The Trouble With Honor (The Cabot Sisters #1)

Prudence had recalled a silly story about Mrs. Philpot’s chickens that had gotten loose in Grosvenor Square, and dissolved into giggles as she’d related how the poor woman had run after them, her skirts lifted to her knees. It had made the earl laugh until he couldn’t catch his breath.

After breakfast, Mercy had offered to read to her stepfather—truly the only father she’d ever known—but he’d smiled fondly at her and assured her he’d had quite enough tales of wolves who ate humans.

When Honor thought of that morning, she thought of her mother, not the earl. Her mother had sat beside her husband, quite subdued, staring at her plate. Had she sensed that death was so near them? Or had she slipped into the private world she increasingly inhabited?

There was one more thing Honor remembered about the last time she would see the earl alive. When she’d stood to go, she had leaned down to kiss him goodbye. He’d caught her hand in his and said, “You’re a good girl, my love. Never let anyone convince you otherwise.” And he’d smiled.

Honor had laughed. He’d been telling her she was a good girl since the day she and Monica had slipped out of the back of the church during Sunday services to meet a pair of boys. Not just any boys, mind you, but stable boys who were charged with looking after the parishioners’ horses.

“I think you are the only one who believes it, my lord. But I shall endeavor to remember.”

The earl had patted her hand, then had let it slip from his grip.

Honor wished she was the good girl the earl had always believed her to be. She wished she’d been a better daughter to him, had spent more time with him.

His funeral had been a blur of activity. So many people had come, so many embraces and offers of condolences. So many rituals and so much black.

The day after the funeral, Grace had left for Bath. “Stay,” Honor had begged her.

“I can’t,” Grace had said grimly. “We’ve no time to lose.”

Honor had said goodbye to Grace that morning, holding her sister tightly. She’d told herself that Grace’s plan was just as fraught with opportunities for failure as hers had been, and that by all rights, Grace would be home in a matter of weeks. But Grace’s departure had felt like the final blow, the last door to shut on the life as they’d known it.

Honor had stood on the street, watching Grace’s coach disappear around a corner. And even then, she’d remained standing there, looking down the street. Waiting. Watching.

For what, Honor hadn’t known.

She’d felt great despair that morning. She’d lost the most important people in her life in a matter of days. The earl. Her dear sister Grace. Easton.

Her disappointment was devastating.

Now it had been a fortnight since the earl’s death, a fortnight of grief so deep that Honor had lost her appetite and seemed only to eat when Hardy urged her to do so. It was nonsensical—Honor had known that the earl was not long for this world, had believed herself prepared for his departure. Nothing could have prepared her, however.

His absence was felt throughout the house. Augustine seemed anxious in his new role, and the entire staff seemed to be in the doldrums. Prudence and Mercy whispered to each other, their black clothing making them look tired.

But Honor’s grief ran so much deeper than her stepfather’s death.

She mourned George just as deeply.

Lord, how she missed him. And hated him, too. At least, she tried to convince herself she hated him. With his rejection of her, he’d reopened old, deep-seated wounds. She felt as if she were reliving the nightmare of Lord Rowley all over again. Honor had been destroyed by Easton’s rejection of her, and had it not been for Mr. Cleburne’s kindness in seeing her home, she’d feared she might have collapsed at the reception.

Since that horrible afternoon, she’d not seen George and had heard nothing of him. He hadn’t come to pay his respects, and even at the funeral service, she’d scanned the dozens upon dozens of mourners gathered, certain she would see his reassuring smile. He did not attend.

At the gathering after the funeral, she happened to overhear two gentlemen speaking of the war. One of them mentioned that Easton’s ship was missing and presumed captured or sunk, and with a chuckle added that his fortune had sunk along with it. Honor wondered if he’d truly lost his fortune, if he would be reduced to mean circumstances. She hated him...but she wished she could help him, too.

Her heart was whittled away by her hurt, and it had turned to dust. She could feel it—a powdery, insubstantial thing in her chest.

One gloomy, damp afternoon, as Honor and Prudence strolled about the square—they were desperate to be out of doors—Prudence reported that she’d heard Monica saying that she might wed within the next few weeks, but her mother had corrected her to say that likely she would wait another year, given the prescribed period of mourning for the earl.

“Perhaps in theory,” Honor said thoughtfully.