Bound by Honor

Norfolk, England, 1804 One glance at the card his butler carried into the breakfast room on a silver salver took away Sir Percival Hanbury’s appetite for an otherwise excellent kidney pie. The name glaring back at him in black letters was the last one he expected announced at his doorstep. Yet, despite the spiraling annoyance at the arrogance of the intrusion, hope lurched through his body like a runaway curricle. Percy put down the fork and raised his gaze to the butler’s inscrutable face, hoping in vain to find there some explanation. Slater merely raised his eyebrows and clamped his mouth shut, probably in an effort to avoid a sneer. Since no information was forthcoming, Percy had to ask, “Did he say what brings him here?” “The earl wishes to speak with you, sir.” “Indeed? Did he say why?” “No, sir. He seems somewhat…impatient.” In Slater’s parlance, that meant rude. Quite of a piece with Percy’s recollection of the last conversation he had held with the Earl of Stanville nearly ten years ago. And what else might bring Stanville into his life again, if not the same reason—the Hanburys’ ancient family seat, Wycombe Oaks? Stanville had owned it for the past quarter of a century. Recovering Wycombe Oaks had been Percy’s greatest ambition ever since, but the earl had rejected his previous offer of purchase. A change of mind? Why now? The only way to find out was, of course, to face his guest. Percy pushed the morning newspaper aside and followed his butler to the drawing room. The Earl of Stanville stood by one of the windows, his back to the room. At the sound of the door, he turned abruptly. Pale eyes in a face betraying years of sybaritic proclivities focused on Percy with hostile apprehension. Hope drummed up louder in Percy’s chest. Stanville’s posture emanated discomfort more eloquently than his unfriendly gaze. The earl squirmed, acknowledging Percy with only a curt nod. Then, without any preamble, he made an astounding offer. “I suppose you guessed the reason for my visit. Well, you may have Wycombe Oaks back, Hanbury. But instead of paying me, you’ll marry my daughter.” The air in the drawing room became suddenly too stuffy to breathe. Marry Lady Letitia Parker? “You once wanted the place back. I’m giving you the courtesy of the first refusal—if you marry her.” Stanville’s voice lost nothing of the old brusqueness. “I am extremely gratified by your kindness,” Percy replied after the moment it took him to recover from the initial shock. Where had Stanville gotten this idea? “However, I do not recall asking for Lady Letitia’s hand in marriage the last time we spoke about Wycombe Oaks. My offer concerned only the estate.” The earl measured him with obvious displeasure. “Don’t be stupid, Hanbury,” he growled. “I’m doing you a favor.” Stanville doing him a favor? The earl’s evident hatred for his family, together with the heated refusal to sell Wycombe Oaks, had taken Percy aback when he had approached Stanville almost a decade ago. Why now this sudden and utterly inexplicable desire to form a family bond? “The choice is yours, Hanbury,” his guest prompted. “Otherwise, I shall raze that damned ugliness of a house and sell the land for her dowry.” Panic slammed him so quickly Percy nearly took a step back. Manipulative bastard! He should have expected something of the sort. Then he remembered. Lady Letitia Parker had been betrothed this spring to— Bloody hell! “I am most obliged,” he said icily, putting two and two together. “Forgive my confusion, but I seem to recall an announcement of your daughter’s betrothal to Viscount Darnley in the Times earlier this spring. Did Lady Letitia have a change of mind? She broke the engagement? Or did he?” Stanville’s entire body jerked as if prodded with an electric rod. The uneasiness in his eyes transformed into a furious scowl. “There is no engagement!” Ah, so he guessed right. Lady Letitia must have become damaged goods her father could not wait to dispose of—and with as little trouble for himself as possible. But acquiring a wife together with his old home had never been a part of Percy’s plan. “I’m giving you what you want, Hanbury.” Stanville jiggled the bait in front of his nose again. “You don’t need to pay me to get your old place back if you marry her.” “Small sacrifice, my lord, if one considers what it cost you to acquire that estate in the first place,” Percy replied, measuring his guest with a steady gaze. The earl’s face drained of color. “You were in leading strings then. What can you know about the business I transacted with your father?” “All I need to know about that transaction,” Percy said, satisfied to see fear suddenly lurking in Stanville’s face. Stanville grimaced, swallowed hard and turned back to the window. