Portia dutifully stood and began her report about the stenciling efforts of the female members of the Baker-Sneeds and how George had had the brilliant idea to dip Achilles’s feet in red paint and let him hop across the paper for their best and most impressive design. Honoria listened with half an ear, her mind working through the problem with the Baker-Sneed finances.
Her gaze fell on her ring, and as usual the warmth of the metal against her bare finger made her smile. It was then that she knew, come what may, she would persevere.
Chapter 3
I once had a rather toothy spaniel named Fluffy. He snarled at my stepmama every time she came into the room, snapped at Clarissa Ethleridge when she laughed at my new coif, and chased Lord Geoffrey Fellington out of the house and into the pond when the fool came to propose. Without a doubt, darling Fluffy was the best dog I ever had.
Lady Jane Frotherton to Viscount Melton in Hyde Park, while walking Lady Jane’s wheezy pug
“…even though I searched everywhere.”
Honoria looked up from where she sat at the escritoire in the sitting room, lost in a sea of figures as she painstakingly reworked their failed budget. “I’m sorry, George. I didn’t hear you. What is it you are searching for?”
Georgie shifted from one foot to the other, his coat awry, a smear of dust down one cheek. He favored Honoria with a flat stare. “I’m not searching for a ‘what,’ I am searching for a ‘whom.’”
Honoria sighed and returned her quill to the ink stand. “I gather we are talking about the ever busy Achilles.”
George nodded, his expression severe. “I put him to bed for a nap, and when I went to wake him, he was gone.”
Honoria pursed her lips. “He seems to run away quite a bit, you know. Have you ever thought that perhaps Achilles does not like living in a hatbox under your bed?”
“He likes that hatbox. I can tell.”
“How?”
George’s brows lowered, his violet eyes sparkling with disdain. “I know he likes it because he sings when he’s in that hatbox. I don’t think he’d bother unless he enjoyed being there.”
“Perhaps he is not singing, but yelling for help.” She put her hands in the air and said in as froglike a voice as she could muster, “Help! I’m being held prisoner in a horrid hatbox! Please save me!”
George eyed her morosely.
Honoria lowered her hands. “You didn’t find that the least bit funny, did you?”
“No. I’ve heard Achilles yell. When he’s in the hatbox, he just sings.”
“When have you heard him yell?”
“When I was trying to teach him how to slide down the banister in the front hall.”
“Thank heavens I’m not a frog! I believe I might yell, too.” She rubbed her temples. “But I daresay you do know his yelling from his singing.”
“I just wish I knew why he kept running away.”
Honoria could hear the genuine distress in George’s voice. “Perhaps he misses his old pond.”
“You think he might?” Georgie’s bottom lip jutted out, a stubborn gleam rising in his eyes. “Perhaps he does, but if he didn’t live in the hatbox under my bed, he’d be very sorry indeed. He would miss me much worse than he could ever miss his old nasty pond.”
“Yes well, if he keeps getting out you may have to put a lid on that hatbox. And a book on top of that.”
“But that would make it dark! Achilles doesn’t like dark places.”
Honoria had an idea who didn’t like dark places, and it wasn’t Achilles. “Your frog used to live in a pond in the woods; it got very dark at night in those woods, too. I don’t think he’d mind if you’d put a lid on his hatbox at all.”
Georgie’s chin firmed. “I won’t do it. It would be the same as putting him in prison.”
“It would be saving his life. There are many dangers to a frog in a house, you know.”
George looked skeptical. “Like what?”
“He could be stepped on by an unsuspecting servant or accidentally knocked down the stairs by Portia while she was carrying some material for one of her sewing projects. He could be hopping through the kitchen and fall into a pan of soup. He could get his toe stuck in one of the floor gratings. There are an untold number of things that could happen to a hapless frog.”
“No. If something bad happened to Achilles, I would know.”
Honoria sighed and pulled George to her, giving him a gentle hug and resting her cheek against his hair. “I think putting a lid on Achilles’s box could save his life. If nothing else, it might keep him from running away.”
