Bound by Honor

Chapter 18

What? Not only did Sir Percival have a mistress, but he had also

murdered his wife? Had her father made the pact with Bluebeard? But

instead of fear or revulsion, Letitia felt an unexpected twinge of

compassion. No one knew better than she how far the gossipmongers’

flights of fancy could go.

She looked her neighbor straight in the eye. “Indeed? I am all ears, Ethel.

What were they saying? Did he throw her out the window or stab her with

a letter opener? Did she scratch his face beyond recognition?”

Lady Marsden opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Bright red

covered her cheeks, contrasting with both her dress and her hair.

“You are partial to him, aren’t you?” she said at last with some

amazement.

Letitia preferred not to answer that question. Instead, she asked her own,

“And do you believe this gossip? You said you have known him all his life,

Ethel. Do you think him capable of such a crime? Do you think he could

get away with it?”

Lady Marsden’s color intensified.

“No, of course I do not believe it.” She laughed, but her laughter seemed

strained. “How could I? Yet he is a baronet, and a very wealthy one,

representing an ancient family with a long history and influence in these

parts. No one would dare question him openly. People always talk

nonsense, you know. You should not be alarmed, my dear. I merely meant

to prepare you in case such vile rumors ever reached your ears. But,”

Ethel added, and this time her smile was very sweet, “I believe you have

nothing to fear from him, even though the cause of Sarah’s uneasiness

may still linger.”

She stared pointedly in the direction of the tables set up under the oak

trees. Letitia followed Ethel’s gaze. Sir Percival and Mrs. Vernon stood

there together, deep in conversation. As if on cue, Sir Percival offered Mrs.

Vernon his arm before they walked off in the direction of the house.

An icy numbness spread in Letitia’s chest. So her intuition about the two

of them was correct. Even worse, their liaison was no secret in the

neighborhood. Her father’s sarcastic chuckle echoed in her head.

Letitia glanced at Ethel, who watched her intently, a faint smirk shaping

her lips.

“Naturally,” Ethel continued, her face full of animation, “as soon as I heard

these accusations about murder whispered, I vehemently denounced them

as a vicious lie. Percy would have never hurt Sarah. I will always fight such

vile gossip. No man was ever more devoted to his wife, even if he— Well,

never mind. Let us hope it’s all in the past. Such deep grief as his is the

best proof of his innocence.”

She squeezed Letitia’s hand as they resumed their walk.

“Well, my dear, do not let me ramble on about what is ancient history by

now. This is a day for celebration, even if you are right about his reasons

for marrying you. After all, I cannot imagine he could resist the prospect of

getting back Wycombe Oaks.”

“Getting back Wycombe Oaks?” Letitia stopped again. “What do you

mean by that?”

Lady Marsden returned the look of surprise. “You don’t know? Percy

never told you? But the Earl of Stanville certainly must have done so.”

“Yes, my husband did,” Letitia replied, remembering Sir Percival’s words

in the carriage. “I just never realized what he meant. I suppose there’s

nothing wrong with augmenting one’s estates through marriage, if that’s

what you mean.”

“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?

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.