Debt of Honor (14 page)

By Jove, he very nearly kissed her minutes ago!

In the end, he stopped himself, suddenly frightened by the intensity of his desire. Hadn’t he promised her she was safe from him? He almost broke his word.

Worse, Percy didn’t want to keep it anymore. Perhaps he ought to forget about his plan of sending Letitia away to live on her own, and instead take her to bed, like a real wife.

And start down the same road to doom as before?

No. The price to pay might be much more than either of them could bear.

Chapter Sixteen

Percy stood patiently in front the mirror while his valet once again inspected him head to toe. Finding opportunities for improvement, Pergot smoothed a few unnoticeable creases on the coat, then added a couple of well-pronounced ones to the arrangement of the cravat. But when he proceeded to rearrange the fob of Percy’s pocket watch to make it hang just so, Percy drew the line.

“That will do, Pergot,” he said, hoping he did not hurt the old valet’s feelings. Pergot had been dressing his father before him. “You will embarrass me if I take longer than my wife.”

“Sir George always took as long as Lady Albinia,” Pergot replied, examining his creation with a critical eye, “and he turned heads wherever they went.”

“I’m dining only with her ladyship and Mrs. Baillie.”

Pergot seemed undaunted, especially since another crease appeared magically on one of the sleeves. “Her ladyship will be pleased if you turn out all proper, sir. If she ever catches sight of you in Sir George’s old coat, she will think she married a vagabond.”

Or a highwayman.
Percy bit back a smile.

He finally made his escape and headed toward the staircase. But before he got as far as Letitia’s bedchamber, Miss Fourier’s voice reached him through the slightly open door.

“…with anchovies. They might give you trouble again.”

“Mrs. Baillie will not serve salmagundi for dinner, Josie. And don’t remind me about that despicable Lady Rochford. I cannot bear hearing her name.”

Lady Rochford?
Percy stilled instead of knocking on the door.

“I cannot blame you, my dove,” the companion concurred. “I shake with anger whenever I recall what she did to you. Unfortunately, your father took that nonsense seriously.”

“Look at the bright side of things, Josie,” Letitia replied a little too cheerfully. “If it happened again, no one would be blamed. Quite to the contrary. I can see congratulations flowing in—unfortunately for the well-wishers, all in vain.”

“Maybe not in vain in the future…” Josepha suggested with audible hope.

“Oh yes, forever,” Letitia said in a tone not inviting any discussion. “Well, never mind. I promise you not to eat all the anchovies Mrs. Baillie’s cook has in her cold pantry. Should I take a shawl? There may be some chill in the evening.”

“I put it together with your bonnet.”

“Thank you, Josie. Your new book and the yarn you wanted for the reticule are in the sitting room. I better hurry. Sir Percival is no doubt pacing the hall and grinding his teeth.”

Percy knocked.

“I’m on my way downstairs,” he said when Letitia swung the door open. “Are you ready?”

Letitia tied the ribbons of her bonnet and nodded.

Without any warning, the pleasure of seeing her melted something in his heart. On the sly, he took a deep breath, enjoying the delicate waft of her scented water that was only Letitia and no one else.

Despite his renewed resolve to keep his distance from her, he had not been able to get out of his head that almost kiss in the great hall. The memory of desire brightening her eyes as she turned up her face for his touch had tormented him most of the night.

Now, once they climbed inside the carriage, Letitia turned away from him, watching her side of the road, her back straight. Percy waited for a moment, but she was as lively as a piece of marble.

“Tell me,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “what really happened in London?”

Letitia’s head jerked in his direction. For a moment, he thought she would turn away again without a word.

“Choose any of the fantastic tales you heard,” she said at last. “I doubt you will believe me anyway.”

“What makes you think I believe any of those tales?”

“Don’t you? Why? Everyone else did, including my own father.”

“And was he correct in doing so?”

“No. Very well,” she muttered. “But remember, I warned you.” She squared her shoulders even more. “It was Lady Rochford’s salmagundi.”

Percy was prepared for almost anything, but salmagundi was not on his list of possibilities.

“Lady Rochford’s…what?” he asked, hearing his own incredulity. None of the circulating stories full of details regarding his wife’s promiscuity had included food.

“I like anchovies,” Letitia offered defensively.

“I’m partial to anchovies myself.” Percy smiled. “But how could they affect you so adversely?”

“I think those served at the ball weren’t fresh, but their odd taste was not immediately apparent. I swallowed a bite or two before realizing that something was amiss. And then, when I danced with Lord Ogilby, my stomach suddenly twisted with a violent pain. I tried to ignore it in the middle of a set, yet it became so bad I had to excuse myself. Lord Ogilby tried to escort me out of the ballroom. Unfortunately, it was too late and…I vomited all over his coat. You can imagine how mortified I felt, especially since everyone stared at me, while my stomach knotted itself in convulsive fits, and Lord Ogilby looked and smelled as if he had just been hauled out of a gutter.

“And then Lady Rochford approached us in a great hurry. I hoped she would summon a maid to help me. Instead, she expressed her concern—loudly enough for the entire ballroom to hear—about my being in a delicate way! I tried to protest, but another wave of sickness prevented me from saying a word. And, well…you know the rest. I’m sure ruining Lady Rochford’s new gown did not make me her particular favorite.” She darted a glance at him. “That is all.”

“You were right about warning me,” Percy muttered. “The truth far outpaces fantasy in this case. I wonder how many stomachs were turned inside out that night.”

Letitia winced. “When a maid finally arrived to help me out, I noticed Lord Maffon standing half-hidden behind one of Lady Rochford’s new crimson-velvet curtains she had boasted about earlier in the evening. He resembled a giant pickled herring, surreptitiously wiping his mouth with the precious fabric. Yet no one seemed worried about his condition, delicate or not.”

“Explaining Maffon’s sudden interest in window curtains could not be as easy as insinuating your bad behavior.” Percy chuckled. “I’m no longer surprised that Ogilby refused to marry you after you so thoroughly bespattered his evening coat with rotten fish. However, I’m astonished Darnley did not see through the charade, and let you go.”

She stiffened visibly, and color rose in her cheeks. “He was very kind.”

Her answer astonished him. “Kind? What was kind about breaking the engagement? He practically confirmed Lady Rochford’s insinuations by abandoning you.”

Letitia carefully examined the seams on her gloves. When she spoke, it was so softly he almost missed her answer. “I asked him to break it.”

How many more surprises did she hold up her sleeve?

“You
asked
him?”

She only nodded.

“Ah, it wasn’t a love match, then,” he stated, hoping fervently for more.

“A love match?” She turned toward him fully at last. There was such incredulity in her face, as if he had suggested a voyage to the moon. “I did my duty by my father, that’s all. Have you ever seen a marriage that was a love match?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. His parents’ marriage had been that.

She opened her mouth as if to contradict him, but then bit her lower lip. “I beg your pardon,” she mumbled and turned away.

“But why did you ask Darnley to break the engagement?” he inquired, even more curious. “He is the most eligible bachelor one can imagine.”

“Then he will have no trouble finding another heiress,” she said almost irritably. “I am most grateful for his kindness in this matter. Father would never allow me to end the engagement he so desired in the first place. Besides, I do not think I broke Lord Darnley’s heart.”

Percy said nothing. The very fact that Darnley agreed to her request told him how much she misjudged the young viscount. A fortune hunter would not abandon his quarry; a man truly in love would sacrifice his happiness for that of his beloved.

“Are you sure?” he asked at last.

“I am,” she replied without hesitation. “Viscount Darnley courted me with great politeness. There were flowers almost every day, evenings at the opera, rides in the park, and whatever else I might desire. He always treated me with the utmost reverence. But…I don’t believe he really cared much. Not about me, anyway.”

“Then why, after he released you from your promise, did you agree to marry me?”

She shifted jerkily in her seat, as if he’d touched a raw nerve. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

“It does to me,” Percy insisted. “You didn’t break one engagement only to enter another, to a complete stranger this time. What did you hope to gain by refusing Darnley?”

Letitia’s face was a study in discomfort. “A chance to meet someone I…” She didn’t finish.

Damn him. And damn Stanville. Was it just a father’s privilege that forced her in the end to marry someone she’d never met? He leaned a little closer. “Then
what
made you change your mind?”

Letitia bit her lower lip. “If you must know,” she replied softly, “Father would send me to Australia if I refused. And”—her voice broke almost imperceptibly—“Josie would go back to the plantations.”

Percy’s stomach clenched.

“I suppose that made me look rather good by comparison,” he said lightly for her benefit, scowling inwardly at the recollection of Stanville’s thunderous expression when he had made his offer. “Unfortunately for your father, I don’t have political ambitions, like Darnley.”

“You know Lord Darnley?” Her astonishment was almost comical. “I thought you never left Norfolk.”

“I go to London often enough.” Percy stretched his legs. “To answer your question, I remember the present Lord Darnley from Eton and even Cambridge, though he was three years behind me.”

“Cambridge?” she echoed.

