The Trouble with Honor (26 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
T 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.

* * *

G
EORGE
E
ASTON 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.

* * *

T
HE 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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

H
ONOR INSTANTLY SUSPECTED
trickery when Monica came to her at Lady Barclay’s tea with the news of George’s desperate gambling. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

Monica shrugged. “I thought you’d want to know.”

There was nothing in Monica’s expression or demeanor to suggest otherwise. But then again, Honor didn’t understand Monica any longer. It was as if her old friend had changed overnight. She’d become gentler, more accepting of Honor and her sisters. And especially of her mother.

“What am
I
to do?” Honor asked, frustrated by the news.

“I don’t know,” Monica said. “But if anyone would know, I believe it would be you.” She smiled and walked away to join her friends.

Honor could only wonder at Monica’s motives, but later, at the same tea, she overheard Lady Vickers speaking about Easton. Laughing at him, actually. It seemed that Lord Vickers had frequented the gaming hell in Southwark and had witnessed George being turned away from tables as no one believed he could honor his bets any longer.

“That’s not true,” said Lady Stillings. “He certainly divested
my
hapless husband of a large sum.” The ladies tittered.

For days afterward, Honor could think of little else. After one long sleepless night, she awoke to the answer of how to make Easton admit the truth and stop losing all that he had. He was a gambler; he would never freely offer something so personal as she had offered herself and her love. She also knew him well enough to know that he had to prove to himself that he deserved happiness.

Once Honor realized it, she knew precisely what she had to do. It was an enormous risk, one that could truly ruin her forevermore. But Honor had never shied from risk, and if she was right, she would win her happiness. If she was wrong, well... She’d just as soon be put away in St. Asaph with her mother. She’d be no use to society or anything else. She wouldn’t care what happened to her after that.

That night, she dressed in the peacock-blue gown she’d worn with the bonnet Monica had commissioned. She summoned Prudence to her room to fasten the buttons.

“Where are you going?” Prudence said. “You’re not allowed to wear something so colorful, are you? Only black.”

“I think the earl would approve,” Honor said.

Prudence stepped back. “But...
where
are you going?” she asked again, her voice low and serious.

Honor smiled at her sister. “You were right, Pru.”

“
Pardon?
When?”

“When you said I should marry for love.”

Prudence gasped. “Are you
eloping?
”

“No. But I am going to offer for Mr. Easton’s hand.”

Prudence’s mouth dropped open. She looked so shocked that Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “Wish me luck, darling. If he refuses, I doubt I will ever have another offer. I certainly won’t want one.”

Prudence folded her arms and studied Honor a long moment. “He couldn’t possibly refuse,” she said solemnly. “And if he does, you’d not like to be married to him because he is a wretched fool.”

Honor smiled gratefully at her sister and embraced her. “Thank you. I am in need of all encouragement, for my knees are shaking, and my stomach is quite in knots.”

“Shall I come with you?” Prudence asked.

Honor shook her head. “I would not want you anywhere near what I will do this evening.”

On her way out, Honor stopped in to see her mother. Lady Beckington smiled with pleasure at the sight of Honor. “Oh, my,” she said, nodding approvingly. “How lovely you look, my love.”

“Thank you, Mamma!” Honor said, pleased that this was a lucid moment. She walked to her mother’s side and crouched down beside her. “Mamma, I would like you to know that I intend to marry for love.”

“Do you?” her mother asked, and stroked Honor’s hair. “Very good, for anything less than that is a waste of some very good years.”

Surprised, Honor blinked at her mother.

Her mother smiled. “Don’t look so astonished. I married for love once.” She glanced back at Hannah and said, “Didn’t I, Mother?”

Hannah smiled. “Indeed, you did.”

“Thank you, Mamma.” As far as Honor was concerned, she had her mother’s blessing, as much as she was able to give it.