“He doesn’t run away; he goes exploring, like Father.”
Honoria pulled back and eyed her youngest brother a long moment. He was just as stubborn as…well, as stubborn as the rest of the family. And she supposed she could understand why he didn’t wish to admit that perhaps he might be wrong. He was, after all, a part of Mother. And Mother had never been able to admit defeat. It was the one trait she’d given to each and every one of her children; to the last one, the Baker-Sneeds were thoroughly blessed with the famed Winchefield tenacity.
Honoria kissed her brother’s forehead. “I suppose you need someone to help you find your adventuring frog.”
“Would you mind? I asked Portia to help, but she was busy cutting the pattern for some gown or another.” George looked properly disgusted. “Cassandra is with her and they are chattering like a pair of magpies. Ned would say they were creaking like ships in a dock and damned unpleasant it is, too.”
“George!”
He peered up at her though his lashes. “What?”
“You know exactly what. I do not wish to hear that word from you again.”
“I was just saying what Ned would say and—” George hesitated, then the tears spilled down his cheek. “I miss Ned!”
At the wail, Honoria gathered George close once again, holding him until his sobs quieted into soft hiccups. After a moment, he pushed away and dashed at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Sorry,” he mumbled, glaring up at her as if daring her to say another word.
A lump rose in Honoria’s throat and she longed to hold him close yet again. “George, Ned will be back in a trice, see if he isn’t. Father just needed help with his new venture. Besides, he is having a wonderful time, exploring and such. You wouldn’t take that away from him, would you?”
“I don’t want Ned back. I just want Achilles.” George sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Honoria reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it into his hand. “If you please.”
He took it and gave his nose a belligerent swipe. “Girls. You always worry about silly things.”
She took the handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. “Be glad. Without us, there’d be no plum pudding at Christmas and no fresh, clean sheets like the ones you so love to snuggle between at nights.”
“Yes well, I’m just glad I’m not a girl so I don’t have to muss with gowns and ribbons and such.”
“I’m glad for you, too, though there are times when such things can be pleasant.” Honoria tucked away the papers she’d been working on and returned the pen to the ink pot. “Come. We’ll find Achilles and you can take him back to his box under the bed.”
George put his hand in hers and they started for the door. Honoria made a great adventure of their search—anything to keep George’s mind off Ned. First they looked upstairs, peering into all of Achilles’s usual hideaways, many of which were cobweb-strewn corners beneath large pieces of furniture. Then they moved downstairs, peeking beneath sofas and cabinets. They would have made faster time had George not been so hesitant about dark places, but so it was. And Honoria knew better than to act as if she noticed his reluctance. Instead, she nimbly crawled beneath the buffet in the dining room, the large draped side table in the sitting room and anywhere else that might hide a large frog.
George was poking in the sofa cushions and Honoria was just lying on the floor with h
er head beneath the sofa in the sitting room when the door opened.
A horrified feminine gasp filled the air. “Miss Baker-Sneed! Whatever are ye doing?”
“Hunting something,” Honoria said, smiling up at Mrs. Kemble, the housekeeper. Honoria gracefully found her feet and dusted cobwebs from her shoulders. “Were you looking for me?”
The housekeeper’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her hands clenched in the folds of her apron. “Miss! Ye won’t believe it, but there’s a marquis here to see ye! A real, live marquis!”
Honoria and George exchanged glances. “I suppose,” Honoria said after a long moment, “that having a real, live marquis to visit is much better than having a dead one.”
George giggled.
Mrs. Kemble plopped her hands on her hips. “Ye don’t understand, miss. This isn’t any marquis, but a very well-to-do one.”
“How do you know?”
“He drove up in a coach and six, he did. The entire neighborhood must be agog to know who it is and why he’s come to call.”
“A coach and six?” George ran to the window and shoved back the edge of the curtain. Standing on his tiptoes, he pressed his face to the glass. “Bloody hell, that’s a smack-up set of blood and bones.”
