The Trouble with Honor Read online

  “Would you be so kind?” Honor asked before Monica could speak.

  “You’ll need some help,” Miss Williamson said.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Beeker said, and smiled at Honor before departing with his trusty aide on his quest to bring back four drinks.

  “Well, then? To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Honor?” Monica asked drily.

  Honor laughed. “Only a desire to greet my old friend.”

  “Mmm,” Monica said, taking Honor in. “Your gown is lovely.”

  If there was one thing that could be said of Monica, she appreciated a fine gown when she saw one. “Thank you,” Honor said. “As is yours,” she added, thinking the dark green suited Monica’s complexion very well. “Did Mrs. Dracott fashion it?” she asked, referring to the much-sought-after modiste.

  “No,” Monica said tightly. “Mrs. Wilbert. Mrs. Dracott has many commissions at the moment, what with the Season. But she’s done very well by you, hasn’t she? I suppose there is even a bonnet that matches the gown?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly on Honor.

  “Good Lord, you’re not still angry about the bonnet, are you?” Honor asked with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

  “No angrier than I was the summer you wooed Mr. Gregory away,” Monica sniffed.

  Honor laughed with surprise. “We were sixteen years old, Monica. Really, why must you always bring up old hurts?”

  “I’m not bringing up an old hurt, but an old scheme,” Monica said. “That’s always the way with you, isn’t it? One scheme or another?”

  “Scheme!” Honor protested. “Shall we speak of schemes? Do you recall the Bingham dance, and how you and Agnes Mulberry took the last two seats in the Bingham coach, when I was the one who’d been invited and, in turn, invited the two of you? I had no other means of attending and you knew it very well.”

  “Just as well as you knew that you had not invited me to the soiree at Longmeadow.” Monica clucked her tongue. “A lost invitation, indeed!”

  Honor lifted her chin, wisely choosing not to recall that summer after all. “Never mind that, Monica. I came to offer my felicitations, not rehash the summer of your sixteenth year.”

  “Felicitations? For what?” Monica asked.

  “Am I mistaken?” Honor asked. “Augustine said that you were very keen to marry and that it may occur sooner rather than later.”

  Monica suddenly laughed; her light brown eyes sparkled. “My dearest Sommerfield!” she said gaily. “You misunderstood him, Honor. He is so keen to marry me that he speaks of Gretna Green with alarming frequency.”

  “Then you’d best marry him straightaway,” Honor said. “One can hardly say when another man might come along so keen to marry you, can one?”

  “Pardon?” Monica said laughingly. “Really, Honor, I know you too well, and I know you did not traverse the ballroom to ask after my wedding. That’s not the least bit like you. Or me, for that matter.”

  Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “True,” she agreed. “But as we are to be sisters, I hoped we might turn over a new leaf,” she said. “No more bickering over bonnets and whatnot.”

  Monica’s arched a dark brow. “Indeed? If you truly wish to turn over a new leaf, then neither of us should be surprised to discover unpleasant facts about the other...such as scheduling a tea the very day the other has scheduled one. Is that what you mean, in turning over a new leaf?”

  Monica had her there—last Season, Honor had indeed scheduled a garden tea on the very day and at the very hour of Monica’s tea—to which, Honor graciously declined to point out, she and Grace had not been invited. But in Honor’s defense, she really didn’t believe they would be inviting the same people. She’d supposed Monica would invite all the tedious, lifeless acquaintances, while she would have the lively, diverting guests at hers.

  “And neither shall we publicly speculate as to each other’s whereabouts,” Honor said, reminding Monica that during last Season’s Jubilee Ball, Monica had openly suggested that Honor had snuck away with Lord Cargill, when in fact Honor had been in the retiring room with Grace. It had caused quite a lot of speculation.

  “We’ll mind that we don’t,” Monica said, graciously inclining her head.

  Honor smiled. “So then, have you had a nice evening?”

  “Passable.”

  “Did you make any new acquaintances?”

  Monica cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously. “Why have you this sudden interest in my evening?”

