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

“I suppose you mean Matheson? He and George have gone round to the Villeroys.” Honor stood up and walked to the sideboard, clearly not in a mood to discuss it.

Prudence could picture Roan arriving at the house on Upper George Street, the relief and consolation washing over him when he laid eyes on his sister, now assured that she was well. She could see him gather her up and hold her as tight as he’d held Pru last night, but out of fear she would slip away again. She could see Roan grasp his sister’s head in his hands and study her face for any change in her, any glimpse of the girl she’d been before she’d left America.

“What time did they go?”

“Nine o’clock,” Honor said. “George said he expected they’d be back by the noon hour.” Honor turned from the sideboard and put a plate of breakfast food before Prudence. “Here, eat something. Put some color in your face.” She quit the room without another word.

Roan and George did not return by the noon hour.

At two in the afternoon, Prudence was pacing the foyer.

Honor came down with her children, Edith, Tristan and Wills, all of them dressed to go out. “Where are you going?” Prudence asked as Honor separated Tristan and Wills from each other in the course of their overly boisterous play.

“To call on Lady Chatham. If I don’t bring them round, she’ll come here, and George will be unhappy.”

“But...what of George and Roan?” Prudence asked.

“Who is Roan?” Tristan demanded, wrinkling his nose.

“No one,” Honor said, a bit too quickly for Prudence. To her sister, she said, “They’ve obviously been delayed. Why don’t you read? I’ve left some needlework upstairs if you want to busy your hands.” She ushered her three young children out before her. “Stop pacing,” she said to Prudence as she went out behind them.

Honor was right; Prudence needed an occupation. She went upstairs and sorted through Honor’s basket of needlework, but found nothing to suit her. The heavy, oppressive air of the past two days finally gave way to rain, and she listened to it hitting the windowpanes for a while as she paced the drawing room with her hands behind her back, pausing occasionally at the windows to stare out at the steady fall of rain, thinking. Examining her options from every conceivable angle. Trying to sort through her feelings for a man who had filled her heart and her imagination and taught her what it was to yearn.

Where could they be?

She’d resumed trying to embroider a linen napkin when she heard someone at the door. Her heart lurched—Prudence unthinkingly tossed down the linen and rushed to the front windows to peer out. She could see nothing through the rain but a brown hat. The person wearing the hat hidden from view beneath it.

Still, it had to be Roan—who else could it be? She whirled around, tucked in a bit of hair and clasped her hands together, waiting.

Several moments later, she heard the light footfall of Finnegan and caught her breath. Finnegan entered the room and silently held out a silver tray with a calling card to her. A calling card? Roan wouldn’t come in with a calling card. Prudence looked at him hesitantly and picked up the card. The moment she saw the name she threw it back on the tray as if it were a hot coal. Stanhope.

So this was it, she thought desperately. How much money would he want? Should she send word he should come back when George was home? No, no...she was not a coward. She’d brought this on herself and she would answer for it. Prudence squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Is everyone out?”

“Yes, miss,” Finnegan said.

She nodded. “Show him up, please.”

Finnegan turned, prepared to fetch him.

“Finnegan!” she said quickly, before he could leave.

He turned back to her.

“Leave the door open, and please...stay close, will you?”

“Just outside,” he assured her. “Are you certain you want to receive him?”

Prudence laughed nervously. “Not at all. Unfortunately, I must. Bring him up, please.”

Stanhope entered the room and paused just over the threshold. He smiled and inclined his head. “Miss Cabot. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said coolly.

“May I say, it’s lovely to see you home and refreshed.” He smiled warmly.

He was wearing a dove-gray coat over black trousers and waistcoat, a pristine white shirt and neckcloth. His hair—gold, like hers—was combed and trimmed since she’d last seen him. Prudence resented the sight of him. “How may I help you?”

Stanhope cocked a brow and smiled with surprise. “You seem uncomfortable, Miss Cabot. Is my presence so hard for you to bear?”

Oh no, she would not allow him to bait her. “I have quite a lot to tend to, my lord.”

His pale blue gaze swept over her, assessing her. “Very well, I shall come to the point.” He gestured to the settee near the window. “Will you at least sit?”