The Trouble with Honor

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

IT HAD BEGUN to drizzle when George rode up to his house and tossed himself off his horse. The weather, he mused, was as bleak as his future. He’d just come from Sweeney’s offices, and had finally conceded—his ship was lost. The men he’d sent with his fortune and his hopes were no doubt in their watery graves.

Everything was lost, including his bloody heart.

He swung down off the horse and threaded the reins through the iron loop. He went up the steps, opened the door to his house and stepped inside, removing his cloak to hand to Finnegan.

But Finnegan wouldn’t take it.

George looked at him. “What?” he demanded.

“Will you allow her to stand in the rain?” Finnegan asked, his voice full of censure.

“Who?” George demanded.

“You know very well who,” Finnegan said, and turned about, marching from the foyer.

George jerked around, pulled the door open and looked down to the street. He saw Honor then, standing across the street from his house, an umbrella high over her head.

She was as persistent as a curse, and George had had quite enough. He stormed out through the open door, striding down to the walk. “Go home, Honor,” he said sharply.

“Not until you explain to me your sudden change of heart!”

“What do you want?” he roared, startling her enough that Honor took a step back. “Is it not enough that I lost everything trying to win an abbey for you? That’s right, Cabot, an abbey. It was to be a consolation for you when I told you that I could not return your esteem.”

Honor’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“Are you surprised? Does your debutante’s heart believe every man she meets will fall at her feet? You thought I would offer for you? No, madam, I never intended to do so. I have no more use of you, so you may move to the next bachelor. But choose wisely. Someone who will keep you in privileged circumstances and who you might conduct about on a whim seems appropriate.”

She was speechless, her blue eyes filled with shock and pain. He’d never believed he could say such wretched things to anyone, much less Honor. He’d loved her from the moment she’d sat down at the gaming hell and won one hundred pounds from him. But he could not have her, especially now.

He would not be responsible for ruining her life.

But Honor was so bloody stubborn, he could see no other way than to say these things. “Perhaps it is time I said what I want,” he said angrily. “I want you to leave me be, do you understand? You were right—I’ve had my use of you, and now I want you gone. Did you really think I would somehow become respectable because you deigned to befriend me? The truth is that I am a bastard and I enjoy playing games, and I enjoyed winning what I wanted from you. But there is no more than that, so go and marry your vicar and leave me be,” he said, and whirled around, striding for the door.

He jogged up the steps, walked inside and slammed the door at his back. Finnegan appeared from the corridor, and George pointed a menacing finger at him. “I will kill you. I will quite literally tear you apart with my bare hands if you so much as think of speaking.” He took the stairs up to his rooms, two at a time. He burst into his darkened room, stalked to the window and parted the drapes to see.

She was still there, still standing in the rain, still staring at the door. Even from this distance, he could see the rise and fall of her chest with the breaths she struggled to take. As he watched, she slowly turned around and began to walk.

He could feel his heart shattering in his chest, could feel the pieces of it littering his limbs. He’d never felt so numb, so useless, so cruel. He whirled about and drove his fist into the wall, hearing a small bone crack when he did.

* * *

GEORGE EASTON WAS not only a wretched dancer, he was also a wretched actor. And he was a bloody fool if he thought Honor would believe any of what he’d said.

Well...besides the part of losing everything.

And she believed that he’d tried to win an abbey for her. An abbey! Her heart swelled with tenderness just thinking of it.

In spite of her initial shock, the walk home had given her the time to think things through, and she was actually smiling a little when she entered Beckington House as she imagined George now, pacing his study—drinking brandy, no doubt—working to convince himself that he’d somehow done a noble thing in setting her free.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice Mr. Cleburne in the foyer.

“Miss Cabot!” he said loudly.

“Oh! Mr. Cleburne!” She dropped her umbrella in the stand. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I am so glad to have happened on you. I am to Longmeadow in the morning.”

“Oh, is it—so soon?” Honor asked, trying to recall their conversation.

“So soon,” he said, smiling. “If I may impose... If you would be so kind, I should like a private word with you.”

Honor froze; she wasn’t ready to hear his offer, wasn’t ready with her response to him.

“If I may,” he reiterated.

“Ah...well, I am rather soaked through,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“Perhaps if you remove your cloak.”

He had her there. She slowly removed the cloak, revealing a dry gown underneath. She smiled a little as he put out his hand for her cloak and hung it on a rack. And then he gestured to the hallway that would take them to the small receiving room, where Honor had first attempted to instruct George in the art of seducing Monica.

In the receiving room, Mr. Cleburne indicated she should take a seat, but he remained standing, his hands at his back, his head lowered. He looked almost as if he were offering up a prayer until he lifted his head and said, “Miss Cabot, I should very much like to express my good opinion of you—”

“Oh, Mr. Cleburne,” Honor said, and quickly stood, turning at first toward the bookshelves and then toward the hearth, half walking, half stumbling there, her hands clutched at her abdomen.

