The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“Mr. Cleburne!” Monica called, waving her hand as the gentleman sauntered to another awning and gestured to a servant to pour him ale. He looked up when Monica called, smiled happily and began to walk across the lawn to them.

“Mr. Cleburne, may I present you to my mother, Elizabeth Hargrove,” Monica said when Mr. Cleburne reached them.

He took Mrs. Hargrove’s hand. “My pleasure.” He turned to Honor and Grace and greeted them, as well.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cleburne. You play very well.”

“We might add it to the list of things Mr. Cleburne does well,” Monica said eagerly. “I understand you are an excellent pianist, Mr. Cleburne.”

“Oh, I am no talent, Miss Hargrove.”

“Cleburne!” one of the men shouted at him.

“I beg your pardon, I am wanted,” he said cheerfully, and jogged onto the field.

“He seems quite kind, doesn’t he?” Monica said admiringly. “I should think he’d make an excellent husband.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Hargrove readily agreed.

Monica glanced at Honor. “He is the third son of a viscount, I understand. Well connected in that regard. And he will live in that pleasant cottage on the grounds. You know the one, don’t you, Honor?”

Of course she knew it. “Augustine’s grandmother lived there. Very cozy, isn’t it?”

“Do you think it cozy? I thought it quite large for a couple.”

“There is Lady Chatham,” Mrs. Hargrove said, and excused herself to go and greet the greatest busybody in all of London.

“He’s not married, you know,” Monica continued.

“That’s a pity, Monica, as you are already spoken for,” Grace said breezily.

Monica tittered at that, feigning amusement. “But you’re not spoken for, Grace, and neither is your sister.” She smiled at Honor.

“And I don’t intend to be, so you may as well put away this notion of making a match,” Honor said.

“Why not?” Monica asked pleasantly. “I should think it a perfect match for the daughter of a bishop.”

Oh, but Honor wanted to shriek. “I appreciate your concern for me, Monica,” Honor said lightly. “But I think perhaps Mr. Cleburne is better suited for our Mercy.”

“Mercy! Mercy is scarcely thirteen years old.”

Honor shrugged. “They could grow up together, and then wed.”

Monica’s smile began to fade. “You think you’re quite amusing and will keep us all laughing, don’t you?”

“I do try,” Honor said sweetly. She turned her attention to the match, aware that Monica was glaring at her. They watched two gentlemen take their turn at bat, neither of them having much luck. But then George Easton stepped up. He braced himself for the swing, the muscles of his broad shoulders evident in the fabric of his lawn shirt. He caught the first ball thrown to him and sent it sailing over the heads of the men in the field. The assembled crown cheered wildly as he ran.

“Oh, my,” Monica said. “Mr. Easton is an excellent cricket player, is he not?” She suddenly stood and looked at Honor. “He’s quite good at games in general, isn’t he, Honor?”

“Pardon?”

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Monica said curtly, and walked away.

Honor sat up and watched Monica move away. “Oh, no. Lord help us,” she whispered.

“What?” Grace asked.

“I suspected it, but now I’m certain. She knows, Grace. Monica knows about Easton!” Honor had a very sick feeling in her belly, particularly now that she wished she’d never started this game.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LADY CHATHAM BRUISED some tender feelings the following afternoon at the horse track with her speculation that Ellen Rivers was besotted with George Easton, and what a pity that was, for now everyone knew of that silly girl’s lack of judgment.

When that was repeated back to Ellen Rivers, she was hasty in her attempts to distance herself from a man who, according to a growing chorus, had no business even being at Longmeadow among such august guests.

George was blissfully unaware of the talk, however, as he had forgone the horse racing and escaped into the village, to an inn tucked just off the main road, to imbibe copious amounts of ale.

He was captivated by the serving girl’s cleavage, staring at him directly as she leaned quite far over the table to slide him a fresh tankard of ale. It was not the milky mounds of flesh spilling out of her bodice that had him, but the fact that he didn’t really care about them at all. His head was filled with the image of a raven-haired temptress, and when he saw this young woman’s chest, he thought of another décolletage entirely.

He eased back from the girl. She was pretty. His body was halfheartedly attempting to respond, but there was something else at work in him, something odd and ill fitting that had lodged like a rock inside him. It felt dangerously like a conscience.