Lady in Red (5 page)

“That is because she saw what a beauty you had become,” Portia said bluntly. “While her own daughter is whey-faced and cursed with spots.”

“Portia!” Honoria said, her brows lowered. “Cousin Jane cannot help having spots.”

“No, but you’d think she could do something about her laugh. She sounds like a horse.”

George grinned and made a loud whinnying sound that so closely approximated Cousin Jane’s ungenteel laugh that the entire Baker-Sneed clan went into gales of laughter. Every:-one but Honoria. She rapped the tabletop with her knuckles once again. “Enough, you ill-bred ruffians! Enough!” Slowly their laughter settled into snuffled giggles and chuckles. “We still have business to attend to. Portia, will you give the report on the improvements to the sitting room?”

Portia dutifully stood and began her report about the stenciling efforts of the female members of the Baker-Sneeds and how George had had the brilliant idea to dip Achilles’s feet in red paint and let him hop across the paper for their best and most impressive design. Honoria listened with half an ear, her mind working through the problem with the Baker-Sneed finances.

Her gaze fell on her ring, and as usual the warmth of the metal against her bare finger made her smile. It was then that she knew, come what may, she would persevere.

Chapter 3

I once had a rather toothy spaniel named Fluffy. He snarled at my stepmama every time she came into the room, snapped at Clarissa Ethleridge when she laughed at my new coif, and chased Lord Geoffrey Fellington out of the house and into the pond when the fool came to propose. Without a doubt, darting Fluffy was the best dog I ever had.

Lady Jane Frotherton to Viscount Melton in Hyde Park, while walking Lady Jane’s wheezy pug

“… even though I searched everywhere.”

Honoria looked up from where she sat at the escritoire in the sitting room, lost in a sea of figures as she painstakingly reworked their failed budget. “I’m sorry, George. I didn’t hear you. What is it you are searching for?”

Georgie shifted from one foot to the other, his coat awry, a smear of dust down one cheek. He favored Honoria with a flat stare. “I’m not searching for a ‘what,’ I am searching for a ‘whom.’”

Honoria sighed and returned her quill to the ink stand. “I gather we are talking about the ever busy Achilles.”

George nodded, his expression severe. “I put him to bed for a nap, and when I went to wake him, he was gone.”

Honoria pursed her lips. “He seems to run away quite a bit, you know. Have you ever thought that perhaps Achilles does not like living in a hatbox under your bed?”

“He likes that hatbox. I can tell.”

“How?”

George’s brows lowered, his violet eyes sparkling with disdain. “I know he likes it because he sings when he’s in that hatbox. I don’t think he’d bother unless he enjoyed being there.”

“Perhaps he is not singing, but yelling for help.” She put her hands in the air and said in as froglike a voice as she could muster, “Help! I’m being held prisoner in a horrid hatbox! Please save me!”

George eyed her morosely.

Honoria lowered her hands. “You didn’t find that the least bit funny, did you?”

“No. I’ve heard Achilles yell. When he’s in the hatbox, he just sings.”

“When have you heard him yell?”

“When I was trying to teach him how to slide down the banister in the front hall.”

“Thank heavens I’m not a frog! I believe I might yell, too.” She rubbed her temples. “But I daresay you do know his yelling from his singing.”

“I just wish I knew why he kept running away.”

Honoria could hear the genuine distress in George’s voice. “Perhaps he misses his old pond.”

“You think he might?” Georgie’s bottom lip jutted out, a stubborn gleam rising in his eyes. “Perhaps he does, but if he didn’t live in the hatbox under my bed, he’d be very sorry in-deed. He would miss me much worse than he could ever miss his old nasty pond.”

“Yes well, if he keeps getting out you may have to put a lid on that hatbox. And a book on top of that.”

“But that would make it dark! Achilles doesn’t like dark places.”

Honoria had an idea who didn’t like dark places, and it wasn’t Achilles. “Your frog used to live in a pond in the woods; it got very dark at night in those woods, too. I don’t think he’d mind if you’d put a lid on his hatbox at all.”

