“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.

He looked down at his tankard, away from her breasts. The girl stood a moment longer at his table before turning and swishing away.

George pushed his tankard aside. He’d lost his thirst. He couldn’t seem to rid his mind of the events of these past two days, of that astonishingly intimate interlude on the viewing balcony. He’d lost his mind that night, had allowed himself to sink into the depths of his imagination and feelings that had crept up on him, slipping under his skin.

He couldn’t seem to rid himself of the feelings. Big, thick feelings with tentacles had wrapped around his heart and were now holding it prisoner. His instinct was, as always, to ignore those feelings, to tamp them down so far that he might forget where he put them. And here he was, as tangled in thoughts and emotions as he’d ever been in his life, and he didn’t know how to get free of them.

But he had to get free of them, somehow, some way. Honor Cabot was a dalliance he could not sustain, a woman from a world he would never know. And she...

She needed to think of her future.

He put some money on the table and gathered up his cloak for the ride to Longmeadow. Why was he still here? Why had he come? Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop dreaming of her. Now he had to return to London, to important things—such as what the devil he’d do if he had indeed lost his fortune to the sea.

The sun was sinking behind the trees when George rode down the long drive to Longmeadow. It was a fine early evening; the front door was standing open, and people were walking back from the track where they had raced horses this afternoon.

He handed the reins of his horse to a young man and instructed him to have his horse ready to depart the following morning. On his way to the entrance, George happened to notice a woman draped in a cloak, the hood pulled over her head. But she was holding her arms tightly across her in a manner that he recognized. He changed course, strolling to Honor’s side. He bent his head to peek underneath her hood.

“There you are, Easton,” she said, her smile strangely vacant. “Has Longmeadow already lost its charm for you? We missed you and your purse at the races this afternoon.”

He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her, let her know that he had missed her, too. But he clasped his hands at his back. “Quite the contrary, Cabot. I am completely charmed by Longmeadow. What are you doing out here, alone, cloaked for winter?”

Honor glanced away, toward the lake. “Pru took Mamma for a walkabout, but they’ve not come back.” She squinted in the distance.

George understood the worry in her eyes, and the impact on him was powerful. He did not want Honor Cabot to ever feel the least bit hopeless and thought he’d go to the ends of the earth to keep her from it. “Where did they go?”

“I thought they’d gone down to the gazebo by the lake, but I’ve just come from there, and no one is about.”

“You’re sure they’ve not gone into the house, perhaps from another direction?” he asked, peering into the gloaming.

She shook her head. “I’ve searched everywhere.” She dropped her arms, her hands in tight fists of anxiety. “I’ll have another look,” she said, and started to walk away from him.

“Honor, wait,” George said, taking her elbow. “It’s almost dark. Allow me to help.” They walked down to the lake, where a streak of gold and orange from the last rays of the setting sun split the lake in half. “They cannot have gone far,” George assured her, sensing her growing unease. He wanted to put his arms around her, infuse her with his confidence. “Your sister will not have let her roam.”

“You assume my sister could keep her from it,” Honor said, her voice betraying a bit of panic. “Mamma is worse, George, so much worse. It’s as if coming here to Longmeadow somehow hastened her along. You can’t imagine!”

He couldn’t bear it. To hell with propriety and talk. George put his arm around Honor’s shoulders and pulled her into his chest. “Take heart, love,” he said. “I’ll find her. Go back to the house, go and be as happy and carefree as you can be so that no one will suspect, and I shall bring her back to you.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” Honor said wearily. “I’ve asked far too much as it is.”

“Go now,” he said, ignoring her protests. “Go before your guests think your entire family is missing. Mercy and Grace need you now.”

That seemed to give her pause, long enough that George could turn her around and give her a nudge. He had no idea where he would look for the women, especially now that night was falling. He began to move in the direction of the gazebo.

“George?”

He paused and looked back. Honor was on the path to the house. In the waning light, she looked ethereally beautiful, and a small but powerful tremor of desire raced through him. “Thank you,” she said. “From the bottom of my useless heart, thank you.” She turned around and moved on, the cloak fluttering out behind her.

He had no idea why she would say such a thing. Honor Cabot had the most useful heart of anyone he’d ever known.

* * *

HONOR HANDED HER cloak to a footman as she walked into the foyer, soothed her hastily arranged hair and the gown she’d donned so quickly when she’d heard about her mamma.

Why Lady Beckington had become convinced that the earl had been poisoned, Honor could not begin to guess. His lordship had been sitting up in his bed, still very much alive, and yet her mother would not believe Honor or the earl.

“Take her to London at once,” the earl had ordered between painful, racking coughs. “I don’t care what you must say, Honor, but remove her from Longmeadow before the entire party is aware of her madness.”

It was happening so quickly! Like the cuff of her sleeve, Lady Beckington’s madness had been a tiny thread, perhaps ignored for too long. But once it began to unravel, it unraveled quickly.

Honor felt as if her entire life was one long unraveling now.

She moved through the crowd gathering for the final night of the soiree. There would be dancing, and supper would be served in two sets to accommodate the large number, the first seating at nine o’clock. Honor put a smile on her face and paused to speak to anyone she knew. She chatted about the fine weather, the horse races next month at Newmarket. She was the consummate actress, and as Lady Chatham prattled on about the latest attractions among the debutantes and the young gentlemen, she thought about how often she’d done this very thing, had made the rounds through crowds, talking and flirting. She’d felt as if she were rebelling, spreading her smiles to gentlemen far and wide. She’d thought herself bold.

Tonight, she felt more like a child, and longed to crawl into George’s lap and hide from the world.

She found Augustine reviewing the menu with Hardy. Naturally, Monica was there as well, and for once, she looked almost genuinely pleased to see Honor.

“There you are! We’ve been waiting for you to come down. Oh, dear, Honor, I expected to see you dressed in something expensive and glittery,” she said laughingly as she took in Honor’s rather plain gown. “You always shine so.”