Chapter Sixteen

The buzzing of the matrimonial hive reached Honoria the instant she stepped into the breakfast room.

She blamed it on Verity and Magnus. They were practically glowing as they mentioned taking a walk by the river on their way

to visit Lady Broadbent. And, honestly, did they have to give each other such heated glances as they stood and abandoned their

places at the table?

When they passed her—hand in hand—on the way to the door, her parents' collective gazes alighted on her.

Pretending not to notice, she chirruped, "Good morning, one and all," as she sauntered to the buffet. Tense and waiting for

the first mention of the betrothal contract, she began to fill her plate with eggs, a rasher of bacon, halved tomatoes, a

buttery scone, a slice of honey cake...

"Someone certainly has an appetite," Thea said conspiratorially as she retrieved the jam pot. "Or are you trying to ensure

that your mouth will be too full to answer questions about our walk into town the other day and a certain vis—"

"Utter another syllable and I promise to stab you with a fork," she threatened through clenched teeth.

The imp grinned from ear to ear and practically skipped back to the table, her plait of mahogany hair swishing like a tale.

The worst part about having siblings who knew far too much was that you couldn't murder them. At least, not without putting forth considerable effort to make it appear an accident.

To avoid any further attention about her appetite, Honoria put the honey cake back before she went to the table.

"So when am I going to meet this viscount of yours?" Father said the instant she sat down.

Thea snickered.

Honoria surreptitiously slid her fork beneath the table and brandished it at her sister. "He is certainly not mine, nor can

I account for either his whereabouts or his plans. I have not seen him these past two days."

"That was the day Oscar rescued the baker's son, was it not?" Mother asked, drizzling honey on her toast. "You never mentioned

whether or not you spoke to him afterward."

"Hmm... I cannot seem to recall."

"Well, with all that transpired, I imagine it was a rather eventful afternoon."

Thea coughed to hide her laugh and then—"Ow!"

"What is it, poppet?" Father asked, his tawny brows furrowed.

"Oh, nothing. Just assessing your reactions to a sudden exclamation," she said tersely, rubbing her leg just above her garter

ribbons. "Research for a play I'm writing."

Since this was scarcely different from any other day, the rest of the family continued without surprise. Thea even pulled

out her pocket ledger to make a note with the stub of her pencil... before brandishing the lead point back at Honoria beneath

the table.

In a gesture of faith, and because she was wearing skirts of pale yellow, Honoria put her fork back beside her plate, then

stirred a nip of sugar into her tea. But she would hate to be forced to spill the cup all over Thea's lap if she suggested

anything about the events of that particular afternoon.

"From what your mother tells me, Vandemere popped by every day since his arrival. At first."

"If Mother says it, then it must be true. I wasn't paying much attention."

"But now that I learn he hasn't returned since the day of play rehearsal, I'm concerned that we might be rather more eccentric

than he expected. You did... tell him about us, did you not? In your letters, I mean."

"Of course," she lied. "And I'm certain he has his reasons for staying away."

"Did the two of you have a falling-out, dear?" Mother inquired with a tsk as she dabbed a napkin to the corner of her mouth.

"There is nothing to fall out over. He likely has a great many responsibilities that have been keeping him away." After all,

even a charlatan would have to put on a convincing show. At least, that's what she'd been telling herself. Otherwise, she

might have become rather vexed that he hadn't bothered to acknowledge her existence after they'd kissed.

Not that she needed any sort of acknowledgment from the likes of him. At all. It was just rather rude of him to simply disappear

after such an unimportant and not-life-altering kiss.

And besides, she was grateful that he hadn't darkened their door. She had no desire to see his absurdly handsome face ever

again.

Her father chewed thoughtfully on his bacon, gesturing with his knife and fork when he spoke. "Perhaps you are right. It would

be difficult to acclimate oneself to a new home and new responsibilities in just a few short days. Not to mention, the Fairfax

widows haven't exactly been known for their hospitality."

Mother punctuated that comment with a dry "Ha!"

"Therefore," he continued, "I'll invite him to dine with us. It is important that a man feel welcomed when he's in a new place.

As for our part, we must all gather him into the bosom of our family."

Unable to contain it a moment longer, Thea let out a rolling laugh, then quickly darted from her chair before Honoria could pinch her.

