Debt of Honor (4 page)

Letitia stared at the gray shadows on the ceiling. The fact that Sir Percival had a mistress was neither unusual nor to her disadvantage. A coldly rational woman in her shoes would be glad and relieved. After all, what better way to keep him at arm’s length?

It wasn’t easy to be coldly rational when memories lurked in the shadows of her mind, ready to disturb her peace at the least provocation.

Sir Percival’s seemingly innocent remark about Josepha hit hard a very tender spot. Time was supposed to ease pain, but Letitia wasn’t sure how much time would help where Sir Walter Hasting was concerned.

At first she had refused to believe the horrible things coming out of Walter’s mouth. But his words—accidentally overheard casual remarks made to his younger brother—explained so much.

Walter’s professions of love had steadily grown almost…aggressive. He wanted proof that she loved him—though, of course, she could never love him as much as he loved her, he used to say. He insisted he would prove his feelings for her too.

She had loved him. But, somewhere very deep, his demands had grated. Why couldn’t he trust her?

“Stanville will never allow your court, Walt,”
his brother had said.
“You’re just a neighbor.
Stanville will want a dynastic marriage for his heiress.”

Walter had laughed.
“There are ways to ensure he will have no choice.”

Hurt and fury had twisted in her chest like a knife.

His next words had pushed that knife in all the way to the hilt. Walter dreamed of her father’s plantations. Of using, like the earl, slaves instead of paid servants and, he chuckled, paid mistresses. That pretty chocolate morsel of Letitia’s maid—damn, he could never remember her name—would please him well enough until he could survey his new possessions in person.

Letitia turned over in her bed to face the wall. Walter’s confident chuckle echoed in her head, opening once more floodgates of anger and discomfort.

Sir Percival had immediately noticed Josepha. That was why Letitia had wrung from him the promise of protection. She meant to hold him to it with every fiber of her being. If he chose to spend
this
night with his mistress, he could not be much different from Walter—or her father. It was probably only a matter of time before he began fancying Josepha, who was one of the most beautiful women Letitia had known, in addition to being her lifelong companion and friend.

Her mother always had treated Josie as if she were part of the family, though not in the presence of her father. The best either of them could do for the cook’s child in his household was to make her Letitia’s maid.

Letitia clenched her fists in helplessness. Life repeated itself with frightening accuracy. Did she really want to live like her mother, reminded at every turn that the only usefulness of her existence had been her dowry? She’d seen enough to accept such a fate meekly instead of evading it at any cost.

Suddenly, her mind made a reverse somersault and returned to that ominous word.

Evade.
Escape
.

Letitia sat up in bed, wide awake now. The solution stared her in the face.

She got up and, agitated, began pacing the room while considering her options. By the wee hours of the morning, announced by the silvery chimes of the clock on the mantel, she had a scheme in place.

It might take her some time to prepare its execution, but the genius of her plan lay in its simplicity—she would support herself as a painter. Just like Miss Moser or Mrs. Kauffman. Of course, settling in London was out of the question. Too many potential clients knew her, and she could not hide there from either her husband or her father. No, when ready, she would go to America, settle in Boston or Philadelphia, and paint portraits, or anything else she could sell, for that matter. Josepha would run their house.

Her head began to throb from excitement and lack of sleep. Tired at last, Letitia climbed in bed and pulled up the covers. She would give more thought to the details tomorrow. For now, she needed to sleep. It would be a fine thing indeed to show up in the morning with circles under her eyes and let everybody think she had spent the night pining after her unfaithful husband.

Moments later, when her head sank into the soft pillow and dreams began to blur with reality, the sounds of doors being opened and closed echoed faintly in her ears before sleep took over.

Chapter Six

The warmth of the sun caressing Letitia’s outstretched arm and a symphony of buzzing and chirping pouring in through the open windows meant that morning had come long ago.

Letitia cracked open one eye, squinting at the brightness of the light before casting around a cautious glance. The place looked unfamiliar. For a split second, she did not know where she was. This was not the room at Wycombe Oaks, with the air of dejection and its northern prospect never graced by a single sunray. And then memory returned. This was her new home at Bromsholme.

She was a married woman. She had become Lady Letitia Hanbury.

Everything else came back in a flash.

Wide awake now, she swept a curious gaze around the spacious room. It must have been recently renovated. Fresh paint in light powder blue contrasted pleasantly with the creamy woodwork. The fireplace mantel had two caryatids supporting its top. The vase in the firebox’s cavity, with a flower arrangement fanning out like a peacock’s tail, was protected by a heavy fender.

Letitia swung her feet to the floor. They sank into the soft, lush pile of a colorful Oriental carpet. The floor beyond its edges must have been replaced not long ago. An elegant Hepplewhite chest of drawers graced one wall, and a dressing table with a skirt of dark-gold moiré silk filled the space between the windows. Two armchairs and a small table claimed another corner of the room. A chaise longue stood near the fireplace.

There was no washstand, and she winced at this inconvenience until the inconspicuous door in the side wall reminded her of the blessing of her own water closet. She had been wrong not only about her husband’s advanced age; his home was not what she had expected either.

But she was right about his character. In conceit and disrespect for his wife, he excelled even her father. Maybe he did not want the plantations, but it was probably because he did not want the trouble, in spite of that lofty statement he had made yesterday. Her father had just spent three years in Jamaica making sure none of the upheaval from Saint-Domingue reached his property.

She got up and padded over to the inconspicuous door. Josepha would be here any moment to shake her out of slumber. Judging by the sunlight, the day was well advanced.

Given the lateness of the hour, Sir Percival was probably gone, prowling fields in the company of his steward and dressed worse than his steward, in that terrible coat of his. That was just as well. She needed some time to regain a modicum of balance in her life.

The plan she had hatched at night seemed to gain different dimensions in full daylight. If it was ever to come to fruition, she had to organize her immediate future into some semblance of a normal existence. Getting familiar with the house was the first thing to do.

But when half an hour later she came down to the breakfast room, she almost faltered in the doorway. Sir Percival sat at the table, one leg crossed casually over the other, reading a newspaper, a cup and an unfinished plate by his side. Judging by his dress, he must have already prowled the fields with his steward—riding breeches showcased muscular legs above the familiar-looking scuffed riding boots.

At the sound of the door opening, Sir Percival raised his head. He got to his feet as soon as she entered the room, and waited patiently for Slater to seat her at the table, then waved him away.

Letitia smiled at the butler before he left the room.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Sir Percival said. “Did you find your chamber to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, noticing his polite and entirely unconcerned expression. “Did you spend your night the way you planned?”

“Indeed I did,” he answered. “What may I get you?”

Just like that? No guilt over the duplicity of his behavior? No, of course not.

“Hot chocolate,” she said.

She’d succeeded in surprising him. Sir Percival got up, but instead of going to the sideboard, he opened the door and gave dispositions to a footman.

“Will you eat anything?” he asked once the chocolate was ordered.

“No.” The idea of eating and chatting with him held no appeal. “I am not hungry.”

“Very well.”

He returned to his chair and picked up the folded paper. Their conversation for the day was over, then. The duty of acknowledging her existence done, he would return to his reading and pay her no more attention.

“Mrs. Waters would like to show you the house today.” To her surprise, he set the newspaper aside. “She expects to keep you fully occupied with the inventories for a few days.”

Letitia only nodded. Taking over the management of the house had been one of those ridiculous “covenant” articles he mentioned yesterday.

“Our wedding breakfast will take place on Monday,” Sir Percival continued. “This will be a good opportunity for you to be introduced to the neighborhood and to meet my family’s acquaintances and some of my friends.”

“A wedding breakfast?” She frowned. “You married a woman tainted by scandal. I’m sure you do not need to advertise this fact to your neighbors.”

The door opened, and the footman walked in with a tray containing the accoutrements of chocolate making. He placed the tray in front of Letitia and left the room. She poured some chocolate into the cup, added hot water, then glanced at her husband.

“Marriage removed the taint from your name,” he said tightly when the door closed. “Most of my neighbors will find ours the most eligible union and will want to congratulate us. I see no reason to disappoint them. My family has been of some consequence in this county for centuries. I feel obliged to celebrate our nuptials in a proper way and to extend that consequence to you. This will, I believe, achieve the purpose of your marrying me.”

“Do you?” she asked, not trying to hide the sarcasm that crept into her voice. He must have forgotten where he had spent the night. At least he now had the decency to seem taken aback by her question.

She held his gaze, willing him to look away first. In the diffused sunlight, a golden undertone gave his eyes an unexpected warmth and beauty, despite the frown marring his features as he studied her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I believe you should establish the position due you as a baronet’s wife and an earl’s daughter. Do you find that objectionable?”

She found his duplicity more than objectionable. For a moment, she wondered how he would react if she told him she knew. “No,” she said. “As it happens, I have a request too.”

Sir Percival raised one eyebrow as if to prompt her. “Let me hear it, ma’am.”

“You would oblige me greatly by giving me space for a painting studio,” she said.

Letitia half expected, half feared he would laugh, or outright refuse her, or put off the decision. She devoted her attention to the steaming cup in front of her.

“I should have guessed you make watercolors,” he said. “I suppose some small room with good light will suffice?”

“I paint in oils,” she rejoined. “Some of my canvases are large. I shall need a large room with excellent light and with a fireplace for comfort during winter.”

He seemed to think about it. “How large is large in this case?”

“At least as large as a decent morning room. With windows on more than one side, if possible.”

He tilted his head, focusing somewhere on the wall behind her back. Letitia watched him, surprised to see sadness bordering on pain pass across his face. It was gone instantly, like a cloud on high wind.

“The orangery might be appropriate,” he said. “Let me show it to you after you finish your chocolate, so you can tell me instantly if it suits you.”

“And if it does not?”

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps adjustments could be made to the nursery rooms upstairs.”

His words brought on an unexpected disappointment. Letitia quelled it hastily. Thank God he’d acquiesced to their
de facto
separation and had no intention of changing his mind. Children would ruin her plans completely.

