Читать книгу The Trouble with Honour - Julia London, Julia London - Страница 9
ОглавлениеLADY HUMPHREY’S ANNUAL spring musicale was widely regarded as The Event at which the ladies of the ton would reveal their fashionable aspirations for the new social Season, and every year, one lady inevitably stood out. In 1798, Lady Eastbourne wore a gown with cap sleeves, which many considered so risqué and yet so clever that tongues wagged across Mayfair for weeks. In 1804, Miss Catherine Wortham shocked everyone by declining to wear any sort of lining beneath her muslin, leaving the shadowy shape of her legs on view to all.
In the bright early spring of 1812, it was Miss Honor Cabot who left quite an impression in her tightly fitted gown with the daringly low décolletage. She was dressed in an exquisite silk from Paris, which one might reasonably suppose had come at an exorbitant cost, given the amount of embroidery and beading that danced across the hem, and the fact that Britain was at war with France. The silk was the color of a peacock’s breast, which complemented her deep-set blue eyes quite well. Her hair, as black as winter’s night, was dressed with tiny crystals that caught the hue of the gown.
No one would argue that Honor Cabot wasn’t a vision of beauty. Her clothing was always superbly tailored, her creamy skin nicely complemented by dark lashes, full, ruby lips and a healthy blush in her cheeks. Her demeanor was generally sunny, and her eyes sparkled with gaiety when she laughed with her many, many friends and gentlemen admirers.
She had a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the polite and chaste behavior expected of debutantes. Everyone had heard about her recent foray into Southwark. Scandalous! The gentlemen of the ton had playfully labeled her a swashbuckler.
That evening, after the singing had been done and the guests had been invited to promenade across Hanover Square to the Humphrey townhome for supper, it was not the swashbuckler’s exquisite and daring gown that caused tongues to wag. It was her bonnet.
What an artful construction that bonnet was! According to Lady Chatham, who was a self-proclaimed authority in all things millinery, the prestigious Lock and Company of St. James Street, a top-of-the-trees hat shop, had designed the bonnet. It was made of black crepe and rich blue satin, and the fabric was gathered in a tiny little fan on one side, held in place by a sparkling aquamarine. And from that fan were two very long peacock feathers, which, according to Lady Chatham, had come all the way from India, as if everyone knew that Indian peacock feathers were vastly superior to English peacock feathers.
When Miss Monica Hargrove saw the bonnet jauntily affixed atop Honor’s dark head, she very nearly had a fit of apoplexy.
Word spread so quickly through Mayfair that a contretemps had occurred between Miss Cabot and Miss Hargrove in the ladies’ retiring room, that it did, in fact, reach the Earl of Beckington’s townhome on Grosvenor Square before Miss Cabot did.
Honor was not aware of it when she snuck into the house just as the roosters were crowing. She darted up the steps and into the safety of her bedroom, and once inside, she tossed the bonnet onto the chaise, removed the beautiful gown Mrs. Dracott had made especially for her and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was rudely startled from her slumber sometime later when she opened her eyes to see her thirteen-year-old sister, Mercy, bending over her, peering closely.
It gave Honor a fright, and she cried out as she sat up, clutching the bed linens to her. “Mercy, what in heaven?” she demanded.
“Augustine bids you come,” Mercy said, examining Honor closely from behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. Mercy was dark haired and blue eyed like Honor, whereas her sisters Grace, who was only a year younger than Honor’s twenty-two years, and sixteen-year-old Prudence, were fair haired and hazel eyed.
“Augustine?” Honor repeated through a yawn. She was not in a mood to see her stepbrother this morning. Was it even morning? She glanced at the mantel clock, which read half past eleven. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know,” Mercy said, and bounced to a seat at the foot of Honor’s bed. “Why are there dark smudges beneath your eyes?”
Honor groaned. “Have we any callers today?”
“Only Mr. Jett,” Mercy said. “He left his card for you.”
Dear Mr. Jett—the man simply could not be persuaded that Honor would never consent to be courted by him. It was her lot in London society to attract the gentlemen for whom she could never, in her wildest imagination, find an attraction for in return. Mr. Jett was at least twice as old as she, and worse, he had thick lips. It vexed her that women were supposed to accept any man whose fortune and standing were comparable to hers. What about the compatibility of souls? What about esteem?
