Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Penelope gave a toss of her curls. “Beyond your chance meeting in Hyde Park when he happened to rescue Poppy.” Their sister clearly took umbrage with the idea that she had loaned her very life in one of Prudence’s schemes.

  She frowned, somehow managing the stern disapproval their mother would have approved of. “He didn’t happen to rescue me. He did rescue me.” The youngest Tidemore ruined all effect at mature sophistication by popping too much of a sugared pastry in her mouth.

  “Did he?” Penelope shot back never taking her gaze from Prudence’s. “And how very coincidental it was that, of all the places you should find yourself in Hyde Park, was near His Lordship?”

  Having had enough of her sister’s unnecessary needling, she came to her feet in a flurry of skirts. “You and Jonathan should both find yourselves grateful he was there.”

  Poppy gave a firm nod of her head, her mouth too full of her tart to offer any suitable reply beyond that.

  “For if he hadn’t—”

  “If he hadn’t, then he would not have nearly trampled Poppy under the legs of his mount.”

  She wrinkled her nose. Well, she had her there. But still…

  “Well, I didn’t have any place on the riding path,” Poppy put in. Unhelpfully.

  “Precisely!” Penelope exclaimed, jabbing her finger in the air.

  “Neither of you had a place on the riding path. And yet there you were.” Oh, blast, with her inquisitiveness and blasted intelligence, Penelope would have made a better Bow Street Runner than John Fielding. “No doubt to meet Lord St. Cyr.”

  Poppy mouthed a silent “I’m sorry” over in Prudence’s direction. She gave her a forgiving smile. When Penelope was in one of her moods, she could rival their mother with her disapproval.

  “It matters not,” she said tiredly. “The gentleman has little interest in me.”

  “Good,” Penelope said with such emotion that a blend of anger and hurt flooded Prudence.

  “What do you know of him?” she snapped, stalking over to the King Louis XIV chair her sister occupied. “You know nothing beyond the gossip columns.”

  “I know what Sin has said of him,” Penelope all but shouted coming to her feet and coming toe-to-toe with her.

  Fury spread through Prudence’s being, threatening to consume her. “What disparaging words did he utter about the marquess?”

  “So, it is true.”

  “Enough!” Poppy wedged herself between them and with several deliberate shoves, separated them. “You are not to fight over a gentleman.”

  “We are not fighting over a gentleman,” Prudence bit out. “We are fighting about one.” How dare her sister form an opinion based on nothing more than sugar and water about a man she knew nothing of. Had she not herself been victim to Society’s ill opinion that she’d even now pass judgment upon him?

  Their chests heaved with the force of their ire. It was Penelope who stepped away. The fight seemed to leave her willowy frame, replaced with the same abject disappointment she’d worn the day Prudence clipped the ringlets off her favorite doll when they’d been girls of seven and five. “You said you would not make a scandal the way Patrina had.” Had her sister’s words dripped with condescending ire, it would have been easier to take than this abject disappointment.

  Prudence’s throat worked. “I am not making a scandal of myself.” The urge to fold her hands behind her back and cross her fingers was as strong now as it had been when she’d clipped that doll’s curls.

  “Aren’t you?” Penelope shot back. She cast a searching look at Poppy, who, unable to hold her sister’s accusatory gaze, glanced at her slippers. “Mama asked that there be no scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages.” Of which there would never be with Christian. “And no—”

  “I am well aware of what Mother’s mantra is.”

  “And it is important to each of us,” Penelope said with an entreaty in her tone that tugged at Prudence’s sense of responsibility as her elder sister. “None of us will marry. And most especially not if you are throwing yourself before a scandalous rogue.”

  Some of her guilt melted away when presented with her sister’s judgmental words. “I am not throwing myself before him.” Her cheeks burned with the heat of her lie. Either way, it mattered not. With Christian’s sudden, inexplicable disappearance, she was presenting herself not at all.