While she swallowed her thoughts, together with the chocolate, Sir Percival unfolded his newspaper again, clearly not interested in small talk. Letitia drank a few sips and pushed the tray away. The sooner they were done with this, the better. At the sound of silver on the tabletop, Sir Percival winced and glanced at her.

“You do not need to forego your chocolate,” he said. “We have time.”

“I am ready.”

His expression inscrutable, Sir Percival got up without a word and came over to move her chair. She followed him into the main hall, and then through a corridor until they reached a large door at its end, in the back of the house.

When he opened it and stepped aside to let her in, Letitia gasped, surprised.

The orangery was easily forty feet long and about thirty feet wide. Three sides were constructed from glass panes placed between wooden columns. At the lower level, they opened as French doors to a terrace on one side and the lawn on another. The slanted roof, mostly filled with glass, easily reached twenty feet in the center. The orangery connected to the house on the fourth side, using its external wall to support a hanging basin with a small fountain. Several large stone plaques with bas-relief images of East Indian deities filled its lower portion. Large tropical trees in tubs and a great number of other plants in containers confined the walking space to meandering paths. Benches sat between the stone vases here and there.

Letitia inhaled deeply. The air, thick with moisture, combined the pongy scents of earth and decay with exotic fragrances she could not identify. Neither did she know any of the plants, though some beckoned with colorful blossoms.

She glanced at her husband. He gazed at her, his brows drawn in question, so she set out along the path in front of her, amazed at the strange beauty of the place, yet already seeing several excellent locations for her easels, tables and other furnishings. It would be far more grandiose than any studio ever occupied even by the presidents of the Royal Academy.

When the path brought them back to where they’d started, Letitia stopped and turned around, gazing up at the ceiling—until her shoulder collided with a solid object. Awed by Sir Percival’s exotic garden, she hadn’t noticed he followed at a short distance.

Now, he looked down into her face, unhurriedly examining her features. Several inches shorter, with the top of her head barely above his shoulder, she found herself gazing up into the rich bronze of his eyes framed in dark lashes.

She dropped her gaze, but that proved to be a mistake. It slid down to his mouth. And he definitely had a nice mouth. Without any warning, she imagined those lips touching hers. Would he kiss with the same authority with which he spoke?

Sudden embarrassment filled her, along with the heat spreading in her cheeks. She had a plan to break this marriage. He was helping her to achieve that goal. And she, instead of focusing on her future, contemplated the shape of his mouth!

“Do you like it? Will it suit you?” He didn’t step back. From the short distance, his voice sounded also different, softer, huskier.

Her insides clenched unexpectedly. Letitia forced herself to step away from him.

“Yes,” she replied, trying to ignore the little twisting sensations. “You must know I do not allow anyone in my studio, except Jose—that is, Miss Fourier.”

“No one comes in here anymore,” he said. His tone was again distant and businesslike. “Petre, my steward, can move the plants to one of his hothouses, or sell them.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him, shocked, but his features became once more an inscrutable barrier. The regret that the lush greenery would be removed gave way to the sudden realization of who had created this garden. “The large trees can stay,” she suggested. “But what about the fireplace? Even with the glass, the sun alone will not keep this room warm in winter.”

“Do you see the openings in the floor, covered with the iron grills?” he asked, and when she nodded, continued, “Petre found a way to heat this entire room without a single fireplace by conducting the heat pipes under the ground, more or less the way hothouses are kept warm, but without the accompanying odor. This is probably the most comfortable room in the entire house in winter.”

“You won’t regret losing your garden?”

“No.” He glanced around. “The gardener has enough to do without tending to a jungle every day. Besides, it shall be easier to make the necessary changes here than elsewhere in the house.”

Aware of his presence immediately behind her and careful to avoid another collision, Letitia headed for the back wall. She stopped in front of it, looking at a four-armed figure in a strange stance with one leg lifted, and stole a quick, sly glance at Sir Percival.

The scowl on his face suggested he would be happier elsewhere. Or maybe he would be happier if
she
were elsewhere. Why give her the orangery, then?

Letitia answered her own question. He was as coldly practical and as calculating as her father. Adjusting the orangery for her was, by his own admission, cheaper than altering some other part of the house.

But why should it matter to her? She would have a wonderful space in which to work and prepare for the day she could leave this place forever. The more paintings she took with her, the better.

“I shall give you the details tomorrow,” Letitia murmured, noticing his dour expression.

“Very well.” He nodded. “Let me find Mrs. Waters.”

Percy followed Letitia along the path chartered by tubs and containers. She was as much in awe of Sarah’s creation as everyone else. She ought to be. He had spared no expense to please Sarah. Just those pieces of a ruined temple decorating the wall had commanded the price of a small cottage. At the time, he’d been ready to spend tenfold as much just to see Sarah smile.

Now Letitia would have her painting studio in here. If that kept her off his back, it was going to be worth all the trouble.

A scent both new and almost familiar wafted by his nostrils, and Percy inhaled deeper to confirm his guess. Yes, it was the same scented water he smelled yesterday when he kissed her at the altar.

If one could call it a kiss. But that was an entirely different subject requiring no further consideration.