The closest Honor had come to such depth of feeling was the year of her debut. She’d fallen completely in love with Lord Rowley, a handsome, charming young gentleman who had aroused her esteem to a crescendo. Honor had been so very smitten, and she had believed—had been led to believe—that an offer was forthcoming.
An offer was forthcoming...but for Delilah Snodgrass.
Honor had heard of the engagement at a tea and had been so stunned by the news that Grace had been forced to make excuses for her as Honor had hurried home. She’d been brokenhearted by the reality of it, had privately suffered her abject disappointment for weeks. She’d been crushed to see Rowley squiring Miss Snodgrass about, had felt herself growing smaller and smaller in her grief.
How could she have been so terribly wrong? Had Rowley not complimented her looks and accomplishments? Had he not whispered in her ear that he would very much like to kiss her more thoroughly than on the cheek? Had they not taken long walks together in the park, speaking of their hopes for the future?
One day after the stunning news, Honor had happened upon Lord Rowley. He’d smiled, and her heart had skipped madly. She’d not been able to keep herself from confronting him and demanding, as politely as she could, what had happened to the offer she’d been expecting.
She would never, as long as she might live, forget the look of surprise on his lordship’s face. “I beg your pardon, Miss Cabot. I had no idea the strength of your feelings,” he’d said apologetically.
She had been completely taken aback by that. “You didn’t know?” she’d repeated. “But you called on me several times! We walked in the park, we talked of the future, we sat together during Sunday services!”
“Well, yes,” he’d said, looking quite uncomfortable. “I have many friends among the fairer sex. I’ve taken countless walks and had many interesting conversations. But I was not aware that your feelings had gone beyond our friendship. You gave no outward sign.”
Honor had been dumbfounded. Of course she hadn’t given any outward, blatant sign! Because she was a good girl—she’d been proper and chaste as she’d been taught to be! She’d demurely waited for the gentleman to make the first overture, as she’d supposed such things were done!
“And I really must stress, Miss Cabot,” he’d continued with that pained expression, “that had I known, it would not have changed...anything,” he’d said, his face turning a bit red as he’d shrugged halfheartedly. “Ours would not have been a fortuitous match.”
That had stunned her even more than his deceit. “Pardon?”
He’d cleared his throat, had looked at his hands. “That is to say, as the first son of an earl, it is expected that I should set my sights a bit higher than Beckington’s stepdaughter...or the daughter of a bishop, as it were.” He’d scarcely looked her in the eye. “You understand.”
Honor had understood, all right. For Rowley, and for every other gentleman in Mayfair, marriage was all about position and status. He clearly did not care about love or affection. He clearly did not care about her.
The wound of that summer had scored Honor, and she had never really recovered from it. She had vowed to herself and to her sisters that she would never, never allow herself to be in that position again.
She yawned at Mercy. “Please tell Augustine I’ll be down directly.”
“All right, but you’d best not be late. He’s very cross with you.”
“Why? What have I done?”
“I don’t know. He’s cross with Mamma, too,” Mercy added. “He apparently told Mamma that the Hargroves were to dine here last night, and she said he did not. She hadn’t planned a supper, and they had quite a row.”
“Oh, no,” Honor said. “What happened?”
“We dined on boiled chicken,” Mercy said. “I must go now,” she added airily, and skipped out of the room.
Honor groaned again and pushed the linens aside. She was really rather fond of Augustine, all things considered. He’d been her stepbrother for ten years now. He was four and twenty, no taller than Honor and a wee bit on the corpulent side. He’d never been one for walking or hunting, preferring to read in the afternoons or debate his friends about British naval maneuvers at his club, the details of which he shared in excruciating detail over supper.
But never mind his dreadfully dull life—Augustine Devereaux, Lord Sommerfield, was a good man, kind and considerate of others. And weak willed and terribly shy when it came to women. For years, Honor and Grace could easily bend him to their will. That had changed, of course, when he’d fallen in love with Monica Hargrove and made her his fiancée. They would have been married now were it not for the earl’s declining health, as it hardly seemed the thing to celebrate a wedding of the heir to the Beckington throne when the old earl was only barely clinging to life. Honor’s stepfather was suffering from consumption. The many physicians who had trooped through this house believed he had months, if not weeks, to live.