  “Dear God, but you are suspicious!” Honor said. “It’s just that I find this crowd so terribly tiresome in its sameness, don’t you? I should like someone new to divert us all. There you have it, the root of our disagreements—you always misunderstand me!”

  “Or perhaps it is because I understand you completely,” Monica parried. “If you are seeking diversion, darling, perhaps you ought to consider a trip abroad. I said as much to Augustine just this week,” Monica said, and began to straighten her glove as if she were speaking about the weather. “I said that perhaps you might find new and different things more to your liking in America.”

  An alarm sounded in Honor’s brain. She tried to laugh. “What a lark.”

  Monica lifted her gaze from her glove. “Augustine was rather intrigued. He said he would very much like to see you and Grace enjoy a more worldly education. It seems to me if you find our society so tiresome, maybe you will find another society more diverting.”

  “I didn’t say I found our society tiresome, Monica. I said I found the company this evening tiresome. I will kindly ask you not to put thoughts into Augustine’s head.”

  “As part of our new leaf,” Monica suggested slyly.

  “Precisely,” Honor responded firmly.

  “Here we are!” Mr. Beeker’s voice rang out. He and Miss Williamson suddenly sailed into view, each of them holding two glasses of wine.

  “Oh, dear, look at the time. I’m afraid it’s gotten away from me,” Honor said, rising to her feet. “I really must be home to wish the earl a good-night.” She looked pointedly at Monica. She might be out on her arse when the earl died, but today, she still held the upper hand. “Good evening, then,” she said pleasantly.

  “Good evening, Honor,” Monica said, just as pleasantly.

  Honor walked away, her back straight, her chin high, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  When in fact, she suddenly had many.

  America! The devil take Monica Hargrove.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HOW WAS IT possible that her plan had not worked?

  The question caused Honor to toss and turn all night. She herself had been on the verge of being swept away by Easton’s pretend seduction in her own receiving room, so how had Monica possibly resisted it?

  There was only one explanation: George Easton had not kept his word. Or worse, he’d kept his word and had failed.

  The next morning, Honor woke tired and cross. She pulled on her dressing gown, sat down at her writing table, and dashed off a note to Easton: You gave me your word.

  She was still wearing her dressing gown when she went down to the foyer. The old footman, Foster, was at the door; she pressed the note into his hand. “Please deliver this to Audley Street.”

  Foster looked at her letter. “Easton,” he said out loud.

  “Shh!” Honor hissed, and glanced quickly behind her, lest anyone had wandered into the foyer and overheard Foster. “Discretion, Mr. Foster.”

  “Aye, Miss Cabot,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Ain’t I always discreet, then?”

  “You are,” she said with a fond pat of his arm. “I have long depended—”

  “Honor? What in heaven?”

  Honor whirled around. “Augustine! Good morning!”

  Augustine was standing with a linen napkin, presumably from breakfast, tucked into his collar. “I was coming to find you.” He looked past her, to Foster. “What are you doing at the door in your dressing gown?”r />
  “Aye, miss, looks like a lot of rain today,” Foster said quickly. “Quite a downpour, really.”

  Honor adored the stately old footman. “Thank you, I shall dress accordingly.” She turned back to Augustine with a bright smile.

  “Then hurry along and dress, will you?” Augustine asked. “Mercy insists on regaling us with some gruesome tale of walking cadavers,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It has put me off my breakfast. The lass could use a firm hand if you ask me.”

  “Oh, no, we can’t have that,” Honor said, wondering where Augustine’s firm hand had gotten off to this morning. She gave Foster another sly smile, then darted up the stairs to her rooms to dress.

  * * *

  RAIN CONTINUED TO pour through breakfast and into the noon hour with no sign of abating. Honor spent the late morning reading to her stepfather. The damp weather did not help the poor man’s situation, and he lay against the pillows, his eyes fixed on some point well beyond this room. He looked sad and exhausted. His once robust cheeks were sunken, his hands bony, his eyes rheumy.

