Debt of Honor (7 page)

“Nothing indeed,” Lady Marsden agreed amiably. “Especially if one takes back in this fashion what had been his family’s before. But you didn’t know
that
,” she added with something like a triumph. “Wycombe Oaks was the Hanburys’ seat until Percy’s father sold it to your father when Percy was only a little boy. I don’t remember that, of course. No one knows what compelled Sir George to do so. I heard it was a very prosperous estate and he did not want for money.”

“He must have had his reasons,” Letitia said, stunned nonetheless to learn more details.

She recalled Sir Percival’s words—
“your father gave me all I wanted”
—and felt a brush of panic. That hideous ruin was her entire dowry? If Sir Percival agreed to that, he was certifiable. No wonder her father had not wanted to delay the nuptials by a minute once he’d secured such a brilliant solution to his daughter’s failure on the marriage mart.

But if all she brought in was a pile of stones and bricks with leaky roofs and broken windows, how much could she expect in pin money? She had estimated she would be able to save within a year for her and Josepha’s passages. But would she?

Chapter Nine

As if exhausted by the brilliant performance the day before, the skies were covered in heavy clouds generously dispensing curtains of water. Letitia overslept and ate breakfast alone. Sir Percival’s absence was a disappointment; she wanted to ask him about that pin money. But he couldn’t be anywhere outdoors, she mused, gazing at the fuzzy shapes of trees distorted by water running down the windowpanes. He might be in the library. This would give her an excuse to explore one of the two rooms Mrs. Waters excluded from the inventory—the other being Sir Percival’s bedchamber. Of course,
that
threshold she would never cross. But the library was a different story.

“Is Sir Percival home?” she asked the butler when he came to refill her cup.

“No, my lady.”

He left in this rain?

“Did he say when he would be back?”

Slater shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Thank you, Slater.” She smiled at him, despite the annoyance at Sir Percival’s absence. She might have to wait for an answer until tomorrow morning, if he failed to return for the night, as he had on a couple of occasions last week.

However, in his absence she could go to the library anyway. Nowhere in the house had she seen a portrait of her worshipped predecessor. It was impossible none had been made in six years of marriage. Sir Percival must have moved it to where he would see it most often, either the library or his bedchamber.

Letitia pushed away from the table and left the dining room.

Muffled sounds, barely audible in the main hall, intensified in the corridor leading to the library. The orangery, her future studio, lay behind the thick door at the corridor’s end. Mr. Petre had kept his promise. Despite the downpour, the gardeners were hard at work dismantling Sarah’s jungle.

Letitia stopped in front of the library door, took a deep breath, pressed the handle and walked inside.

The room stood empty, its silence augmented by the ticking of a clock and the uneven rhythm of rain against the windows. Above the smell of leather and paper, a gossamer of sandalwood scent floated in the air. It instantly brought the recollection of Sir Percival’s strong, large hands stopping her from the fall on the stairs, of the hard muscles of his arm even his fine coat could not disguise, and of that strange feeling splitting her body when she almost landed in his arms.

Letitia shook off the unruly images. She was here for a reason. Besides, considering what she had learned about him yesterday and the pattern of his absences, how could she let herself think such silly things? She took a deep breath, decidedly ignoring the faint presence of sandalwood, and looked around.

Though large, the library retained an inviting coziness about it. The shelves sagged under the weight of many tomes, while more books were piled up on tables. An overstuffed sofa sat diagonally near the large window at the far end, leaning against a table with two candleholders on top. Two smaller sofas supported each other, back to back, on the other side of the room. Busts of ancient philosophers on several small tables competed for space with the books piled up around them. A large desk in front of the fireplace presided over it all.

Letitia’s gaze slid past the desk and sharpened on the portraits hung above the mantel. Curiosity buzzed in her head. Which one was the woman who’d made a man like Sir Percival cry? But the expectation of discovery immediately gave way to disappointment. None of the sitters could be Sarah.

Then a second glance at the two faces in the center made her momentarily forget about her quest.

The young man on the right had the same dark eyes and the same sensuous mouth as she had seen on a live person. His long, dark hair was held at the nape with a large, black ribbon, while shorter locks curled fashionably around his face. An unbuttoned, richly embroidered lilac coat revealed a matching waistcoat and the frills of a lacy neckcloth. He held a black tricorne hat under one arm. His smile, a little cocky, bespoke a man of fashion and self-confidence. The resemblance was so uncanny she had no doubt she gazed upon her father-in-law. He was as handsome and attractive as his son. And Ethel was right; he must have been wealthy.