Honor dressed in a plain day gown, brushed her hair and left it loose, too tired to put it up. She made her way downstairs and found her sisters and Augustine in the morning room. She was not happy to see all of her siblings in attendance, particularly given the dark look on Grace’s face—that did not bode well. The sight of food on the sideboard, however, suitably revived Honor’s demeanor, as she vaguely tried to remember the last time she’d actually eaten anything. “Good morning, all,” she said cheerfully as she padded across the Aubusson carpet to the sideboard and picked up a plate.
“Honor, dearest, what time did you return home, if I may ask?” Augustine asked crisply.
“Not so very late,” Honor said, slyly avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t intend to stay quite as long as I did, but Lady Humphrey had set up to play faro, and I was caught in an exciting game—”
“Faro! That is a rude game played by rowdy men in taverns! On my word, do you never consider that your behavior will give rise to talk?”
“I always do,” Honor said honestly.
Augustine blinked. He frowned. “Well, what gentleman will want a debutante who gambles her stepfather’s fortune until the wee hours of the morning?” he demanded, changing tack.
Honor gasped at that and firmly met her stepbrother’s gaze. “I did not gamble the earl’s fortune, Augustine! I gambled what I’ve fairly won!” She would not apologize for it—she was really rather good at winning. Not a month ago, she’d taken one hundred pounds from Mr. George Easton in front of everyone at a gaming hell in Southwark. She could still remember the shine of defeat in his eyes.
But Augustine was not appeased. “How does winning improve your reputation?” he demanded.
“Tell us about the musicale,” Prudence said eagerly, ignoring Augustine’s querulous mood. “Was the music divine? Who was there? What were they wearing?”
“Wearing?” Honor repeated thoughtfully as she took her seat beside Augustine, her plate full of cheeses and biscuits. “I didn’t notice, really. The usual sort of thing, I suppose, muslin and lace.” She shrugged lightly.
“Any bonnets about?” Augustine asked crossly, and swiped a biscuit from Honor’s plate.
Honor knew then that he’d heard about her quarrel with Monica. She hesitated only a moment before she straightened her back, smiled at her stepbrother and said, “Only my bonnet that I recall.”
“There you are, Augustine!” Grace said triumphantly. “Do you see? It’s impossible that she would have taken Monica’s bonnet.”
“Taken it?” Honor repeated incredulously.
“I grant you that Honor can be vexing, but she hasn’t a dishonest bone in her body,” Grace continued as if Honor was not sitting just across from her. “Quite the contrary! If one can make a criticism of her, it is that she is too honest!”
“How can one be too honest?” Prudence asked. “Either one is honest or one is not.”
“I mean that she often lacks discretion,” Grace clarified.
“Thank you,” Honor said wryly. “You are too kind.”
Grace blinked innocently, as if it were beyond her capacity to deny.
“Neither is Miss Hargrove lacking in veracity,” Augustine said sternly. “She would not bring such a complaint to my attention were it not true.” He punctuated that statement by stuffing the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and chewing with enthusiasm as he glared at Honor.
Honor refrained from saying there were many things Monica Hargrove lacked, and Honor should know—she’d been acquainted with the woman since their sixth year on this earth, when their mothers had thought it expedient to employ one dance instructor for the both of them. That instructor—a simpering fool with a sharp nose and long, gangly arms, as Honor recalled him—had taken quite a liking to Monica and had given her the best roles in all their recitals. Moreover, Monica’s costumes always had wings and Honor’s had not, a fact that Honor might have been able to bear had Monica not been so bloody smug about it. “Perhaps your dancing will improve, and next year, you might have this costume,” she’d said as she’d twisted one way, then the other, so that Honor might see the thing in all its glory.
The competition between them had only intensified over the next sixteen years.
“Monica would bring even the slightest misunderstanding to your attention if it would mean you view her favorably and me less so,” Honor said.
“Do you deny that Miss Hargrove commissioned a bonnet from Lock and Company,” Augustine continued, having swallowed his biscuit, “and was dismayed to see it affixed to your head at the musicale? It must have been quite shocking for her, the poor dear.”