  At some point during her reading of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads, the earl closed his eyes. Honor quietly closed the book of poetry and carefully rose from her seat. She tiptoed across the carpet and had all but slipped through the door when the earl said roughly, “Honor, darling.”

  She turned back. His arm was outstretched, as if he’d tried to touch her as she’d slipped by him. “Are you all right?” she asked, moving back to his side. “Is anything the matter? Shall I fetch Mamma?”

  He gestured for her hand, and she wrapped her fingers around his. “You must look after your mother when I’m gone,” he said, his voice hoarse from coughing.

  “Of course.”

  “Heed me, Honor—she’ll have no one but her daughters to ensure she comes to no harm. Do you understand?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

  He knew. The earl knew what she and Grace suspected—that her mother was slowly losing her mind. “I understand you very well, my lord.”

  “I have loved your mother these many years,” he said. “I believe Augustine is quite fond of her, but my son is weak. He is easily influenced. He is a good man, but I think too eager to please others.”

  “Perhaps,” Honor reluctantly agreed. “My mother has loved you, my lord, as have we all. I give you my word I shall look after her.”

  The earl patted her hand. “How will you do it, my dearest Honor? I’ve been too lenient with you, haven’t I, allowing you to flit about. Is there no one who might have caught your eye?”

  Honor’s heart fluttered; she thought of Rowley, how she had pined for him. “There was one, but he didn’t desire me.”

  The earl made a clucking sound. “Then he is a fool. I suppose the thought of keeping a beautiful woman in style can seem quite daunting to some gentlemen.”

  “But I don’t care about things so much,” Honor said.

  The earl smiled. “No? You’ve certainly made use of my coffers.”

  She smiled guiltily, but shook her head. “I like things well enough, my lord, but they are only things. If I loved someone, truly loved, nothing else would matter.”

  “If you find love again, my darling, latch on to it and hold tight. It’s a rare bird, far too fine to let go. And don’t be afraid of hurt. It serves its purpose and makes you appreciate love even more.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, and glanced down. She did not care for the pain of losing love. She preferred to avoid it at all costs.

  “You’re a good girl, Honor. I don’t care a whit what anyone else may say.” He sighed, let go of her hand and let his head loll to one side. “Send Jericho in, will you?” he asked, referring to the man who had been his valet, and had, in the past two years, become one of his closest caretakers. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

  Honor found Jericho and sent him to check on the earl, then followed the sound of sprightly music downstairs. As she walked through the foyer, Foster happened to step in through the main door, pausing at the threshold to shake the water off his cloak and his hat.

  “Foster! Have you delivered it, then?”

  “Aye, miss,” he said as he put his hat aside.

  “And? Was there a reply?”

  “No, miss. The butler said the gentleman had not yet returned home from the evening, and he’d hand it over when he arrived.”

  Not yet returned home? A curious little tickle went through Honor—there was only one place a man might stay all night and well into the morning, wasn’t there? A warm bed, she reckoned, with a curving body to warm it. Fields of gold. Another, stronger, tickle went through her.

  “Thank you,” she said to Foster distractedly.

  She carried on to the music room, imagining Easton with a woman, linens sliding away from his nude and rigid body as he demanded more from his conquest. Who was the woman? Lady Dearing?

  In the music room, she found her sisters. Prudence was playing the pianoforte—she was the most musically inclined of the four of them, with an ear that Honor envied. Grace was seated at a table, her quill dancing across the page as she penned a letter. Mercy was on her belly before the hearth, her knees bent and her ankles crossed. She was slowly turning the pages of fashion plates in Lady’s Magazine. A soft fire glowed in the fireplace, and candles were lit around the room to chase away the gloom of the rainy day.

  “Who are you writing, Grace?” Honor asked as she took a seat on the settee and curled her feet beneath her.

  “Cousin Beatrice.”

  “She’s not our cousin,” Honor corrected her.

  “No?” asked Prudence, pausing in the midst of her music.

  Honor shook her head. “She and Mamma were childhood friends, so close that they took to calling each other cousin. Why on earth are you writing her, Grace?”