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Very well,” he ground out after a moment, “I’m open to negotiation, but don’t expect me to yield to your fortune-hunting schemes. I have the earldom to consider.” “I daresay the earldom benefits handsomely from your sugar plantations alone.” “That is not your business, Hanbury.” Stanville turned away from the window and shot him an annoyed glance. “My West Indian property is excluded from this negotiation.” “I am not interested in your West Indian property, my lord.” “Then what is this talk about the dowry? You get back a vast estate with your family pile, and a wife you need to take anyway.” Stanville’s unsurpassed stinginess not only grated heavily against Percy’s notion of justice, it also completely mocked common sense. Baiting him with what ought to have been his by birthright, the earl seemed somehow convinced that Wycombe Oaks alone would make a sufficient dowry. A rather odd assumption if one recalled that until recently, Lady Letitia Parker—Stanville’s sole heiress—had been a coveted matrimonial prize. Or if one considered the going rate of real fortune hunters who might be willing to salvage her tarnished reputation. Her fall from grace was no reason to burden the Hanbury purse with her maintenance. With his hands clasped behind his back, Percy turned away from his guest and walked to the nearest window. Silence fell on the room. “Allow me to renew my original offer,” Percy said after a moment, glancing at Stanville, whose expression grew thunderous. “I shall buy Wycombe Oaks from you. The offer I made previously still stands. You know it was very advantageous then and is even more so now, given the ruinous condition of the estate. What I am willing to pay will make a handsome addition to your daughter’s dowry. She won’t lack suitors.” “That is out of the question!” Stanville barked. “You take her with the estate, or you take nothing at all!” Percy almost recoiled from the intensity of Stanville’s reaction. To cover its impact and give himself time, he looked out the window again. Wycombe Oaks was within his reach. Even the prospect of accompanying baggage in the form of a wife could not extinguish the awakened yearning. But it dampened his joy significantly. God knew he did not want another marriage. Especially not to Stanville’s daughter. Apples usually didn’t fall far from the tree. But what if Stanville made good on his threat? “If I agree to marry Lady Letitia,” Percy said at last, “she will bring me the same dowry you offered Darnley—in addition to Wycombe Oaks.” Stanville scowled from under the line of his eyebrows and began pacing the room. “You disgust me with your greed, Hanbury,” he growled, then stopped in front of the window again. “She is not worth half of what you are demanding.” “Isn’t she? So it was Darnley who was worth it? Or am I to believe all you offered him was one ruined estate?” “That too is not your business, Hanbury. Things changed. I will not harbor a wh—” He stopped abruptly and darted Percy a glance filled with fear. Percy regretted now skipping the gossip column in the Morning Post . It would not yield any real information, but a hint about the scale of Stanville’s predicament would help. Lady Letitia must have done something extreme if Darnley backed out of the betrothal. The young viscount was a man of integrity. The pain in his molar made Percy aware of the fact that he was grinding his teeth. He eased his jaw. Do not let him guess how much you want the house. “Take it or leave it, my lord.” He shrugged. “No one will take her for less now, and you know it.” His heart slammed hard when the earl’s mouth curved into a thin crescent of anger. “The chit is still intact! I had her checked.” The remark, meant as reassurance, only left an aftertaste of disgust. “If you say so,” Percy replied curtly. “Do you plan to send a statement to that effect to the Daily Advertiser ? And why should I believe you?” “You are no better than your father, Hanbury,” the earl gritted out. “Same rotten blood.” Percy curbed the overpowering urge to deliver a swift physical reply. If not for Wycombe Oaks, Stanville would have already found himself outside, examining the gravel around the portico at a myopic distance. Percy clasped his hands hard behind his back and made no answer. At last, his guest let out an angry huff. “How soon can you procure the marriage license?” “Five days will suffice.” Elation and relief spiraled up in Percy’s chest for a short second before the suffocating prospect of a lifelong sentence extinguished the spark. “The sooner the better. I hate this imprisonment of my person here while there is business to attend to in London. Make haste, Hanbury.” “I am ready to sign the papers now.” The scowl on Stanville’s face deepened as the earl plucked a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. “You are an unscrupulous bastard skinning me alive, Hanbury.” Percy made no answer. The elation at having achieved what had been his dearest desire since the age of six was trampled by the feeling that this could be a truly Pyrrhic victory.