Chapter Four

The way Honoria saw it, she only had two options.

Expose Flint for the fraud he was.

Murder him.

And since the first option held the possibility of exposing her own secrets, she was leaning more toward the second.

Normally, she wasn't at all bloodthirsty. In fact, even a spill of red silk on stage for a death scene occasionally made her

squeamish. But desperate times and a sleepless night called for... suffocation? Poisoning? A fall from a great height?

Hmm, more food for thought.

Oddly enough, the answer had been in the betrothal contract all along. The foolproof way out of this entanglement would be

for one of them to die. And since she had no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon, it would have to be Flint. Which was the reason she was

slipping in through the servant's entrance of Dunnelocke Abbey at dawn.

She was disguised as an aging maid-of-all-work, complete with graying wig and blackened teeth. But it was the frayed eyepatch

and the hump over one shoulder that truly added an air of authenticity to her character, she thought with a measure of pride.

Not even her parents would recognize her.

She'd been a servant there before and knew her way around the abbey. After all, one must have a foundation in place when building the ideal viscount. So it was no trouble to blend in to the hustle and bustle of belowstairs activity that morning.

Keeping her head down, she picked up a cinder pail and broom, her ears perked.

It was no surprise that everyone was talking about the return of the viscount. Questions arose over where he'd been all this

time, wondering if he'd been traveling or fighting in a war. There was also disapproval over the state of his boots, over

the fact that his valet would arrive later with his trunks, and the inconvenience of having to promote a footman to the post

when they were so short on staff.

Just as Honoria was scuttling past the yawning kitchen archway, she heard a pair of scullery maids debating over his legitimacy.

"Do you reckon it's true, Moll? I mean, if'n 'e really is the viscount, then why'd 'e wait so long?"

"I dunno. But I 'eard from Sally, and she 'eard from Mrs. Todd 'erself, that 'is lordship brought a letter from a cleric at

the church what baptized him in Africa. I reckon that's proof enough."

"Then, why'd Lady Alfreda tell the cook to serve the lamb stew last night, when we all know it ain't fit for pigs, let alone

quality?"

"Don't be daft, Gertie. It has to do with inheritance, don't it? With a viscount in the flesh 'neath this very roof, the widows

can't declare him dead no more. And that's been their plan for nigh on seven years."

"If you ask me, 'e ought to be warned about—"

"Back to work, you hens! All that pecking and chattering ain't going to scrub those pots," the cook shouted.

Honoria startled with a jolt at Mrs. Blandings's booming voice. Before she was caught lurking, she scrambled up the stairs,

her pail and broom rattling in the narrow corridor.

This wasn't the first time she'd heard that the widows intended to declare Vandemere dead.

Several years ago, she'd heard a rumor that the dowager viscountess had been corresponding with her youngest son's widow—the

actress whose charms had led him to become estranged from his own family. Though, no one had known anything about the letters

at all until they'd abruptly stopped. The dowager, fearing the worst, tearfully revealed the correspondence to one of the

widows, swearing her to secrecy. Which, of course, guaranteed that the news was fleet of foot.

When it reached Hartley Hall, Honoria knew she had to take action.

She'd been sixteen at the time, and her overly romantic mother had already begun talking about the delights of marriage. Most

notably the marriage bed, stating the vital importance of women being equally—if not more so—satisfied than the men they married.

Mother even performed a sock puppet play about it, which featured an illuminating account of the lisping Lord Flaccid, the

robust Lord Turgid and the quivering, breathless Lady Content.

The play was quite intriguing to Honoria... until she learned that when Lord Turgid was in Lady Content's bedchamber, it

sometimes resulted in a child being born some months later.

But she didn't want children. And since having a husband would likely ensure that she did, she wanted nothing whatsoever to

do with marriage.

So she'd begun inventing stories and fabricating letters from her adventurous, world-traveling and oat-sewing viscount, essentially

clinging to the betrothal contract like a shield. And now that shield was being wrenched from her grasp by a despicable, blackmailing,

swindling cad.

