Free Debt of Honor by Ann Clement Page A

ask him once why he did that. He replied that no one deserved to live in those rooms.”
    She rooted in her apron pocket and produced a large handkerchief. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I never saw such devotion in a man.”
    Letitia only nodded in reply. Her head spun from the housekeeper’s story. To go to such extravagant lengths to make sure that no one—especially not another woman—would ever sully Sarah’s rooms with her presence was an unmatched proof of Sir Percival’s feelings for his deceased wife. The recollection of the pain marring his features after her outburst in the carriage flashed in her mind’s eye. She had no idea she had poured salt on a raw wound. No doubt he still carried a torch for Sarah and probably would forever.
    And yet, it didn’t stop him from having a mistress.
    She congratulated herself again on the clever plan she had hatched during her solitary wedding night. An escape to America was her best option. With Sarah worshiped on the altar of Sir Percival’s memories, and a mistress warming his bed, her absence would hardly be noticed. Oh, she might have the orangery, but it was now easy to see that he only thought to get rid of her this way. All the better. She didn’t need his meddling in her life.
    All these thoughts were still churning in her head after the drawers were finished and Letitia walked slowly along the back corridor toward the main staircase. Josepha’s quiet laughter reached her and, as it always had, put Letitia at ease. Josie seemed to like Bromsholme. What would she say once she learned the strange history of Sir Percival’s first marriage?
    Then the sight that greeted her in the hallway pushed that thought aside.
    Josepha stood in front of one of the portraits, her slender hand resting on the Boulle chest to her left. Sir Giles—Letitia had already learned the names of the sitters and their connection to the family history—stared down fiercely from his portrait at a man in riding clothes facing Letitia’s companion.
    He was almost as tall as Sir Percival and about his age. His tousled light-brown hair had plenty of sun streaks, betraying the outdoor inclination. His voice reverberated between the stone walls while Josie—her always prudent Josie—grinned at him.
    “It will be a great pleasure, Miss Fourier,” the charmer was saying. “If you come early in the morning, I will show you the hothouses before they heat up beyond comfort.”
    “Why, thank you, Mr. Petre. Perhaps I will come. And thank you for the offer of a potted plant for my room.”
    So this was the steward? Letitia appraised him with interest.
    “My pleasure,” he replied, bowing slightly. “I shall return later in the afternoon to speak with Lady Letitia about the changes in the orangery.”
    “I cannot tell for certain when she will— Oh, here she is.” Josepha noticed her presence at last, having momentarily taken her eyes off the steward. “Mr. Petre has come to find out what you wish to do with the orangery.”
    “Mr. Petre.” Letitia extended her hand to him, and he bowed over it with all the gallantry one would expect from the sixth and youngest son of a viscount. “Let me show you what I have in mind. Josie, would you please bring my sketchbook from the sitting room?”
    Josepha nodded and turned toward the staircase.
    Letitia headed toward the corridor leading to the library. “How soon can you begin, Mr. Petre?” she asked.
    “On Tuesday, ma’am,” he replied, sending a fleeting glance toward the stairs.

Chapter Eight
    Sir Percival waited for her at the bottom of the staircase when she descended on the morning of their wedding breakfast. Dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the church, he presented an image of strength and self-confidence. A sliver of sunlight that gleamed through the dome highlighted his dark hair. Letitia noted again the fine lines of his features and the sensuousness of his mouth. An unexpected longing washed over her, together with