The building in the background drew her attention. Letitia came up on her toes to examine it in the gloomy light of a rainy afternoon. There was something familiar about its shape. A moment later, she was certain—Wycombe Oaks. She stared at the house it had once been before becoming the ruin she had loathed for the entire week she had stayed there with her father. In the painting, it appeared opulent, happy—if that was the right word for a building. It was alive. It was a home.

Why had her father let it deteriorate so badly? Letitia had never seen all his estates. He had more than a few scattered all over England. But those she had visited were kept in immaculate condition. Wycombe Oaks seemed like a starving man on the brink of death.

On a sigh, she glanced to the portrait on the left. That had to be Sir Percival’s mother.

Her mother-in-law wore a once fashionable, tall wig decorated with garlands of tiny flowers. The pale-blue satin of her dress underscored the darker blue of her eyes. Somehow, her face seemed oddly familiar. Intrigued, Letitia paused to study Lady Hanbury’s features, but the feeling of familiarity remained undefined. Perhaps all she recognized was the slightly lopsided, gentle smile reminiscent of Sir Percival’s quick quirk of the mouth when something amused him. Yes, that had to be the reason why her mother-in-law seemed like an old friend met under new circumstances.

There were other portraits and miniatures hung around the mantel, and Letitia examined each of them. As the clothing and coiffures went farther and farther back in time, she tried to quell the growing disappointment that Sarah’s likeness was not among them.

She glanced at his desk as she turned to leave.

It had that messy yet organized mark of a well-used space. Books and papers sat next to freshly mended quills by the inkwell, together with a couple of inlaid wooden boxes, a brass paperweight and two large ledgers, each bristling with strips of paper marking the pages inside. The volume laying on top of other papers had a pristine paper cover, like a book just delivered by a bookseller. A little curious, Letitia leaned over the desk and lifted the soft cover. She winced at the title:
General View of the Agriculture of the County of Norfolk Drawn up for the Consideration of the Board of Agriculture and Internal Improvement, by the Secretary of the Board
.

Below was tucked a hand-scribbled note.

My dear Sir Percival,

The Norfolk volume, the latest in our series, is out. I hasten to send you a copy, an inadequate token of the warmest and undying gratitude for the immense help you gave its humble author. Without your devotion to the task of its compilation, it would not have come to fruition so effectively. I entreat you to keep up your excellent work for the sake of our readers benefiting from your knowledge and experience.

I remain, my dear sir, yours, etc.

Arthur Young

Letitia had never heard of Arthur Young, but his praise filled her with a bit of awe for the man who was still almost a stranger.

She replaced the volume and glanced at the desk drawers. No doubt Sir Percival kept a miniature of his first wife in one of them. But despite the burning desire to see the face that had enslaved his heart forever, she could not pry this deep.

With a sigh, she stepped away from the desk. And then the door handle moved, and the door swung open.

Water dripped from the rim of his hat and ran down his coat and boots. Percy didn’t want to go to Wycombe Oaks this morning, but Petre was shorthanded and the roof over the old mansion attached to the castle was in a state of near collapse in several places, despite the repairs he’d initiated last week.

“Yes, the slates over the long gallery were all replaced,” his steward confirmed after greeting him with visible relief in the main entrance hall.

“What about the dining room? Is it as bad as we thought?” Percy asked, walking through the hall and leaving a trail of small puddles in his wake.

Petre nodded solemnly. “Even worse. Two beams are rotten and partially caved in, creating a convenient tunnel for the water between the roof and the gallery wall. The masons have done what’s possible, but the leak reappeared. The replacement beams will not be here for another week.”

Percy winced. “No doubt more plaster came off the ceiling inside?”

“We’re doing everything in our power,” Petre said gloomily. “With the field work aplenty, ’tis a bad time for taking more men for the work inside. In a couple of days, we shall lose some very skilled hands when the carpenter begins work on the orangery.”

“I’m aware of that,” Percy replied. “The orangery, however, will not wait.” He glanced around. “This house will take months just to stop further damage. I have written several architects, by the way. But for now, let me help where I can. Every pair of hands counts, if I hear you right, Petre.”