"Good heavens, Althea!" Mother sputtered as her teacup clattered to the saucer. "Whatever has gotten into you this morning?"

"Nothing at all," she said, her eyes dancing with mirth as she gamboled to the buffet for a buttered crumpet. "I was just

thinking about Romeo's last line and how amusing it could be if told in different context."

" Thus with a kiss I die ," Father intoned, considering as his gaze slid from one daughter to the other. "What do you think, Honoria?"

"I think anything, in the right context, could be amusing. Even murder," she said sweetly, smiling at her sister.

***

Oscar had acclimated to the way of things at Dunnelocke Abbey. His days began predictably with a disdainful tête-à-tête with

his valet; the presentation of a meal fit to turn the stomach of a mongrel that regularly feasted on its own excrement; a

few scathing glances from the aunts and Cousin Cleo; a ride over the grounds; then a visit with the dowager.

Aside from the welcome arrival of Cardew—albeit with some rather unwelcome news—nothing really altered.

Except for this morning, when someone tried to shoot him.

Just minutes before, he'd set off on a ride with Cardew to be well away from prying eyes and ears.

They'd stopped along the ridge that overlooked the tree line and the lake beyond. As Oscar surveyed the vast woodland and

rolling hills, he wondered how Vandemere could have all this waiting for him and yet didn't seem to want it.

Or want his betrothed, for that matter. A betrothed who could turn a man's knees to jelly with a single kiss, slay him with a single glance and bedevil his dreams every... single... night.

Aye, Vandemere was one lucky bastard.

Oscar loathed him.

"It's been a few decades since I've ridden. Thankfully, this old girl prefers a more sedate pace," Cardew said, stopping next

to him. He leaned down to pat the dappled mare's neck, then looked out over the ridge. "Not a bad prospect."

Oscar nodded. "It could earn a tidy profit if well managed. Unfortunately, Shellhorn has taken over most of it, and he doesn't

have enough sense to put his boots on the correct feet. His son is even worse. As far as I can tell, the only thing he does

is follow Miss Dunne around all day making sheep's eyes at her."

"If Miss Dunne is that voluptuous vixen I saw leaning out the window to spy on us this morning, I can well understand that."

"That was Babette, widow of the third son, Frederick. By all accounts, she's a veritable man-eater."

Cardew grinned. "And I just happen to be a man."

"Not in this world, old chap. I am sad to report that you are a servant and, therefore, beneath her ladyship's notice." He

chuckled at Cardew's affronted scowl. "It was your idea to masquerade as a gentleman's gentleman."

"We were sailing the Atlantic after our narrow escape, and I was under the influence of a good deal of rum, if you'll recall."

They'd both been imbibing a great deal of rum during that voyage. Perhaps that was the reason Oscar hadn't anticipated things

becoming more complicated than a little blackmail while hiding out of sight.

He could lay the blame for that at Honoria's feet as well.

"I have a proposition for you," he said. "This morning, my valet offered to assist you in your duties. This was likely due

to the fact that you'd told him to sod off when he'd attempted to wake you this morning."

Cardew grumbled. "I'd been abed for barely an hour before he came knocking. And I don't need that nuisance following me around all the bloody day."

"That's what I thought you'd say. For that reason, I've decided it would be better if you gave up your dedicated service as

my valet and retired."

"But I—"

"Here me out," he said, holding up a hand. "The abbey requires quite a few repairs, first and foremost paint in several rooms.

Not to mention, the splintered black lacquer on the railing—"

"A sacrilege."

"—and I thought you could take care of that," he said. Seeing Cardew's eyes twinkle at the prospect of picking up a brush,

Oscar was reluctant to continue. "However, there's just one caveat. You cannot be good. And don't even think about touching

up the murals. The widows and Cousin Cleo are a crafty bunch, and it wouldn't take much for them to see your skill and begin

to wonder about that letter. Not to mention, if word gets out about an artist suddenly appearing in Lincolnshire, we might

as well slit our own throats and save Ladrón the trouble."

Cardew considered this for a moment and looked askance at him. "Before I answer, I'd like to know why you would bother making

repairs at all. We're not going to stay. Unless... you are having second thoughts."