“George!”
He had the grace to look slightly shame-faced. “I apologize. But come and look, Honoria. You’ll say the same thing when you see them.”
“I’ll look at them when I return. We mustn’t keep our guest waiting.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Where is this marquis?”
“In yer sittin’ room, miss!” Mrs. Kemble fanned herself vigorously. “A real marquis! Who’d have thought?”
Honoria wondered which marquis it could be. She knew of five, all of them avid collectors. Perhaps it was the Marquis of Sheraton, recently returned from Italy. Ah yes, that must be it. No doubt he’d come to inquire about the Indian pearl desk his wife had so admired in the shop just two months before. “I will join the marquis shortly. I assume you offered him some refreshment?”
“Indeed I hadn’t. What with opening the door and finding a real live marquis on the step and wondering if I should put him in the front sitting room, there not being a proper fire and all—” Mrs. Kemble brightened. “Do ye think he’d like some of Mrs. Hibbert’s apple tarts?”
“With some tea, if you please.” Honoria glanced at George, who was still looking down at the horses. “George, I must go to our visitor, but I won’t be a minute.”
“Very well,” he said, though from the sound of his voice, his mind was a million miles away. “If I had a coach and six, I’d have white horses and not gray.”
Honoria smiled, glad to see him so distracted. She quietly left him to his dreams and made her way to the sitting room. In her haste, Mrs. Kemble had left the door open, so Honoria merely walked in, her feet making no sound on the thick rug.
The marquis was standing beside the fireplace, looking into the small flicker of flames that pretended to chase the chill from the room. Honoria took two steps into the room, then came to a sudden halt, her skirts swinging forward. It wasn’t Sheraton at all, but the irascible, annoying and thoroughly irritating Marquis of Treymount.
Ye gods, what did the man want with her? She glowered at him silently, almost wishing she was wrong, but there was no mistaking those broad shoulders covered in a neatly cut morning coat of unfashionable black, that arrogant tilt to his head. The insufferable man carried himself with an annoying combination of blinding masculine arrogance and unnerving personal command. But why was the Marquis of Treymount here?
Honoria glanced around as if looking for clues, absently noting the weak blaze that barely cast forth heat. She wished she’d ordered a nice roaring fire, though she could hardly see the reason when the room was so rarely used. Still…it was one thing to keep the fires small to conserve what they could, and downright beastly to let a man like Treymount see evidence of what straits the Baker-Sneeds were facing.
Well, there was only one way to find out what the blasted man wanted. Chin up, heart steeled, she said as coolly as she dared, “Lord Treymount.” She closed the door and came forward with what she hoped was a polite smile since she was fairly certain it was not pleasant. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“Miss Baker-Sneed. How kind of you to receive me on such short notice.” His voice rumbled pleasantly through her, jangling her nerves a bit more.
Really, it was unfair of God to make a man so incredibly handsome and then imbue him with the most pasteboard of personalities. Honoria swallowed a regretful sigh, noting that the sunlight from the window slanted across his face in a most intriguing way, marking the strong cheekbone, the firm jaw, the line of his mouth in a way that would have caused her pause had she not faced the man so many times before.
The sad truth was that she knew Treymount far too well to be put off by his masculine beauty. They’d found themselves on opposite ends of the auction table so often that just the sight of his carriage in front of an auction house made her shoulders tighten, her back stiffen, her eyes narrow. She was all but immune to his vivid blue eyes and the way one brow rose whenever he faced an unpleasant situation. Nor did she pay the slightest attention to the thick curl of his black hair or the way his mouth pursed in such a tantalizing manner when he was considering something.
No, Honoria had long since stopped seeing the devastatingly handsome marquis as anything other than a threat to her peace of mind and her purse. She glanced down and realized her hands were at her sides in tight fists.
