Honor had been right to suspect her. Monica had believed her mother wanted what was best for her, but what she wanted was connection and money, just like everyone else in London. At least Honor wanted something pure. Honor wanted love. What else might explain her esteem for Easton?

That was why, then, when Monica heard from Augustine the very next day that Easton was desperately gambling every night, trying to piece together the fortune he’d lost, she told Honor. Only this time, she didn’t tell Honor about it to warn her away from Easton. She really hoped Honor would find some way to help him.

As it happened, Monica rather admired the charming George Easton.



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

HONOR INSTANTLY SUSPECTED trickery when Monica came to her at Lady Barclay’s tea with the news of George’s desperate gambling. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

Monica shrugged. “I thought you’d want to know.”

There was nothing in Monica’s expression or demeanor to suggest otherwise. But then again, Honor didn’t understand Monica any longer. It was as if her old friend had changed overnight. She’d become gentler, more accepting of Honor and her sisters. And especially of her mother.

“What am I to do?” Honor asked, frustrated by the news.

“I don’t know,” Monica said. “But if anyone would know, I believe it would be you.” She smiled and walked away to join her friends.

Honor could only wonder at Monica’s motives, but later, at the same tea, she overheard Lady Vickers speaking about Easton. Laughing at him, actually. It seemed that Lord Vickers had frequented the gaming hell in Southwark and had witnessed George being turned away from tables as no one believed he could honor his bets any longer.

“That’s not true,” said Lady Stillings. “He certainly divested my hapless husband of a large sum.” The ladies tittered.

For days afterward, Honor could think of little else. After one long sleepless night, she awoke to the answer of how to make Easton admit the truth and stop losing all that he had. He was a gambler; he would never freely offer something so personal as she had offered herself and her love. She also knew him well enough to know that he had to prove to himself that he deserved happiness.

Once Honor realized it, she knew precisely what she had to do. It was an enormous risk, one that could truly ruin her forevermore. But Honor had never shied from risk, and if she was right, she would win her happiness. If she was wrong, well... She’d just as soon be put away in St. Asaph with her mother. She’d be no use to society or anything else. She wouldn’t care what happened to her after that.

That night, she dressed in the peacock-blue gown she’d worn with the bonnet Monica had commissioned. She summoned Prudence to her room to fasten the buttons.

“Where are you going?” Prudence said. “You’re not allowed to wear something so colorful, are you? Only black.”

“I think the earl would approve,” Honor said.

Prudence stepped back. “But...where are you going?” she asked again, her voice low and serious.

Honor smiled at her sister. “You were right, Pru.”

“Pardon? When?”

“When you said I should marry for love.”

Prudence gasped. “Are you eloping?”

“No. But I am going to offer for Mr. Easton’s hand.”

Prudence’s mouth dropped open. She looked so shocked that Honor couldn’t help but laugh. “Wish me luck, darling. If he refuses, I doubt I will ever have another offer. I certainly won’t want one.”

Prudence folded her arms and studied Honor a long moment. “He couldn’t possibly refuse,” she said solemnly. “And if he does, you’d not like to be married to him because he is a wretched fool.”

Honor smiled gratefully at her sister and embraced her. “Thank you. I am in need of all encouragement, for my knees are shaking, and my stomach is quite in knots.”

“Shall I come with you?” Prudence asked.

Honor shook her head. “I would not want you anywhere near what I will do this evening.”

On her way out, Honor stopped in to see her mother. Lady Beckington smiled with pleasure at the sight of Honor. “Oh, my,” she said, nodding approvingly. “How lovely you look, my love.”

“Thank you, Mamma!” Honor said, pleased that this was a lucid moment. She walked to her mother’s side and crouched down beside her. “Mamma, I would like you to know that I intend to marry for love.”

“Do you?” her mother asked, and stroked Honor’s hair. “Very good, for anything less than that is a waste of some very good years.”

Surprised, Honor blinked at her mother.

Her mother smiled. “Don’t look so astonished. I married for love once.” She glanced back at Hannah and said, “Didn’t I, Mother?”

Hannah smiled. “Indeed, you did.”

