Chapter Twenty-Eight

Honoria hated that changeable, foolhardy sapskull! If he wanted to refuse her money and keep a murderer hot on his heels,

then so be it. She didn't care a whit.

Not. A. Single. Whit, she thought, brushing her hair into submission.

"Perhaps a calming blue muslin today, miss," Tally suggested.

In the looking glass, Honoria could see her maid's concerned and slightly wary expression at the furious swipes of the brush.

She set it down and fixed a smile on her face. "No. I think red would suit my mood. Besides, it is our at-home day, and I

want to look my absolute best for the gentlemen callers."

She pinched her cheeks for color. Though, to be honest, her color was already high. It climbed higher still when she thought

about the two thousand pounds she had tucked away beneath the false bottom of her wardrobe beside Signor Cesario's hair and

monocle.

But Oscar could go to the devil for all she cared. Which was not a single whit.

With a decisive nod, she rose from her vanity table and prepared to make an entrance.

***

It was so refreshing to return to her former carefree self. Honoria laughed and flirted with the gentlemen who— even though they knew she was betrothed—refused to give up the hope that she would run away with one of them. And she was more than willing to oblige this fantasy for one afternoon.

She knew very well that it was a game for them as much as it was for her. Gentlemen were hunters by nature. She knew from

firsthand experience of attending a fowling party as Cesario that men simply enjoyed the pursuit and camaraderie, whether

or not they bagged any birds.

"What an honor to have so many handsome gentlemen pay calls on such a sweltering day. You all make me quite giddy," she said,

fanning herself with coquettish skill.

There were a few of her octogenarians among the lot, as well. She wondered if they'd driven here this afternoon or if they

were stragglers from last week, left behind to wander aimlessly about the halls until someone rang for tea.

Dimly, she recalled that was the day Oscar had arrived with a cut on his forehead from a falling chandelier. No, she corrected,

a cut chandelier. That man was forever inciting people into murder. Not that it mattered to her.

In fact, she couldn't wait to be rid of him for good. The sooner Ladrón found him, the better.

A shiver chased down her spine at the thought. Likely the last vestiges of any possible concern she might have had for him

draining away. Besides, Oscar was far too clever and would be gone well before his life were in danger. She was sure of it.

"Isn't that right, my dear?"

Honoria blinked at the sound of her mother's voice and saw her curious expression.

"I was mentioning to Lord Barker that you would love to hear the sonnet he wrote in your honor."

"I have it memorized," Barker offered, his eyes the soulful brown of a basset hound puppy. "Your beauty shines greater than the heavens. Your beauty doth make the roses jealous. Your beauty..."

Standing at the door behind him, Thea dramatically clutched her heart and laid the back of her hand against her brow. Honoria

had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Yet, as the beauty -full sonnet continued, she was starting to take offense.

It shouldn't bother her. From an early age, she had learned many individuals never looked beyond the surface of anyone they

met. Those same individuals preferred to make categorical judgments on whatever they believed they found. And though she'd

struggled for a number of years to prove herself as something more than just pretty, it never altered the consensus.

Her mother had taught her to simply smile politely. One should never be cross with those who only see and do not possess the gift of noticing or knowing.

Her father, in turn, told her to pity them. I'd wager a sixpence that they were dropped on their heads as infants and were left a few currants short of a scone.

However, being gaped at and having the confidence that her parents instilled in her had led her to throwing herself into acting

on her family's stage. As a character, an audience expected her to be someone else. They even waited for her to reveal it.

There was something altogether thrilling about being free to express the different aspects of her own personality through

the parts she played.

But there inside the parlor, on another too-warm afternoon, and with Lord Barker's sonnet droning to an end—which, incidentally,

compared her nose to a rose in the final couplet—she was tired of pretending. Tired of being nothing more than a porcelain

figurine to the majority of these gentlemen, aside from a rheumy-eyed octogenarian who'd spent a good deal of time having

a conversation with an Argand oil lamp.

Fortunately, she was saved from Lord Barker's adamant desire for a discourse on the merits of the work when Mr. Mosely appeared at the door with a silver salver. The instant he looked at Honoria, she felt the heavy th-thud of her heart and instantly wondered if the letter resting on the surface was a farewell from Oscar. After last night, she could well believe it. And she should be glad to be well rid of him at last.

So then why did she feel so cold all of a sudden? Why were her hands trembling?

Setting down her cup and saucer, she rose and went to the doorway. Dimly, she heard Mother take over as hostess and inquire

if any of the gentlemen would like Thea to slice more cake.

That was when she saw the letter was from Truman. But there was only one reason Truman would be writing to her again so soon.

She broke the seal at once.

Dearest sister,

Ladrón was spotted leaving London. I tell you this only to serve as a warning to stay away from Vandemere.

She didn't finish the rest. Crumpling the letter in her fist, she picked up her skirts, dashed down the stairs and out the

front door. Without thought or care, she untied the nearest horse, sank the toe of her slipper into the stirrup and hauled

herself up into the saddle.

Hem high and stockings bared to the world, she raced off pell-mell toward the abbey.

The seven miles seemed to take an eternity. When she'd finally arrived, she dismounted and stormed straight inside without

even knocking.

She nearly fell to her knees with relief when she saw Oscar stopping at the far end of the entry hall.

His eyes widened with undisguised shock. Then that look abruptly altered, shuttered and turned cold. Just like it had last

night when she'd offered him money.

"I'm not here for that," she said, shoving a hank of hair from her forehead. "I'm here because—"

Suddenly, when she lowered her hand, she caught sight of a movement in the gallery directly above him. Right before her eyes,

she saw a heavy urn on a pedestal begin to topple forward. Then it fell.

There was no time to call out a warning. All she could do was run toward him.

They collided in a bone-jarring jolt, momentum tipping their bodies toward the floor. She felt a hard blow to the back of

her head. And then everything went black.