“Pardon?” George asked.

“Employment,” Finnegan said, as if the word was foreign. “Work. It is an activity that other, less fortunate persons such as myself find necessary to do.”

George snorted. “What, do you suggest that I become a valet?”

“Absolutely not. You’d be utterly useless in that capacity. It would appear that your talents lie in the buying and selling of commodities. Cotton, for example. Were I you, I’d begin there.” Finnegan stood up, stepped over George again. “Shall I send for the physician to set your hand again?” he asked as he walked to the door.

“Yes.” George sighed and settled on his back, his injured hand on his chest, looking up at the painted ceiling.

Employment. A wage. It had been quite a long time since he’d worked for wages. But if he had even a modest income, he might sell this house—the symbol of the man he’d become, which, in hindsight, had been a bit of a cruel joke—and put himself, a wife and even a bloody cock of a valet in a respectable manor.

Honor would find the notion reprehensible, and if she didn’t, she was a bigger fool than he’d believed. But that was all he could do. Without a ship, without sufficient funds in the bank, his hands were broken. Quite literally.

George sat up, picked himself up, shoved his good hand through his hair. He’d lived through worse than this, that was certain. And he’d never been afraid of honest work. If there was one thing he might say for himself, it was that he believed in his ability to pull himself up.

Employment. He would call on Sweeney on the morrow. Perhaps he might partner with his agent. George certainly had the connections to buy and sell cotton, which Sweeney could use.

George went to find a comb to make himself presentable before the physician arrived a second time.

* * *

THREE DAYS PASSED before Honor finally stopped crying or lying listlessly about, staring into space. But it was Mercy who finally convinced Honor that the time for grieving had passed. “I think you should ring for a bath,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Fine,” Honor snapped. She wound her hair up, pulled on her dressing gown and stumbled down to the breakfast room while a bath was drawn.

Augustine and her sisters were in the dining room. Augustine came instantly to his feet, his fork clattering to the floor in his surprise. “Honor, darling,” he said, his eyes wide as he took her in. “You’re all right, aren’t you? You’re on the mend? You’ll return to yourself, will you?”

“She’s not going mad, if that’s what you think,” Prudence said.

Of course they all knew what had happened to Honor that night in Southwark. All of London knew it. Mr. Jett, her savior, had been unable to keep from telling the tale—casting himself in the role of hero, naturally.

“I’m all right,” Honor said, and sat heavily in a chair beside him. Augustine slid his plate to her, offering her bacon. Honor shook her head and turned away from it. The sight of food made her ill.

“I think you must pick yourself up,” Augustine said. “Rally and all, that sort of thing. Monica and I thought perhaps it might be best if you had a rest at Longmeadow.”

Honor gave him a wary glance.

“It would seem best until the Season is done, do you not agree?” he asked, wincing a little at the suggestion, as if he expected her to lash out at him.

“Actually, Augustine, I do,” she said, surprising her stepbrother. “I would like nothing more than to leave London and hopefully never see George Easton again.” She shook her head at the breakfast Hardy offered her, but allowed him to pour tea.

Augustine munched on his bacon, studying her. “Shall I send for anyone? Grace, perhaps?”

“No!” Honor said quickly, sitting up. “Please, no, Augustine. She will be quite cross with me, and besides, she should have a few weeks of happiness before word reaches her of what will surely be the Season’s most infamous scandal.”

“I suppose,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, Honor, I cannot help but ask—why did you do it? To Southwark, of all places! Alone! Mrs. Hargrove was quite beside herself, but I told her if you went, there was a very good reason for it. There was a very good reason for it, wasn’t there?”

“I had a very good reason for me,” she said flatly. “My feelings are entirely too complicated to explain properly, but perhaps you will understand if I ask if you’ve ever admired someone so completely that you believed you couldn’t possibly draw your next breath without them?”

Prudence and Mercy looked curiously at each other, but Augustine nodded enthusiastically.

“Or loved someone with every bit of yourself, and convinced yourself there is no point in carrying on without them?”

Again, Augustine nodded adamantly.

“Truly, Honor?” Mercy asked. “You wanted to die?”

