The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Fortunately, Prudence and Mercy were so delighted to be included, they didn’t argue and went off to do what Honor had asked.

“Help me change,” Honor said to Grace, grabbing a sunny yellow gown. “I can scarcely abide when she appears unannounced. And already sitting with Mamma! How long has it been since Mamma has received guests?”

“A month or more,” Grace said, quickly undoing the buttons of Honor’s gown.

Their mother had begun to withdraw from society when the earl’s health had worsened, but Honor wasn’t certain that was the only reason. Her mother had, at times, seemed particularly baffled when in the presence of guests. Monica, on the other hand, could be terribly shrewd in her study of everything and everyone around her. “Hurry,” Honor urged her sister.

“Will you tell me what happened with Easton?”

“Nothing really.” Honor hoped she sounded more convincing to Grace than she did to her own ears. “He promised to try again at the Prescott Ball.”

“The Prescott Ball!” Grace echoed incredulously. “Has he received an invitation?”

“I’ll arrange it,” Honor said. She donned the yellow dress and presented her back to Grace to be buttoned.

“How?” Grace exclaimed as she quickly buttoned the gown. “Lady Prescott would never invite him. She counts Gloucester among her closest friends.”

“Yes, I know,” Honor said. “But I think Lord Prescott might be persuaded.”

“And who will persuade him, pray tell?”

Honor arched a brow at her sister.

Grace groaned as understanding dawned. “For heaven’s sake, Honor, you scarcely know the man.”

“I know him well enough.”

“You wouldn’t!” Grace said, with not a little bit of awe in her voice. She dropped her hands from Honor’s gown, having finished the buttoning of it.

Honor picked up a comb. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and undid the knot in her hair. “I should like to think I wouldn’t, for it seems dangerous even to me.”

“Thank goodness for that, at least,” Grace said, and took the comb from Honor’s hand to help her. “At times I believe you’ve lost all your good sense.”

Honor didn’t admit it, but she thought she’d lost all of her good sense the moment she had approached Easton on Rotten Row.

*

THE GREEN SALON was the smallest common room in the house, but the coziest of them, with thick rugs and wall tapestries to keep its inhabitants comfortably warm. The furnishings were more worn here than anywhere else in the house, having suffered through several winters of lounging girls and one rather clumsy boy.

Honor swept into the salon just behind Grace. Her mother was seated at the small table where tea was often served, next to the earl, who sat hunched over the table, a woolen blanket draped around his shoulders. Monica, Augustine and Mercy were on the settee, and Prudence at the harp. Monica’s brother had taken his place at the hearth.

“Good afternoon,” Grace said to those assembled. “Mr. Hargrove. Miss Hargrove,” she added, nodding politely as she walked across the room to stand by the earl.

Honor smiled at Monica’s eldest brother, whom she’d always known as Teddy. He was a thin man with a large angular nose, and had already followed his father into academia. She extended her hand to him and said, “Teddy, dearest, how do you do?”

“Quite well, thank you,” he said, and limply took her hand as he bowed over it.

“And your parents? They are well?”

“Very well, thank you. But the weather is too foul for my mother to be away from her hearth this afternoon.”

That was a pity. At least when Mrs. Hargrove was present, Monica was less inclined to speak. As to that, Honor whirled around to the settee. “Monica, dearest,” she said, holding out her hands to her nemesis. “How lovely you look!”

Monica stood, took Honor’s hands and squeezed them a little too hard. “A pleasure to see you, Honor.”

There were many things Honor could fault in Monica, but her looks were not one of them. She eyed Monica’s pale green gown. “You should wear it to the Prescott Ball,” Honor suggested. “You’ll be in attendance, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Monica said, letting go of her hands.

The Prescott Ball was the Season’s opening salvo, the event that would launch a dozen or two freshly minted debutantes, having been just presented in court, into high society. Everyone would attend.

Honor moved to the earl. “How do you fare this evening, my lord?”

“Passable,” he said, and took her hand. “A spot of tea will warm me.”

“I’ll get it for you, darling,” Honor’s mother said, and stood from the table, moving toward the bellpull.

“But we’ve just rung Hardy,” Augustine said. “He’s not had time.”

“Have we?” Honor’s mother said lightly, and resumed her seat.

“Speaking of the Prescott Ball, Honor, I assume you and Grace will attend?” Monica asked amicably. “These events are so important when one is searching for a match.” She smiled sweetly.