A Kind of Honor Read online

  A KIND OF HONOR

  by

  Joan Wolf

  He hath a kind of honor sets him off

  More than a mortal seeming.

  Cymbeline, I, vi

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A KIND OF HONOR was the second book I wrote, and the second book I had published. It has been out of print for many years, and I deliberately did not include it with the other books I made available as e-books. My writing style has evolved over the years and I did not felt that A KIND OF HONOR – though I liked the characters and the plot – represented my best writing.

  Because I have received requests from a number of faithful readers to publish this book again, I decided I would – after I edited it. So, for the last few months I have been been pruning my prose. I promise that those of you who loved the original will love this version also. And new readers won’t find themselves bogged down in too many adjectives, adverbs and unnecessarily long sentences. The writing is much crisper, much more like the way I write today. I actually took out 6,573 words - three and a half chapters’ worth – without changing anything of substance. Amazing.

  It was fun revisiting Nanda and Adam and the evil Duc de Gacé again. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.

  - JOAN

  PROLOGUE

  It was raining when Major Lord Stanford reached Burgos to find the English army’s siege was not progressing. The scene before him as he rode in was dismal. The men were living in open huts cobbled together by branches, none of which were capable of protecting them from rain and cold, both of which were unusually severe for a Spanish autumn. Perched high above them, on a steep, impregnable looking rock, stood French-held Burgos Castle. The siege had been in progress for almost a month, and so far only the outworks had been captured.

  Stanford found the army’s commander in a gloomy frame of mind, but his face lightened perceptibly upon seeing Adam Todd. Stanford, who was Wellington’s chief intelligence officer, made his report, and when he finished Wellington’s face was even brighter. “That’s some good news, at any rate,” he said. “It means I can safely go ahead with my plans for the spring.”

  Lord Wellington, who was often accused of not trusting his subordinates, rarely questioned Stanford’s information. He had once remarked, “Stanford is invaluable to me because he is always accurate.” Wellington’s face darkened, however, when Stanford asked him, “How are things progressing here, sir?”

  “They aren’t,” came the terse reply. “I have five engineer officers and eight men. Not only do we lack vital personnel, we don’t even have proper siege guns. Three long eighteen-pounders and a few howitzers are all I have. And we’re short of ammunition.”

  Stanford looked up at the sheer heights of Burgos Castle. “Good God, sir,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Wellington said gloomily. “The truth is, that equipped as we are, the British army is incapable of carrying out a regular siege.”

  As Stanford discovered during the next few days, the army reflected its commander’s gloom. None of the men had any experience in siegework, and they hated it. Wellington was even forced to upbraid his officers for their lack of enthusiasm.

  The French inside the castle showed every sign of holding out forever. The English lacked the artillery for a knockout blow, and their assaults were piecemeal and ineffective. Stanford found the whole spectacle appalling and did his best to help the field officers by taking over one of the platoons. Three days later the French swept down on the English trenches and forced a retreat. Stanford managed to evacuate his men and tools, but he was hit as he ran for cover. Two of his men dragged him to safety, but he was bleeding badly from his left leg and shoulder.

  Wellington ordered a last assault on October 18, which was successfully repulsed by the defenders. The commander in chief then ordered the siege lifted, and the English army slipped out of Burgos after dark on October 21. Stanford traveled with the rest of the wounded, in carts with wheels muffled with straw. They reached Salamanca on November 8, and Dr. McGrigor attended to the wounded. Then began the slow retreat to winter quarters at Ciudad Rodrigo.

  It rained in torrents. The men marched knee-deep in mud, waded through streams swollen into rivers, and went without food for four days, as the commissary stores had mistakenly been sent ahead.

  Stanford was only intermittently conscious in the jolting wagon, his awareness dulled by fever and pain. Finally the army reached Ciudad Rodrigo and transport was arranged to send the severely wounded on to Oporto, where they would be placed on a ship to England.

  Wellington came to see Stanford before the wagons left for Oporto. He stood for a long moment looking down at the thin, fine-boned face on the pallet, the black hair in stark contrast to the pallor even a tan could not disguise. He put his hand on Stanford’s arm and spoke his name. A moment later the black lashes lifted, revealing heavy dark blue eyes. “I expect to see you back in a few months, Stanford,” he said authoritatively, and a shadowy smile passed over the young white face below him.

  As he turned away from the wagon Wellington’s look of sheer despair prevented anyone from talking to him. Suddenly he turned to the aide beside him. “He was worth a brigade to me,” he said, and walked away.

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a traitor at the Horse Guards. That was the conclusion come to by Lord Bathhurst, the war minister, and Lord Menteith, the military secretary. It was not a conclusion they were happy to reach, but in the light of the evidence, it was indisputable. For the last six months information had been leaking to Paris at an alarming rate – information of a highly confidential nature. With Wellington’s spring offensive still in the planning stages, secrecy was essential.

  “Damme, we can have Boney finished off in a year’s time if all goes according to plan,” Lord Bathurst had said to Menteith at their most recent meeting. “He lost over half a million men in Russia! He’s vulnerable.” Bathurst had slammed his hand down on the table. “We must find out who is sending that information!” He glared at his grim looking military secretary and said, before he turned to exit, “I leave it to you, Menteith.”

