Bound by Honor

Chapter 19

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.”