The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

George snorted and waved a hand at him.

“I suggest, sir, that if you want this lass as you apparently do, judging by the number of times you’ve slammed your fist into a wall, that you find employment so that you can provide for her and all the Cabots, as you say.”

“Pardon?” George asked.

“Employment,” Finnegan said, as if the word was foreign. “Work. It is an activity that other, less fortunate persons such as myself find necessary to do.”

George snorted. “What, do you suggest that I become a valet?”

“Absolutely not. You’d be utterly useless in that capacity. It would appear that your talents lie in the buying and selling of commodities. Cotton, for example. Were I you, I’d begin there.” Finnegan stood up, stepped over George again. “Shall I send for the physician to set your hand again?” he asked as he walked to the door.

“Yes.” George sighed and settled on his back, his injured hand on his chest, looking up at the painted ceiling.

Employment. A wage. It had been quite a long time since he’d worked for wages. But if he had even a modest income, he might sell this house—the symbol of the man he’d become, which, in hindsight, had been a bit of a cruel joke—and put himself, a wife and even a bloody cock of a valet in a respectable manor.

Honor would find the notion reprehensible, and if she didn’t, she was a bigger fool than he’d believed. But that was all he could do. Without a ship, without sufficient funds in the bank, his hands were broken. Quite literally.

George sat up, picked himself up, shoved his good hand through his hair. He’d lived through worse than this, that was certain. And he’d never been afraid of honest work. If there was one thing he might say for himself, it was that he believed in his ability to pull himself up.

Employment. He would call on Sweeney on the morrow. Perhaps he might partner with his agent. George certainly had the connections to buy and sell cotton, which Sweeney could use.

George went to find a comb to make himself presentable before the physician arrived a second time.

*

THREE DAYS PASSED before Honor finally stopped crying or lying listlessly about, staring into space. But it was Mercy who finally convinced Honor that the time for grieving had passed. “I think you should ring for a bath,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Fine,” Honor snapped. She wound her hair up, pulled on her dressing gown and stumbled down to the breakfast room while a bath was drawn.

Augustine and her sisters were in the dining room. Augustine came instantly to his feet, his fork clattering to the floor in his surprise. “Honor, darling,” he said, his eyes wide as he took her in. “You’re all right, aren’t you? You’re on the mend? You’ll return to yourself, will you?”

“She’s not going mad, if that’s what you think,” Prudence said.

Of course they all knew what had happened to Honor that night in Southwark. All of London knew it. Mr. Jett, her savior, had been unable to keep from telling the tale—casting himself in the role of hero, naturally.

“I’m all right,” Honor said, and sat heavily in a chair beside him. Augustine slid his plate to her, offering her bacon. Honor shook her head and turned away from it. The sight of food made her ill.

“I think you must pick yourself up,” Augustine said. “Rally and all, that sort of thing. Monica and I thought perhaps it might be best if you had a rest at Longmeadow.”

Honor gave him a wary glance.

“It would seem best until the Season is done, do you not agree?” he asked, wincing a little at the suggestion, as if he expected her to lash out at him.

“Actually, Augustine, I do,” she said, surprising her stepbrother. “I would like nothing more than to leave London and hopefully never see George Easton again.” She shook her head at the breakfast Hardy offered her, but allowed him to pour tea.

Augustine munched on his bacon, studying her. “Shall I send for anyone? Grace, perhaps?”

“No!” Honor said quickly, sitting up. “Please, no, Augustine. She will be quite cross with me, and besides, she should have a few weeks of happiness before word reaches her of what will surely be the Season’s most infamous scandal.”

“I suppose,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, Honor, I cannot help but ask—why did you do it? To Southwark, of all places! Alone! Mrs. Hargrove was quite beside herself, but I told her if you went, there was a very good reason for it. There was a very good reason for it, wasn’t there?”

“I had a very good reason for me,” she said flatly. “My feelings are entirely too complicated to explain properly, but perhaps you will understand if I ask if you’ve ever admired someone so completely that you believed you couldn’t possibly draw your next breath without them?”

Prudence and Mercy looked curiously at each other, but Augustine nodded enthusiastically.