Debt of Honor (6 page)

Mrs. Waters’s eyes turned suspiciously shiny. “Lady Hanbury looked so bad, all blue and purple, but he wouldn’t let go of her.” She sniffed loudly. “Aye, how we all cried, we felt so sorry for him. Sir Percival has never been the same since that day. And then, only a week after her funeral, he ordered the upper floor to be demolished and rebuilt. I heard the young Mr. Wilkinson ask him once why he did that. He replied that no one deserved to live in those rooms.”

She rooted in her apron pocket and produced a large handkerchief. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I never saw such devotion in a man.”

Letitia only nodded in reply. Her head spun from the housekeeper’s story. To go to such extravagant lengths to make sure that no one—especially not another woman—would ever sully Sarah’s rooms with her presence was an unmatched proof of Sir Percival’s feelings for his deceased wife. The recollection of the pain marring his features after her outburst in the carriage flashed in her mind’s eye. She had no idea she had poured salt on a raw wound. No doubt he still carried a torch for Sarah and probably would forever.

And yet, it didn’t stop him from having a mistress.

She congratulated herself again on the clever plan she had hatched during her solitary wedding night. An escape to America
was
her best option. With Sarah worshiped on the altar of Sir Percival’s memories, and a mistress warming his bed, her absence would hardly be noticed. Oh, she might have the orangery, but it was now easy to see that he only thought to get rid of her this way. All the better. She didn’t need his meddling in her life.

All these thoughts were still churning in her head after the drawers were finished and Letitia walked slowly along the back corridor toward the main staircase. Josepha’s quiet laughter reached her and, as it always had, put Letitia at ease. Josie seemed to like Bromsholme. What would she say once she learned the strange history of Sir Percival’s first marriage?

Then the sight that greeted her in the hallway pushed that thought aside.

Josepha stood in front of one of the portraits, her slender hand resting on the Boulle chest to her left. Sir Giles—Letitia had already learned the names of the sitters and their connection to the family history—stared down fiercely from his portrait at a man in riding clothes facing Letitia’s companion.

He was almost as tall as Sir Percival and about his age. His tousled light-brown hair had plenty of sun streaks, betraying the outdoor inclination. His voice reverberated between the stone walls while Josie—her always prudent Josie—grinned at him.

“It will be a great pleasure, Miss Fourier,” the charmer was saying. “If you come early in the morning, I will show you the hothouses before they heat up beyond comfort.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Petre. Perhaps I will come. And thank you for the offer of a potted plant for my room.”

So this was the steward? Letitia appraised him with interest.

“My pleasure,” he replied, bowing slightly. “I shall return later in the afternoon to speak with Lady Letitia about the changes in the orangery.”

“I cannot tell for certain when she will— Oh, here she is.” Josepha noticed her presence at last, having momentarily taken her eyes off the steward. “Mr. Petre has come to find out what you wish to do with the orangery.”

“Mr. Petre.” Letitia extended her hand to him, and he bowed over it with all the gallantry one would expect from the sixth and youngest son of a viscount. “Let me show you what I have in mind. Josie, would you please bring my sketchbook from the sitting room?”

Josepha nodded and turned toward the staircase.

Letitia headed toward the corridor leading to the library. “How soon can you begin, Mr. Petre?” she asked.

“On Tuesday, ma’am,” he replied, sending a fleeting glance toward the stairs.

Chapter Eight

Sir Percival waited for her at the bottom of the staircase when she descended on the morning of their wedding breakfast. Dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the church, he presented an image of strength and self-confidence. A sliver of sunlight that gleamed through the dome highlighted his dark hair. Letitia noted again the fine lines of his features and the sensuousness of his mouth. An unexpected longing washed over her, together with the renewed desire to paint his face.

Sir Percival let his gaze sweep over her figure. Apparently, she passed inspection, because his eyes smiled when they met hers. He offered her his arm once she reached the last step.

