The Trouble with Honor (2 page)

Cheeky thing. There was quite a lot of murmuring around them, and George could only imagine the delight her remark had brought the gentlemen in this room. He tossed in a handful of banknotes and winked at her. “Indeed I will.”

She matched his bet with a piece of paper someone had handed her, signing her name to the one hundred pounds owed.

George laid out his cards. He had a sequence of three, the ten being the highest. The only hand that could beat his was a tricon, or three of a kind, and indeed, Miss Cabot gasped with surprise. “My, that’s impressive!” she said.

“I’ve been playing these games quite a long time.”

“Yes, of course you have.” She lifted her gaze and smiled at him, and the moment she did, George knew he’d been beaten. Her smile was too saucy, too triumphant.

As she laid out her hand, gasps went up all around them, followed by applause. Miss Cabot had beaten him with a tricon, three tens. George stared at her cards, then slowly lifted his gaze to hers.

“May I?” she asked, and proceeded to use both hands to drag coins and notes from the center of the table. She took it all, every last coin, stuffing it into her dainty little reticule. She thanked George and Rutherford for allowing her to experience the gaming hell, politely excused herself, slipped back into her cloak and gloves and returned to her little flock of birds.

George watched her go, his fingers drumming on the table. He was an experienced gambler, and he’d just been taken by a debutante.

That was when the trouble with Honor Cabot began.

CHAPTER TWO

L
ADY
H
UMPHREY’S ANNUAL
spring musicale was widely regarded as The Event at which the ladies of the
ton
would reveal their fashionable aspirations for the new social Season, and every year, one lady inevitably stood out. In 1798, Lady Eastbourne wore a gown with cap sleeves, which many considered so
risqué
and yet so clever that tongues wagged across Mayfair for weeks. In 1804, Miss Catherine Wortham shocked everyone by declining to wear any sort of lining beneath her muslin, leaving the shadowy shape of her legs on view to all.

In the bright early spring of 1812, it was Miss Honor Cabot who left quite an impression in her tightly fitted gown with the daringly low décolletage. She was dressed in an exquisite silk from Paris, which one might reasonably suppose had come at an exorbitant cost, given the amount of embroidery and beading that danced across the hem, and the fact that Britain was at war with France. The silk was the color of a peacock’s breast, which complemented her deep-set blue eyes quite well. Her hair, as black as winter’s night, was dressed with tiny crystals that caught the hue of the gown.

No one would argue that Honor Cabot wasn’t a vision of beauty. Her clothing was always superbly tailored, her creamy skin nicely complemented by dark lashes, full, ruby lips and a healthy blush in her cheeks. Her demeanor was generally sunny, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she laughed with her many,
many
friends and gentlemen admirers.

She had a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the polite and chaste behavior expected of debutantes. Everyone had heard about her recent foray into Southwark. Scandalous! The gentlemen of the
ton
had playfully labeled her a swashbuckler.

That evening, after the singing had been done and the guests had been invited to promenade across Hanover Square to the Humphrey townhome for supper, it was not the swashbuckler’s exquisite and daring gown that caused tongues to wag. It was her bonnet.

What an artful construction that bonnet was! According to Lady Chatham, who was a self-proclaimed authority in all things millinery, the prestigious Lock and Company of St. James Street, a top-of-the-trees hat shop, had designed the bonnet. It was made of black crepe and rich blue satin, and the fabric was gathered in a tiny little fan on one side, held in place by a sparkling aquamarine. And from that fan were two very long peacock feathers, which, according to Lady Chatham, had come all the way from
India,
as if everyone knew that Indian peacock feathers were vastly superior to English peacock feathers.

When Miss Monica Hargrove saw the bonnet jauntily affixed atop Honor’s dark head, she very nearly had a fit of apoplexy.

Word spread so quickly through Mayfair that a contretemps had occurred between Miss Cabot and Miss Hargrove in the ladies’ retiring room, that it did, in fact, reach the Earl of Beckington’s townhome on Grosvenor Square before Miss Cabot did.

Honor was not aware of it when she snuck into the house just as the roosters were crowing. She darted up the steps and into the safety of her bedroom, and once inside, she tossed the bonnet onto the chaise, removed the beautiful gown Mrs. Dracott had made especially for her and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was rudely startled from her slumber sometime later when she opened her eyes to see her thirteen-year-old sister, Mercy, bending over her, peering closely.

It gave Honor a fright, and she cried out as she sat up, clutching the bed linens to her. “Mercy, what in heaven?” she demanded.

