Once Dishonored Page 2

  “Cowardice under fire?” she asked. “I can understand how anyone might succumb to terror in a lethal situation.”

  He shrugged. “By then I was a seasoned veteran of sea battles and wounds and had become fatalistic. My unforgivable sin was something else. Are you familiar with how prisoners of war are treated and what a parole is?”

  She thought a moment. “A paroled prisoner is given freedom of movement around the town where he is imprisoned in return for giving his word of honor as an officer and a gentleman not to escape. Besides living in more comfortable conditions outside the fortress, he may be exchanged for an enemy prisoner of the same rank. A lieutenant for a lieutenant, a captain for a captain.” She bit her lip as she guessed what was coming.

  “Exactly. A man who breaks his parole and escapes has betrayed his honor. His reputation is tarnished past redemption. Honorable men give him the cut direct. They may spit in his face. They blackball him from their clubs and certainly do not play cards with him. I escaped and having broken my word, I stand thus dishonored.” Foxton swirled his brandy in the glass “Just as well that I dislike playing cards.”

  Wanting to understand, she asked, “Did you crave freedom more than honor? Or was the situation more complicated than that?”

  She hadn’t realized that he was tense until she saw his face ease. “It was indeed complicated.” He took a small sip of brandy. “Like most captured officers, I was first sent to the prisoners’ depot at Verdun. Not particularly enjoyable, but bearable. Then I was transferred to a smaller depot at Bitche, which has the deserved reputation of being the most hellacious of French military prisons. There I was unfortunate enough to attract the attention of the commander, Colonel Roux, a man known for his cruelty.”

  When he fell silent again, she asked, “What sort of attention? Were you insolent? Disobedient?”

  “No more than other young captives. But he singled me out in ever more difficult ways.” Foxton rolled his glass of brandy restlessly between his hands. “He wanted me to cower from him, but I’m not good at cowering. Perhaps I would have fared better if I’d learned how to do that.”

  “As someone who is bad at cowering myself, I can attest that changing one’s nature is difficult,” she said. “I tend to throw things instead of cowering.”

  “That does not surprise me,” he said with a brief smile. His voice became darker. “Roux first granted me parole, then he revoked it and had me thrown into the vilest dungeon in Bitche. He did this again and again over the following months. It was a cat-and-mouse game with him, and the cat held all the power.”

  She winced, sensing that his experiences had been far more painful than his terse words described. “Did he treat other prisoners that way?”

  Foxton finished his brandy with one long swallow, then rose and began pacing the room, his unseeing gaze sliding over the weapon displays. “He was abusive in different ways to most prisoners, but he had a special hatred for me.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Foxton paused in front of an array of axes set in a circle, the handles radiating inward like the spokes of a wheel. “Roux was the son of a laborer and rose through the ranks of the army to become a colonel. Admirable, really, but he was an angry man who despised those who were born to wealth and privilege. He also despised the British and above all he loathed filthy British aristocrats. He was short, dark, and—not well favored. I epitomized everything he hated: tall, blond, heir to a title. He wanted to break me. He was quite creative in his attempts to do that.”

  Kendra hadn’t thought of him in those terms, but Foxton was the very image of a blond, handsome young English lord, an ideal seldom found in real life. No wonder a short, dark, ugly son of poverty had hated the very sight of such a prisoner. “I have had some experience of being the victim of a powerful man who did his best to break me,” she said quietly. “Did Roux rely on torture?”

  “Sometimes, but his specialty was mental cruelty. His favorite trick was to call in several prisoners at once and announce they would be exchanged very soon. Everyone but me. When I finally asked when I’d be exchanged, he said never; he’d see me dead before that would happen.”

  Foxton’s flat voice gave Kendra chills. “Parole is linked to the possibility of a prisoner exchange, isn’t it? Is a parole valid when the captor is not fulfilling his part of the bargain?”

  “That is where the moral complexity comes in. It’s also where I reached my breaking point.” He drifted across the room to study a display of Highland claymores heavy enough to cleave the skull of an ox. “I was not in very good shape by then. I decided to hell with honor. I might as well die attempting to escape.”

  “But you didn’t die.”

  “I came close. I was wounded by patrollers sent out to capture me. I kept staggering on until I collapsed near a village church. My life was saved by Frère Emmanuel, an elderly Franciscan bonesetter who is the closest thing to a saint I’ve met.”

  Surprised, she asked, “No one wanted to turn in an escaped English prisoner even though a reward was probably offered?”

  “I speak French as well as I speak English, so no one realized what I was.” Foxton gave a harsh laugh. “I survived, but in the end, Colonel Roux won. Once I recovered, I felt the full weight of my breach of honor. I hated myself too much to return to England, so for years I lived a wandering Franciscan life with Frère Emmanuel, trying to atone for my sins.”

  “You became a Franciscan friar?” she asked, startled.

  “I never took vows.” His mouth twisted. “I’m not made for sainthood. I let people think that I was a novice serving an older friar.”

  Kendra poured herself a little more brandy, thinking his story was becoming more and more interesting. “What form did atonement take?”