  So now Lord Menteith sat in his office at the Horse Guards, looking bleakly at the pile of papers on his desk. He was a stocky medium-sized man in his early forties whose brown hair as yet showed no trace of gray. He was intelligent, capable and reliable, but he was damned if he knew how to go about unearthing a traitor. It frightened and humiliated him to think one of the men he knew and trusted could be a traitor.

  He opened for the fourth time the file that lay on top of the others on his desk. It contained the records of Adam Todd, Lord Stanford, invalided home from Spain after the aborted siege of Burgos. Menteith didn’t know if Stanford was recovered enough to come to London, but Wellington thought he was the man for the job. “If there’s a traitor at the war office, Stanford will find him,” Wellington had written.

  Once again Menteith ran his eyes down the information in the file before him. Adam Todd was the eldest son of the Earl of Seaton, and like many other scions of noble families he had gone out to the Peninsula as a cavalry officer. He had been appointed to Wellington’s staff, but it wasn’t long before his genius for intelligence work was discovered. His ability to penetrate deep behind enemy lines was unrivaled, and he soon became invaluable to Wellington. “He is never wrong,” the commander had written. “Thanks to Stanford I know virtually the whole muster roll of all the opposing forces.”

  Menteith’s hope was that the qualities that had made Stanford so effective in the field might be equally valuable in the quandary the Horse Guards now found itself in. That is, if the viscount was healthy enough to come to London.

  “I won’t know unless I ask,” Menteith said out loud, and went to the door to summon a me
ssenger to take a message to Trenent Castle in Northumberland, the home of the Earl of Seaton.

  # # #

  Adam Todd was standing on top of the old battlements of Trenent Castle, staring out at the frigid and crashing North Sea, when one of his father’s servants braved the cold to bring him a message. When he heard his name called, Stanford turned, black hair blowing in the wind.

  “There is a messenger for you from London, my lord. He is bearing a letter from the Horse Guards.”

  Stanford’s blue eyes widened in surprise. He had heard nothing from that quarter since his return home from the hospital. “I’ll come at once,” he said, grasping an elegant black stick in his hand to cross the stone walkway to the door.

  His heart was beating faster than usual as he painfully descended the stairs. The Horseguards! What could they want with him? He was no good to the army any more; he knew that. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, and he still hadn’t quite managed it, which is probably why he was reacting like an old warhorse that hears the blast of the trumpet.

  He was sweating by the time he reached the room where the messenger was waiting. Climbing stairs was always the worst, which was why he climbed them so frequently. He rationalized that, since he couldn’t spend his life avoiding stairs, he might as well get accustomed to them sooner rather than later.

  A young lieutenant was standing by the roaring fireplace and Stanford limped forward, switched his stick from his right hand to his left, and extended his hand. “You’ve come a long way, Lieutenant,” he said in his cool, pleasant voice. “I hear you have a message for me.”

  “Yes, my lord. From Lord Menteith. I am to bring him a reply.” The young, blond officer extended a sealed paper, which Stanford took.

  “Please sit down, Lieutenant,” Stanford said, gesturing to a chair near the fireplace. Both men seated themselves and Stanford opened the letter in his hands. He sat for a moment, reading, his thick black hair, grown longer since his injury, falling over his forehead. When he looked up his eyes seemed very blue. “You must stay the night, Lieutenant, and I will give you an answer to take back in the morning.”

  “Very good, my lord,” the young soldier said. And wondered how long it would be until dinner.

  # # #

  Stanford rested for a while in the library before attempting the stairs up to his bedroom. He was lying, fully clothed, on his bed when the door opened to admit his father. Lord Seaton, the eighth earl, was a man nearing sixty, taller and heavier than his son, with blue-gray eyes.

  “What is this I hear about a messenger from the Horse Guards?” he asked abruptly.

  Stanford propped himself higher on his pillows and regarded his father peacefully. “They want me to come to London, sir. I’m to send a reply back with the lieutenant in the morning.”

  “Why?” Lord Seaton paced about the room in agitation. “Your leg is still hurting damnably. What can you do in London that they can’t find someone else to do?”

  “Lord Menteith wasn’t particular. He mentioned only a problem of security.” Stanford’s face became suddenly grim. But I think I know what the problem is.”

  “I don’t like it, Adam. If you go to London you’ll overdo it. I know you.”

  Stanford shrugged. “The leg is never going to be what it was, Papa. I must learn to live with what I have.”

  “Hmmm.” The earl crossed his arms and stared down into the thin, tired face of his son. “I might as well save my breath, I suppose. Nothing I can say will keep you here, will it?”

  The blue eyes smiled at him affectionately. “No sir,” Stanford said, “there is nothing you can say.”

  # # #

  The ride from Northumberland to London was every bit as bad as Stanford had expected. He was exhausted and in a great deal of pain by the time he reached the Clarendon hotel. There was one set of stairs to his room, and he climbed them with the assistance of his valet, his mouth set grimly against the pain. Once inside he took a rare pain pill and went to bed; he was to visit Lord Menteith the following day.