“Wretched tradition, is it not?” he said. “It has been the lot of every Hanbury male for so many generations that no one thought of making different arrangements for me. But tell me the rest of your story.”

She shrugged.

“There is nothing to tell. If Lord Darnley harbored any affection for me, he hid it well behind the unfailing formality, even if my chaperone chose to look the other way.”

“He never tried to kiss you?” Percy immediately regretted the unguarded question. Lord, what a hypocrite he had become.
He
had never kissed her, and they had been
married
for over three weeks.

“No.” She shrugged.

On impulse, he reached over and took her hand in his. The scent of her water teased his nostrils again.

“If I were engaged to a woman I loved,” he said quietly, “I would make sure she knew how much I loved her. There would be more than flowers and hand kissing. I would not give her a chance to want to break the engagement.”

His heart suddenly pounded like a hammer when Letitia peered at him the way she had in the great hall. But maybe it was only an illusion. She cast down her gaze immediately.

“Is this what happened when you met Sarah?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. He let his fingers caress her palm.

“Do…do you still love her?”

The hammer that was his heart hit again, bringing back the pain he had tried so much to forget in the past two years. How could he answer that?

“In some ways,” he said, the discomfort of memories stuck in his throat, “she will always be present in my life.”

Chapter Seventeen

Mrs. Baillie’s portrait became a labor of enthusiasm and determination. It progressed well, but what Letitia found even more enjoyable about the sitting sessions was an opportunity to glimpse into Percy’s past. On the fourth afternoon, she even risked bringing up the subject of her predecessor. What was the first Lady Hanbury like?

“Maybe Sir Percival keeps her miniature somewhere in a drawer,” she said with a quick glance toward her hostess while dabbing the brush into the soft mounds of colors on the palette. “I do not understand why he sent her portrait away if he really loves her so much.”

Mrs. Baillie’s eyebrows rose like two question marks, so Letitia quickly turned to the canvas, glad the light draft coming through the terrace doors blew a few strands of hair over her face. Unfortunately, it did nothing to stop the heat spreading over her cheeks.

“Loves?” her hostess sounded surprised. “What makes you think that Percy still loves Sarah?”

Letitia squinted at the spot on the canvas where Mrs. Baillie’s earlobe was partially covered by the cap. Then she glanced at Mrs. Baillie again.

Another touch of white should do the trick.

“He told me himself,” she explained.

“Did he indeed? What exactly did Percy tell you, my dear?”

“That in a way she will always be present in his life. Oh, it is not that I…” Her cheeks began to burn now. “To be truthful, Sir Percival is something of an enigma to me. On one hand, he loves Sarah, but on the other, he wiped out every vestige of her presence from his home, even replaced her apartment with new rooms.”

“That puzzled many of us,” Mrs. Baillie agreed. “But perhaps you misunderstood what Percy told you, my dear. Of course, it would be hard to erase six years from his memory and forget they happened.”

Letitia smiled at this reassurance.

“What kind of person was Lady Hanbury?” she ventured. “Did she love him?”

“To this last question, only Sarah could give you an answer.” Mrs. Baillie sighed. “As for her description, she was tall for a woman and had black hair. She had rather arresting features, was a good horsewoman and could play piano with great ease. On the other hand, she was easily given to melancholy. Those melancholy moods became quite chronic and gave Percy much pain. Yet she seemed greatly improved that last summer, so her sudden death came as a complete shock to everyone, most of all to Percy. He hasn’t been the same since.”

Letitia nodded wordlessly. Ethel had said the same thing. What had happened to Sarah two years ago? The paints on the palette suddenly blurred into one messy, large stain.

Letitia glanced at Mrs. Baillie. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, her eyes closed and her head resting against the back of the armchair in which she sat. But then she suddenly gazed at Letitia with so much kindness and warmth that all apprehension melted away.

Besides, Percy’s feelings shouldn’t concern her. The very reason she was painting Mrs. Baillie’s portrait stemmed from the decision to leave him. At least, that had been the plan when she came up with the idea over three weeks ago. Since then, the image of a ruthless egoist had undergone serious changes. Worse, Percy intrigued and fascinated her.

If she was truthful with herself, the undeniable attraction she felt and her own behavior in the great hall frightened her more than anything else. She had nearly pulled the proverbial rug out from under her own feet that day.

Her brush shook a little at the memory of Percy’s firm touch. Of his face so close to hers she had been sure he would kiss her. Of the agonizing pleasure his fingers imprinted on her cheek and of the fire in his gaze. She shivered, remembering his palm splayed across the small of her back when he pulled her into an embrace. The mere recollection made her weak in the knees. She wanted to return to the safe haven of his arms and lean against his hard frame.

