Nothing useful had yet been discovered, which left the field wide open. As for His Grace’s antiquated notions, she was sure that, when she discovered the vital secret, he wouldn’t be able to deny her. How could he?—she wouldn’t tell him until after, until it was too late for him to exclude her.
Chapter 11
Investigating Tolly’s murder proved more difficult than she’d thought. While his cousins had entre´e to Tolly’s largely male world, Honoria did not. Likewise, they knew Tolly, his habits, his interests. On the other hand, she reasoned, she could view his last days impartially, the facts uncolored by preconceived notions. Besides, women were notoriously more observant than men.
Tolly’s youngest aunt, Celia, had been elected by the conclave of Cynster wives to give the first “at home,” a declaration to the ton that the family had emerged from deepest mourning. Even Louise was present, still in deadest black, her composure a shield against those proffering their condolences.
At St. Ives House, black crepe had wreathed the knocker ever since they had come up to town; on the Dowager’s orders, it had been removed this morning. Their first week in the capital had been spent quietly, eschewing all social functions, but it was now three weeks since Tolly’s death; his aunts had decreed their time in deep mourning past. They all still wore black and would for another three weeks, then they would go into half-mourning for another six weeks.
Honoria circulated amongst Celia’s guests, noting those whose acuity might prove useful. Unfortunately, as it was the first time she’d ventured into society, there were many eager to claim her attention.
“Honoria.” Turning, Honoria found Celia beside her, a plate of cakes in her hand, her eye on a chaise on the opposite side of the room. “I hate to ask, but I know you can handle it.” With a smile, Celia handed her the plate. “Lady Osbaldestone—she’s a veritable tartar. If I go, she’ll shackle me to the chaise, and I’ll never get free. But if one of the family doesn’t appear to appease her curiosity, she’ll batten on Louise. Here, let me take your cup.”
Relieved of her empty teacup, Honoria was left with the cake plate. She opened her lips to point out she wasn’t “family”—but Celia had disappeared into the crowd. Honoria hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, straightened her shoulders and bore down on Lady Osbaldestone.
Her ladyship greeted her with a basilik stare. “And about time, too.” A clawlike hand shot out and snaffled a petit four. “Well, miss?” She stared at Honoria. When she simply stared back, politely vacant, her ladyship snorted. “Sit down, do! You’re giving me a crick. Daresay that devil St. Ives chose you for your height—I can just imagine why.” This last was said with a definite leer—Honoria swallowed an urge to request clarification. Instead, she perched, precisely correct, on the edge of the chaise, the cake plate held where Lady Osbaldestone could reach it.
Her ladyship’s black eyes studied her carefully while the petit four was consumed. “Not just in the usual way and an Anstruther-Wetherby to boot, heh? What’s your grandfather say to this match, miss?”
“I have no idea,” Honoria answered calmly. “But you’re laboring under a misapprehension. I’m not marrying anyone.”
Lady Osbaldestone blinked. “Not even St. Ives?”
“Particularly not St. Ives.” Deciding she might as well eat, Honoria selected a small tea cake and nibbled delicately.
Her declaration had struck Lady Osbaldestone dumb. For a full minute, her black eyes, narrowed, rested on Honoria’s profile, then her ladyship’s face cracked in a wide smile; she cackled gleefully. “Oh, you’ll do. Keep up that pose, miss, and you’ll do for Devil Cynster nicely.”
Haughtily, Honoria looked down her nose. “I have no interest in His Grace of St. Ives.”
“Oh-ho!” Her ladyship poked her arm with a bony finger. “But has His Grace an interest in you?”
Her eyes trapped in her ladyship’s black gaze, Honoria wished she could lie. Lady Osbaldestone’s grin grew wider. “Take my advice, girl—make sure he never loses it. Never let him take you for granted. The best way to hold such men is to make them work for their pleasure.”
Adopting a martyred expression, Honoria sighed. “I really am not going to marry him.”
