Free Debt of Honor by Ann Clement Page B

the renewed desire to paint his face.
    Sir Percival let his gaze sweep over her figure. Apparently, she passed inspection, because his eyes smiled when they met hers. He offered her his arm once she reached the last step.
    “It is going to be a long day,” he remarked. “Are you ready?”
    “Certainly,” she said, looking around the hall. The flower arrangements on the commodes filled the space with heavenly scents and an effusion of colors. Even the figures in the portraits seemed to have lost some of the rigidity of their stance. Sir Giles’s silver breastplate shone under the long line of sunlight stretching from his left shoulder and across the canvas all the way to that warped bottom corner of the frame Letitia had noticed while going over the inventory with the housekeeper.
    A thought struck her. “Are there any relatives of yours among the guests today?”
    “No,” Sir Percival said. “My aunt and her family live in Devonshire.”
    “Do you ever see her?”
    “I visit her and my uncle every year,” he replied. “We were once very close. They took care of me after my parents died.”
    His parents died so long ago? She was stunned by his admission. “How old were you when that happened?”
    “My mother died when I was five. My father followed her within a couple of years.”
    “I am so very sorry,” she said spontaneously and with sincerity. The familiar, unrelenting regret and sense of loss that overpowered her whenever she thought of her brother and mother washed over her uninvited.
    Sir Percival nodded. “I am fortunate to have caring relatives who spared no effort to care for me and my inheritance,” he said. “I owe my aunt and uncle a great deal more than I can ever repay.”
    Letitia’s chest constricted when she imagined a little boy leaving his home for the last time. But there couldn’t be a more awkward time to tell him how sorry she felt for the child he had once been. They were about to greet their guests. She realized she was squeezing his arm when he covered her hand with his and patted it.
    “It was a very long time ago,” he said. “Speaking of my aunt, there is one of her friends, Mrs. Baillie. She moved to the village here and bought Rose Cottage after her husband died in the American War. I think you will like her.”
    An elderly lady in a flowing dress and a straw bonnet adorned with roses floated toward them, her arms outstretched and a broad smile on her face.
    “Percy, my dear!” she exclaimed before hugging Sir Percival and kissing his cheeks.
    He stepped back and kissed her hand.
    “So, you are a married man again. God bless you both.”
    She turned to Letitia.
    “You, my dear, must promise to visit me often,” she said, taking her hands. “An old woman like me could use young company. And I want to get to know you better, now that you are part of us.”
    “Thank you.” Letitia smiled. There was warmth in Mrs. Baillie’s demeanor that managed to melt away even some of the sternness in Sir Percival’s countenance.
    “You, my dear child, are the envy of a number of young ladies who set their caps on Percy.” Mrs. Baillie squeezed her hands and smiled back. “I am glad for you. And you too,” she added, turning a motherly gaze on Sir Percival. “Make the most of your good luck, my dear.”
    He bowed his head in response and indicated the door.
    Mrs. Baillie sent Letitia another warm glance before going in.
    Meanwhile, Sir Percival turned to greet the family that had just dismounted from their carriage. “The Fogerhills,” he murmured into Letitia’s ear as they watched the approaching couple, two girls behind them.
    A heavyset woman in a gauzy dress almost pulled the man whose arm provided inadequate support for her ample figure. His inconsequential stature was further diminished by the plumes bobbing in all directions from his wife’s elaborate headdress.
    “Let me warn you that Mrs. Fogerhill never stops talking. You may follow her husband’s example