Augustine was standing with a linen napkin, presumably from breakfast, tucked into his collar. “I was coming to find you.” He looked past her, to Foster. “What are you doing at the door in your dressing gown?”

“Aye, miss, looks like a lot of rain today,” Foster said quickly. “Quite a downpour, really.”

Honor adored the stately old footman. “Thank you, I shall dress accordingly.” She turned back to Augustine with a bright smile.

“Then hurry along and dress, will you?” Augustine asked. “Mercy insists on regaling us with some gruesome tale of walking cadavers,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It has put me off my breakfast. The lass could use a firm hand if you ask me.”

“Oh, no, we can’t have that,” Honor said, wondering where Augustine’s firm hand had gotten off to this morning. She gave Foster another sly smile, then darted up the stairs to her rooms to dress.

* * *

RAIN CONTINUED TO pour through breakfast and into the noon hour with no sign of abating. Honor spent the late morning reading to her stepfather. The damp weather did not help the poor man’s situation, and he lay against the pillows, his eyes fixed on some point well beyond this room. He looked sad and exhausted. His once robust cheeks were sunken, his hands bony, his eyes rheumy.

At some point during her reading of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads, the earl closed his eyes. Honor quietly closed the book of poetry and carefully rose from her seat. She tiptoed across the carpet and had all but slipped through the door when the earl said roughly, “Honor, darling.”

She turned back. His arm was outstretched, as if he’d tried to touch her as she’d slipped by him. “Are you all right?” she asked, moving back to his side. “Is anything the matter? Shall I fetch Mamma?”

He gestured for her hand, and she wrapped her fingers around his. “You must look after your mother when I’m gone,” he said, his voice hoarse from coughing.

“Of course.”

“Heed me, Honor—she’ll have no one but her daughters to ensure she comes to no harm. Do you understand?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

He knew. The earl knew what she and Grace suspected—that her mother was slowly losing her mind. “I understand you very well, my lord.”

“I have loved your mother these many years,” he said. “I believe Augustine is quite fond of her, but my son is weak. He is easily influenced. He is a good man, but I think too eager to please others.”

“Perhaps,” Honor reluctantly agreed. “My mother has loved you, my lord, as have we all. I give you my word I shall look after her.”

The earl patted her hand. “How will you do it, my dearest Honor? I’ve been too lenient with you, haven’t I, allowing you to flit about. Is there no one who might have caught your eye?”

Honor’s heart fluttered; she thought of Rowley, how she had pined for him. “There was one, but he didn’t desire me.”

The earl made a clucking sound. “Then he is a fool. I suppose the thought of keeping a beautiful woman in style can seem quite daunting to some gentlemen.”

“But I don’t care about things so much,” Honor said.

The earl smiled. “No? You’ve certainly made use of my coffers.”

She smiled guiltily, but shook her head. “I like things well enough, my lord, but they are only things. If I loved someone, truly loved, nothing else would matter.”

“If you find love again, my darling, latch on to it and hold tight. It’s a rare bird, far too fine to let go. And don’t be afraid of hurt. It serves its purpose and makes you appreciate love even more.”

“Yes, well,” she said, and glanced down. She did not care for the pain of losing love. She preferred to avoid it at all costs.

“You’re a good girl, Honor. I don’t care a whit what anyone else may say.” He sighed, let go of her hand and let his head loll to one side. “Send Jericho in, will you?” he asked, referring to the man who had been his valet, and had, in the past two years, become one of his closest caretakers. He closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Honor found Jericho and sent him to check on the earl, then followed the sound of sprightly music downstairs. As she walked through the foyer, Foster happened to step in through the main door, pausing at the threshold to shake the water off his cloak and his hat.

“Foster! Have you delivered it, then?”

“Aye, miss,” he said as he put his hat aside.

“And? Was there a reply?”

“No, miss. The butler said the gentleman had not yet returned home from the evening, and he’d hand it over when he arrived.”

Not yet returned home? A curious little tickle went through Honor—there was only one place a man might stay all night and well into the morning, wasn’t there? A warm bed, she reckoned, with a curving body to warm it. Fields of gold. Another, stronger, tickle went through her.

“Thank you,” she said to Foster distractedly.