  Penelope stepped around Poppy, and their younger sister moved quickly as though fearing a fight was imminent, but Penelope merely captured Prudence’s hands. “I am worried about you, Pru,” she whispered. Grief ravaged her face. “I will not see you become Patrina.”

  “I will not be Patrina,” she promised, giving her sister’s hands a slight squeeze. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that for the scandalous act carried out in her sister’s ill-thought out elopement, Patrina was now blissfully in love and happy and even now awaiting the birth of her second child in the countryside, but something called the words back. As put out as she might be with her sister’s unfair judgment of Christian and her highhanded reprimands, Penelope had fashioned herself as the reserved protector of their unwed trio. And she could never, would never, allow hurt resentment to come between the love she had for Penny.

  Prudence gave her sister’s hands another squeeze. “Someday you will see the ultimate joy known by Patrina and not just the grimness of our family’s circumstances.”

  Penelope arched an eyebrow. “And is your time in London a joyous one?”

  A shocked gasp escaped Poppy. “Penelope,” she chided.

  The middle Tidemore sister had the good grace to blush. “I am merely saying that I understand why Sin would speak to Lord St. Cyr,” she muttered under her breath.

  Silence met her pronouncement, punctuated by the crackling hiss of the raging fire in the hearth and the occasional passing carriage rolling along the cobblestones in the London streets outside their home. Prudence remained frozen, all the air and energy sucked out of her as she stared unblinking at her sister. “What did you say?” Surely she’d heard her sister wrong. Surely Sin, even in a misguided sense of brotherly devotion and protectiveness, would never do something as vile as take it upon himself to seek out the gentleman who’d captured her heart.

  Penelope widened her gaze and then looked between her sisters. She slapped a hand to her mouth and shook her head with a dizzying quickness.

  Prudence took her by the shoulders, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. “What did he say?” Her words emerged on a breathless whisper.

  Her sister shrugged free of her grasp and stepped around Prudence. “I do not know precisely what was said,” Penelope sidestepped, backing away, and putting the sofa between them.

  Tracking her movement with her gaze, Prudence matched her steps. “Penelope?” she demanded.

  “He is a fortune hunter,” Penelope said, coming to a halt beside the rose-inlaid, mahogany, side table. She smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts.

  “Is he?” Shocked disappointment filled Poppy’s tone and she froze with her fingertips poised over the tray of refreshments.

  “He is not hunting my fortune,” Prudence bit out.

  “Is he not?” Oh, how she hated her sister’s glib, knowing tone.

  “No, he is not,” she snapped. No, her sister thought she knew, but she’d only gleaned pieces of the truth. For if Christian had truly intended to trap her fortune, he could have ruined her easily upon his balcony or in Hyde Park, on both of the occasions they’d met.

  The irony of being wholly unable to bring up to scratch a gentleman purported to be in the market for a wealthy bride didn’t escape her. Which only roused thoughts of Christian with some demure, smiling, proper, and scandal-free miss as his young bride. Pain scissored through her and she folded her arms close and squeezed.

  Poppy remained with her fingers poised over the tray, seeming to consider both of her sisters and Penelope clearly sensed a wavering in Lord St. Cyr’s support from the youngest Tidemore, for she direc
ted her next words to Poppy. “Perhaps he is not hunting Prudence’s fortune, but he is in dire need of money. He inherited a bankrupt marquisate—”

  “How do you know this?” Prudence gritted between her teeth. Those details belonged to no one but him and he’d shared them with her in the strictest of confidence.

  “Everyone knows,” Penelope said with such an infuriating shrug that all the earlier warmth she felt for her blasted, obstinate sister fled. “You should thank Sin for warning one such as him away from you.” She wrinkled her nose. “After all, that is what he should have done with Marshville,” she said, speaking of the man who’d ruined Patrina and, subsequently, all of them.

  She closed the space between them in three long strides. “How dare you compare him to Marshville. He is a good man.” She thought of Christian, a young man of seventeen, off to fight Boney’s forces. “He is honorable. Courageous. Brave. And I will not stand by and listen to you disparage him.”