“Please, hear me,” Mr. Cleburne said. “It is no secret to you that your family desires a match—”

She steadied herself with a hand to the mantel, her thoughts racing around what exactly she would say.

“But I cannot, in good conscience, extend an offer for your hand in marriage.”

“Oh, Mr. Cleburne, I do so appreciate...” Honor paused as his words sunk in. She raised her head and looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Please, don’t be cross,” he said quickly.

“Cross!”

“I’ve had time to reflect,” he rushed, “and I have come to the conclusion that we are not suited to one another.”

Honor had not once imagined that Mr. Cleburne would not want to offer for her.

“I do not mean to...to hurt you,” he said, clearly looking for the right word, “but I cannot help but think that it would be a grave mistake.”

Honor was so surprised, so relieved, that a burst of mad laughter escaped her. She instantly clamped a hand over her mouth.

Mr. Cleburne smiled. “I had rather hoped you might feel the same.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cleburne. I am certain you will make a fine husband—”

“And you a fine wife—”

“But you are right, we are not suited.”

He laughed again, with great relief. “I felt certain you were not in favor of the match, but then again, Sommerfield has been rather insistent.”

“Augustine? Or Miss Hargrove?” Honor asked with a bit of a smile.

“Lord Sommerfield. I understand that Miss Hargrove’s family is rather keen to see you all properly matched and wed, but your stepbrother is fond of you. He has in mind that you suffered heartbreak in the hands of Lord Rowley and had lost your confidence along the way.”

Honor blinked. That was rather astute of Augustine. “It’s true,” she admitted. “I did suffer, but it was my doing. And...I seem to have found my confidence again.” She put a hand to her heart and laughed with relief. “You can’t imagine how I’ve dreaded this moment—”

“So have I,” he said. He looked at his hands. “I have particular esteem for a young woman in my church.”

“Oh,” Honor said, smiling.

He grinned and shrugged. “However, when one’s benefactor suggests a match, one does not ignore it.”

“Yes,” Honor said, smiling. “I understand completely.”

He smiled. “What of you, Miss Cabot? Is there anyone in particular?”

She thought of Easton today, his expression haggard, the dark circles under his eyes. “There is,” she admitted sheepishly. “But I am waiting for him to realize it.” How different her feelings for George were compared to what she’d had for Rowley. Her feelings now were so much deeper, so much more complex. She believed Easton’s feelings for her ran just as deep, if only he could find the courage to admit it!

Mr. Cleburne laughed. “I am certain he will come around.”

“What do you think, Mr. Cleburne? Would you give up this,” she said, gesturing to the opulent room they stood in, “for love?”

“This?” he asked, looking around them. “What do you mean, the brick and mortar?”

What, indeed. Honor smiled. “Something like that.”

“You are a handsome woman with a fine heart, Miss Cabot. My best wishes for a happy future. Shall we go and explain our decision to your brother?”

“I think we ought,” she said, and took the hand he offered her.

* * *

THE PERSON WHO took Honor’s news the hardest was not Augustine, as Monica might have guessed, given how hard he’d worked to convince the vicar that Honor was the perfect match for him. It was her mother. She cried out at the news, then paced about the small parlor where Monica sat and her brothers watched, muttering all the things she found objectionable about Honor Cabot.

The list was longer than Monica had realized.

As for Monica, the fight had gone out of her. She was happy with Augustine, secure in their affection for one another. She’d come to realize that she didn’t really mind if the Cabot sisters were about. “It’s really not such a bad thing,” Monica said in an effort to soothe her mother. “Someone will offer for her.”

“Not before she’s spent her stepbrother’s inheritance! And honestly, Monica, I think you don’t realize how difficult it will be to find four husbands with a mad mother.”

“Mamma!” Monica exclaimed and looked nervously at her brothers, who were not generally praised for their ability to keep secrets.

“Well?” her mother angrily demanded. “There’s something quite wrong with her. It’s very obvious. No one will want to introduce the possibility of madness into their family, will they? You’ll be shackled with the lot of them all of your days.”

Monica quit the parlor that afternoon feeling slightly ill.

That feeling did not go away in the next two days when she heard her brother and mother plotting to save the Beckington fortune. How had she been so blind to them? How had she not understood that their enthusiastic support of her match with Augustine had nothing to do with her happiness, but the Beckington fortune?

Honor had been right to suspect her. Monica had believed her mother wanted what was best for her, but what she wanted was connection and money, just like everyone else in London. At least Honor wanted something pure. Honor wanted love. What else might explain her esteem for Easton?

That was why, then, when Monica heard from Augustine the very next day that Easton was desperately gambling every night, trying to piece together the fortune he’d lost, she told Honor. Only this time, she didn’t tell Honor about it to warn her away from Easton. She really hoped Honor would find some way to help him.

As it happened, Monica rather admired the charming George Easton.