  “Because she resides in Bath, and I should like to know if perchance she has seen Lord Amherst there. I understand he is not yet in London.”

  Honor blinked. “Amherst? Why?”

  “Honor, really!” Grace said with a pert smile. “It’s a private concern that I would think you’d have guessed.” Honor could not guess, but Grace glanced meaningfully at Mercy, who had stopped flipping the pages of the magazine to stare intently at Grace.

  “What is it?” Mercy demanded. “Why do you never tell me anything?”

  “Because you are a child. What do you think of this piece?” Prudence asked, and began to play another sprightly tune.

  Mercy pushed back onto her knees and adjusted her spectacles as she listened. “I adore it!” she said a moment later, and leaped to her feet. She began to do the figures from a reel around the salon, her arms outstretched, light on her toes.

  Honor smiled at her younger sister. Dancing was the thing she needed to banish the gloom from her thoughts, and hopped up to bow and extend her hand like a gentleman. Mercy eagerly caught it, and the two of them began to dance to Prudence’s airy song. Grace put down her pen, clapping in time to the music. “Higher, Mercy,” she said when the steps called for a hop. “Don’t drag your foot, dearest—jump.”

  Mercy jumped. Prudence began to play faster, forcing Mercy and Honor to quicken their steps, spinning around and around. All of them laughed at the absurd pace of the music, and didn’t notice Hardy until he stood at the pianoforte, his silver tray in hand.

  “Hardy!” Honor said breathlessly as she and Mercy collided to a stop. “We didn’t see you there.”

  “No, miss. I could not be heard over the music and the giggling,” he drawled.

  Prudence stood, stretching her arms high above her head. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the silver tray.

  “A caller,” he said, bowing lightly. “For Miss Cabot.”

  Mercy was too quick for Honor—she darted in front of her sister and tried to grab the card before Honor could reach it. In spite of looking rather ancient, Hardy was a nimble man—he quickly lifted the tray above Mercy’s head, and her leap fell short.

  “Hardy
!” Mercy complained.

  “Behave,” Honor said, and reached high above her sister to take the card from the tray. Her heart instantly did a bit of a flutter when she read the name: George Easton.

  That little flutter of hesitation cost her, for Mercy was able to read it. “Who is George Easton?”

  Grace gasped and stood from the writing desk, hurrying forward to have a look. “You didn’t invite him, did you?”

  “No! That is, I sent a note, but I didn’t think he’d come—”

  “Who is he?” Prudence demanded, crowding in beside her sisters, trying to view the card.

  “Not someone you should know,” Grace said quickly, and to Hardy she asked, “Where is Augustine?”

  “At his gentlemen’s club.”

  “Hardy, will you please ask Mr. Easton to wait a moment while we...” She fluttered her fingers; Hardy apparently thought the gesture meant that he should quit the salon, and bowed before going out and shutting the door behind him.

  Honor whirled about and stared at the windows, her heart racing as quickly as her mind. “Good Lord, he has come here!”

  “Who is he?” Prudence demanded. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Thankfully, because you are not yet out and not aware of the sort of men that lurk,” Grace said darkly.

  “Grace! That is hardly fair,” Honor protested. “It’s not as if he is courting me.”

  “Then why has he come at all?” Mercy asked, confused.

  Honor ignored Mercy—she had just realized that her hair was down, and she was dressed in the plainest gown she owned. She quickly pinched her cheeks for a bit of color.

  “And why are you doing that?” Grace demanded.

  “Because she fancies him!” Mercy said delightedly.

  “You’re not going to receive him,” Grace said, aghast. “Prudence and Mercy are here!”

  Prudence took great umbrage to that. “I’m not a child, Grace. I’ll be seventeen in three months’ time.”

  “I don’t fancy him, Mercy,” Honor said as she hurried to the sideboard and the mirror hanging over it. She needed a comb! Her hair looked wild.

  “Then why are you making those faces?” Mercy demanded as Honor squinted at her hair, quickly twisting it into one long rope.