Lady Osbaldestone, suddenly terrifyingly sober, looked at Honoria through old black eyes. “Girl—you don’t have a choice. No—!” She pointed a skeletal finger. “Don’t poker up and stick that Anstruther-Wetherby chin in the air. There’s no benefit in running from fate. Devil Cynster has all but declared he wants you—which means he’ll have you—and if that chin is any guide, it’ll be a good thing, too. And as he’s too experienced to pursue where there’s no reciprocating sentiment, you needn’t think to deny it.” Her ladyship snorted. “You’d have to be dead to be immune to his temptation—and you don’t look too desiccated to me.”
A blush stole into Honoria’s cheeks; Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “Your mother’s dead—so’s your grandmother—so I’ll give you the right advice in their stead. Accept fate’s decree—marry the devil and make it work. Handsome may be as handsome is, but underneath it all he’s a good man. You’re a strong woman—that’s the way it should be. And despite any thoughts of yours, the devil, in this case, is right. The Cynsters need you; the Anstruther-Wetherbys, strange to tell, need you as a Cynster, too. Fate has landed you precisely where you’re supposed to be.”
Leaning forward, she held Honoria’s gaze mercilously. “And besides, if you don’t take him on, who do you imagine will? Some namby-pamby chit with more hair than wit? Do you hate him so much you’d condemn him to that—a marriage with no passion?”
Honoria couldn’t breathe. A gust of laughter reached them; the rustle of silk heralded an approaching lady. “There you are, Josephine. Are you grilling poor Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?”
Lady Osbaldestone finally consented to release Honoria; she glanced up at the newcomer. “Good afternoon, Emily. I was merely giving Miss Anstruther-Wetherby the benefit of my experienced counsel.” She waved Honoria to her feet. “Off you go—and remember what I said. And take those cakes away—they’re fattening.”
Shaken, her features stiff, Honoria bobbed a curtsy to Emily, Lady Cowper, then, head high, let the crowd swallow her. Unfortunately, many ladies were waiting to waylay her, to quiz her on her new relationship.
“Has St. Ives taken you to Richmond yet? The trees are quite lovely at present.”
“And where are you planning to spend the festive season, my dear?”
Sidestepping such inquiries required tact and skill, difficult with her mind reeling from Lady Osbaldestone’s lecture. Spying Amanda and Amelia half-hidden by a palm, Honoria sought refuge with them. Their eyes lit up when they saw the cake plate; she handed it over without comment.
“Mama said we should come and see what ‘at homes’ are like,” Amanda said around a miniature currant bun.
“We’re to be brought out next year,” Amelia added.
Honoria watched them eat. “How are you?”
Both girls looked up, openly, without any trace of pain.
They both screwed up their faces in thought, then Amanda offered: “All right, I think.”
“We keep expecting him to come for dinner—just like he always did.” Amelia looked down and picked up a last crumb.
Amanda nodded. “Laughing and joking, just like that last night.”
Honoria frowned. “Last night?”
“The night before he was shot.”
Honoria blinked. “Tolly came to dinner the night before he died?”
Amelia nodded. “He was in great spirits—he usually was. He played spillikins with the young ones, then after dinner, we all played Speculation. It was great fun.”
“That’s . . .” Honoria blinked again. “Nice—I mean, that you have such good memories of him.”
“Yes.” Amanda nodded. “It is nice.” She appeared to dwell on the fact, then looked at Honoria. “When are you going to marry Devil?”
The question hit
Honoria right in the chest. She looked into the twins’ eyes, four orbs of innocent blue, and cleared her throat. “We haven’t decided.”
“Oh,” they chorused, and smiled benignly.
Honoria beat a hasty retreat and headed for an empty alcove. Inwardly, she cursed. First Lady Osbaldestone, now Tolly’s sisters. Who else was lining up to shake her resolution? The answer was unexpected.
“How are you coping with being absorbed into the clan?”
The soft question had Honoria turning, to meet Louise Cynster’s still-weary eyes. Tolly’s mother smiled. “It takes a little getting used to, I know.”
