The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

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?”