THE SENSE OF HONOR

PROLOGUE

“For never can true reconcilement grow,

where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”

~ John Milton (1608-1674), Paradise Lost

8 September 1812: No. 7, Royal Crescent ~ Bath

“I must not show fear…not now.”

Determined to deny the trembling of her body, Christiana Tatum stared back at a pale, haunted reflection. Against the yawning dark of night, the window seemed more a mirror into the past, a disturbing glimpse into the soul of a long forgotten child. She had not expected this assault on her emotions. Yet, from the moment she entered the lavish Bath residence of Lord Bellewyck, fifteen years of memories had rushed to the surface unbidden and most unwelcome. Memories of a cold, antiquated abbey in Kent—and of hours spent in darkness and shadow, seemingly unending moments of insidious cruelty and deadly treachery. All inflicted upon a frightened, orphaned child.

Anxious at the prospect of seeing his lordship again, she hugged her slender waist and walked over to stand before the fireplace. Vibrant amber and yellow-gold flames twisted and danced upwards like warring tongues from evil serpents. Here, too, came remembrances, cold and bleak, of a small child forced to sweep chimneys to earn her keep whilst below, in the Great Chamber of his ancestral home, sat Lord Bellewyck. He claimed her unreasonable fear of darkness gave him the idea, but there was another purpose. Quite simply, he wanted her to fall. Even worse, he wanted her to die.

“He will be dead come morning,” she whispered. “And his power over me and those I love will end…forever.”

Despite the spoken words, it was difficult to accept anyone as evil as Archibald Bertram, Lord Bellewyck, could die. And yet, a sickly sweet smell about the house affirmed that someone had gone to great lengths to disguise the rank odor of disease and putrid flesh. Indeed, a lengthening abyss of unnatural silence gave eerie testimony to one truth. The veil between life and death was lifting.

Christiana sensed someone enter and glanced over her shoulder. The earl’s valet stood in the doorway, a candle extended aloft as though peering into a cave. She remembered the manservant all too well. Vickers had carried out the cruel commands of his arrogant master with keen satisfaction, always exuding a snobbish indifference that so defined the valet and the man he served. She had little doubt Vickers knew all his lordship’s secrets and most of his sins. For that reason alone, she looked upon the valet with contempt.

“His lordship will see you now,” Vickers said.

Without another word, the valet turned, clearly expecting her to follow. She gathered the hood of her black cloak to cover her head and shield her face from view. Instinct, more than intent, had taught her to disguise her identity. With each step upon the stairs, Christiana focused on calming her breathing and strengthening her resolve to show no fear before the man who summoned her. She was no longer a frightened child, forced by circumstance and fate to endure his cruelty. She was a woman of intelligence and strength, and would leave this house the victor.

Unlike the rest of his dimly lit house, his lordship’s bedchamber glowed with candlelight. For a moment, the extravagance stole her breath. Then, she noticed Lord Bellewyck on the bed reclined against several large silk pillows. An effective tactic, designed to give the impression death might not be so near. But she knew the man well enough to see through the illusion.

With a whisper of sound, Vickers approached the bed, awakening Lord Bellewyck. After a few awkward moments, the earl’s eyes fluttered opened.

“She has come,” Vickers announced. Bellewyck motioned for the valet to leave, a request that seemed to take Vickers by surprise.

Once the chamber door closed, Lord Bellewyck turned his attention to her. She tensed as he scrutinized her attire and the deep hood practically concealing what he’d always called her saintly face. Nay, she was not a saint. He’d best think of her as the angel of death come in his weakest hour to finish him off.

“Have you nothing to say?” His voice sounded surprisingly strong.

“Why have you sent for me?”

“Why indeed?” he murmured, narrowing his gaze. “Come closer.”

She hesitated, then stepped toward the bed. “I asked why have you sent for me?”

“Much has passed between us since you had the unmitigated gall to enter my life.” He paused for breath. “Oddly enough, I could not depart this world before I spoke with you one final time.”

