The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

“He has indeed been favorably impressed with you. He has said as much to Miss Hargrove.”


“I wouldn’t doubt for a moment that the two of them might have said my name, but I assure you, it was Monica who mentioned it,” Honor said angrily. “Your father never once imposed his desire for a match on me. You’re not yet earl, and here you are, telling me whom I must wed. It’s quite unlike you, Augustine! I can only believe Monica has put you up to this. Is that the sort of marriage you will have? One in which your wife directs you?”

Augustine’s face darkened. “Monica and I share a common vision. She has not directed me. She has merely expressed Cleburne’s interest in you, and we have both seen the great opportunities in that match for you, Honor! I would advise against aggravating me,” he added brusquely, and yanked the door open. “You know my wishes. I expect you to follow them. I’ve already arranged for the four of us to ride in Hyde Park on Thursday. So, come now, be a good girl, and take tea.”

Honor glared at him, debating what to do. She knew better than to put a man, any man, in a corner. She needed to be far more strategic than shouting and complaining to save her future. To save her life. And really, she could scarcely think, with so many confusing thoughts swirling about in her head. So she clenched that fist at her side against the rage of helplessness and walked out. She marched ahead of Augustine and into the salon, her face a wreath of smiles.

Until Honor had thought what to do, she had no choice.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

GEORGE’S VISIT WITH Mr. Sweeney sent him even deeper into the despair he was feeling for the first time in a very long time.

Sweeney had paid another visit to the docks looking for word of the Maypearl. “No one has seen her,” he said apologetically.

“What does it mean?” George demanded. Not of Sweeney, really, but of life. His life. What did it all mean?

Sweeney’s chair creaked and moaned beneath him as he squirmed about. “It’s hard to know. I think we must prepare to accept that she is lost.”

George was not ready to accept it—he couldn’t even bring himself to fully accept the possibility of it. In that moment, he outright refused to give any credence to it. “If that is what you believe, Mr. Sweeney, perhaps I should find a new agent,” he snapped.

Mr. Sweeney paled. “That is...that is not necessary, Mr. Easton. It is my duty to be as honest with you as I might—”

“Speculation is not honesty, sir, it is merely that—speculation. And I, for one, refuse to accept your speculation as fact. Good day,” he said crossly, and stormed from Mr. Sweeney’s office, ignoring Mr. Sweeney’s calls to please wait, to hear him out.

He owed the man an apology, but then again, he thought it hardly fair to surmise that all was lost merely because a ship was now a month late to port. One might argue that Mr. Sweeney’s was the more prudent viewpoint, but George had not built his fortune with prudence.

Lost in thought of how he would revive his fortune if indeed it was lost, George thundered back to his home. On Audley Street, his horse trotted down the cobblestones and came to a halt before his magnificent house without prompt. The house, the symbol of the man he thought he’d become, was the only thing of value that George held now.

He swung down off his mount, tossed the reins through the iron ring where he generally tethered the horse, tying them loosely. As was his habit, he would send a stable boy out to fetch him and take him to the mews. He took one step in the direction of his house and happened to glance up the street as he did so.

He saw the coach with a B emblazoned in a swirl of foxes, the sleek black lines of a vehicle familiar to him since stepping into its interior some weeks ago. He paused, squinting at it. She wouldn’t have come here, would she, in the light of day, for everyone to see? Had she no regard for her reputation at all?

The coach door suddenly swung open. From it emerged a small boot attached to a shapely leg. And then another. Honor alighted without help, dropped her skirts and shook them out. She was wearing a jaunty little bonnet with a trio of feathers artfully arranged, and when she cocked her head to one side to smile warmly at him, they bounced gaily, reminding him of little birds dancing around her head.

He strode forward as she ran daintily across the street. He paused several steps before her, his hands on his hips, wondering if he should kiss her or physically put her back in the coach. “Have you lost your mind? Dispensed with all good judgment? Kicked your common sense off the London Bridge?”

She beamed at him. “Good afternoon, Easton!”

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I grant you, I’m hardly one to give a whit about what anyone will think, but in this instance, even I am concerned that you have crossed an ineradicable line.”