“It is going to be a long day,” he remarked. “Are you ready?”

“Certainly,” she said, looking around the hall. The flower arrangements on the commodes filled the space with heavenly scents and an effusion of colors. Even the figures in the portraits seemed to have lost some of the rigidity of their stance. Sir Giles’s silver breastplate shone under the long line of sunlight stretching from his left shoulder and across the canvas all the way to that warped bottom corner of the frame Letitia had noticed while going over the inventory with the housekeeper.

A thought struck her. “Are there any relatives of yours among the guests today?”

“No,” Sir Percival said. “My aunt and her family live in Devonshire.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“I visit her and my uncle every year,” he replied. “We were once very close. They took care of me after my parents died.”

His parents died so long ago? She was stunned by his admission. “How old were you when that happened?”

“My mother died when I was five. My father followed her within a couple of years.”

“I am so very sorry,” she said spontaneously and with sincerity. The familiar, unrelenting regret and sense of loss that overpowered her whenever she thought of her brother and mother washed over her uninvited.

Sir Percival nodded. “I am fortunate to have caring relatives who spared no effort to care for me and my inheritance,” he said. “I owe my aunt and uncle a great deal more than I can ever repay.”

Letitia’s chest constricted when she imagined a little boy leaving his home for the last time. But there couldn’t be a more awkward time to tell him how sorry she felt for the child he had once been. They were about to greet their guests. She realized she was squeezing his arm when he covered her hand with his and patted it.

“It was a very long time ago,” he said. “Speaking of my aunt, there is one of her friends, Mrs. Baillie. She moved to the village here and bought Rose Cottage after her husband died in the American War. I think you will like her.”

An elderly lady in a flowing dress and a straw bonnet adorned with roses floated toward them, her arms outstretched and a broad smile on her face.

“Percy, my dear!” she exclaimed before hugging Sir Percival and kissing his cheeks.

He stepped back and kissed her hand.

“So, you are a married man again. God bless you both.”

She turned to Letitia.

“You, my dear, must promise to visit me often,” she said, taking her hands. “An old woman like me could use young company. And I want to get to know you better, now that you are part of us.”

“Thank you.” Letitia smiled. There was warmth in Mrs. Baillie’s demeanor that managed to melt away even some of the sternness in Sir Percival’s countenance.

“You, my dear child, are the envy of a number of young ladies who set their caps on Percy.” Mrs. Baillie squeezed her hands and smiled back. “I am glad for you. And you too,” she added, turning a motherly gaze on Sir Percival. “Make the most of your good luck, my dear.”

He bowed his head in response and indicated the door.

Mrs. Baillie sent Letitia another warm glance before going in.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival turned to greet the family that had just dismounted from their carriage. “The Fogerhills,” he murmured into Letitia’s ear as they watched the approaching couple, two girls behind them.

A heavyset woman in a gauzy dress almost pulled the man whose arm provided inadequate support for her ample figure. His inconsequential stature was further diminished by the plumes bobbing in all directions from his wife’s elaborate headdress.

“Let me warn you that Mrs. Fogerhill never stops talking. You may follow her husband’s example and let her go on uninterrupted. It is an art he perfected years ago.”

“Thank you for the warning,” she sputtered, suppressing laughter.

Half an hour later, when the duty of greeting the guests seemed done and they were ready to follow everyone to the lawn, two more persons arrived. An elderly gentleman approached slowly, supporting himself on two canes. His strained features suggested a very recent and probably very temporary victory over the pernicious gout. His companion was a young woman with vibrant, coppery locks peeking from under her bonnet. The mossy-green dress in the first stare of fashion offset the hair’s fiery quality quite formidably.

“Mr. Wilkinson was my father’s friend,” Sir Percival explained before the pair reached them. “His son, Thomas, is now traveling on the Continent. This is his daughter, Lady Marsden. She returned to Pythe Park after her husband died four years ago.”

“She is a widow?” Letitia glanced at him, surprised.