“Not die, precisely,” Honor said. “But I can’t explain how I feel for Mr. Easton, darling. It seemed so...important,” she said with a weary shake of her head. “I went to tell him how I felt. To prove it. But the only thing I accomplished was my complete humiliation and ruin.”

Augustine leaned forward. “But...but might you have told him somewhere besides Southwark?” he asked carefully. “Perhaps without a lot of gaming and such? Perhaps a more private venue.”

Honor smiled for the first time in days. “No,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “That’s the peculiar thing. Southwark was a perfectly natural place for George and me. That’s the sort of people we are—swashbucklers.”

“Oh, dear,” Augustine said, looking truly distressed.

“But—” Mercy leaned forward, pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose “—doesn’t he want to marry you?”

Honor ran her hand over her sister’s head. “No,” she said, her voice so low she scarcely heard it herself. Tears filled her eyes at the admission.

“Oh, dear,” Augustine said again. “It’s the Rowley business all over again.”

“This is nothing like the Rowley business,” Honor corrected him. “Lord Rowley didn’t love me. The worst thing about this tragedy is that George Easton truly loves me.”

“That makes no sense,” Mercy said, squinting up at her through her spectacles. “If he loves you, why will he not marry you?”

“Mercy, leave her be,” Prudence said gently.

They didn’t ask her more, all of them falling into contemplative silence.

Honor took the bath Mercy had recommended. She donned her mourning garb, left her hair loose, having no energy or desire to put it up. She padded aimlessly and barefoot about the house, staring solemnly at portraits, wondering after their wretched romances. She picked up books and put them down again.

She had no idea what to do, where to go after such colossal ignominy. There seemed no place for her life to go.

Honor wandered up to her mother’s suite to read to her. Lady Beckington stood at the window, staring out as Honor read listlessly from a book.

“He’s come,” her mother said as Honor read.

Honor looked up. “Who, Mamma?”

“That man. The earl!” she said, and smiled brightly. “He’s come. Oh, dear, have you any shoes?”

“I’ll put them on later,” Honor said, and returned to her reading.

Her mother was not listening, however. She leaned forward, her hands on the window, her nose pressed against it. “He’s coming, Juliette!” she said excitedly, calling Honor by her deceased sister’s name. “The earl is coming here.”

Honor sighed and put aside the book. “Come and rest, Mamma.”

Her mother hurried to her vanity. She opened a drawer and rummaged through it, and turned around, her smile bright, and held out an emerald drop necklace to Honor. “Here, then. It will go very well with your gown.”

Honor looked down at her black gown.

Her mother was quickly at her side, turning her about, pushing her hair away to fasten the heart-shaped emerald at her throat. She turned Honor around again and stood back, nodding her head with approval. “You want to look your best for the earl!” her mother exclaimed. “Who stole your shoes?”

“No one stole my shoes—”

“Honor!”

It was Prudence, calling to Honor from down the hallway. “Honor, where are you?” She burst into her mother’s room, her eyes wide. “It’s him!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, and for a moment, Honor almost believed the earl had come back from the dead.

“Who?”

“Easton!”

Honor gasped. She unthinkingly stepped back, bumping into her mother. “No! No, Prudence, you must send him away! I don’t want to see him!”

“You must!” her mother said, pushing her forward. “You can’t deny the earl!”

Prudence looked confused by that, but said, “Augustine told him you’d not see him, and Easton said, very well, he would stand in the foyer until he was forcibly removed.”

“What?” Honor’s heart began to pound painfully in her chest. She frantically looked down. “I can’t see him!” she said. “I can’t endure it!”

“Honor,” Prudence said, and grabbed her hand. “I must tell you, he was very stern with Augustine. He insisted that he see you, that he owed you this, that you deserved this call.”

Something snapped in Honor. She would never be entirely certain what it was Prudence had said that put the steel in her spine, but she was struck by a rare moment of clarity when all of the knowledge she possessed about the world and people came into sharp focus. The pieces of her life, of her heart, rearranged themselves into a crystal understanding.

Honor looked at her mother. Lady Beckington was smiling serenely. “You mustn’t keep the earl waiting, darling. That will only make him more determined.”

Truer words had never been spoken, and with newfound strength, Honor surged forward, wrapped her arms around her mother and held her tight. When she let go, she looked at Prudence. “How do I look?”