  “I apprenticed myself to Frère Emmanuel and learned his trade while caring for him. We moved around the countryside and treated anyone with bone or joint problems. We stayed in small country churches and religious communities. Sometimes farmhouses or even barns.” Foxton swallowed hard. “He was old and frail and I was honored to serve him. After Frère Emmanuel’s death, I continued his work, but with . . . less sense of purpose.”

  “What persuaded you to return to England?”

  “My cousin Simon. My almost-brother. We were raised together, and he never quite believed I was dead. He’s a very persistent fellow, so here I am.”

  Before Kendra could ask more questions, Foxton swung around and poured more brandy before settling back into the other wing chair. “I’ve said enough. Your turn now.”

  “I appreciate that you’re willing to share so much of your difficult past.” His past and his pain. “Why have you done so when I am almost a stranger?”

  He gave her a weary smile. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than a friend. Also, because we’re in similar situations, I feel some kinship. I hope that’s a basis for friendship. Do you feel the same?”

  She did with a sudden fierceness that shocked her. “I have a few friends who have not completely abandoned me, but none who truly understand the essence of being dishonored. Yes, we are kindred spirits.” And she must match his honesty, no matter how painful. “Your words about moving past the pain resonated in me. That, and how I must decide what I want most and work toward it.”

  “And that is?”

  “My son.” She closed her eyes against tears. “I want my son!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “I want my son!”

  Her anguished words echoed around the small room. Lucas felt a jolt of surprise, though he shouldn’t have. Enough years had passed that Kendra, Lady Denshire, could have a nursery full of offspring. But it sounded as if she had only the one child, and he realized instantly what the problem was. “Under English law, the father has all rights to children. Denshire won’t let you see your son?”

  She nodded, her fingers tightened around her half-empty glass. “Since I’m a scandalous woman, it’s positively his duty to keep me away from Christo
pher.” Her voice was scathing in its bitterness.

  “Where does your story begin?” he asked. “Why did you marry Denshire?”

  It was Kendra’s turn to get up and pace with long, tense strides. “Not long after you left to join your ship, I met Gilbert Stafford. He was intelligent and handsome and kind, and we made each other laugh. My grandfather approved of him, and his parents liked me. I had visited his estate and could see myself living there with him and raising children and being happy. We became betrothed.”

  She fell silent. Lucas asked gently, “He died?”

  Kendra swallowed hard. “It was the most absurd thing. He cut his hand on a rusty bridle. It seemed to be nothing, but it became inflamed. Three days later, he was dead. It was a long time before I could imagine marrying anyone else.

  “But I wanted a family. I wanted to be a married woman with responsibilities, so eventually I allowed the elderly cousin who presented me the first time to coax me back to London. I didn’t find anyone I could fall in love with, but Denshire was attractive and seemed pleasant. We married and did well enough at first.” Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t realize until after our marriage that his pleasant exterior concealed a mean, selfish soul. Did you know I’m a considerable heiress?”

  “No,” he said, surprised. “Since I wasn’t looking for a wife, I never thought about that. Was Denshire a fortune hunter?”

  She nodded, her face almost hidden in the shadows as she stalked around the small drawing room. “My maternal grandfather was a very successful merchant and he gave me a large dowry. But he was a Scot and didn’t believe that a husband should control a wife’s property, so my money was secured in a trust that my husband couldn’t access without my permission.”

  “Not the sort of thing a fortune hunter wants to deal with! But surely Denshire learned that when the settlements were being negotiated?”

  “Yes, and he tried to negotiate full access to my money, but my grandfather and his lawyers wouldn’t budge. Denshire had a substantial fortune of his own, so eventually he accepted the terms with the appearance of graciousness, but I found later that he was furious. He never got over that.” She sighed. “I wish he’d withdrawn from our betrothal then. It would have been humiliating, but I would have been far better off.”

  “Heiresses aren’t easy to come by so he didn’t want to let you get away,” Lucas said cynically. “I imagine he thought that when he needed more money, he could persuade or bully you into giving it to him.”

  “He did think that, which was poor judgment on his part,” Kendra said. “But the first few years of our marriage weren’t bad. I paid my own bills and contributed what I thought was a reasonable amount to the household expenses. Christopher was born and I spent a great deal of time with him in the country while Denshire was busy with a gentleman’s activities in London. We got along as well as most couples do, until Denshire ran short of money.”

  “Gambling?”

  “Mostly, though I’m sure he had a full range of expensive vices. He became very demanding.” She touched her left cheek, and Lucas wondered if her husband hit her when she didn’t obey him. Very likely.

  “I didn’t see Denshire except when he came to demand money. I was fool enough to agree the first time, but never after that.” She touched her cheek again. “He became more and more furious. I eventually decided the situation was intolerable and asked for a legal separation. That triggered his retaliation.”

  “Which led to scandal and disgrace?”

  Her mouth tightened. “Exactly. Another trigger was my grandfather’s death. He left the bulk of his fortune to me. He’d come to loathe Denshire, so the trust keeping the inheritance from my husband’s hands was even more stringent than before. In retaliation, Denshire decided to divorce me and do it in such a way that my name would be utterly blackened.”