“Thank you, Mamma.” As far as Honor was concerned, she had her mother’s blessing, as much as she was able to give it.

Jonas looked at her askance when Honor told him she was to Southwark, but Honor ignored him and settled back against the squabs and clutched her reticule tightly, her belly churning with nerves. She kept drawing deep breaths in a futile effort to soothe her racing heart. Her entire life had been building to this night. She hoped that she would remember everything she’d been taught, that she could find the courage to reach with both hands for the one thing she wanted—to love a man with all her heart and be loved by him, no matter what.

No matter what.

In Southwark, she asked Jonas to wait. “I may be a while,” she said.

He looked at the building and at her. “You’re certain, miss? You’d not like me to come in with you?”

“Thank you, but, no. I’d best go in alone.” She wasn’t certain of that at all, really, but it seemed something she had to do alone. She stepped into the dimly lit club, saw the many male heads turn toward her. Expressions of shock and disgust, bafflement and lust began to dance before her eyes. She felt as conspicuous as she must appear to them all—a fish out of water, a woman who had crossed some invisible line.

Please, God, let him be here. Honor lifted her chin and began to walk through, looking at every table.

“Miss Cabot!”

It was Mr. Jett, and Honor almost swooned with relief at the sight of a friendly face.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, glancing back at the door. “Are you alone?”

She nodded.

“Oh, no, Miss Cabot. This is far too brazen,” he said, as if she didn’t know it. As if she’d somehow stumbled into the gaming hell by accident.

“Is Mr. Easton here?” she asked.

Something flickered over Mr. Jett’s eyes. “I fear this time you’ve gone too far, Miss Cabot,” he said low.

“Mr. Jett...is he?” she asked again.

He sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “The last table,” he said. “He’s there every night.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Jett shook his head and stepped back, as if he did not wish to be associated with her.

She could scarcely blame him. She did not look into the faces of the men who eyed her as if she were prized game, but kept her gaze ahead of her, stepping around one or two men who deliberately stood in her way as she progressed to the back of the room.

George didn’t notice her at first—he was intent on his hand, intent on the coins in the middle of the table. He looked thinner than when she’d last felt his arms around her. His hair had not been cut, and his right hand was wrapped with a bandage.

As Honor moved near the table, his opponent threw in his cards. “Bloody hell,” he groused, and said something else that was unfamiliar to Honor but sounded quite vile. The gentleman lifted his ale to his lips, at which point he saw Honor and spilled a bit of it in his haste to stand. “Madam.”

George’s head came up at that. He quickly came to his feet, and Honor saw a glint of emotion flash in his eyes. It was quickly overshadowed by his surprise and anger, but she saw it, and she knew that he loved her yet.

The knowledge emboldened her. When he demanded to know what she was doing there, she said, “I have come to play, Mr. Easton. As you might have guessed, with the passing of my stepfather, my dowry has shrunk.”

“No,” he said instantly, and pointed to the door. “Leave at once. This is no place for a lady.”

Honor held out her reticule, aware that several gentlemen had made their way to this table to see what was happening. “I have ninety-two pounds. I should like to use it to play.”

“You won’t shy from a lass, will you, Easton?” someone called, and the gentlemen laughed.

George’s eyes narrowed on her, his gaze almost murderous, and Honor was suddenly grateful that others were nearby.

“These are not games for debutantes,” he said tightly. “It is ten pounds to enter.”

Honor swallowed down a lump of nerves. “I have ten pounds.”

The gentlemen around her howled. Honor could feel the crowd growing at her back, and it frightened her. She had not counted on the uneasiness of being the only woman in a room of men with money and liquor in their gullets. George was aware of it, too, apparently, because he suddenly yanked out a chair and gestured with exaggeration for her to sit.

Honor took the seat, her reticule tight on her lap.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said low as he resumed his seat.

“No,” she said. “Have you?”

He glared at her as he gestured for a footman. “Wine, madam?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Easton. I should like to keep my wits about me.”

His gaze flicked over her, and if Honor wasn’t mistaken, she saw the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“May I assume Commerce meets with your approval?” he said, picking up the cards.

“Certainly.” She withdrew ten pounds from her reticule and placed it on the table.