Georgie’s chin firmed. “I won’t do it. It would be the same as putting him in prison.”

“It would be saving his life. There are many dangers to a frog in a house, you know.”

George looked skeptical. “Like what?”

“He could be stepped on by an unsuspecting servant or accidentally knocked down the stairs by Portia while she was carrying some material for one of her sewing projects. He could be hopping through the kitchen and fall into a pan of soup. He could get his toe stuck in one of the floor gratings. There are an untold number of things that could happen to a hapless frog.”

“No. If something bad happened to Achilles, I would know.”

Honoria sighed and pulled George to her, giving him a gentle hug and resting her cheek against his hair. “I think putting a lid on Achilles’s box could save his life. If nothing else, it might keep him from running away.”

“He doesn’t run away; he goes exploring, like Father.”

Honoria pulled back and eyed her youngest brother a long moment. He was just as stubborn as… well, as stubborn as the rest of the family. And she supposed she could understand why he didn’t wish to admit that perhaps he might be wrong. He was, after all, a part of Mother. And Mother had never been able to admit defeat. It was the one trait she’d given to each and every one of her children; to the last one, the Baker-Sneeds were thoroughly blessed with the famed Winchefield tenacity.

Honoria kissed her brother’s forehead. “I suppose you need someone to help you find your adventuring frog.”

“Would you mind? I asked Portia to help, but she was busy cutting the pattern for some gown or another.” George looked properly disgusted. “Cassandra is with her and they are chattering like a pair of magpies. Ned would say they were creaking like ships in a dock and damned unpleasant it is, too.”

“George!”

He peered up at her though his lashes. “What?”

“You know exactly what. I do not wish to hear that word from you again.”

“I was just saying what Ned would say and—” George hesitated, then the tears spilled down his cheek. “/
miss Ned!”

At the wail, Honoria gathered George close once again, holding him until his sobs quieted into soft hiccups. After a moment, he pushed away and dashed at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Sorry,” he mumbled, glaring up at her as if daring her to say another word.

A lump rose in Honoria’s throat and she longed to hold him close yet again. “George, Ned will be back in a trice, see if he isn’t. Father just needed help with his new venture. Besides, he is having a wonderful time, exploring and such. You wouldn’t take that away from him, would you?”

“I don’t want Ned back. I just want Achilles.” George sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Honoria reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it into his hand. “If you please.”

He took it and gave his nose a belligerent swipe. “Girls. You always worry about silly things.”

She took the handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket.

“Be glad. Without us, there’d be no plum pudding at Christmas and no fresh, clean sheets like the ones you so love to snuggle between at nights.”

“Yes well, I’m just glad I’m not a girl so I don’t have to muss with gowns and ribbons arid such.”

“I’m glad for you, too, though there are times when such things can be pleasant.” Honoria tucked away the papers she’d been working on and returned the pen to the ink pot. “Come. We’ll find Achilles and you can take him back to his box under the bed.”

George put his hand in hers and they started for the door. Honoria made a great adventure of their search—anything to keep George’s mind off Ned. First they looked upstairs, peering into all of Achilles’s usual hideaways, many of which were cobweb-strewn corners beneath large pieces of furniture. Then they moved downstairs, peeking beneath sofas and cabinets. They would have made faster time had George not been so hesitant about dark places, but so it was. And Honoria knew better than to act as if she-noticed his reluctance. Instead, she nimbly crawled beneath the buffet in the dining room, the large draped side table in the sitting room and anywhere else that might hide a large frog.

George was poking in the sofa cushions and Honoria was just lying on the floor with her head beneath the sofa in the sitting room when the door opened.

A horrified feminine gasp filled the air. “Miss Baker-Sneed! Whatever are ye doing?”

“Hunting something,” Honoria said, smiling up at Mrs. Kemble, the housekeeper. Honoria gracefully found her feet and dusted cobwebs from her shoulders. “Were you looking for me?”

