The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“You know very well Mamma would never allow me to marry before you,” Grace said angrily. “And now we have waited too long! We have squandered the time we might have had to make a good match, and we are facing an uncertain future with a mother that neither of us can properly care for and no one—no one—will take!”


Honor felt foolish enough for believing that her ridiculous plan would ever work. The only thing that had come from it was that now she longed for a man she could not possibly engage. “And what exactly was I to do, Grace?” she asked, angry with herself, with life. “You didn’t help.”

Grace’s shoulders suddenly deflated. “I know,” she said flatly. “I’ve been quite useless. But, Honor, one of us must marry, and marry quickly!”

How could she think of marriage when she loved George Easton? Just hearing the word made her stomach clench painfully. “Very well. Who would you suggest I marry?” she asked, resigned.

“Not you. Me,” Grace said, and before Honor could roll her eyes, Grace said, “If you have a better idea, say it now, for I am to Bath—”

“Bath!”

“Yes, Bath! Amherst is in Bath.”

“Amherst!” Honor cried. “There is not a worse rake in all of England. Everyone knows it! Dear God, Grace, don’t be as foolish as me! You won’t succeed!”

“He’s not a bastard, and at least he has a name,” Grace shot back.

Honor stilled. She took great offense to that and pressed a fist hard against her roiling belly. “This is absurd,” she said, turning away, intending to argue, but Mercy suddenly burst into the salon and threw herself facedown onto the settee, sobbing.

“Mercy!” Grace cried, dipping down, her hand on her sister’s back as sobs racked her small frame. “Good Lord, what is it, what has happened?”

“It’s Augustine!” Mercy said, gasping through her sobs. “He raised his voice! He said I was never to mention grave robbers again and sent me from the room!” She pushed herself up and removed her spectacles to swipe at the tears on her face. “It wasn’t a very frightening story. I promise, it wasn’t!”

Honor’s bleak mood was pushed into full-blown anger by Mercy’s tears. “I will speak to him,” she said briskly, and reached down to stroke her sister’s hair before she swept out of the room, her fist still clenched at her side.

Her slippers were almost silent on the stairs as she hurried down them. In the foyer, she heard voices down the hall and walked purposefully in that direction. As she neared the main salon, she heard Augustine’s laugh mix with Monica’s. But there were other voices, too.

At the door, she saw Monica and her mother sitting together on the settee, and Augustine and Mr. Cleburne standing. Mr. Cleburne instantly straightened when he saw her and smiled a little nervously.

“Honor!” Augustine said when he saw her. “I was about to send Hardy for you.”

“I beg your pardon, I shan’t interrupt. Good afternoon,” she said to everyone in the room. “My lord, might I have a word?”

She did not miss the look that passed between Augustine and Monica before he said, “Yes, indeed, darling. I should like a word with you, as well. If you will excuse us?” he asked his guests.

“Of course!” Monica sang out. “Take all the time you need.”

Augustine came forward, clasped Honor’s elbow and wheeled her about, escorting her down the hall and to the butler’s office. He ushered Honor inside, then closed the door behind them and opened the curtains to the courtyard for light.

“Why are we in Mr. Hardy’s office?” Honor asked, the soft drumbeat of wariness beginning in her chest. “You have your guests, and I want only a moment—”

“But that’s just it, dearest,” Augustine said, interrupting her. “The guests—well, at least one of them, that is—have come for you.”

The wariness she’d been feeling began to take wings, trying to fly.

“Mrs. Hargrove and Monica were kind enough to deliver Mr. Cleburne to Beckington House all the way from Longmeadow. He’s to be our guest for a fortnight.” Augustine’s smile was apprehensive, and he nervously drummed his fingers on the edge of Mr. Hardy’s desk.

“What has that to do with me?”

Augustine touched his neckcloth and cleared his throat. “Mr. Cleburne is the third son of Lord Sandersgate. You know Sandersgate, don’t you? Tall man, crop of ginger hair?” he asked, gesturing to the crown of his head. “He’s brought six sons into this world. Can you imagine it? Six sons! What a challenge that must be to see them all properly situated!” He said it as if it were an impossible feat.

“That is quite a lot,” Honor agreed. “Still, I—”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Richard Cleburne, his third son, is in London to study with the archbishop for a fortnight. Fancy that, Honor, a vicar in our service with personal ties to the archbishop.”

She glanced at the door. Her wariness was now a caged bird, flapping its wings and squawking for release. If she could somehow maneuver herself around Augustine, she might escape before he said whatever dreadful thing he was trying to say.