The Trouble with Honor

by Julia London

  “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.

  “May I introduce you to Mr. MacPherson,” he said, and as Honor greeted the other player, George began to deal the cards.

  The din around them was increasing, and it felt to Honor as if twice as many people were gathered around their table than when she’d first entered. She felt a bit queasy as she picked up her hand and saw the pair of aces.

  They played the first round without talk. Honor had been taught how to gamble by her father. He’d thought it quite diverting to introduce his young daughters to games of chance and even more entertaining to watch them giggle and trick his friends. She still remembered a trick or two.

  It was quickly apparent that Mr. MacPherson was no match for her or George and bumbled his way through the first round, betting on cards blindly, even when Honor withdrew.

  As George raked in his winnings, he looked at Honor, silently assessing her.

  They played the second round, and while Honor had the winning hand, she allowed George to believe it was his. But as he took the winnings, he frowned at her. “You are careless tonight, Miss Cabot.”

  “Am I?” she asked innocently.

  “How much is left of your infamous ninety-two pounds?” he asked.

  “Enough,” Honor said pertly. “How much money do you have?”

  The men around them hooted with delight, and even George smiled a little. “Enough,” he said.

  When George won the third hand, in spite of her obviously superior draw of cards, he looked at her with exasperation. “I can’t guess what you are attempting to do, but if you want to give me your money, by all means, give it to me and go. Let the gentlemen here play a gentleman’s game.”

  This was her moment, her turn to deal, and Honor’s hand shook as she accepted the deck of cards. “Shall we increase the stakes, Mr. Easton?” she asked lightly. “That might speed things along.”

  He laughed. “With what? I’ve taken most of your purse.”

  “I had in mind something other than money.”

  There were a few audible gasps, and with it, Honor understood that what tatters remained of her reputation had just fluttered out the window. She had to win now. Her heart raced, her palms were turning damp. She’d just anted everything she had—everything. Her heart, her future, her prospects.

  George was looking at her as if he were trying
to work a puzzle. “Go on.”

  “If you win,” she said, speaking as if she were playing a parlor game with children, “I will leave this gaming hell and I will never see you again.”

  Men around her bellowed with delight, calling out to George that he was a fool. He leaned forward and said, “And if you win?”

  Honor swallowed and somehow managed to shuffle the deck without shaking. “If I win—” she glanced up, looked him directly in the eye “—you will extend an offer of marriage to me.”

  That remark was met with utter silence. For a moment. And then pandemonium erupted in that room. Suddenly everyone was shouting as men called friends to come and witness, others shouted at Honor to leave the gaming hell, that she had brought dishonor on the Beckington name.

  But George...George... He regarded her stoically, his eyes boring through hers. “That’s impossible. I’ve told you, Cabot—impossible!”

  “Only because you refuse to believe in the possibilities.”

  “I withdraw,” MacPherson said, standing. “I will not be party to this... Whatever this is.”

  Neither Honor nor George noticed his departure.

  “You are making an abominable and foolish bet,” he said angrily.

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Then allow me to instruct you on just how foolish it is,” he said angrily. “If you win, I will indeed make that offer. And you will be forced to live in a style to which you are quite unaccustomed. By that I mean there will be no servants. No gowns. No pretty things. There may not be a roof over your head.”

  She hoped she wasn’t shaking.

  “Ah, Easton, at least a pretty thing,” someone said, and others around him laughed.

  She was back on her heels, but nonetheless determined. There was no other man for her, no one who was of a like mind, who understood the sort of woman she was. She did not relish a life of hardship, but neither did she fear it. Her heart raced even harder. Honor had walked her private plank, and she wasn’t turning back now. She began to deal.

  “You will not be invited to fancy Mayfair salons,” he continued. “You may not even have meat on your table.”

  Honor finished dealing and picked up her hand. “Do you intend to play or prattle, Mr. Easton?”

  He swiped up his cards and said, “Gentlemen of standing will have second thoughts about your sisters.”

  Honor’s heart stopped beating altogether for a moment. But she carefully laid her first card, a deuce.