“Augustine bids you come,” Mercy said, examining Honor closely from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. Mercy was dark haired and blue eyed like Honor, whereas her sisters Grace, who was only a year younger than Honor’s twenty-two years, and sixteen-year-old Prudence, were fair haired and hazel eyed.

“Augustine?” Honor repeated through a yawn. She was not in a mood to see her stepbrother this morning. Was it even morning? She glanced at the mantel clock, which read half past eleven. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” Mercy said, and bounced to a seat at the foot of Honor’s bed. “Why are there dark smudges beneath your eyes?”

Honor groaned. “Have we any callers today?”

“Only Mr. Jett,” Mercy said. “He left his card for you.”

Dear Mr. Jett—the man simply could not be persuaded that Honor would never consent to be courted by him. It was her lot in London society to attract the gentlemen for whom she could never, in her wildest imagination, find an attraction for in return. Mr. Jett was at least twice as old as she, and worse, he had thick lips. It vexed her that women were supposed to accept any man whose fortune and standing were comparable to hers. What about the compatibility of souls? What about esteem?

The closest Honor had come to such depth of feeling was the year of her debut. She’d fallen completely in love with Lord Rowley, a handsome, charming young gentleman who had aroused her esteem to a crescendo. Honor had been so very smitten, and she had believed—had been
led
to believe—that an offer was forthcoming.

An offer
was
forthcoming...but for Delilah Snodgrass.

Honor had heard of the engagement at a tea and had been so stunned by the news that Grace had been forced to make excuses for her as Honor had hurried home. She’d been brokenhearted by the reality of it, had privately suffered her abject disappointment for weeks. She’d been crushed to see Rowley squiring Miss Snodgrass about, had felt herself growing smaller and smaller in her grief.

How could she have been so terribly wrong? Had Rowley not complimented her looks and accomplishments? Had he not whispered in her ear that he would very much like to kiss her more thoroughly than on the cheek? Had they not taken long walks together in the park, speaking of their hopes for the future?

One day after the stunning news, Honor had happened upon Lord Rowley. He’d smiled, and her heart had skipped madly. She’d not been able to keep herself from confronting him and demanding, as politely as she could, what had happened to the offer
she’d
been expecting.

She would never, as long as she might live, forget the look of surprise on his lordship’s face. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot. I had no idea the strength of your feelings,” he’d said apologetically.

She had been completely taken aback by that. “You didn’t
know?
” she’d repeated. “But you called on me several times! We walked in the park, we talked of the future, we sat together during Sunday services!”

“Well, yes,” he’d said, looking quite uncomfortable. “I have many friends among the fairer sex. I’ve taken countless walks and had many interesting conversations. But I was not aware that your feelings had gone beyond our friendship. You gave no outward sign.”

Honor had been dumbfounded. Of course she hadn’t given any outward, blatant sign! Because she was a good girl—she’d been proper and chaste as she’d been taught to be! She’d demurely waited for the gentleman to make the first overture, as she’d supposed such things were done!

“And I really must stress, Miss Cabot,” he’d continued with that pained expression, “that had I known, it would not have changed...anything,” he’d said, his face turning a bit red as he’d shrugged halfheartedly. “Ours would not have been a fortuitous match.”

That had stunned her even more than his deceit. “Pardon?”

He’d cleared his throat, had looked at his hands. “That is to say, as the first son of an earl, it is expected that I should set my sights a bit higher than Beckington’s stepdaughter...or the daughter of a bishop, as it were.” He’d scarcely looked her in the eye. “You understand.”

Honor had understood, all right. For Rowley, and for every other gentleman in Mayfair, marriage was all about position and status. He clearly did not care about love or affection. He clearly did not care about
her
.

The wound of that summer had scored Honor, and she had never really recovered from it. She had vowed to herself and to her sisters that she would never,
never
allow herself to be in that position again.

She yawned at Mercy. “Please tell Augustine I’ll be down directly.”

“All right, but you’d best not be late. He’s very cross with you.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“I don’t know. He’s cross with Mamma, too,” Mercy added. “He apparently told Mamma that the Hargroves were to dine here last night, and she said he did not. She hadn’t planned a supper, and they had quite a row.”

“Oh, no,” Honor said. “What happened?”

“We dined on boiled chicken,” Mercy said. “I must go now,” she added airily, and skipped out of the room.