Oscar scoffed at the speculation. "I'm merely offering you the chance to do what you enjoy instead of shining my boots while

we figure out our next steps. But if you'd rather sh—"

The shot rang out.

The horses reared, forelegs pawing at the air. Oscar's heart stopped beneath his chest, his hands gripping the reins, but

Hermes was quick to steady with a few low commands.

Settling his mount, he looked over at Cardew, whose color had gone ghostly pale. "Are you hurt?"

"No. You?"

"No." His sharp gaze quickly scanned the tree line in time to see a blur of bright red within the deep shadows of the forest.

"But I think that was the intention."

Spurring Hermes, he raced down the steep path in hot pursuit.

In the back of his mind, he was thankful to his mother for the years of riding lessons she'd forced him to take. It had been

costly. There had been times when Cardew had come up short. But she'd been stubborn when it came to his education and always

found a way, scraping together enough coin even if that meant they had to do without and she had to darn and mend garments

that should have been castoffs.

Still to this day, he didn't know why she'd been so determined. But mothers had their reasons, he supposed.

At the bottom of the hill, he bent low, giving Hermes his head, tearing up the damp earth beneath them with hard, thundering

hoofbeats. He raced toward the trees, surrendering his hat to the wind. And that's when he saw the culprit.

Or rather, he saw someone moving toward the edge of the forest, a musket raised above his head.

"Show yourself!" he commanded, drawing Hermes square with the tree line.

"Aye, my lord," a man called out, emerging from the mass of pine, oak and elm.

At once, Oscar recognized the bewhiskered face and ruddy cheeks of the stocky gamekeeper on the estate. "Mr. Holcombe? Devil

take it, man! Were you trying to kill me?"

"Not I, my lord. And neither was Master Toby," he said as red-haired Toby Shellhorn appeared, the musket slung over one shoulder

and his boyish face chalk-white. "The boy thought he saw a fox. I told him it weren't hunting season till October, but he

got the shot off before the warning, even if he did miss the quarry."

Sheepish, Toby nodded vehemently to this, appearing too tongue-tied to communicate.

Suspicious, Oscar asked, "If it isn't fox hunting season, then what were the two of you doing out here with guns in the first place?"

Holcombe bristled, the shoulders of his green coat thrusting back. "A gamekeeper always has a gun when checking the traps.

It's up to me to keep the vermin population down, but there are times when poachers set traps and a deer will step a leg in

the wrong place and need to be put down. Thought I'd let the boy tag along since he has no other occupation, if your lordship

approves, of course."

Oscar heard the sarcasm and realized his brusque manner might have given Holcombe the impression he was trying to undermine

his authority. "As you know, I'm still acquainting myself with the estate. If you can find time in your schedule, I'd be grateful

for your assistance in surveying the grounds."

"I can manage that," the gamekeeper said shrewdly.

"Much appreciated, Holcombe." Seeing that he'd smoothed some ruffled feathers, he turned to Toby. "And, young Mr. Shellhorn,

it appears that both of us could use a bit of target practice. Perhaps one morning, with Mr. Holcombe's assistance of course,

we might try our hand at it."

Toby's color returned on a whoosh of relieved breath and he nodded. "I'd like that, sir... I mean, Vandemere. And my father,

as well?"

"As long as he isn't planning to shoot me instead."

"No. That'd be Alfreda," Toby said, then blanched again. "But not really. I mean, I don't think she even knows how to load

a musket."

"I suppose I should be thankful for small favors." Touching his gloved fingers to his forehead in a salute, he bade them farewell.

However, as he rode Hermes up to the ridge where Cardew waited, he wondered if he faced more of a threat from Ladrón or from

his supposed family.

Either way, he should watch his back.

Then as if he didn't have quite enough people who were likely to kill him once they learned the truth, Algernon informed him

that he'd been invited to dine at Hartley Hall this evening at Baron Hartley's special request.

Oscar felt a prickle of uncertainty about attending. From the information that Warring had given him, apparently Baron Hartley

had known Vandemere's father.

This would be a test. If he couldn't convince the baron that he was Vandemere, then his ruse would end abruptly.

And yet, it wasn't the prospect of being outed and losing the concealment his disguise provided against Ladrón finding him

that bothered him most of all. For some strange reason, it was that he wouldn't see Honoria again.

That alarming realization was even worse than being shot at.