Mercy, who was turning the pages of a book without glancing at the words, laughed at that, but was quickly silenced by a dark look from Grace, who said soothingly to Augustine, “It’s surely a slight misunderstanding.”
“No,” Augustine said, shaking his head. “Miss Hargrove told me herself that she confronted Honor at dinner, and naturally, Honor denied it, and when Miss Hargrove mentioned she’d commissioned it for a dear sum, Honor said, ‘It wasn’t that dear.’ There, you see? She all but confessed to Miss Hargrove that she took the bonnet!”
“I meant only that when I purchased the bonnet, I did not find the cost of it so dear,” Honor said sweetly.
Augustine’s cheeks began to mottle as they were wont to do when he was flustered and confused. “Honor, it...” He paused, his chest puffing a little as he attempted to display authority. “It will not do.”
“What won’t do?” Honor asked, holding out her plate to offer him another biscuit. “She admired my bonnet, then claimed it was hers. How could it be hers, I ask you, when the milliner sold it to me and it was on my head? You may inquire of Lock and Company if you please.”
Augustine’s look of confusion went deeper as he clearly tried to sort out the mystery of the bonnet in his mind. “I would not like to disparage your fiancée, Augustine,” Honor continued. “I want us to be friends, I do! But I will privately confess to you that there are times I very much fear her true intentions.”
“Her intentions are pure!” Augustine said. “There is not a kinder, sweeter woman in all of London.” He suddenly reached for Honor’s hand and, finding a plate there, instead took her wrist beseechingly. “I really must insist that you do not take her bonnets, Honor. Or...or buy those that she fancies,” he said uncertainly.
Behind Augustine, Grace rolled her eyes.
“You have my word,” Honor said solemnly. “I will not take Monica’s bonnets.” The snigger she heard was from Prudence, doing her best to keep from laughing outright.
“I cannot have disharmony between you,” Augustine continued. “You are my stepsister and she will be my wife. I don’t care for the talk that goes around town about the two of you, and it’s not good for Papa.”
“No, you’re right, of course you are right,” Honor said, feeling only slightly chastened. “How is the earl this morning?”
“Exhausted,” he said. “I looked in on him after breakfast, and he bid me pull the shades, as he wanted to sleep, having suffered another long night.”
Augustine stood from the table, his belly brushing against it. He tugged down his waistcoat, which had a habit of riding up when he’d been seated, and removed his linen napkin from his collar. “If you will all excuse me?”
“Good morning, Augustine!” Grace said pleasantly.
“Good morning!” Honor called out.
She received a frown from Grace for it, who said, “All right then, Pru, Mercy, go and have your hair dressed, will you? We’ll take Mamma riding in the park after luncheon.”
Mercy hopped up from the table. “May I ride the sorrel?”
“Ask Mr. Buckley,” Grace said to them, wiggling her fingers in the direction of the door, indicating they were to go. As Mercy and Prudence went out, Grace smiled sweetly at the footman attending them this morning. “Thank you, Fitzhugh. My sister and I can manage from here.”
Fitzhugh followed the younger girls out, closing the door behind him.
When they were alone, Grace slowly turned her head and fixed a dark hazel look on Honor, who was eating hungrily from her plate and pretended not to notice.
“What did you do?” Grace asked low.
“Nothing.” But Honor couldn’t help it; a smile began to curve her lips. “All right. I bought a bonnet.” She took a bite of cheese.
“Then why is Monica so vexed?”
“I suppose...because she’d commissioned it for herself.” Honor’s smile widened.
Grace gaped at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Dear God, you’re incorrigible! You will ruin us!”
“That is not true. I am very corrigible.”
“Honor!” Grace said, still laughing. “We agreed that you’d not vex her again.”
“Oh, what is one bonnet?” Honor said, putting aside her plate. “There it was, in the window of Lock and Company, and I admired it. The shop attendant was perfectly happy to tell me that even though Miss Monica Hargrove had commissioned it one month ago, she’d not come round to pay her bill. It was languishing in the window, Grace, a beautiful bonnet, and if I may be frank, the wrong palette for Monica’s pallid complexion. And the expense the poor shop had incurred in making it had gone unpaid! The attendant was quite happy to sell it to me, of course. And really, I don’t care that Monica commissioned it in the least. She is so very disagreeable! Do you know what she said to me last night?” she said, leaning slightly forward. “She said, ‘I know what you are about, Honor Cabot,’” Honor said, her voice mockingly low and menacing, “‘but it won’t do you a bit of good. Augustine and I are going to wed, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And when we are wed, mark my words, you may find yourself in a cottage in the Cotswolds without need for fine bonnets!’” Honor sat back to let that sink in.