Petre nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “We’ve been trying to raise a temporary scaffold to support the rest of the ceiling in the dining room. There’s some heavy timber there to be put in place.”

Percy took off his hat and placed it on the newel post, then draped his coat over the rail.

“Very well,” he said.

His muscles, after a week of similar exercises, protested at the very thought of lifting any timber at all. He rubbed his shoulder and followed Petre. No one had a stronger obligation to join in rescuing the tattered remnants of the former splendor of the Hanburys than he.

It had been a hellish week for him, getting up at dawn and returning home after dark. Wycombe Oaks had swallowed him whole. The estate was ruined. It would take years to bring it back to an acceptable functionality. Most fields were fallow, the outbuildings beyond repair and the books not kept with any regularity or, he would wager, adherence to truth. The accounts were in infuriating disorder. It was clear that all Stanville had wanted was as much money as he could drain from the estate and that Stanville’s steward was more than dishonest. Percy had sent the man packing on the day following that first nightly visit after his wedding.

He would not rest until the place returned to its former glory. His cousin, who was his heir, would thank him one day, and the Hanburys would continue despite the adversities of life. He had money to help Wycombe Oaks get back on its feet. Thanks to Letitia’s misadventures, he’d defeated his enemy without so much as calling a single shot. A decade of hard work, of profitable, though often risky investments brought gains which were to pay for buying back his ancestors’ home from Stanville’s descendants—those funds were his to enjoy now, his to use for the restoration. Acquiring a wife seemed a small price to pay, after all.

Four hours later and as dirty as one of his laborers, Percy nudged his horse into a trot when Bromsholme’s stables came in sight. He left the rain-soaked animal to the ministrations of two stableboys and marched toward the house.

“Hot bath,” he told Slater, who tried in vain to conceal a disapproving scowl at his appearance. “Is Lady Letitia home?”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, holding Percy’s hat and coat at a distance as if they would bite him. His frown grew deeper when he beheld the condition of Percy’s other clothes. “I believe she is in her rooms.”

“Thank you, Slater. Send some refreshments to the library in about half an hour, if you would.”

Slater bowed and walked away, taking the wet coat and the scowl with him.

Percy’s thoughts fled to Letitia as he walked upstairs. She must have taken his talk about the “covenant” seriously, because all linen and silver at Bromsholme had been inventoried meticulously. The report from Mrs. Waters was most favorable. He didn’t really give a damn about the linen and silver, but at least the new Lady Hanbury had kept busy without getting in his way.

Once she established that secret studio of hers, her attention would hopefully be diverted from him or the idea of having children. And once he determined that she could live on her own, who knows, he might even demolish the damned orangery altogether.

Uninvited, her image as she had looked yesterday intruded again. Sunshine and beauty. If there were better words to describe his impression, he could not find them in his vocabulary. That light, white dress she had worn only underscored her sensuality. More than once, his hands had begged for the repetition of the touch, and his brain, and perhaps also other parts, had recalled the exquisite feeling her alluring curves gave him when he prevented her fall on the stairs. More than once when he watched her mouth while she was speaking, he had thought of his tongue slipping between those inviting lips. And many more times than once, he had issued a stern warning to himself to abandon this foolery.

Ethel had infuriated him with her blatant attempt to stake a claim to his wife. Whatever she had told Letitia during the half hour they spent together in the gardens had put Letitia on edge for the rest of the day. If there were any friendships he was not overjoyed to see his wife develop, this was the one. Ethel’s nosiness had always irritated him. Her overzealous attempts to run his house after Sarah’s death had nearly driven him to uncivil behavior a few times. Ethel would surely try to ingratiate herself with Letitia, in which case he might be forced to endure her overbearing presence more often than he wished.

The footmen carrying the hot water arrived right on his heels, and soon Percy let himself sink into the heat of his bath, closing his eyes for a moment. Thank God Letitia kept to her rooms. He liked that. They would eat dinner together today. That would be enough. Wycombe Oaks’ ledgers sat on his desk in the library, and they definitely needed more attention than his wife.

The unexpected intruder was a kitchen maid holding a large tray.

“Where would you like me to put your refreshments, my lady?” the girl asked.

How thoughtful of Slater to send up some food. After all, she’d hardly had a bite for breakfast. The old hawk must have noticed. But how did he know where to find her?