  George looked at it and sighed. “God help you, Honor Cabot. You have no idea the mistake you’ve made.”

  They played on. More than one spectator pointed out Honor’s hands were shaking, just as she’d feared. George watched her closely, making her quite anxious. Just when it seemed all was lost for her, Honor hesitated before playing the last of her hand. She looked up at George and smiled. “If I may, Mr. Easton, I don’t care who your father is or is not, or the size of your fortune, big or small.”

  The crowd suddenly grew quiet, leaning in to hear what she said.

  “I don’t care if there are gowns or balls, and while my sisters may have a difficult road ahead, I am confident they will follow their hearts and persevere. That’s what we Cabots do. We set our sights. I have set mine, and the only thing I care about is you. Only you.” She laid her hand, a trio of queens.

  The crowd erupted with cheers and jeers. George looked at her hand and sighed as if he’d expected it. “I don’t know who taught you the art of gambling, madam,” he said, and began to lay down his card. One king. Then two. “But your teacher may have neglected to explain that one should never attempt to cheat.” He laid down a third king, and then a fourth. “Unless one knows precisely how to do it.”

  The crowd suddenly stilled, all of them leaning in to see his hand. Honor was stunned. She could feel the emotions and tensions begin to leech out of her body, spilling out of her, taking the last of her strength with them. She watched as George stood up, raked in his winnings, and put them in his pocket. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, and pushed a man aside to leave the table.

  Honor couldn’t draw a breath, much less move. It felt as if she’d just been snapped clean in two. There was nothing left of her. Nothing. How could he have done it? How could he refuse her, so publicly, so dreadfully?

  She didn’t even realize Mr. Jett was shaking her until he said her name loudly, and she glanced up into his face. He was frowning, holding her reticule. “Come along,” he said, and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up from her chair.

  Honor stumbled along beside him, almost blindly. The only thing she could see was George’s winning hand, the way he’d stood and left the table without looking at her, without looking back. He had left her. He had rejected her public appeal, had rejected her completely. He’d broken her heart, and the pain was intolerable.

  Mr. Jett put Honor in her coach. She cried all the way to Mayfair, and then cried on Augustine’s shoulder when Jonas handed her over to him. She cried into her pillow as Prudence and Mercy petted her leg, trying to help.

  There was no help for her. No hope. Now Honor had truly lost everything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  GEORGE WALKED INTO his house and went directly to the salon, poured himself a whiskey, downed that and then hit the wall with his fist again. The pain was excruciating, driving him to his knees.

  It did not compare to the pain of humiliating Honor before half the ton. But what could he do? Dammit all to hell, why had she come? She thought she could publicly challenge him, force him to her will? She thought she could cheat her way into his heart? She thought she could make such an unreasonable, impossible demand and win?

  On all fours, gasping at the pain, George smiled a little. That brazenness, that absurd sense of righteousness, was why he loved her. No other woman could compete with that audacity, and he found it alarmingly arousing.

  But that did not change the fact that he was in no position to offer for her. He was working the gaming hells to keep food on his table—it was hardly anything to settle on a wife. There would be no servants, no gowns, no hats.... “She’ll never agree,” he whispered through his teeth.

  “Agree to what?”

  Finnegan had entered without George hearing him. George groaned with exasperation, fell onto his side and rolled onto his back. “She’ll not agree to marry a man with nothing, that’s what.”

  Finnegan stepped over him, picked up the glass George had dropped before hitting the wall, and as George tested his fingers, Finnegan filled it. “Are you certain?” he asked as he crouched beside George. “Rather seems to me that the only thing the lass wants is you.”

  George sat up, took the whiskey and downed it. “Because she is young and in love, Finnegan. After a time, she’ll want her gowns and shoes, and at present, I can’t even pay your bloody wage, much less provide for her and all the Cabots as they ought to live.”

  “She has a dowry, does she not?” Finnegan asked practically.

  George snorted and waved a hand at him.

  “I suggest, sir, that if you want this lass as you apparently do, judging by the number of times you’ve slammed your fist into a wall, that you find employment so that you can provide for her and all the Cabots, as you say.”

  “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.