“It would have helped considerably if you’d married Morven.”
Honor stared at him. She was to have been the sacrificial lamb. Should she feel guilty that she’d let them all down, or angry that he would do such a cruel thing to her without batting an eyelash?
“I believe we shall come about,” she said, her shoulders stiff.
“Oh you do, do you.” He shook his head. “It won’t matter what you think from the depths of the country, my girl. Have your bags packed. When we return to London you will go to live with your Aunt Christabel in Northumberland.”
She leapt from the chair. “Please don’t send me away, Father! I have an idea that could help you.” She swallowed, and her voice almost deserted her at her presumption. Never had she spoken to him like this.
Surprised, he huffed out a laugh. “An idea?” He shook his head.
“Give me one week. It’s all I ask.”
He narrowed his eyes, but she could see he was intrigued. “Only if you tell me what this idea of yours is.”
“I…I can’t.”
“Then stop wasting my time with this nonsense. Go. Instruct your maid to prepare for your journey.”
“What will it cost you to give me a week?” she pleaded. “I can get you the money you need.”
“How? Robbery? By bringing further disgrace upon your family? Society will already be abuzz at your conduct. I couldn’t marry you now to a pauper.”
“I won’t do anything illegal.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “You know I wouldn’t.”
“Are you keeping secrets from me? Another suitor?” His gaze roamed over her. When had she ever found affection in his eyes? She was not of his blood. He associated her with her father’s death. Their relationship had been cool from the first—more so when her mother’s nerves had worsened and she’d failed to please him, and Honor had tried to protect her from his displeasure. She’d seen the shame in his eyes, and suspected he hated her for it.
“You may accompany Faith to the Goodridge ball. Then you will leave for the country, Sunday next.”
“Very well, Father.”
Weak with relief, Honor left the study. She found her mother lurking in the corridor. “Is everything all right, Honor?”
“Yes, Mama. Don’t worry.”
Her mother smiled. “I felt sure it would be.” Honor admired her mother’s ability to ignore anything nasty. She wished she had inherited it.
“The new gowns have arrived from the dressmaker for our final approval,” her mother said. “Faith is trying on hers.” She clutched her hands together. “They are so beautiful. Do come and see.”
Honor followed her mother up the stairs. Her raspberry gauze gown! That dress would serve her well. But if her plan failed, she would never wear the dress again.
Chapter Eleven
Edward left Warne’s carriage in London with the knowledge their friendship was at an end. He felt only relief as he walked to his rooms. During the trip, Warne had complained bitterly at how a fellow should be able to rely on a friend. After a friend let him down, well, he couldn’t see his way clear to trust him again. “All you had to do was give me a few moments alone with Lady Faith,” he repeated, with a fervent shake of his head. “Was that too much to ask?”
Edward didn’t have the energy to tell Warne why he hadn’t. He wouldn’t understand it. Warne made his own rules, pushing his way up the social ladder, just as he had pushed his way into Edward’s life. He supposed Warne saw him as a useful acquaintance. Edward could only be glad that in this instance he hadn’t been and that their friendship was at an end.
But what of Honor? What must she be facing? He had wanted to speak to her father, but there was little he could say. He hadn’t witnessed what happened at the grotto. He could only hope that Baxendale knew what sort of a cad the duke was.
After changing his clothes, he traveled to his office for what was left of the day to pacify his clerk with a few hours’ work. It would be good to lose himself in legal matters. A man knew where he was with the law. It was so reassuringly predictable, and it might help rid his mind of the picture of Honor’s pale, distressed face as he’d ushered her back to safety and her mother.
Two days later, Edward was again at his desk, breathing in the musty air with relish and sighing over his well-ordered files. He had just addressed a letter to his brother Bartholomew at his vicarage in York, asking how they might rescue his namesake, the little black page at Morven Hall, when Lady Honor was announced.
His unreliable heart leapt as she crossed his floor with her shy smile. “I am so grateful to you for your assistance in Cornwall, Lord Edward. I didn’t have a chance to thank you.”
He rose and took her gloved hands in his, gazing down into the beautiful brown eyes her glasses failed to diminish. “It was my pleasure. I was glad to be of service.”
“I’m sure Mr. Warne was cross with you for disallowing him a moment alone with Faith,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“A trifle disappointed, perhaps.” He drew out the chair for her.
She sat and arranged her green skirts around her. Her hat, adorned with yellow flowers, was pretty. A yellow bow sat to one side beneath her dimpled chin.
Edward drew breath, surprised at how much his opinion of her had changed. He fought to adopt a businesslike tone. “Is there something more I can do for you?”
She folded white-gloved hands in her lap. “No, thank you. I came to advise you that I shall proceed with my plan on Thursday evening.”
A chill went through him. “Oh? How?”
A frown creased the delicate skin between her brows. “You are still against the idea?”
“But of course.”
“I’m afraid it has become even more imperative that I take action.”
He perched on the edge of his desk. “Then perhaps you’d better tell me what you have in mind.”
“Do you know, Lord Edward,” she said, her voice cool, “I was in two minds about coming to tell you. I’m only here because I promised.”