Nothing in her past experience had prepared her for such feelings. The bruising pressure of Walter’s lips on hers whenever he attempted to kiss her had often left the taste of blood in her mouth. Then there had been the discomfort of his roving hands. Walter’s hands had always reached for the parts of her she thought he had no business touching. Unlike Percy, whose gentleness seared a trail of desire as he caressed her cheek, Walter’s hands were those of a ruthless conqueror who took without asking. He had always made her uncomfortable, even upset. She never wished for the repetition of those transgressions that had literally threatened her balance.

Percy didn’t grope. If she felt as shaky as a leaf when he pulled her against him, it was from the desire he stirred so easily deep inside her. The realization of how much she yearned for his touch frightened her.

And it made her wonder whether she would ever know the meaning of real love. The only thing men always found attractive about her was her father’s money. The feelings for Percy that clamored with a growing insistence at her heart carried too high a price. She would need to keep her distance from Percy.

How hard was it going to be anyway? She was so unlike Sarah. If Percy liked her pale and curly hair, it was probably due to the novelty of the style. The fortepiano would continue to collect dust, and all the side saddles could be sold tomorrow, if she had any say in the matter.

The next day, over tea after Letitia had finished painting, Mrs. Baillie told her about Percy’s childhood and the loss of both parents before he was seven. The loss she’d felt keenly herself–Lady Albinia Hanbury had been her bosom friend. And the most loving of mothers.

“Poor Sir George was so devastated by his wife’s death that life held no interest for him, even though he had the duty to see to Percy’s upbringing.”

“Is that why he sold Wycombe Oaks to my father?” Letitia asked. “Did he squander his fortune?”

“He must have to some extent. His sister and brother-in-law came from Devonshire and took care of the business as much as they could, and he had a dedicated staff, but none of that mattered. It was toward the end of his life that the sale happened.” Mrs. Baillie sighed heavily. “After he and Percy moved to Bromsholme, Sir George lost interest in everything.”

“Why did he agree to sell, then?” Letitia couldn’t help her confusion. “What really puzzles me even more is why my father bought Wycombe Oaks. What did he mean by such treatment of the house?”

“I cannot tell you, my dear child. Did you know that he and Sir George Hanbury were old acquaintances?”

Letitia’s head jerked up in surprise. “I did not,” she said. “My father was almost uncivil to Percy in the church. What were his motives to wreak such decline on his friend’s home and to hate his son?”

“Only he can tell you that, my child,” Mrs. Baillie replied. “After all, Sir George Hanbury could have made a different decision too.”

“But no matter what decision Sir George was inclined to make, there was still the reason that compelled my father to buy Wycombe Oaks from him and then slowly destroy it. Why did he
want
to buy this house in the first place?”

“Perhaps you should ask your father one day,” Mrs. Baillie suggested. “He is the only one who really knows.”

Letitia took the almost-finished painting home with her that night. The rest of the work could be done in her newly set up studio.

While mixing the paints the following morning, she kept thinking about what she had learned. Sooner or later, she had to find the answer. Asking her father would be futile. He would not tell her anything unless
he
could benefit from it.

And then a sudden thought occurred to her. She cleaned the brushes hastily, removed her smock, left the orangery and went to the library. Percy was not there, she knew. He had left soon after the breakfast they ate together.

Letitia rolled up the plans spread on the library table and put them on the shelf where Percy kept estate maps. Yesterday, while he busied himself studying those plans, she had sat on the sofa, sketching the castle the way it might look after restoration.

The album she wanted was on another shelf. Letitia carried it to the table by the sofa, laid it open to the first page, brought a pencil and a few sheets of paper from Percy’s desk, pulled up a chair from the corner and got to work.

After a couple of hours and a careful perusal of each drawing and watercolor, she had in front of her a list of objects and paintings she could identify as being in her father’s London house or at Fratton Hall. She knew this was not everything, so Letitia made a second list of objects and paintings she did not recognize from Percy’s drawings. They might be stored somewhere in the cellars or attics, but she rather doubted it. It was more probable that her father either sold them or gave them away as favors.

Thus armed, she called out her gig for the afternoon.

“Mr. Slater,” she asked the butler when he brought her refreshments, “are there any inventories of Wycombe Oaks here?”

“There were several books once in the house. They were transferred together with the property to his lordship, my lady’s father.”

“I see. No one ever made a copy?”

“No, my lady. If one were to copy the inventories, it would take a great deal of work. Sir Percival’s ancestors lived at Wycombe Oaks for several centuries.”

The lists would have to do, then.

