“But...but your father was a bishop,” Augustine said, clearly surprised by her objection. “And Mr. Cleburne may be a vicar, but he is a wealthy one.”

“I don’t care about his wealth,” Honor said. “I care that he is a man I scarcely know, a vicar at Longmeadow no less, with no society other than widows and orphans. What do you think, that I shall pass my days embroidering and taking long walks?”

“Do you harbor some grievance against Longmeadow? For you have seemed perfectly at ease there all these years!”

“I am very fond of Longmeadow. I should not like to spend all my days in the country any more than you would!”

“I would be very grateful if I were to spend my days at Longmeadow and not in a meaner house in a meaner part of England!” Augustine said sharply, his cheeks mottling with his anger. “And do you not think that perhaps the country might not be the best place for Lady Beckington? Away from the society you apparently covet? Have you thought of that?”

Honor was shocked.

“Allow me this, Honor. As I am to be the Earl of Beckington sooner rather than later, and you shall be my ward. I want... No, I demand, yes, I demand that you marry. If you cannot produce someone of your own choosing, then I should very much like you to do your very best to find some common ground with Mr. Cleburne with the hope of making a match. Do I make myself clear?”

“I can’t believe this!” she protested.

“Well—” he pressed his lips together for a moment “—believe it.”

Honor’s head began to spin with the threat of marrying the anxious, hopeful vicar in the salon and, confusingly, George Easton. “You might at least allow the gentleman to make an offer before you command it.”

“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.”

“Then perhaps you should invite me in so that I will not be exposed to prying eyes,” she suggested without compunction.

Why was it he could not refuse women? Was his creator so cruel as to give him such a terribly vulnerable flaw? He looked her up and down and said, “I shudder to think what my Finnegan will have to say,” and gestured impatiently for her to come along.

Honor looked back to her driver and waved. The man instantly set the coach in motion.

“Wait!” George exclaimed. “Where is he going? Tell him to come back at once!”

“He believes I have come to call on a sick friend and that I shall see myself home. It’s a lovely walk from here. You might try it! But if you prefer, you may lend me your coach to see me home.”

George gaped at her. “You are free with my transport, are you not?”

“I am merely taking your concern for my reputation into account. Anyone might see the Beckington coach sitting before your house. Speaking of that, which one is it? This one?” she asked, pointing up to his white brick townhome.

He sighed.

“It’s lovely, Easton!” she said brightly, and moved up the walk to the steps.

“For God’s sake, Miss Cabot, at least do me the courtesy of accompanying you into my house,” he said gruffly, and caught her elbow, escorting her up the stairs, glancing around them to see who noticed.

“That won’t do the least bit of good,” Honor said. “Don’t you know that women in their dotage do nothing all day but sit about at their windows peering down at houses that belong to men like you?”

George muttered something under his breath, reached for the brass door handle and pushed it open.

Finnegan was there and took an almost unnoticeable step backward when he saw Honor.

Honor seemed to think nothing of it as she glided into the foyer. “Oh, Mr. Easton, your house is so lovely,” she said, looking up at the domed ceiling above her head. She took off her hat and handed it to Finnegan without actually looking at him.

Finnegan exchanged a look with George, a rakish twinkle in his eye. That was precisely what George deserved in taking the ex-lover of his ex-lover as his valet. “Thank you, Finnegan, that will be all,” George said.

“Shall I serve tea?”

“Serve whatever you like,” George snapped, and startled Honor by taking her by the elbow and marching her into the small salon.

Once inside, she wrested free of his grip and walked to the middle of the room, turning slowly to take in the silk-papered walls, the French gold-leaf furnishings, the portrait of a lady dripping with pearls hanging over the mantel. “Who is she?” she asked, tilting her head back to better see the woman with the piercing blue eyes, the creamy skin. “One of your acquaintances?” she asked coyly, looking at him sidelong.

“I haven’t the slightest idea who she is,” George said, and leaned back against the closed door, his arms folded over his chest. “Honor, look at me.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder.