the hot wax from the candle dripped on his palm.

He was alone, wrapped in the silence of an abandoned house. The wet heat that covered his face was his own tears.

After a deep breath, Percy pushed away from the wall.

He had to summon the courage and go in there now so that his mind would be clear in the morning when he returned to officially take possession of the house.

He forced himself to move and presently opened the door.

His mother’s room was completely empty. Nothing had been left in it.

He used to come here after she died, to sit on the empty bed neatly covered with a pretty embroidered pane. Once he peeked under it, but there were no traces of blood anywhere. Her other things remained arranged exactly the way she used to have them. For some time, flowers on her escritoire were always fresh, until things turned for the worse. After her maid left, he began to bring whatever he himself could pick. He’d done it the last time on the day they moved out.

Percy left the room and walked to another door.

His father’s bedroom stood empty too. In the sitting room separating the bedchambers, he found only two chairs pushed against the window.

He left the house the way he came, relieved by this visit. The shock of facing the memories passed. His mind would be able to concentrate on business when he returned in a few hours’ time.