The housekeeper’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her hands clenched in the folds of her apron. “Miss! Ye won’t believe it, but there’s a marquis here to see ye! A real, live marquis!”

Honoria and George exchanged glances. “I suppose.”

Honoria said after a long moment, “that having a real, live marquis to visit is much better than having a dead one.” George giggled.

Mrs. Kemble plopped her hands on her hips. “Ye don’t understand, miss. This isn’t any marquis, but a very well-to-do one.”

“How do you know?”

“He drove up in a coach and six, he did. The entire neighborhood must be agog to know who it is and why he’s come to call.”

“A coach and six?” George ran to the window and shoved back the edge of the curtain. Standing on his tiptoes, he pressed his face to the glass. “Bloody hell, that’s a smack-up set of blood and bones.”

“George!”

He had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. “I apologize. But come and look, Honoria. You’ll say the same thing when you see them.”

“I’ll look at them when I return. We mustn’t keep our guest waiting.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Where is this marquis?”

“In yer sittin‘ room, miss!” Mrs. Kemble fanned herself vigorously. “A real marquis! Who’d have thought?”

Honoria wondered which marquis it could be. She knew of five, all of them avid collectors. Perhaps it was the Marquis of Sheraton, recently returned from Italy. Ah yes, that must be it. No doubt he’d come to inquire about the Indian pearl desk his wife had so admired in the shop just two months before. “I will join the marquis shortly. I assume you offered him some refreshment?”

“Indeed I hadn’t. What with opening the door and finding a real live marquis on the step and wondering if I should put him in the front sitting room, there not being a proper fire and all—” Mrs. Kemble brightened. “Do ye think he’d like some of Mrs. Hibbert’s apple tarts?”

“With some tea, if you please.” Honoria glanced at George, who was still looking down at the horses. “George, I must go to our visitor, but I won’t be a minute.”

“Very well,” he said, though from the sound of his voice, his mind was a million miles away. “If I had a coach and six, I’d have white horses and not gray.”

Honoria smiled, glad to see him so distracted. She quietly left him to his dreams and made her way to the sitting room. In her haste, Mrs. Kemble had left the door open, so Honoria merely walked in, her feet making no sound on the thick rug.

The marquis was standing beside the fireplace, looking into the small flicker of flames that pretended to chase the chill from the room. Honoria took two steps into the room, then came to a sudden halt, her skirts swinging forward. It wasn’t Sheraton at all, but the irascible, annoying and thoroughly irritating Marquis of Treymount.

Ye gods, what did the man want with her? She glowered at him silently, almost wishing she was wrong, but there was no mistaking those broad shoulders covered in a neatly cut morning coat of unfashionable black, that arrogant tilt to his head. The insufferable man carried himself with an annoying combination of blinding masculine arrogance and unnerving personal command. But why was the Marquis of Treymount
here!

Honoria glanced around as if looking for clues, absently noting the weak blaze that barely cast forth heat. She wished she’d ordered a nice roaring fire, though she could hardly see the reason when the room was so rarely used. Still… it was one thing to keep the fires small to conserve what they could, and downright beastly to let a man like Treymount see evidence of what straits the Baker-Sneeds were facing.

Well, there was only one way to find out what the blasted man wanted. Chin up, heart steeled, she said as coolly as she dared, “Lord Treymount.” She closed the door and came forward with what she hoped was a polite smile since she was fairly certain it was not pleasant. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Miss Baker-Sneed. How kind of you to receive me on such short notice.” His voice rumbled pleasantly through her, jangling her nerves a bit more.

Really, it was unfair of God to make a man so incredibly handsome and then imbue him with the most pasteboard of personalities. Honoria swallowed a regretful sigh, noting that the sunlight from the window slanted across his face in a most intriguing way, marking the strong cheekbone, the firm jaw, the line of his mouth in a way that would have caused her pause had she not faced the man so many times before.