  “The only ground for divorce in England is adultery by the wife,” Lucas said in a neutral voice. “Were you having an affair?”

  “Of course not!” she scoffed. “I didn’t even want the man I had, much less another one!”

  Lucas frowned, seeing that this discussion was getting into difficult territory. “Since the divorce was granted, there must have been some compelling evidence. What really happened?”

  “Three of his good friends testified in court that there was a drunken dinner party at our house and that I begged them to lie with me,” she said tautly.

  He winced. “I assume they were lying?”

  She began pacing again like a captured panther. “I believe they told the truth as they knew it. That night is a blur to me. Apparently Denshire hired a prostitute with a general resemblance to me, then drugged me into unconsciousness. In the dark and saturated with drink, his friends believed that I was the woman they lay with, and they testified to that.”

  Lucas sucked in his breath. “That is appallingly devious and cold-blooded! How could a man do such a thing to his wife? The mother of his child!”

  “He was concerned only with his own pleasures and desires,” she said coolly. “By this time, he despised me. I imagine he devised this plan as a way to inflict the maximum amount of public humiliation.”

  “Is there any chance that you were assaulted when you were too insensible to realize what was happening?” he asked gently.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been celibate for years. If I’d been assaulted by three men, my body would have known the next morning. I’m sure I spent that night alone. For that, at least, I’m grateful.”

  “Was your maid able to testify in your defense?”

  “She disappeared that night. I’m not sure whether Denshire paid her to leave, or whether he had her murdered.” Kendra shuddered. “I fear it might have been murder.”

  Lucas tried to imagine what Kendra had endured. A lesser woman would have been broken. “Would no one listen to you?”

  “A woman cannot testify in her own defense!” she spat out, her outrage vibrating in her voice. “I could do nothing to defend myself. Nothing! Denshire divorced me, told me I’d never see our son again, and he has instituted legal proceedings to allow him access to the trusts my grandfather set up because I owe him a huge fine as restitution for my wicked behavior. He is evil!”

  “Evil or mad,” Lucas agreed. “May I ask more questions? I want to try to understand what was in your husband’s mind.”

  “Go ahead,” she said wearily. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about what happened.”

  “At least Denshire wasn’t ruthless enough to have you killed, which would have simplified his life in all ways.” Lucas’s inflection turned his words into a hesitant question.

  “My death would have put my fortune forever out of his reach,” she said flatly. “The money would eventually go to Christopher, half when he turns twenty-five, the rest at thirty. If my son died in some horrid ‘accident,’ the money would go to charity and more distant relatives. Denshire would never see a penny of it.”

  “Your grandfather sounds like a wise and suspicious man.”

  She smiled a little. “That he was. Ferocious and frightening and a darling to me.”

  He’d also been her protector, and now he was gone. A woman alone and disgraced was in dire straits, and Lucas guessed it was possible that under the circumstances, a court might rule that Denshire had the right to manage the money on behalf of his son. “It’s fortunate that you were unmolested that night, but it did complicate matters to hire a woman to pretend to be you,” Lucas said. “Do you know why he didn’t choose the simple way?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” she said slowly. “I believe Denshire decided to hire a substitute because if I became with child as a result of that night, he would legally be the father and he wouldn’t want responsibility for a child not his own.”

  Lucas shook his head. “It’s a monstrous story. No wonder you’re in a rage for justice.”

  “Do you believe me?” she asked, sounding on edge. “When I say the words out loud, my tale seems too bizarr
e to be true.”

  “Yes, I believe you,” he said steadily. “Not only is it hard to imagine someone making up such a tale, but even though we’ve only met half a dozen times or so, the Kendra Douglas I once knew was honest to a fault. I believe you still are.”

  She exhaled and finally returned to her chair by the fire. Briefly she lifted the brandy decanter as if considering another drink, then set it down again. “I’m glad someone believes me. I’m trying to decide what to do next. Shooting Denshire would be very satisfying, but I don’t want to end up on the gallows.”

  “If Denshire can be revealed for the monster he is, you might regain custody of Christopher,” Lucas said. “We need to find witnesses to support your story. Your maid, for one, and the woman hired to impersonate you.”

  “I hope Molly is still alive, but if she is, I don’t know how to find her.” She cocked her head. “You said ‘we.’ You would help me?”

  Lucas smiled, feeling a tingle of anticipation. “You need an ally and I need a good cause to fight for.” He extended his hand across the space between their chairs. “Shall we make a pact to pursue justice on your behalf?”

  Looking as if she wanted to weep, she caught his hand in a tight clasp. “Yes! I hope you have a better idea of where to start than I do.”

  After he released her hand, he said, “I have a few thoughts, and I have friends who will have more. I’ve been staying with my cousins Simon and Suzanne. Will you dine with us tomorrow night so we can discuss the possibilities?”

  “This is the Simon who is your almost-brother?”

  Lucas nodded. “He was also a colonel in the army intelligence service, so he has a number of useful skills as well as useful friends.”