She carried on to the music room, imagining Easton with a woman, linens sliding away from his nude and rigid body as he demanded more from his conquest. Who was the woman? Lady Dearing?

In the music room, she found her sisters. Prudence was playing the pianoforte—she was the most musically inclined of the four of them, with an ear that Honor envied. Grace was seated at a table, her quill dancing across the page as she penned a letter. Mercy was on her belly before the hearth, her knees bent and her ankles crossed. She was slowly turning the pages of fashion plates in Lady’s Magazine. A soft fire glowed in the fireplace, and candles were lit around the room to chase away the gloom of the rainy day.

“Who are you writing, Grace?” Honor asked as she took a seat on the settee and curled her feet beneath her.

“Cousin Beatrice.”

“She’s not our cousin,” Honor corrected her.

“No?” asked Prudence, pausing in the midst of her music.

Honor shook her head. “She and Mamma were childhood friends, so close that they took to calling each other cousin. Why on earth are you writing her, Grace?”

“Because she resides in Bath, and I should like to know if perchance she has seen Lord Amherst there. I understand he is not yet in London.”

Honor blinked. “Amherst? Why?”

“Honor, really!” Grace said with a pert smile. “It’s a private concern that I would think you’d have guessed.” Honor could not guess, but Grace glanced meaningfully at Mercy, who had stopped flipping the pages of the magazine to stare intently at Grace.

“What is it?” Mercy demanded. “Why do you never tell me anything?”

“Because you are a child. What do you think of this piece?” Prudence asked, and began to play another sprightly tune.

Mercy pushed back onto her knees and adjusted her spectacles as she listened. “I adore it!” she said a moment later, and leaped to her feet. She began to do the figures from a reel around the salon, her arms outstretched, light on her toes.

Honor smiled at her younger sister. Dancing was the thing she needed to banish the gloom from her thoughts, and hopped up to bow and extend her hand like a gentleman. Mercy eagerly caught it, and the two of them began to dance to Prudence’s airy song. Grace put down her pen, clapping in time to the music. “Higher, Mercy,” she said when the steps called for a hop. “Don’t drag your foot, dearest—jump.”

Mercy jumped. Prudence began to play faster, forcing Mercy and Honor to quicken their steps, spinning around and around. All of them laughed at the absurd pace of the music, and didn’t notice Hardy until he stood at the pianoforte, his silver tray in hand.

“Hardy!” Honor said breathlessly as she and Mercy collided to a stop. “We didn’t see you there.”

“No, miss. I could not be heard over the music and the giggling,” he drawled.

Prudence stood, stretching her arms high above her head. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the silver tray.

“A caller,” he said, bowing lightly. “For Miss Cabot.”

Mercy was too quick for Honor—she darted in front of her sister and tried to grab the card before Honor could reach it. In spite of looking rather ancient, Hardy was a nimble man—he quickly lifted the tray above Mercy’s head, and her leap fell short.

“Hardy!” Mercy complained.

“Behave,” Honor said, and reached high above her sister to take the card from the tray. Her heart instantly did a bit of a flutter when she read the name: George Easton.

That little flutter of hesitation cost her, for Mercy was able to read it. “Who is George Easton?”

Grace gasped and stood from the writing desk, hurrying forward to have a look. “You didn’t invite him, did you?”

“No! That is, I sent a note, but I didn’t think he’d come—”

“Who is he?” Prudence demanded, crowding in beside her sisters, trying to view the card.

“Not someone you should know,” Grace said quickly, and to Hardy she asked, “Where is Augustine?”

“At his gentlemen’s club.”

“Hardy, will you please ask Mr. Easton to wait a moment while we...” She fluttered her fingers; Hardy apparently thought the gesture meant that he should quit the salon, and bowed before going out and shutting the door behind him.

Honor whirled about and stared at the windows, her heart racing as quickly as her mind. “Good Lord, he has come here!”

“Who is he?” Prudence demanded. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Thankfully, because you are not yet out and not aware of the sort of men that lurk,” Grace said darkly.

“Grace! That is hardly fair,” Honor protested. “It’s not as if he is courting me.”

“Then why has he come at all?” Mercy asked, confused.

Honor ignored Mercy—she had just realized that her hair was down, and she was dressed in the plainest gown she owned. She quickly pinched her cheeks for a bit of color.