“Do not think to ease your conscience with me. Seek God if you want forgiveness.”

“Bah! Repentance is for cowards.”

“Then say what you will and be done with it.”

“Now, now, patience is a virtue.” His expression was sardonic. “Then again, you have never been particularly virtuous. Indeed, I understand you are quite common now.”

She raised her chin. “You are hardly one to judge others.”

“True,” he allowed and relaxed further against the pillows, closing his eyes. “There is a strongbox beneath my bed. Take it with you when you leave.”

“And have your man accuse me of stealing? I think not.”

“Such a suspicious creature.” His dark eyes opened, pinning her with a hard look. “My valet knows nothing about this box or its contents…yet.”

Christiana mulled over his words, then shook her head. “I think not, Lord Bellewyck. There is nothing I want from you.”

“Do not be so sure. And pull back that damnable hood. I would look upon my enemy one last time.”

“You made me your enemy!” Realizing she trembled and that her throat felt tied in knots, she turned away. She’d not give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

“Be that as it may,” he continued. “I intend to honor the agreement we made long ago. Or have you perchance forgotten what it was you wanted from me upon my death?”

She must be hearing things. Looking over her shoulder, Christiana eyed the figure on the bed. Was it truly possible he intended to honor that long ago promise? The fact he remembered gave her pause. Then again, facing one’s mortality might prompt a person to mend his wicked ways. Hesitant, she returned to the bedside and studied him before kneeling to remove the strongbox. With hardly a care for his infirmity, she placed the box beside his body and frowned at its iron lock. “Where is the key?”

“Let me see your face.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” She tossed back the hood of her cloak. “Now give me the key.”

He fingered his bony chest, tapping a gold chain resting upon a soiled nightshirt. “I find I am indisposed. Remove it yourself.”

Do not trust him, she said to herself. “First tell me what is in the box.”

“Freedom,” Lord Bellewyck answered with a patronizing grin. “Had you not come, my dear, that box would have been delivered into the hands of my heir.”

“You have no heir.”

“Ah, but indeed I do.”

“What are you talking about? You never married, and God knows you never sired a child.”

“Be that as it may, there is a distant blood relation who shall come into an unexpected inheritance upon my death. No doubt it will come as quite a surprise to him. What will he do with Bellewyck Abbey, do you think? He is a man of great power, intellect and influence; a man who holds honor and duty to king and country above all else. Such a man may prove keenly interested in Bellewyck’s history of late.”

“Who is he?”

“The Duke of Pemberton.” Christiana suddenly felt nauseous. Was this possible? Bellewyck had unearthed not just a male heir, but a duke. What kind of future would she have with the estate in the hands of such a powerful man? And what would Pemberton do with the abbey and everyone there, especially if he discovered the truth?

Bellewyck smiled. “Ah, I see you have heard of him. Is it not providence my ancestral home will be in such noble hands upon my death?”

“Damn you,” she whispered.

With nary a moment’s hesitation, she yanked the chain from about his neck, ignoring the raspy chuckle he made as she fumbled for the catch. Key in hand, she opened the strongbox and began to search its contents. Satisfied with what she had in her possession, she placed the papers back inside the strongbox and locked it again, pocketing the key.

“You are a most contrary creature, my dear.” He sounded amused.

“Because I prefer freedom over bondage?”

“Nay.” Bellewyck shook his head in an almost piteous manner. “Because your freedom is bondage.”

Pulling her hood up, Christiana lifted the strongbox. “Ironic, is it not, that you are the one soon to be bound in the chains of hell for all eternity?”

“How very judgmental.” His voice began to waver with apparent weakness. “There is a scripture regarding the casting of stones. The exact quote eludes me, but surely you know of which I speak.”

“I know it. But I have always held a fondness for the saying, death comes like a thief in the night.” With a sarcastic smile, she added, “Alas, here I am.”

Bellewyck’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Take your freedom, my dear. Guard it well, while you may.”

[Copyright: 2007 Ashley Kath-Bilsky]