  He slept well, thanks to the pill, and set off the following morning, fortified by a large breakfast. He had decided not to wear his uniform, even though he was still a cavalry officer; instead he wore the London gentleman’s uniform of black superfine coat, beige pantaloons and Hessian boots.

  A deferential lieutenant arrived at the Clarendon the following day with a carriage to take him from the hotel to the Horse Guards. Once there, the lieutenant apologetically told him that the military secretary’s office was up another flight of stairs. He offered to help him but Adam assured him he could manage on his own, which he did with a great deal of discomfort.

  The lieutenant went ahead to announce his arrival and by the time Adam arrived at the military secretary’s door Menteith was already on his feet. He took one look at Adam, dropped the hand he had been holding out to shake, and asked him to be seated. Adam was more than happy to lower himself into a large leather chair.

  “I must thank you for coming so promptly, my lord,” Menteith began. “If the matter were not so urgent I should not have disturbed your convalescence, I assure you. How are you feeling?”

  “Very well, I thank you,” Adam replied.

  “Good.” Menteith hesitated, and Adam waited courteously for him to continue. Finally the minister said, “The war is going well. The emperor has just announced to the nation the news of the annihilation of the grand army. He lost half a million men in Russia, Stanford, and he’ll have to begin to recruit once again from Paris.”

  “He has over 300,000 men in Spain he cannot touch,” Adam said with satisfaction.

  “Precisely. For the first time Napoleon is seriously threatened on two fronts. The fighting this spring is crucial. Wellington must succeed!”

  “That is why I am here, I believe. You wrote about a security problem?”

  The broad-shouldered man behind the desk winced, then took a deep breath and said baldly, “We have a traitor at the Horse Guards, Stanford. We must discover who it is before he leaks the plans for the spring offensive.

  Adam’s mouth tightened. “Are you certain he’s here at the Horse Guards?”

  “He must be,” Menteith said in despair. “The importance and the detail of some of the information…” He shook his head. “It could only have come from here.”

  “Do you have any suspicions as to who it might be?”

  Menteith met his eyes bravely. “No.”

  Adam folded his hands loosely on the stick in front of him. “Your news does not come as a great surprise to me, my lord,” he said softly, his eyes on his hands. “It has been obvious for some time that the French are more knowledgeable of our plans than only a few captured dispatches can account for.” There was silence in the room as Adam regarded his hands, his eyes shielded by his long lashes. “You want me to find the man,” he said.

  Menteith looked from the strong slender hands lying so quietly on the stick to the still and reserved face above them. “Yes, I do,” he said firmly.

  “I shall need your total cooperation.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. If it is convenient, we can start right now.”

  It was convenient and for the next hour Adam conducted an exhaustive interrogation, which covered every aspect of life at the Horse Guards. It left Lord Menteith limp but relieved; he had turned his problem over to a professional.

  Adam was the one who provided a reason for his presence at the Horse Guards. “You know the difficulty we have been having with the French codes. By the time we decipher them the information is useless. I should like, while I’m here, to train a staff of experts we can send out to Lord Wellington.”

  Menteith was delighted. “An excellent idea. Now we have only…”

  There was a knock on the door and then it opened. A voice said, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Robert, but I am on my way to Hartwell. Do you have any news I should impart to His Majesty?”

  “Matthieu.” Menteith rose sl
owly to his feet. “I have no messages for His Majesty, but I am glad you stopped in. May I present Lord Stanford, who is on leave from the peninsula.” To Stanford he said, “His Grace, the Duc de Gacé.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The man entering the room was tall, with a fine, narrow face. He looked to be in his early forties, with fair hair and gray eyes. He nodded to Adam and advanced into the room.

  “I am pleased to meet you Lord Stanford,” he said. “Your name is familiar to anyone who reads the reports from the Peninsula.” He turned to Menteith, his finely arched brows rose lifting in inquiry. “Dare I hope Lord Stanford is going to lend us his talents?”

  “Lord Stanford has agreed to take charge of our decoding problems, Gacé,” Menteith replied smoothly.

  “I guarantee nothing, Your Grace,” Adam put in, “but I did have some success with codes in the Peninsula.”

  Gacé’s pale eyes rested on him speculatively. “Indeed,” he said.

  Adam’s leg was aching badly and Gacé had made no motion for them to resume their seats. Adam was damned, however, if he was going to ask this supercilious duc for permission to sit. He set his mouth and prepared to endure.

  Fortunately Menteith ignored protocol and resumed his own seat, allowing Adam to do the same. “Gacé, will you join us for a brandy?” Menteith asked pleasantly.

  “No, thank you,” Gacé responded in his light, precise voice. He turned his gaze on Adam and inquired, “Where are you staying, Lord Stanford?”

  “I’m at the Clarendon at present. My father gave up our London house years ago, so I must look for lodgings, I suppose.”

  “Come and stay with us for a bit.” Gacé smiled, and Adam was suddenly conscious of the duc’s considerable charm. “You are not well – wounded, in fact, in a cause we emigres are closely concerned with. I would consider it an honor if you would make my house your home while you are in London.”