  A stilted silence met her passionate defense. And standing there, chest heaving with barely suppressed emotion, she registered the horrified shock in her sisters’ like expressions. Oh, God. She’d said too much. But even so, she’d not take back a word she’d uttered in his defense. “He is a good man,” she repeated. “And I don’t care to hear another foul word that either you or Sin have to say. If you’ll excuse me?” Without awaiting a response, she spun on her heel and marched past them. Her heart thumped a rapid beat in time to her footsteps as she strode from the room and through the corridors.

  With her sisters left in the Ivory Parlor, she increased her stride until she was all but sprinting down the halls, past curious servants. Climbing the stairs, she made her way to her chambers never more grateful for the privacy of that room. Prudence pressed the door handle and stepped inside. Knowing her sisters as she did, she closed the wood panel and turned the lock.

  As her breath came fast from the force of her emotions and the brisk pace she’d set for herself, Prudence leaned against the door and borrowed support from the hard surface. Her brother had spoken to Christian. At long last, agonizing over his absence these five days, it all made sense. The dunderhead had listened to her brother’s warnings and steered clear of her. At least, that was the truth she told herself and the belief she held on to. For how else was there to explain the connection they’d shared, solidified by his kiss and whispered words, suddenly severed?

  Prudence shoved away from the door. With hands clasped before her, she began to pace past the delicate vanity. She turned over Penelope’s revelations; words no doubt picked up at the keyhole and never intended to reach her ears.

  “Blasted men,” she muttered under her breath. Why, with the bumble broth they made of life, was it any wonder the world was constantly embroiled in battles started by the illogical, bloody obstinate creatures? She came to such a sudden stop that her skirts slapped noisily at her ankles. She’d had enough of the both of them. Sin seeking to control and dictate her life. Christian for acknowledging the other man’s authority and thereby stripping Prudence of her deserved control.

  Well, she’d had enough of it. All of it. The ton’s bloody mindless events. Serving as gossip fodder because of actions owned by her siblings. Prudence tightened her jaw. As such, she well knew her marital prospects were as grim as a church graveyard on a moonless night. She knew that with the same unerring accuracy that her mother and brother also did. Yet, she did not want one of those dull, proper dandies too cowardly to even dance with her. She wanted him. Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr—fortune or no fortune.

  And if her brother and sister and all the gossips were to be believed, there was no fortune. Which was just fine. For Christian didn’t need a fortune. She had dowry enough for the both of them. With a slow smile that would have filled her mother’s heart with terror, she strode over to her delicate secretaire and swiftly sat. After yanking open the drawer, she withdrew a sheet of parchment and reached for the pen. With Lady Drake’s recent lessons shoving back the “No scandals. No elopements or rushed marriages” pledge ingrained into her by her mother, Prudence dipped the tip into the crystal inkwell and began to write.

  Lord Maxwell,

  Though it is highly improper and certainly scandalous for a young, unwed lady to contact you, there is a matter of some import I wish to discuss with you. I require your absolute discretion…

  Chapter 16

  Lesson Sixteen

  Sometimes it is beneficial to enlist the aid of a gentleman’s closest friend…

  Christian stared at the untouched contents of his breakfast plate. With the direness of his family’s financial circumstances, he was best served in thinking of a bloody way to rescue them from dun territory. Yet, for the better part of five days, he’d thought of nothing but her.

  The shuffling of footsteps brought his attention up from his plate. He stared blankly at the footman, Martin, who eyed the empty glass in Christian’s hands. “Ye need another drink, Lieutenant?”

  God, how he despised his servants’ use of his military rank. It merely served as a mocking reminder of his past. “Thank you,” he murmured, allowing the one-eyed man to refill his cup.

  With a slight bow, Martin returned to the sideboard. Christian blew on the steaming coffee and then took a sip of the black brew. The fate of his family and staff should occupy his focus. Instead, Prudence slipped into his mind as she’d been in Hyde Park challenging him and undaunted by his deliberate attempt at withering all her questions. He’d long ago sworn to not be weakened by a guileless miss. For ultimately, none of those creatures could be trusted and yet, once again, he’d been laid low by a virginal debutante. With a curse, he set his glass down and pressed his fingertips against his temple to drive back the deuced image of Lady Prudence.

