The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“I haven’t,” Grace admitted. “I shall be very merry when everyone leaves Longmeadow.”


That wasn’t like her sister—Grace, of all of them, seemed to love these annual gatherings at Longmeadow. “Is it Mr. Pritchard, again?” she asked, referring to one of Grace’s more ardent admirers.

“What? No, no, not him,” Grace said with a distracted shake of her head. “It’s Mamma. This morning, over tea, she very carefully explained to me that we must be vigilant, for some men have come to take the earl away against his wishes, and we aren’t to allow it. When I asked her what men, she said they were Scots.”

“Scots?”

“She’s getting worse, Honor, so much worse. It’s a wonder people haven’t noticed it. Or perhaps they have and they are too polite to mention it.”

Honor snorted at that. “I can assure you, if they’ve noticed, they are mentioning it to each other with great enthusiasm.”

Grace looked out across the field where footmen were setting up stumps and wickets for the match this afternoon. “I’ve done something quite horrible.”

That surprised Honor; she looked curiously at her sister.

Grace’s eyes were filled with tears. “Something that will surely condemn me to hell.”

A million thoughts went through Honor’s head, all of which she quickly discarded. She put her arm around Grace’s waist. “That’s impossible.”

“I gave Mamma some laudanum,” Grace said flatly.

Honor gasped. “Oh, dear God, you didn’t!”

“You see? It’s horrible!” Grace whimpered as a tear slid from her eye. “On my word, Honor, I had to do it. There she was, talking about the men from Scotland who would take the earl away, and I thought, how disastrous it would be if she were to say that to anyone, most particularly the Hargroves—”

“Where is she?” Honor demanded.

“Sleeping,” Grace said. “Hannah is with her. Poor Hannah! She didn’t approve of what I’d done, I could plainly see it, but I didn’t know what else to do.” She gave Honor a beseeching look. “What else could I do?”

Honor thought it was the worst thing she might have done, but Grace looked so hopeless, she couldn’t say it. She hugged Grace to her. “We should not do that again, I think.”

“No,” Grace said weakly.

“Don’t despair, Grace. When everyone is away, we will think with clearer heads.”

“Perhaps,” Grace said, and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “How was your evening?”

Glorious and wretched. Honor averted her gaze—Grace could read her too well. “Quite all right, I suppose, in spite of being accused of thievery. Dearest Monica has determined Mr. Cleburne is a perfect match for me, I think.”

“Who?” Grace asked, then gasped. “The new vicar?” She laughed. “She has smelled the countess’s coronet and it has made her ravenous. Look, the gentlemen are beginning to come down for the match. Shall we go and watch?”

“I have it on great authority that Lord Washburn is to play and likely to win.”

Grace laughed at that.

They walked down to the awnings that had been set up for the ladies observing the game, and took seats at a linen-covered table as the gentlemen divided into teams.

“There are the lovely Cabot girls!” a voice familiar to them both trilled.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hargrove,” Honor said, and came to her feet, offering her chair. A footman quickly placed another chair at the table.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she settled into the seat. “Where is your mother?”

“Resting,” Honor said.

“Oh, good. She looked quite exhausted last night. No doubt the soiree and the earl’s health have taken their toll.”

“No doubt,” Honor said, and looked pointedly at Grace, silently warning her not to burst into tears as she seemed on the verge of doing.

Augustine and Monica arrived, dressed in cricket whites. Augustine’s white waistcoat, which Honor believed he wore once a year at this very tournament, was a bit more snug than last year. “I’ve much to do,” he said anxiously, depositing Monica at their table and hurrying off to review the rules with the players.

Monica said, “Lovely day for cricket.”

“Isn’t it!” Mrs. Hargrove said. “The grounds are so lovely. If I could make one small addition to them, I should like to see a fountain and some seating there, near the gazebo.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Monica agreed.

Honor and Grace exchanged a sly look.

“Oh, look, it’s Mr. Cleburne to bat,” Monica said, suddenly sitting up in her chair and adjusting her bonnet.

The four women turned their attention to the match. Mr. Cleburne struck the first ball with ease and ran quickly to the stumps, then back again. A cheer went up from his team, and all the ladies applauded politely.