He heard the warning in her voice. His gaze roamed over her, enjoying how the modest lace collar failed to hide her delicate throat. He would stop her if it was the last thing he did. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Very well. Kindly continue.”
Thick dark lashes swept down and hid her eyes. He’d discovered it to be a ploy to cloak her emotions. “Faith and I are to attend a ball. I shall slip away and go to the club.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And gain admittance?”
“I have thought of a way.”
“Will you not tell me?”
When she rose, she was so close to where he perched on the desk, he could smell her perfume. Violets. “No,” she said firming her lips. “I have kept my promise. Now I must return home before I’m missed.” She turned away from him.
He slid off the desk and took hold of her arm, swinging her around. “Tell me all of it. You owe me that much.”
Her delicious mouth formed an “o.” Dammit. Edward dropped her arm, dazed by his need to fold her into his arms and kiss that mouth into submission. But he refused to add to her experiences of oafish and dangerous men.
Anger sparked in her eyes. “Your generosity doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me, sir.”
They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Honor.” Edward held up his hands in supplication, attempting to control his frustration. He was still determined to thwart her. “You are risking too much. You need protecting.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I still don’t know why you feel so keenly that I need protecting. Or why you have taken on the role.”
Because she was the most remarkable woman he had met. He opened his mouth but couldn’t find an answer to satisfy her, beyond the fact that he needed to get closer. Much closer than he had any right to. He sighed. It was impossible. She would be outraged. She resisted him with a frosty stare and quiet determination in her rig
id stance. “I believe I have explained why.”
“We are attending a ball held by Lord and Lady Goodridge.” She gathered up her reticule and smoothed her gloves. “That is all I am prepared to tell you.”
“Why are you so set against me? Have I not done everything in my power to help you?”
“You are a man, my lord. And men feel it their duty to rule women.”
Was she afraid he wanted something more from her? That he would jump on her like Morven? No doubt the duke had added to her distrust of men. Edward was aware he must handle her with kid gloves. He set his teeth and admitted he wasn’t making a good job of it. “You believe I will stop you?”
“I know you will try, my lord. Good day.”
She turned and left the room.
Damn. He must see Sibella.
“You are not to tell Mother,” Edward said in Sibella’s drawing room.
“Of course not.” She handed him the porcelain cup and saucer. “Honor certainly has hidden depths. I must invite her to Haldane Hall after the babe is born. Faith too, who is such good company.” She frowned. “I don’t see why you needed to travel to Cornwall, though. Unless…” she gave him a speculative glance. “Do you love Honor?”
“Love?” Edward widened his eyes, his teaspoon suspended in his hand above the cup. Love meant complete disruption. A man in love never knew where he stood, and nothing Honor had said or done since he’d met her divested him of that opinion.
“Yes. Love,” Sibella said. “You are familiar with the emotion. I seem to remember you were once enamored enough of Olivia Buckley to want to marry her.”
“I believe you mean the Marchioness of Royle,” he said. “You are talking about ancient history.”
“The best way to mend a broken heart is to fall in love again,” Sibella continued ruthlessly. “Preferably with someone who is able to return your affection. Olivia only loved herself.”
“Hearts do not break, Sib,” he said with a sigh. He blamed his mother for this. “And I didn’t come all the way to Grosvenor Place for advice on love.”
Edward wondered why he had come. His muddled explanation and chaotic appearance didn’t seem to bother his sister, who studied him from the corner of the sofa, her calm, unruffled self.
“And if you are referring to Lady Honor, you are wasting your time. She doesn’t appear to like me.”
“My dear brother, I can’t believe Honor has gained an unfavorable opinion of you.”
“I’m not sure what impression I’ve given her. Beyond my expertise in matters of law, I suspect it’s not auspicious,” he admitted, smoothing his cravat, which had a tendency to wilt. It was as if his clothes also disobeyed him.
“Have you flirted with her?”
“Flirt with Lady Honor? Lord, no.”
“Perhaps if you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He shrugged, finding it difficult to follow the threads of Sibella’s rambling discussion. “You believe so?”
“You are an excellent flirt when you put your mind to it, Edward.”
This was a serious matter, not something to make light of. Edward raised his eyebrows. “But in this instance…”
“If you have a sincere interest in the lady, you should apprise her of it. I’ve observed you at balls. You have a lady’s full attention when you wish, and you maintain it with humor.” She leaned toward him, as far as her girth would allow, and patted his hand.
“Flirting’s something men and women indulge in,” he said. “It means nothing. It’s a sport.”
“So you flirt only when your heart is not engaged? How is a woman to know your true intention?”
“Sib, I must say…” Edward tugged at his cravat, aware the arrangement was beyond help. There was no point to this. Whatever Honor’s stepfather had in mind for her, now that her engagement to the duke had come to naught, did not involve him. Honor had given no indication she would welcome his attentions; in fact, she’d been quite standoffish, and he didn’t blame her, for he opposed her plan. It mattered not, for Baxendale would hardly accept a solicitor of comfortable if modest means, even if he was a Brandreth.
“Ladies are often seduced by humor,” Sibella said.