She clutched her sheaf of papers tied with a ribbon, while the gig rattled toward the Hanbury ruin. This time, Letitia dismounted far from the house. She walked slowly up the gentle slope, taking in the view. She followed the driveway to the main entrance before changing her mind about it. There should be a servants’ door somewhere.

She found it on the side facing the stables and other outbuildings.

As she reached for the doorknob, she was almost certain it would be locked. The old couple who worked here when she first came to Norfolk with her father probably had left already.

But then the door opened, and in the doorway stood the same woman Letitia remembered from nearly a month ago. Her broad face was kind, though the smile that widened it even more was cautious.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” she said. “Does my lady remember me? I am Mary Perkins. My husband, Sam Perkins, was once Sir George’s footman. We were allowed to stay here when my lady’s father became the owner of the house.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Perkins.” Letitia breathed with relief. “Of course I remember you. Will you show me the lower portion of the house? Sir Percival gave me a tour of the upstairs, but I’d like to see the rest of it.”

Mrs. Perkins opened the door wider and stepped aside to let Letitia in.

“I will be glad to, my lady. Sam and I live in the housekeeper’s rooms,” she said, leading her inside. “Sir George’s housekeeper moved with him to Bromsholme. She died about three years ago. The butler, Mr. Slater, is still there. Most upper servants were dismissed within a month, and the lower servants followed after the house was emptied. The steward lived in the dower house. But I beg my lady’s pardon, I must be boring you with the old tales.”

“Not at all. I was hoping to meet someone who could tell me more about Wycombe Oaks. Please continue, Mrs. Perkins.”

“There isn’t much more to tell,” Mrs. Perkins replied, apparently recollecting who Lady Hanbury was. She had doubtless noticed Letitia’s aversion to the house a month ago. “It is a hot day out there. May I offer my lady some cool milk?”

“Milk?” Letitia smiled. “That would be quite splendid, Mrs. Perkins.”

She followed Mrs. Perkins down the corridor to the kitchen. The pantry on the way seemed to be well supplied, and mouthwatering smells coming from the kitchen indicated its active use. Shining copper pots glistened on the wall, baskets with vegetables sat on the table, and a quarter of mutton lay on the butcher’s block. A middle-aged woman was mixing something in a pot on the stove. She quickly wiped her hands on the apron and curtsied.

Mrs. Perkins evidently felt the need to explain and did so while Letitia was drinking her milk.

“This is my sister, Judy. Mr. Petre employed her to cook for us and the men who work here. He and Sir Percival usually eat in the butler’s pantry.”

“Is my husband still here?” Letitia asked. It was well into the afternoon. She preferred to embark on her project all by herself.

“He rode out with Mr. Petre after early dinner,” Mrs. Perkins replied.

“Thank you.” Letitia handed Judy the empty glass and smiled at her. “I am sure Sir Percival is very pleased with how you keep the table.”

“Aye, that he is, my lady.” Judy curtsied again.

“Mrs. Perkins,” Letitia asked when they left the kitchen, “would you show me the cellars too?”

Mrs. Perkins hesitated, picking at the hem of her apron with shaking fingers. “My lady’s clothes will get dirty from the dust and cobwebs,” she replied. “Nothing worth seeing is left there.”

Of course, her father had certainly used up the content. Why would he leave the wine if he emptied the house?

“You didn’t store anything down there?” she asked, a little disappointed.

“We did, my lady, but all the family portraits and other paintings were taken upstairs yesterday on Sir Percival’s orders. He wants the paintings cleaned before showing them to your ladyship. He told us he would bring you here next week to show them to you.”

Family portraits? So some things she had not recognized in the drawings survived after all. And Percy wanted to show them to her. The thought accelerated her heartbeat.

“Mrs. Perkins,” she said, “I need your help, please. If you lived in this house before my father acquired it, you are exactly the person I seek. Are there any inventories of the house preceding its last sale? Has anyone—except my father—kept any record of what was removed? Please, I must know.”

Mrs. Perkins did not hesitate with her reply. “Your ladyship’s father removed almost everything,” she said quietly. “Furniture, paintings, linen and pantry were all taken away. Family portraits he gave orders to destroy, except a few small ones Sir George took with him to Bromsholme. But Sir George’s steward and my Sam hid them before they were to be burned. All those years, they were in one of the undercrofts of the old castle. Sam and I used a pile of rubble and some old broken furniture to cover the entrance. The new steward, when he found out that the wine cellar was empty, never went down there again. Everything survived for Sir Percival to take back.” Mrs. Perkins wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “He was very happy when we told him.”