Honoria drew a deep breath. “It’s not that.” She hesitated, then, encouraged by Louise’s calm expression, forged on: “I haven’t actually agreed to marry Devil—just to consider the idea.” With a gesture that encompassed the room, she added: “I feel like a fraud.” To her relief, Louise didn’t laugh or turn the comment lightly aside. Instead, after a moment scrutinizing her face, she put a hand on her arm. “You’re not certain, are you?”
“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. After a minute, she added: “I thought I was.” It was the truth—plain, unvarnished; the realization left her stunned. What had he—they—done to her? What had happened to Africa?
“It’s normal to feel hesitant.” Louise spoke reassuringly, with no hint of condescension. “Especially in such a case, where the decision is so much your own.” She glanced at Honoria. “My own case was similar. Arthur was there, ready to lay his heart and all that came with it at my feet—everything hung on my whim.” Her lips curved, her gaze becoming lost in reminiscence. “It’s easy to make decisions when no one but yourself is involved, but when there are others to consider, it’s natural to question your judgment. Particularly if the gentleman concerned is a Cynster.” Her smile deepened; she glanced again at Honoria. “Doubly so if he’s Devil Cynster.”
“He’s a tyrant,” Honoria declared.
Louise laughed. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score. All the Cynsters are dictatorially inclined, but Devil dictates to all the rest.”
Honoria humphed. “He’s inflexible—and far too used to getting his own way.”
“You should ask Helena about that someday—she has stories that will curl your hair. You won’t need the tongs for a week.”
Honoria frowned. “I thought you were encouraging me.” Louise smiled.
“I am—but that doesn’t mean I can’t see Devil’s faults. But for all those—and you won’t find a Cynster wife who’s not had to cope with the same—there’s a great deal to be said for a man who will unfailingly be there to shoulder the burdens, who, regardless of all else, is devoted to his family. Devil may be the leader of the pack—the president of the Bar Cynster—but give him a son or a daughter, and he’ll happily sit in Cambridgeshire and play spillikins every night.”
Unbidden, the image Louise’s words conjured up took shape in Honoria’s mind—a large, black-haired, harsh-featured male sprawled on a rug before a blazing fire with a child in petticoats clambering over him. Watching the scene, she felt a warm glow of pride, of satisfaction; she heard the child’s shrill giggles over a deeper rumbling laugh—she could almost reach out and touch them. She waited—waited for the fear that had always dogged her to rise up and swallow the image whole, to banish it to the realm of unattainable dreams. She waited—and still the image glowed.
Firelight sheened on both black heads, unruly locks thick and wild. It gilded the child’s upturned face—in her mind, Honoria stretched out her hand to the man’s familiar shoulder, hard and stable as rock beneath her fingers. Unable to help herself, fascinated beyond recall, she reached, hesitantly, so hesitantly, for the child’s face. It shrieked with laughter and ducked its head; her fingers touched hair like silky down, soft as a butterfly’s wing. Emotion welled, unlike any she’d known. Dazed, she shook her head.
Then she blinked rapidly and hauled in a quick breath. She focused on Louise, idly scanning the crowd. What had she said? “The Bar Cynster?”
“Ah!” Louise sent her an arch look, then glanced about. No one was close enough to hear. “They think we don’t know, but it’s a standing joke among the gentlemen about town. Some wit coined the term when Richard and Harry followed Devil and Vane to London, supposedly to denote a . . . certain rite of passage. With Richard and Harry, of course, there was never any doubt that they would follow Devil and Vane into the customary Cynster pursuits.” Her emphasis and the look in her eye left no doubt as to what those pursuits were. “Later, when Rupert and Alasdair went on the town, it was merely a matter of time before they, too, were called to the Bar Cynster.”
“Like a barrister being called to Temple Bar?” Honoria kept her mind focused on the point.
“Precisely.” Louise’s smile faded. “Tolly would have been next.”
It was Honoria’s turn to lay a hand on Louise’s arm and squeeze reassuringly. “I’d imagined the name derived from the heraldic term.”
“The bar sinister?” Louise shook off her sorrow and pointedly met Honoria’s gaze. “Between you, me, and the other Cynster ladies, I’m quite certain many gentlemen about town refer to our sons as ‘noble bastards.’ ” Honoria’s eyes widened; Louise grinned. “That, however, is not something anyone, gentleman or lady, would be willing to admit in our presence.”