Jonas looked at her askance when Honor told him she was to Southwark, but Honor ignored him and settled back against the squabs and clutched her reticule tightly, her belly churning with nerves. She kept drawing deep breaths in a futile effort to soothe her racing heart. Her entire life had been building to this night. She hoped that she would remember everything she’d been taught, that she could find the courage to reach with both hands for the one thing she wanted—to love a man with all her heart and be loved by him, no matter what.

No matter what
.

In Southwark, she asked Jonas to wait. “I may be a while,” she said.

He looked at the building and at her. “You’re certain, miss? You’d not like me to come in with you?”

“Thank you, but, no. I’d best go in alone.” She wasn’t certain of that at all, really, but it seemed something she had to do alone. She stepped into the dimly lit club, saw the many male heads turn toward her. Expressions of shock and disgust, bafflement and lust began to dance before her eyes. She felt as conspicuous as she must appear to them all—a fish out of water, a woman who had crossed some invisible line.

Please, God, let him be here.
Honor lifted her chin and began to walk through, looking at every table.

“Miss Cabot!”

It was Mr. Jett, and Honor almost swooned with relief at the sight of a friendly face.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, glancing back at the door. “Are you alone?”

She nodded.

“Oh, no, Miss Cabot. This is
far
too brazen,” he said, as if she didn’t know it. As if she’d somehow stumbled into the gaming hell by accident.

“Is Mr. Easton here?” she asked.

Something flickered over Mr. Jett’s eyes. “I fear this time you’ve gone too far, Miss Cabot,” he said low.

“Mr. Jett...is he?” she asked again.

He sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “The last table,” he said. “He’s there every night.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Jett shook his head and stepped back, as if he did not wish to be associated with her.

She could scarcely blame him. She did not look into the faces of the men who eyed her as if she were prized game, but kept her gaze ahead of her, stepping around one or two men who deliberately stood in her way as she progressed to the back of the room.

George didn’t notice her at first—he was intent on his hand, intent on the coins in the middle of the table. He looked thinner than when she’d last felt his arms around her. His hair had not been cut, and his right hand was wrapped with a bandage.

As Honor moved near the table, his opponent threw in his cards. “Bloody hell,” he groused, and said something else that was unfamiliar to Honor but sounded quite vile. The gentleman lifted his ale to his lips, at which point he saw Honor and spilled a bit of it in his haste to stand. “Madam.”

George’s head came up at that. He quickly came to his feet, and Honor saw a glint of emotion flash in his eyes. It was quickly overshadowed by his surprise and anger, but she
saw
it, and she knew that he loved her yet.

The knowledge emboldened her. When he demanded to know what she was doing there, she said, “I have come to play, Mr. Easton. As you might have guessed, with the passing of my stepfather, my dowry has shrunk.”

“No,”
he said instantly, and pointed to the door. “Leave at once. This is no place for a lady.”

Honor held out her reticule, aware that several gentlemen had made their way to this table to see what was happening. “I have ninety-two pounds. I should like to use it to play.”

“You won’t shy from a lass, will you, Easton?” someone called, and the gentlemen laughed.

George’s eyes narrowed on her, his gaze almost murderous, and Honor was suddenly grateful that others were nearby.

“These are not games for debutantes,” he said tightly. “It is ten pounds to enter.”

Honor swallowed down a lump of nerves. “I have ten pounds.”

The gentlemen around her howled. Honor could feel the crowd growing at her back, and it frightened her. She had not counted on the uneasiness of being the only woman in a room of men with money and liquor in their gullets. George was aware of it, too, apparently, because he suddenly yanked out a chair and gestured with exaggeration for her to sit.

Honor took the seat, her reticule tight on her lap.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said low as he resumed his seat.

“No,” she said. “Have you?”

He glared at her as he gestured for a footman. “Wine, madam?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Easton. I should like to keep my wits about me.”

His gaze flicked over her, and if Honor wasn’t mistaken, she saw the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“May I assume Commerce meets with your approval?” he said, picking up the cards.

“Certainly.” She withdrew ten pounds from her reticule and placed it on the table.

“May I introduce you to Mr. MacPherson,” he said, and as Honor greeted the other player, George began to deal the cards.