Honor groaned again and pushed the linens aside. She was really rather fond of Augustine, all things considered. He’d been her stepbrother for ten years now. He was four and twenty, no taller than Honor and a wee bit on the corpulent side. He’d never been one for walking or hunting, preferring to read in the afternoons or debate his friends about British naval maneuvers at his club, the details of which he shared in excruciating detail over supper.

But never mind his dreadfully dull life—Augustine Devereaux, Lord Sommerfield, was a good man, kind and considerate of others. And weak willed and terribly shy when it came to women. For years, Honor and Grace could easily bend him to their will. That had changed, of course, when he’d fallen in love with Monica Hargrove and made her his fiancée. They would have been married now were it not for the earl’s declining health, as it hardly seemed the thing to celebrate a wedding of the heir to the Beckington throne when the old earl was only barely clinging to life. Honor’s stepfather was suffering from consumption. The many physicians who had trooped through this house believed he had months, if not weeks, to live.

Honor dressed in a plain day gown, brushed her hair and left it loose, too tired to put it up. She made her way downstairs and found her sisters and Augustine in the morning room. She was not happy to see all of her siblings in attendance, particularly given the dark look on Grace’s face—that did not bode well. The sight of food on the sideboard, however, suitably revived Honor’s demeanor, as she vaguely tried to remember the last time she’d actually eaten anything. “Good morning, all,” she said cheerfully as she padded across the Aubusson carpet to the sideboard and picked up a plate.

“Honor, dearest, what time did you return home, if I may ask?” Augustine asked crisply.

“Not so very late,” Honor said, slyly avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t intend to stay quite as long as I did, but Lady Humphrey had set up to play faro, and I was caught in an exciting game—”

“
Faro!
That is a rude game played by rowdy men in taverns! On my word, do you
never
consider that your behavior will give rise to talk?”

“I always do,” Honor said honestly.

Augustine blinked. He frowned. “Well, what gentleman will want a debutante who gambles her stepfather’s fortune until the wee hours of the morning?” he demanded, changing tack.

Honor gasped at that and firmly met her stepbrother’s gaze. “I did
not
gamble the earl’s fortune, Augustine! I gambled what I’ve fairly won!” She would not apologize for it—she was really rather good at winning. Not a month ago, she’d taken one hundred pounds from Mr. George Easton in front of everyone at a gaming hell in Southwark. She could still remember the shine of defeat in his eyes.

But Augustine was not appeased. “How does
winning
improve your reputation?” he demanded.

“Tell us about the musicale,” Prudence said eagerly, ignoring Augustine’s querulous mood. “Was the music divine? Who was there? What were they wearing?”

“Wearing?” Honor repeated thoughtfully as she took her seat beside Augustine, her plate full of cheeses and biscuits. “I didn’t notice, really. The usual sort of thing, I suppose, muslin and lace.” She shrugged lightly.

“Any
bonnets
about?” Augustine asked crossly, and swiped a biscuit from Honor’s plate.

Honor knew then that he’d heard about her quarrel with Monica. She hesitated only a moment before she straightened her back, smiled at her stepbrother and said, “Only
my
bonnet that I recall.”

“There you are, Augustine!” Grace said triumphantly. “Do you see? It’s
impossible
that she would have taken Monica’s bonnet.”

“
Taken
it?” Honor repeated incredulously.

“I grant you that Honor can be vexing, but she hasn’t a dishonest bone in her body,” Grace continued as if Honor was not sitting just across from her. “Quite the contrary! If one can make a criticism of her, it is that she is
too
honest!”

“How can one be too honest?” Prudence asked. “Either one is honest or one is not.”

“I mean that she often lacks discretion,” Grace clarified.

“
Thank
you,” Honor said wryly. “You are too kind.”

Grace blinked innocently, as if it were beyond her capacity to deny.

“Neither is Miss Hargrove lacking in veracity,” Augustine said sternly. “She would not bring such a complaint to my attention were it not true.” He punctuated that statement by stuffing the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and chewing with enthusiasm as he glared at Honor.

Honor refrained from saying there were many things Monica Hargrove lacked, and Honor should know—she’d been acquainted with the woman since their sixth year on this earth, when their mothers had thought it expedient to employ one dance instructor for the both of them. That instructor—a simpering fool with a sharp nose and long, gangly arms, as Honor recalled him—had taken quite a liking to Monica and had given her the best roles in all their recitals. Moreover, Monica’s costumes always had wings and Honor’s had not, a fact that Honor might have been able to bear had Monica not been so bloody smug about it. “Perhaps your dancing will improve, and next year, you might have this costume,” she’d said as she’d twisted one way, then the other, so that Honor might see the thing in all its glory.