The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Monica’s arched a dark brow. “Indeed? If you truly wish to turn over a new leaf, then neither of us should be surprised to discover unpleasant facts about the other...such as scheduling a tea the very day the other has scheduled one. Is that what you mean, in turning over a new leaf?”


Monica had her there—last Season, Honor had indeed scheduled a garden tea on the very day and at the very hour of Monica’s tea—to which, Honor graciously declined to point out, she and Grace had not been invited. But in Honor’s defense, she really didn’t believe they would be inviting the same people. She’d supposed Monica would invite all the tedious, lifeless acquaintances, while she would have the lively, diverting guests at hers.

“And neither shall we publicly speculate as to each other’s whereabouts,” Honor said, reminding Monica that during last Season’s Jubilee Ball, Monica had openly suggested that Honor had snuck away with Lord Cargill, when in fact Honor had been in the retiring room with Grace. It had caused quite a lot of speculation.

“We’ll mind that we don’t,” Monica said, graciously inclining her head.

Honor smiled. “So then, have you had a nice evening?”

“Passable.”

“Did you make any new acquaintances?”

Monica cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously. “Why have you this sudden interest in my evening?”

“Dear God, but you are suspicious!” Honor said. “It’s just that I find this crowd so terribly tiresome in its sameness, don’t you? I should like someone new to divert us all. There you have it, the root of our disagreements—you always misunderstand me!”

“Or perhaps it is because I understand you completely,” Monica parried. “If you are seeking diversion, darling, perhaps you ought to consider a trip abroad. I said as much to Augustine just this week,” Monica said, and began to straighten her glove as if she were speaking about the weather. “I said that perhaps you might find new and different things more to your liking in America.”

An alarm sounded in Honor’s brain. She tried to laugh. “What a lark.”

Monica lifted her gaze from her glove. “Augustine was rather intrigued. He said he would very much like to see you and Grace enjoy a more worldly education. It seems to me if you find our society so tiresome, maybe you will find another society more diverting.”

“I didn’t say I found our society tiresome, Monica. I said I found the company this evening tiresome. I will kindly ask you not to put thoughts into Augustine’s head.”

“As part of our new leaf,” Monica suggested slyly.

“Precisely,” Honor responded firmly.

“Here we are!” Mr. Beeker’s voice rang out. He and Miss Williamson suddenly sailed into view, each of them holding two glasses of wine.

“Oh, dear, look at the time. I’m afraid it’s gotten away from me,” Honor said, rising to her feet. “I really must be home to wish the earl a good-night.” She looked pointedly at Monica. She might be out on her arse when the earl died, but today, she still held the upper hand. “Good evening, then,” she said pleasantly.

“Good evening, Honor,” Monica said, just as pleasantly.

Honor walked away, her back straight, her chin high, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

When in fact, she suddenly had many.

America! The devil take Monica Hargrove.





CHAPTER NINE

HOW WAS IT possible that her plan had not worked?

The question caused Honor to toss and turn all night. She herself had been on the verge of being swept away by Easton’s pretend seduction in her own receiving room, so how had Monica possibly resisted it?

There was only one explanation: George Easton had not kept his word. Or worse, he’d kept his word and had failed.

The next morning, Honor woke tired and cross. She pulled on her dressing gown, sat down at her writing table, and dashed off a note to Easton: You gave me your word.

She was still wearing her dressing gown when she went down to the foyer. The old footman, Foster, was at the door; she pressed the note into his hand. “Please deliver this to Audley Street.”

Foster looked at her letter. “Easton,” he said out loud.

“Shh!” Honor hissed, and glanced quickly behind her, lest anyone had wandered into the foyer and overheard Foster. “Discretion, Mr. Foster.”

“Aye, Miss Cabot,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Ain’t I always discreet, then?”

“You are,” she said with a fond pat of his arm. “I have long depended—”

“Honor? What in heaven?”

Honor whirled around. “Augustine! Good morning!”

Augustine was standing with a linen napkin, presumably from breakfast, tucked into his collar. “I was coming to find you.” He looked past her, to Foster. “What are you doing at the door in your dressing gown?”

“Aye, miss, looks like a lot of rain today,” Foster said quickly. “Quite a downpour, really.”