The Scoundrel and the Debutante (The Cabot Sisters #3)

“You said Blackwood Hall,” she hissed, her eyes darting to Stanhope. “All of London knows who resides at Blackwood Hall now.”


“All right, I understand. I won’t—”

“All of London will know it,” she frantically said again. “All of London, and you may trust I will be made the laughingstock of the haut ton. Why, why did I ever think I could be like my sisters?” she pleaded skyward. “I never even wanted to be like them, but look at me. I’m the worst of us all! Merryton and Augustine will have my—”

“Pardon.” It was Stanhope again, having appeared at Roan’s elbow, still smiling as if he and Roan and Prudence were enjoying a little secret.

Prudence pressed her lips tightly together and turned away from him, as if she were now trying to hide her face. “My boy will take your things. You need only point.” He chuckled, as if he found it all very amusing, and walked away again.

“It is beyond hope,” Prudence said weakly.

This woman standing beside him, looking so utterly dejected, had been the picture of calm and determination the past two days, happy to play the part of cousin or wife, happy to experience her adventure with him. She’d shot a man and kept her head, for God’s sake. Roan didn’t know what it was about this man that should change it, but he wanted to box his ears for having ruined it all. “Be still,” he said soothingly, and put his hand to the small of her back as he pointed to the trunks for the boy. “We’ll be rid of him soon enough.”

“Oh, Roan,” she said in a tone that sounded as if she pitied him. She smiled sadly. “You will. Not me.”

Roan felt a roil of guilt and the weight of their folly slowly closing in on them.

As the trunks were loaded, Lord Stanhope gestured for them to board the carriage. He helped Prudence inside the coach. Roan followed and sat beside her and across from Stanhope, eyeing the man closely, debating what was to be done with him. Their lark had shifted from intensely pleasurable to troublesome. He’d been so happy to see Prudence, he hadn’t thought through what was happening. He couldn’t help agree with her—she should have stayed on the wagon. She should have gone on to her friend.

As the carriage rolled from town, Stanhope said to Prudence, “I beg your pardon, miss, but I’ve yet to have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Matheson,” she said slowly, surprising Roan. “I am Miss Matheson.”

One of Stanhope’s brows rose curiously over the other. “Matheson. It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Matheson. Now you must tell me from where you hail. You look quite familiar to me, and I think perhaps we’ve met before? Almack’s perhaps?”

“I’m sure we haven’t, my lord,” Prudence said quickly, shaking her head. “I am from the west country. How very kind of you to bring us along. This is a lovely carriage. The springs seem new. Are they new?” she asked, bouncing a bit on the seat.

The springs? Roan looked at Prudence.

“I hardly know,” Stanhope said, his gaze steady on Prudence. “The carriage is hired.”

“Where is your home, my lord?” Roan asked, drawing the man’s attention to him.

“London,” Stanhope said. “Near Grosvenor Square.”

“Have you just come down from London? What’s the news?” Roan asked, and continued to pepper Stanhope with questions so that he couldn’t question Prudence. For her part, Prudence ignored them, fanning herself as if she were overly warm.

But when Roan began to question Stanhope about London trade—to satisfy his own curiosity if nothing else—Stanhope waved a hand at him, his signet ring blinking in the waning light of the day. “I don’t concern myself with trade, sir. So. You’re cousins, are you?” he asked before Roan could begin to speak of the weather. “I would suppose, Mr. Matheson, that your father is your cousin’s relation by...”

“Brothers,” said Roan, at the very moment Prudence said, “My mother.” The moment she did, she closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to the point just between her brows.

Stanhope laughed. “There seems to be some confusion.”

“Not at all,” Prudence said, recovering at once. “My mother is married to his father’s brother.” She smiled, and Roan sensed she was rather pleased with herself for having thought quickly.

Stanhope was clearly entertained by this ridiculous banter. The three of them were all very aware that the lies were piling up in the interior of that carriage, but only one of them was diverted by it. The question Roan wanted answered was what, exactly, Stanhope would do with the lies. For the moment, he looked as if he would like to have carried on, poking and prodding Prudence, but the carriage turned and Howston Hall came into view.