  “Never tell me you’ve been overindulging in spirits again?”

  His head shot up. His sister stood in the doorway, a mischievous smile on her plump cheeks. He promptly dropped his hands to his side and rose. “It is but nine o’clock,” he drawled, adopting the carefully constructed façade he’d donned all these years. “I’d never be so gauche as to drink spirits before thirty minutes past nine.”

  Lucinda laughed and then crossed over to the sideboard. She gave a jaunty wave to the servants and then proceeded to fill her plate with eggs, sausage, and bread. “Oh, do hush, Christian,” she chided teasingly. “I daresay I’ve seen you return home from your scandalous clubs all rumpled and smelling of spirits around this hour.”

  He blinked rapidly, while his sister carried over her dish and sank into the seat beside him. What in blazes did she know of his gentlemanly, or in this case, ungentlemanly pursuits?

  “Come, Christian,” she scoffed, as though hearing that unspoken question. She neatly sliced off a piece of sausage. “I am not Mother who operates under the illusion you are a perfectly proper, dull sort of gentleman.”

  A dull flush stained his neck and he tugged at his cravat. From over by the sideboard, an odd rumble filled the room and he looked over to the two servants who stood side by side with their shoulders shaking in silent mirth. He opened his mouth to point out that he’d not visited those scandalous clubs she spoke so freely of but then promptly closed it, recalling that: one, she was his younger sister, and as such, talks of clubs and spirits and his rumpled garments after returning from those same clubs were not appropriate, and two, he didn’t have to answer to her for his actions.

  Lucinda waved her fork about. “Are you going to sit?” She giggled as he swiftly reclaimed his seat. “Have you found her?”

  He closed his eyes and prayed for patience. By God, she was worse than their mother. “Have I found who?” He knew very well whom his sister referred to. She was not as unaware of their dire circumstances as he’d believed. Mayhap hoped, rather.

  Lucinda finished her bite and then dabbed at her lips with her crisp white napkin, in this instant looking vastly older than her fifteen years. “Your wife?” she said as though speaking to a child. “M
other said it is essential you find a wife—”

  “Mother says too much,” he bit out. By God, their loose-lipped parent had no business discussing their circumstances before Lucinda. Who now had no business speaking of those same circumstances before servants. He gave a look to the footmen, and the two young men sketched deep bows, and then filed out of the room.

  “Did you do that because you truly believe they are unaware we are in dun territory?” Amusement underscored her question.

  Ah, God love her. That was the innocent she was. She could speak so casually about their circumstances, either failing to comprehend or recognize the implications it would have on her own life in three years’ time. “I did that because I do not need the servants whispering about our personal circumstances.” It was enough the whole of the ton was gossiping about the Marquess of St. Cyr and his desperate bid for a wife.

  The Earl of Sinclair’s condescending grin and coldly authoritative command to steer clear of Prudence slipped into his mind. By God, he wished he was the total bastard the earl took him to be, for if he were, then he’d pursue Prudence just for the right to claim the effervescent light he’d not known existed within any woman.

  “Are you now thinking of the woman you’ll have to wed?”

  His sister’s curious question pulled him back to the moment. “I am thinking about how you are going to drive me to Bedlam,” he responded and grabbed his knife. He set to work buttering a piece of hard, flaky bread.

  “Who is going to Bedlam?”

  He and Lucinda glanced up as Maxwell strode past the butler and into the room.

  “The Earl of Maxwell,” the butler said belatedly and then exited the room.

  Lucinda shoved back her chair and hopped to her feet. “Tristan,” she cried. She skipped over to the other man who, with his presence in their home and life through the years, had been more brother than newly titled earl. Though it hadn’t always just been Maxwell. It had also been Derek. Guilt twisted around his belly at thoughts of a ghost who would always be with him.