“She married Marsden at seventeen. He was sixty. Poor chap enjoyed his marital bliss for only four years,” Sir Percival explained, the corner of his mouth quirking up enticingly again.

“You will forgive me, my dear Lady Letitia, for not taking your hand,” Mr. Wilkinson said once he reached them. “I am afraid to let go of either of my canes, you see. But I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Percy, my dear boy, you deserve heartfelt congratulations. Nothing can delight me more than seeing you happily settled.”

Lady Marsden silently awaited her turn while she scrutinized Letitia’s hair and dress. But now she extended both hands to Sir Percival and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheeks.

“You old liar,” she accused him, but it was done with an indulgent smile. Letitia found her greeting annoyingly too familiar. “You never mentioned your matrimonial plans, even to your dearest friends.”

“I beg your pardon. It was not intentional,” Sir Percival replied and removed his hands from hers, turning to Letitia. “Allow me to introduce Etheldred, Lady Marsden, my dear. Ethel, this is my wife, Lady Letitia Hanbury.”

Ethel?

Lady Marsden turned to her at last. Her face was full of curiosity, and a broad smile brought two dimples to her cheeks.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Lady Letitia,” she murmured, never stopping her perusal of Letitia’s face, then grinned. “Oh, I can already tell we will get on together famously.”

Mr. Wilkinson grunted and shifted his weight.

“Ethel, my dear,” he exhaled harshly. “Be so good as to take me inside. I beg your pardon, Lady Letitia. I fear my canes will not do the job much longer.”

“Of course, Father.” Lady Marsden glanced at him, her forehead momentarily creased with worry, before focusing on Sir Percival again. Then she graced Letitia with a brilliant smile. “I am so very happy at the prospect of forming a new friendship.”

A couple of hours later, Lady Marsden maneuvered to secure Letitia’s company all for herself.

“At last, I can indulge in the pleasure of conversing with Percy’s beautiful bride.” She looped her arm through Letitia’s as they strolled toward the gardens. “I wanted to tell you myself how sorry I was for missing your wedding, my dear. I was in Norwich for a few days while Percy had the audacity to be at the altar without giving anyone the least warning. How naughty of him to keep his plans secret.”

Percy?
The familiarity with which Lady Marsden referred to her husband grated unexpectedly, but they’d known each other since childhood. After seven days of marriage, Letitia still thought of him as Sir Percival.

“I must confess I feel offended that he never mentioned you to one of his closest friends,” Lady Marsden continued. “And, please, do call me Ethel.”

“Then you must call me by my given name as well,” Letitia replied.

Lady Marsden turned toward her, amusement in her gaze. She wrinkled her nose in a conspiratorial smile. “Percy’s marriage was such a surprise, you know, particularly after he made it clear that he was not interested in matrimony, any more than he was in taking up embroidery. That is, until one day, about a week ago, when we all knew him a single man after breakfast and found him a married one before dinner. But one glance at you, my dear, suffices to explain why he acted so hastily and on the sly. Or why he lost his head so completely. He must admire you ardently.”

Admire her? Wasn’t it evident that he did not?

“I fear you exaggerate.” It was probably best to dispel Lady Marsden’s conclusion. “All there is to it is an eligible match on both sides.”

Lady Marsden’s gaze became more intense. The smile disappeared from her face. “I am sorry to hear it. But then, it is not very surprising. Poor Percy, he was so devastated by Sarah’s death. I must confess, we feared for his life after it happened. He loved her to distraction, you know, worshipped the ground she walked on. Although I fear you will dislike me for saying this, I am rather convinced he still harbors some feelings for her.” She sighed deeply. “Poor Percy,” she repeated. “How we all wish him happiness.”

This unexpected effusion took Letitia so much by surprise that she missed a step. To cover her reaction, she stopped and turned to face Ethel.

“Why did Sarah die?” she asked.