Honoria’s lips twitched. “Naturally not.” Then she frowned. “What about Charles?”
“Charles?” Louise waved dismissively. “Oh, he was never part of it.”
Two ladies approached to take their leave; when the hand-clasps were over and they were private once more, Louise turned to Honoria. “If you need any support, we’re always here—the others in a similar bed. Don’t hesitate to call on us—it’s an absolute rule that Cynster wives help each other. We are, after all, the only ones who truly understand what it’s like being married to a Cynster.”
Honoria glanced over the thinning crowd, noting the other family members, not just the Dowager, Horatia, and Celia, but other cousins and connections. “You really do stick together.”
“We’re a family, my dear.” Louise squeezed Honoria’s arm one last time. “And we hope very much that you’ll join us.”
“There!” Heaving a relieved sigh, Honoria propped the parchment inscribed with her brother’s direction against the pigeonholes of the escritoire. Describing her doings to Mi-chael without letting her troubled state show had proved a Herculean task. Almost as difficult as facing the fact that she might be wrong—and that Devil, the Dowager, Michael, and everyone else might be right.
She was in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. The windows on either side of the fireplace overlooked the courtyard below. Propping her elbow on the desk, she put her chin in her hand and stared outside.
Eight years ago she’d suffered her loss; seven years ago she’d made up her mind never to risk losing again. Until three days past, she hadn’t reviewed that decision—she’d never had reason to do so. No man, no circumstance, had been strong enough to force a reevaluation.
Three days ago, everything had changed. Lady Osbalde-stone’s sermon had shaken her, setting the consequences of refusing Devil firmly in her mind.
Louise and the twins had compounded her uncertainty, showing her how close to the family she’d already become.
But the most startling revelation had been the image evoked by Louise, the image she’d resurrected in every spare moment since—the image of Devil and their child.
Her fear of loss was still there, very real, very deep; to lose again would be devastating—she’d known that for eight years. But never before had she truly wanted a child. Never before had she felt this driving need—a desire, a want, that made her fear seem puny, something she could, if she wished, brush aside.
The strength of that need was unnerving—not something she could readily explain. Was it simple maternal desire gaining strength because Devil would be so protective, that, because he was so wealthy, their child w
ould have every care? Was it because, as Cynsters, both she and their child would be surrounded by a loving, supportive clan? Or was it because she knew that being the mother of Devil’s child would give her a position no other could ever have?
If she gave Devil a child, he would worship at her feet.
Drawing a deep breath, she stood and walked to the window, gazing unseeing at the weeping cherry, drooping artistically in the courtyard. Was wanting Devil, wanting him in thrall, the reason she wanted his child? Or had she simply grown older, become more of a woman than she had been at seventeen? Or both? She didn’t know. Her inner turmoil was all-consuming, all-confusing; she felt like an adolescent finally waking up, but compared to growing up this was worse.
A knock on the door startled her. Straightening, she turned. “Come!”
The door swung inward; Devil stood on the threshold. One black brow rose; inherently graceful, he strolled into the room. “Would you care for a drive, Honoria Prudence?”
Honoria kept her eyes on his, refusing all other distractions. “In the park?”
His eyes opened wide. “Where else?”
Honoria glanced at her letter, in which she’d carefully skirted the truth. It was too early to make any admission—she wasn’t yet sure where she stood. She looked at Devil. “Perhaps you could frank my letter while I change?”
He nodded. Honoria moved past him; without a backward glance, she retreated to her bedchamber.
Ten minutes later, clad in topaz twill, she returned to find him standing before one window, hands behind his back, her letter held between his long fingers. He turned as she approached. As always, whenever he saw her anew, his gaze swept her, possessively, from head to toe.
“Your letter.” He presented the folded parchment with a flourish.
Honoria took it, noting the bold black script decorating one corner. It was, she would swear, the same script that had adorned the note Celestine had, so opportunely, received.
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