The din around them was increasing, and it felt to Honor as if twice as many people were gathered around their table than when she’d first entered. She felt a bit queasy as she picked up her hand and saw the pair of aces.

They played the first round without talk. Honor had been taught how to gamble by her father. He’d thought it quite diverting to introduce his young daughters to games of chance and even more entertaining to watch them giggle and trick his friends. She still remembered a trick or two.

It was quickly apparent that Mr. MacPherson was no match for her or George and bumbled his way through the first round, betting on cards blindly, even when Honor withdrew.

As George raked in his winnings, he looked at Honor, silently assessing her.

They played the second round, and while Honor had the winning hand, she allowed George to believe it was his. But as he took the winnings, he frowned at her. “You are careless tonight, Miss Cabot.”

“Am I?” she asked innocently.

“How much is left of your infamous ninety-two pounds?” he asked.

“Enough,” Honor said pertly. “How much money do
you
have?”

The men around them hooted with delight, and even George smiled a little. “Enough,” he said.

When George won the third hand, in spite of her obviously superior draw of cards, he looked at her with exasperation. “I can’t guess what you are attempting to do, but if you want to give me your money, by all means, give it to me and go. Let the gentlemen here play a gentleman’s game.”

This was her moment, her turn to deal, and Honor’s hand shook as she accepted the deck of cards. “Shall we increase the stakes, Mr. Easton?” she asked lightly. “That might speed things along.”

He laughed. “With what? I’ve taken most of your purse.”

“I had in mind something other than money.”

There were a few audible gasps, and with it, Honor understood that what tatters remained of her reputation had just fluttered out the window. She had to win now. Her heart raced, her palms were turning damp. She’d just anted everything she had—
everything.
Her heart, her future, her prospects.

George was looking at her as if he were trying to work a puzzle. “Go on.”

“If you win,” she said, speaking as if she were playing a parlor game with children, “I will leave this gaming hell and I will never see you again.”

Men around her bellowed with delight, calling out to George that he was a fool. He leaned forward and said, “And if
you
win?”

Honor swallowed and somehow managed to shuffle the deck without shaking. “If I win—” she glanced up, looked him directly in the eye “—you will extend an offer of marriage to me.”

That remark was met with utter silence. For a moment. And then pandemonium erupted in that room. Suddenly everyone was shouting as men called friends to come and witness, others shouted at Honor to leave the gaming hell, that she had brought dishonor on the Beckington name.

But George...
George...
He regarded her stoically, his eyes boring through hers. “That’s impossible. I’ve told you, Cabot—
impossible!
”

“Only because you refuse to believe in the possibilities.”

“I withdraw,” MacPherson said, standing. “I will not be party to this... Whatever
this
is.”

Neither Honor nor George noticed his departure.

“You are making an abominable and
foolish
bet,” he said angrily.

“I don’t agree.”

“Then allow me to instruct you on just how foolish it is,” he said angrily. “If you win, I will indeed make that offer. And you will be forced to live in a style to which you are
quite
unaccustomed. By that I mean there will be no servants. No gowns. No pretty things. There may not be a roof over your head.”

She hoped she wasn’t shaking.

“Ah, Easton, at least a pretty thing,” someone said, and others around him laughed.

She was back on her heels, but nonetheless determined. There was no other man for her, no one who was of a like mind, who understood the sort of woman she was. She did not relish a life of hardship, but neither did she fear it. Her heart raced even harder. Honor had walked her private plank, and she wasn’t turning back now. She began to deal.

“You will not be invited to fancy Mayfair salons,” he continued. “You may not even have meat on your table.”

Honor finished dealing and picked up her hand. “Do you intend to play or prattle, Mr. Easton?”

He swiped up his cards and said, “Gentlemen of standing will have second thoughts about your sisters.”

Honor’s heart stopped beating altogether for a moment. But she carefully laid her first card, a deuce.

George looked at it and sighed. “God help you, Honor Cabot. You have no idea the mistake you’ve made.”