As her aunt exited the room, Honoria’s heart warmed with gratitude. Aunt Foxe must have ordered the periodicals just for her. Once again, she was struck by that lady’s kindness.
She had known her great-aunt but slightly at the time of her impulsive decision to seek refuge here. During their few childhood visits, she’d noted only that Miss Alexandre Foxe seemed to answer to no one and that her relations with her niece, Honoria’s mother, seemed somewhat strained. Since her own relations with Mama had always been difficult and at the time she was sent out of London, staying with someone who had no connection to her paternal family held great appeal, Honoria had immediately thought of coming to Cornwall rather than proceeding, as directed by her brother Marcus, to the family estate in Hertforshire.
The fact that independent Miss Foxe was not beholden in any way to the Carlows was almost as appealing to Honoria as her recollection that, on one of those rare childhood visits, Aunt Foxe had pronounced Verity, already being held up to Honoria as a paragon of deportment, to be a dull, timid child.
Given the slightness of their previous acquaintance, Honoria still marvelled that her aunt had not sent her straight back to Stanegate Court, as John Coachman had darkly predicted when she’d ordered him to bring her to Foxeden.
She was deeply thankful to her aunt for taking her in and, even more, for giving credence to her story. Unlike her nearer relations in blood, that lady had both listened to and believed her, though she could come up with no more explanation than Honoria as to why someone would have wished to engineer her great-niece’s downfall.
Even after over a month, it still hurt like a dagger thrust in her breast to recall her final interview with Marcus. More furious than she’d ever seen him, her brother had raged that, rash as she’d always been, he’d have expected better of her than to have created a scandal that ruined her good name at the same time it compromised her innocent sister’s chances of a good match and distressed his newly pregnant wife. When he contemptuously cut off her protests of innocence, by now as angry as Marcus, she’d listened to the rest of his tirade in tight-lipped silence.
Despite their wrangling over the years, she would never have believed he would think her capable of lying about so important a matter. His lack of faith in her character was more painful than the humiliation of the scandal.
Marcus needn’t have bothered to order her to quit London. She’d had no desire to remain, an object of pity and speculation, gleefully pointed out by girls of lesser charm and beauty as the once-leading Diamond of the Ton brought low. After her fiancé’s repudiation and the final blow of her brother’s betrayal, she’d been seething with impatience to get as far away from London and everything Carlow as possible.
Wrapping the robe more tightly about her, she walked to the window, sighing as she watched the roll and pitch of the distant sea. As for Anthony—that engagement had been a mistake from the beginning, as the tragedy in the town-house garden had revealed only too clearly.
It was partly her fault for accepting the suit of a man she’d known since childhood, for whom she felt only a mild affection. A man she’d accepted mostly because she thought that if she acquiesced to an engagement Marc favoured, her elder brother might cease dogging her every step and transfer his scrutiny to Verity. The prospect of getting out from under his smothering wing was appealing, and if Anthony proved tiresome, she could always cry off later.
She smiled grimly. Well, she no longer needed to worry about crying off—or about wedding to please her family, binding herself for life to someone who was probably the wrong man. Unless some local fisherman fell in thrall to her celebrated beauty, she’d likely never receive another offer of marriage—certainly not from anyone who could call himself a gentleman.
’Twas amusing, really. She’d chosen Anthony Prescott, a mere Baron Readesdell, over a host of more elevated contenders because she’d thought that he, having known her from childhood, would be more likely to prize her independent spirit and restless, questing mind as much as her beauty and connections. Anthony’s speed in ridding himself of her after the scandal proved that a desire for a link to the powerful Carlow family and her sizeable dowry had been the true attractions.
If this boon companion from childhood who knew her so well was the wrong sort of man for her, who could be the right one?
The image of the blue-eyed, black-haired free-trader popped into her head. He certainly was handsome. Even with his hair slicked back and cold seawater dripping off that powerful chest and shoulders, he radiated a sheer masculine energy that had struck her in the pit of her stomach, setting off a fiery tingling in her core that warmed her all the way to her toes.
A resonant echo of that sensation heated her now, just remembering.
She had to chuckle. Wouldn’t Marcus sputter with outrage at the mere thought of her being attracted to such a low-born brigand?
’Twas good that Papa would never learn of it; she wouldn’t want to bring on another of the attacks to which he seemed increasingly prone. Mama had often rebuked her, claiming her unladylike behaviour caused him a distress that made such episodes more likely.
A familiar guilt stirred sourly in her belly. She only hoped her disgrace in London hadn’t precipitated one.
Marcus hadn’t allowed her to see Papa before leaving London, nor had she wished to. It pained her anew to think that her actions might harm him.
As someone had harmed her, though no one in her immediate family believed it. According to the diatribe with which Marcus had dismissed her, the entire Carlow family considered her a selfish, thoughtless, caper-witted chit without a care for the shame and humiliation her wild behaviour heaped on the family name.
On the other hand, given that assessment of her character, a low-born brigand was perfect for her, she thought in disgust. Though the stranger’s handsome face and attractive body probably hid a nature as perfidious and deceiving as every other man’s.
Except maybe Hal. A wave of longing for the brother who’d been almost her twin swept over her. If only Hal had been in London that evening, how differently the outcome might have been! He would not have dismissed or abandoned her.
But with Boney now on Elba, Hal had been off somewhere in Paris or Vienna, helping secure the peace, exploring new cities, seducing matrons and parlour maids and in general having the sort of adventures which had won him a reputation among his peers as a daring young buck.
Adventures which, openly criticize though they might, Honoria believed Papa and Marcus secretly admired. Adventures denied a young lady, who would find her reputation ruined by even a whiff of the scandal that settled so gracefully about her brother’s dashing shoulders.
A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Mrs Dawes and the kitchen maid, both struggling with canisters of heated water. Wondering what had happened to the footmen who normally hefted such heavy loads, Honoria walked over to assist them. Life, she reflected wistfully and not for first time, as they poured hot water into the copper tub before the hearth, was distinctly unfair to those of the female gender.
Dawes stayed to assist her into the bath. By the time she’d scrubbed all the salt and sand out of her hair, the lady’s maid turned up to help her out of the rapidly cooling water, letting the housekeeper return to her duties.
‘So sorry I was absent when you needed me, miss,’ Tamsyn said. ‘Oh, but what a brave thing it was you done! I could hardly believe it when I seen you wading out into the water, for all the world like you was going to swim—’
‘You saw me?’ Honoria interrupted. Suddenly she understood the reason behind the maid’s absence and the lack of footmen: they must all have been assisting the free-traders in moving their cargo inland. ‘Tamsyn, surely you have not been taking part in illegal activities!’
‘Oh, course not, miss,’ the maid replied hastily, a telltale blush colouring her cheeks. ‘I, um, heard all about it from Alan the footman, who met some fishermen whilst