Smiling a little at herself, Honoria forced her fingers to loosen and let a bit of air slip into her palms. “My lord, to what do I owe the pleasure? I cannot imagine this is a purely social visit.”
A flash of irritation crossed his face, his chin lifting slightly in obvious disapprobation. “Yes, I do wish to ask you about something, although I had thought we’d at least engage in the minimum of civility first.”
“How kind of you,” she said, catching a glimpse of fire in his gaze. Perhaps she’d been a bit hasty in describing his character as pasteboard in consistency. To many people, the Marquis of Treymount seemed a cold, impersonal man, but to be perfectly honest, Honoria knew differently. Irritating and smugly sure of his own supremacy, he was far from cold. He was, in fact, a man of fierce desires and unremitting determination. Few members of the ton had faced the man when he was pursuing something he really wanted, be it an ancient tapestry or a priceless Chinese vase. When in genuine pursuit, his coldly controlled mask fell away and one was treated to the blaze of determination and cold acuity that was rather intriguing to behold.
Honoria searched his face for some glimmer of his purpose, but none came. Irritated, she dipped a slight curtsy. “My lord, welcome to my home. I daresay you’ve come on a matter of business…” She raised her brows and waited.
His deep blue eyes raked across her, lingering on her hair. Honoria had to swallow the urge to make a face at him. It was a peculiar tendency of his, to pause and measure one before engaging in conversation. She’d seen him depress the attentions of any number of toad-eating position worshippers. Under that hard stare, most people found themselves stuttering, anxious to please. Thank God she had her pride to hold her head upright, even before such an imperious gesture.
Still, she couldn’t help but wish she’d worn her good morning dress, though she doubted it would make any difference other than to make her feel somewhat more confident; the man was used to the finest of the fine, and even her good morning dress could not be counted as such. She glanced at him and waited…but still he did not speak.
A flicker of uncertainty brushed across her. Was he silently taunting her? Or was it something else? Honoria’s back stiffened. She did not like being put at such a disadvantage. Treymount’s continued silence began to weight the air.
“Oh pother! Enough of this!” She crossed her arms over her chest, fighting the desire to merely order the cad out of her house. At least his rudeness freed her to spea
k her mind. “Treymount, what do you want?”
He bowed, an ironic smile touching his lips, his gaze still crossing over her face, to her hair and back. “I am sorry if I appeared rude but…did I interrupt you in something…” Again that flickering glance to her hair. “…important?”
Her face heated instantly. She was used to people staring at her hair whenever they first met—the streak of white at her right temple made a lot of people pause. Some stared. Some pointedly looked away. Some gawked as if she had two heads. But Honoria had faced Treymount more than once now. Surely he wasn’t merely looking at her because of that silly streak.
She unconsciously touched her hair…Her fingers found something and her eyes widening. “Cobwebs!” She crossed to the mirror over the fireplace so she could see the damage, laughing when she caught sight of herself. Two frothy strands of cobwebs hung across her hair and draped dramatically to one shoulder. Worse, a faint smudge of dust lined one of her cheekbones. “Ye gods, I look as if I’ve been in a crypt! No wonder you were staring. I’m a complete fright.”
His gaze met hers in the mirror, a surprising hint of amusement lightening the usual cool blue to something far warmer. “I was going to suggest you’d been counting linens from a dark, deep closet, but a crypt is a much more romantic location to gather cobwebs.”
“Cobwebs are not romantic.” Honoria whisked her hand over her head and cleaned away the sweep of misty white strands. “I am sorry to receive you while so mussed. I was assisting my little brother in locating something he’s lost.” That was what she got for even worrying about her appearance to begin with, she decided, shrugging at her own silliness.
The door opened and Mrs. Kemble entered, bearing a heavy tray. “Here we are, miss!” She set the tray on the small table by the sofa and then stood back, beaming. “There weren’t no more apple tarts left, being as how Miss Portia visited the kitchen not ten minutes before I did and ate every last one. But Cook had some pasties a-cookin’ and so I waited fer them to be ready.”