Grace gasped. “The Cotswolds! Why not banish us to the African desert, for it couldn’t possibly be worse! Oh, Honor, that is precisely what we fear, and now look what you’ve done!”
Honor snorted and picked up another piece of cheese. “Do you really think Monica holds so much sway with Augustine? Do you think he hasn’t a care for his sisters?”
“Yes!” Grace said emphatically. “Yes, I think she holds quite a lot of sway with him! And Augustine may care for us all very much, but when the earl dies, do you really, truly believe Monica will share Beckington House, or Longmeadow in the country, or anywhere, for that matter, with all of us?”
Honor sighed. It was a true fact in their society that a new earl and his even newer wife would not welcome his dead father’s third wife and his four stepdaughters into his household. Grace was right, but Monica was so...imperious! And so perfect, so modest, so demure, so pretty!
“Really, you can be so careless,” Grace said. “What of Prudence and Mercy, then? What of Mamma?”
It would be difficult for their mother to find a new husband who would be excited about the prospect of providing for four unmarried daughters, particularly given their rather lofty expectations for a certain way of life, as well as the demands of dowries. The Cabots had come into this marriage with only a little money, certainly not enough to dower four girls. They were entirely dependent on the earl.
Worse, it was almost a certainty that the Cabots would find themselves on the fringe of society altogether if anyone suspected what Grace and Honor knew about their mother: that she was slowly, but demonstrably, losing her mind. It had begun two years ago, after a trip to Longmeadow. Their mother had been involved in an accident when a curricle had overturned, tossing her onto the road. Physically, the countess had recovered, but since then, Honor and Grace had noticed her mind was slipping. Mostly, it was unusual memory lapses. But there were other, less subtle signs. Once, she had blithely talked of seeing her sister at Vauxhall, as if her sister were still alive. Another time, she hadn’t been able to recall the earl’s title.
Recently, however, it seemed as if their mother was getting worse. Most days, she was clearheaded and a constant presence at her husband’s side. Other days, she might ask the same question more than once or remark on the weather three or four times in the space of a few minutes. Once, when Honor had tried to speak to her mother about her increasing forgetfulness, her mother had been surprised by the suggestion and seemingly irked by it. She’d even suggested to Honor that perhaps she was the forgetful one.
“And I don’t think I need to tell you that the earl has not been out of his bed in two days,” Grace added.
“I know, I know,” Honor said sadly. She curled her feet under her on the chair. “Grace...I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “What if Monica did not marry Augustine—”
“Of course she will,” Grace said, cutting Honor off. “Augustine is completely besotted with her. He runs after her like a puppy.”
“But what if...what if Monica was lured away by a bigger fortune?”
“What?” Grace eyed Honor warily. “How? Why?”
“Just suppose she was lured away. It would give us a bit of time to settle things. Look here, Grace, if the earl dies, Augustine will take her to the altar as soon as he is able, and then what? But if they don’t marry as soon—”
“Are you forgetting that Augustine loves her?” Grace asked, clearly struggling to remain calm.
“I’ve not forgotten. But he is a man, isn’t he? He will soon forget her and find another.”
“Our Augustine!” Grace cried with disbelief. “Monica Hargrove is the first woman he’s ever so much as looked at, and even so, it took him several years to do it!”
“I know,” Honor said, wincing a little. “I’m only trying to think of a way to put off their marriage for a time.”
“Until what?”
“I haven’t worked that out completely,” Honor admitted.
Grace studied her sister for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s ridiculous. Folly! Monica won’t turn loose a bird in the hand—Augustine could turn mute and blind and she’d not care. And besides, I have a better plan.”
“What?” Honor asked skeptically.
Grace sat up now. “We marry first. Quickly. If we marry, our husbands will have no choice but to take in our sisters and our mother when the earl dies.”