“You think so, eh?” Was this his sensible sister, Sibella? Were all pregnant women so incomprehensible? Edward decided it was unwise to argue. Her husband John was a serious fellow. He had been a military spy, for heaven’s sake, and was now a force to be reckoned with in the House of Lords. Edward had never heard mention of his humorous anecdotes.
“Oh, yes.” Sibella grew misty-eyed. “When John proposed…and later…” She shook her head and picked up her knitting. “If I could help you, I would, but John would not be pleased. He fusses over me far more than Mama does. Edward, you have always been so careful. I want to see you do something completely outrageous for once. Life rewards those who take chances. I only ask that you try.”
Edward considered uneasily whether he’d become a dull dog, and left his sister to her nest-building, which he blamed for turning her fine mind to mush. He had much to do before he could consider flirting with Honor. Moreover, he suspected that when he was done, his sense of humor would have vanished for some considerable time.
****
Honor left the ball and slipped out into the street. She hailed a hackney, delighted her escape had been so smoothly accomplished. Her parents had chosen to dine with the Prime Minister rather than attend the ball, after her stepfather decided it would reap better rewards. She left her friend, Felicity Holmes, in charge of Faith. Worried for Honor’s safety, Faith demanded she be told the full story upon her return.
Sitting back in the hackney, Honor heaved a sigh and donned the new acquisition she had hidden in the front garden of the Goodridge mansion, a ghastly, crimson mantilla. She removed her glasses and her pearl-and-diamond earrings, popping them into her reticule, the largest one she could find in London, which was already stuffed with money. The imitation ruby earrings she had bought at a stall in Covent Garden pinched her ears. When the carriage pulled up, she clasped her new fan, which was painted with a ribald scene that made her blush when she opened it, and climbed down. She paid the jarvie, ignoring his start of surprise at her transformation, and glanced about her.
Stratford Place was a short street of grand buildings off Oxford Street. Honor located the gaming house, a discreet, three-story terrace with arched windows on the ground floor. Candlelight flickered from every window, including those in the attics, which gave her pause. Was it merely a gaming house, or also a brothel?
As she had hoped, several courtesans in their gaudy finery waited at the door for admittance. An older woman in a violet gown with black lace barely concealing her breasts approached her. “You aren’t from around ’ere, are you, love?”
“No. I’ve just come up from the country,” Honor said.
“What’s your name?”
“Sally.”
“We’ll look after you, Sally. You stick by us.”
“Not when I go upstairs, she don’t,” said another woman, smoothing her bright, guinea-gold locks. “I don’t do threesomes.”
A young woman in thin muslin with a black velvet ribbon around her neck eyed Honor’s gown. “Where’d you get that dress?”
“It was me ma’s,” Honor said, imitating the kitchen maid at Highland Manor. “She ’ad a generous lover, but she got sick and died, so now I ’ave it.”
The girl took a step back. “What did she die of?”
“La grippe.” Honor pulled her garish red mantilla around her shoulders to cover the elegant raspberry gauze brocaded with white silken flowers over a white satin slip. Madam Chevalle had quite outdone herself. She patted her hair, which was embellished with a tatty feather she’d anchored into her riotous curls.
Honor slipped inside the house with the rest without incident. In the foyer, the heat and the noise washed over her. She stood stock-still, terrified, her stomach dropping. She wanted this so much, had planned for
it ever since she’d read Leighton had returned to England, and now she wanted to turn tail and run. She fanned herself vigorously and hurried to stay close to the women as they wandered through the elegant rooms crammed with gamblers. What if he didn’t come tonight? Must she do this again? She dragged in a breath of smoky air and coughed, a sour taste in her mouth. A thousand candles burned on every surface, from silver candelabrum, wall sconces, and glass chandeliers overhead. The courtesans, their eyes sharp and assessing, chatted to the men while waiters wandered with trays carrying flutes of champagne.
With a gasp of relief, Honor saw Leighton. She knew him on sight, although the years had not been kind to him. He was thicker around the girth, and his bald pate shone like an egg in the candlelight. Memories of her father rattled her, and for a moment, she quaked and her body refused to move. Breathing deeply, she crossed the floor.
“Come and give me luck, lovely lady.” A dark-haired man smoking a cigarillo made a grab at her as she passed. She slipped beyond his grasping hand and walked to where Mr. Leighton played faro.
Leighton glanced up at her and then dismissed her, his attention on his cards.
“Circulate, or leave,” Lord Bellwood said close to her ear. “Or go upstairs with a gentleman.”
Honor cleared her throat. “I’ll mingle, dearie,” she said, her heart thudding in her ears. “I ’ave a little money, so I thought I’d play.”
Bellwood observed her coolly. “Have you, indeed. Name your poison. Faro, back-gammon, whist, vingt-un?”
“No, a French lover taught me a game. It’s called quinze.”
Leighton raised his head and studied her. “Quinze? I know it, played it in France.”
“It’s a game for two. We don’t normally allow it here,” Bellwood said. “If you play quinze, the banker takes thirty percent of the winnings.”
Honor gasped, but held her tongue. Leighton studied her, his brows beetling. “How much money could the likes of you have to play with?”
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