Lady Marsden stiffened a little, then cast a quick glance around, as if afraid that someone might overhear them.

“No one really knows why.” She leaned closer to Letitia and kept her voice low. “To be sure, she was often unwell for long periods of time, but not that summer. To the contrary, I never saw her in better spirits. Most ladies speculated she was carrying, but neither Sarah nor Percy said a word about it. And I would have known, as her closest friend. Her sudden and unexpected death was a terrible surprise to us all. They had been married for six years. For months, Percy was a shadow of the man he had once been. And poor dear Sarah. She was only five and twenty.”

Ethel sighed deeply while her gaze darted around in quick scrutiny of their immediate surroundings. Apparently satisfied that no one could hear them, she leaned even closer to Letitia and whispered, “Her death was so unexpected that you shouldn’t be alarmed if you hear some ugly gossip about it. It was circulated in the neighborhood that Percy
murdered
her. No one will, of course, mention this to your face, but I know a great many conversations over tea were rife with speculation on the subject.”

What? Not only did Sir Percival have a mistress, but he had also murdered his wife? Had her father made the pact with Bluebeard? But instead of fear or revulsion, Letitia felt an unexpected twinge of compassion. No one knew better than she how far the gossipmongers’ flights of fancy could go.

She looked her neighbor straight in the eye. “Indeed? I am all ears, Ethel. What were they saying? Did he throw her out the window or stab her with a letter opener? Did she scratch his face beyond recognition?”

Lady Marsden opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Bright red covered her cheeks, contrasting with both her dress and her hair.

“You
are
partial to him, aren’t you?” she said at last with some amazement.

Letitia preferred not to answer that question. Instead, she asked her own, “And do
you
believe this gossip? You said you have known him all his life, Ethel. Do
you
think him capable of such a crime? Do
you
think he could get away with it?”

Lady Marsden’s color intensified.

“No,
of course
I do not believe it.” She laughed, but her laughter seemed strained. “How could I? Yet he is a baronet, and a very wealthy one, representing an ancient family with a long history and influence in these parts. No one would dare question him openly. People always talk nonsense, you know. You should not be alarmed, my dear. I merely meant to prepare you in case such vile rumors ever reached your ears. But,” Ethel added, and this time her smile was very sweet, “I believe you have nothing to fear from him, even though the cause of Sarah’s uneasiness may still linger.”

She stared pointedly in the direction of the tables set up under the oak trees. Letitia followed Ethel’s gaze. Sir Percival and Mrs. Vernon stood there together, deep in conversation. As if on cue, Sir Percival offered Mrs. Vernon his arm before they walked off in the direction of the house.

An icy numbness spread in Letitia’s chest. So her intuition about the two of them was correct. Even worse, their liaison was no secret in the neighborhood. Her father’s sarcastic chuckle echoed in her head.

Letitia glanced at Ethel, who watched her intently, a faint smirk shaping her lips.

“Naturally,” Ethel continued, her face full of animation, “as soon as I heard these accusations about
murder
whispered, I vehemently denounced them as a vicious lie. Percy would have never hurt Sarah.
I
will always fight such vile gossip. No man was ever more devoted to his wife, even if he— Well, never mind. Let us hope it’s all in the past. Such deep grief as his is the best proof of his innocence.”

She squeezed Letitia’s hand as they resumed their walk.

“Well, my dear, do not let me ramble on about what is ancient history by now. This is a day for celebration, even if you are right about his reasons for marrying you. After all, I cannot imagine he could resist the prospect of getting back Wycombe Oaks.”

“Getting back Wycombe Oaks?” Letitia stopped again. “What do you mean by that?”

Lady Marsden returned the look of surprise. “You don’t know? Percy never told you? But the Earl of Stanville certainly must have done so.”

“Yes, my husband did,” Letitia replied, remembering Sir Percival’s words in the carriage. “I just never realized what he meant. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with augmenting one’s estates through marriage, if that’s what you mean.”