“Now who is being ridiculous?” Honor said. “What do you think, that we may summon up a husband with the snap of our fingers? Who would we marry?”
“Mr. Jett—”
“No!” Honor all but shouted. “That’s a wretched plan, Grace. First, neither of us has an offer. Second, I don’t want to marry now. I don’t want to tend to a man and do his bidding, and be shunted off to the country where there is no society, all because he desires it.”
“What are you talking about? Who do you know that has been shunted to the country?” Grace asked with some surprise. “Really, Honor, don’t you want to marry? To have love and companionship and children?”
“Of course,” Honor said uncertainly. She rather enjoyed her freedom. She didn’t pine for marriage and children the way other women her age seemed to do. “But at present, I don’t love anyone and I don’t want to marry merely because it is expected. It vexes me terribly that we are expected to do as we are told and marry this man, or seek that offer,” she said, gesturing irritably. “Why? We’re free women. We ought to choose and do as we please, just like every man is allowed.”
“But we have others who must rely on us,” Grace said, referring to Prudence and Mercy.
The reminder put a temporary damper on Honor’s enthusiasm for women’s equality.
“And besides, your perception is clouded by Rowley’s rejection—”
“It was not precisely a rejection,” Honor began to argue, but Grace threw up a hand to stop her.
“I didn’t say it to be unkind. But your judgment has been impaired, Honor. You won’t allow anyone to come close.”
Before Honor could argue against such a ridiculous notion, Grace said, “So we are agreed, we must do something.”
“Yes, of course, we are agreed. Which is why I want to seduce Monica away from Augustine. And I know just the man to do it.”
“Who?” Grace asked skeptically.
Honor smiled at her own brilliance. “George Easton!”
Grace’s eyes widened. Her mouth gaped. It took her a few swift moments to find her tongue. “Have you gone completely round the bend?”
“I have not,” Honor said firmly. “He is the perfect man for it.”
“Are we speaking of the same George Easton from whom you managed to divest one hundred pounds in that scandalous little game in Southwark?”
“Yes,” Honor said, shifting a little self-consciously in her seat.
Grace made a sound of despair or shock, Honor wasn’t certain, but her sister suddenly stood and walked in a complete circle behind her chair, one hand on her back, the train of her muslin gown trailing behind her. When she faced Honor again, she folded her arms across her chest and stared down at her. “To be perfectly clear, are you speaking of the self-proclaimed by-blow of the late Duke of Gloucester? The man who loses a fortune as easily as he makes one?”
“Yes,” Honor said, confident in her idea. “He is handsome, he is the nephew of the king and currently, he is quite flush in the pockets, as we know.”
“But he is a man with no real name. Or connections! We may all very well believe he is the true son of the late duke, but the duke never acknowledged it. And I’ve not even mentioned that the current duke—Easton’s half brother, if he is to be believed—utterly detests him and forbids anyone from even mentioning his name! For heaven’s sake, Honor, he does not enjoy the privileges of his supposed paternity! Monica Hargrove will not give up the Beckington title for him, not if all of Hades freezes over.”
“She might,” Honor stubbornly insisted. “If she were properly seduced.”
Grace blinked. She sank down onto her chair, her hands on her knees, gaping at her sister. “What a dangerous, ridiculous idea. You must promise me you won’t do anything so entirely wretched.”
“Wretched!” Honor was miffed that Grace didn’t see the brilliance in her plan. “I mean him only to lure her, not compromise her! He need only make her believe there are other interests in her, and then perhaps she will want to explore an option or two before marrying Augustine. It seems quite simple and brilliant to me. Your idea is superior to that?”
“Much,” Grace said emphatically. “If you won’t marry, then I will.”
“Oh, and have you any offers you’ve not told me about?”
“No,” Grace said with a sniff. “But I have some thoughts on how I might gain one.”
“Such as?”
“Never you mind,” Grace said. “Just promise me you won’t do anything so foolish.”
“Very well, very well,” Honor said with an impatient flick of her hand. “I promise,” she said dramatically, and picked up her plate again. “I’m famished.”
In fairness, Honor had every intention of keeping her promise. In fairness, she always meant to keep her promises.
But then she unexpectedly encountered George Easton that very afternoon.