She heard the footmen approach and slunk back into a recessed alcove at the end of the corridor. As they carried dishes into the breakfast room, they left the scents of coffee, porridge, bacon and baked breads in their wake. Her stomach grumbled, and she laid a hand over it to muffle the sound.

It was only then that she remembered she'd been too irritated and fretful to eat dinner last evening. In fact, her last full

meal had been yesterday morning.

The only thing that was sustaining her was the pot of tea she'd guzzled before leaving at first light. Which, she was beginning

to realize as she shifted from one foot to the other, hadn't been the most brilliant idea.

But just as she thought about stealing into one of the unoccupied bedchambers to take care of matters, she heard the parade

of footmen leave the breakfast room.

All thoughts of too much tea evaporated as her plan resumed. It was now or never.

She knew that her best method of ferreting out gossip would be to hear it from the widows themselves. From her previous sojourns,

she also knew that the ladies were early risers. Doubtless, they would have much to discuss this morning.

However, when she stole into the empty room, she noticed one glaring thing that might give her away.

There had been no fire in the grate. Hence no ashes to sweep.

Drat! She should have thought of that. It had been too warm of late. Even the casement windows of the narrow, paneled room

were spread open to let in the morning breeze.

Casting a baleful glance down to her pail, she wished she'd chosen a different prop. But it was too late now. She could hear

the sound of footfalls in the corridor.

Hastening to look busy, she kneeled at the hearth and started sweeping out the already empty grate. But realizing that her

eyepatch prevented her from seeing the door in her peripheral vision, she switched it to the other side, disheveled strands

of her gray wig falling against her cheeks.

To complete her portrayal of this character, she arched her back like a cat, wanting the pillowed hunch she stitched beneath her drab woolen work dress to take center stage in case gazes fell upon her. Though, she wasn't too worried on that account. Most members of the ton paid little attention to servants.

"...the utter inconvenience of his arrival is maddening," Millicent Fairfax was saying as she walked in, her wand-thin

figure garbed in black crepe as if her husband had died recently instead of almost two decades ago. With an irritated swipe,

she picked up a plate of Sèvres china and dropped a slice of toasted bread onto it. Honoria's stomach issued a mewl of longing.

"I have not endured these years simply to be thrown out of my own home."

" Your home?" Alfreda Shellhorn scoffed, ruffling the layered frills over the bosom of her black shirtwaist. The women looked as

though they were forever in a mourning-attire competition. "Mother Fairfax promised the abbey to us all."

"Solely to keep the memories of her sons alive. I highly doubt she intended for you to bring a new husband home to roost,

in addition to his eighteen-year-old son who does little more than empty the larder on a daily basis and moon over Cleo. It's

revolting. She's ten years his senior."

" Twelve , Cousin Millicent," Cleo corrected as she, too, sauntered into the breakfast room in a plain lavender day frock. She skirted

past Alfreda at the buffet, likely not seeing the squint-eyed daggers hurled at her back. "If you'll recall, I'm the same

age as Babette. I believe you flung that barb at Uncle Frederick when he first brought her home. ‘Why not simply marry Cleo,

if you wanted a child bride?'"

As Honoria listened to the vipers of Dunnelocke Abbey, she bit her cheek to keep from laughing. They were a formidable nest,

to be sure. And she had little doubt that they would make mincemeat of Mr. Flint and save her all the work.

At least, as soon as they stopped attacking each other.

"That was long ago," Alfreda intervened as she sat at the head of the table with a bowl of porridge. "And I daresay that Frederick

learned his lesson."

"What was that about Freddie?" Babette asked sleepily as she toddled in, wearing a crimson-lined black silk dressing gown

that did little to disguise her considerable attributes.

"Oh, nothing. Millicent was merely remarking on what a large appetite he'd had."

Babette grinned as she gave into a stretch and a yawn, making an owllike sound. "Hoo! You couldn't know the half of it. Speaking

of which, I've been positively famished since dinner. How long are we going to serve Cook's worst dishes to that divine specimen

of manhood?"

Honoria frowned. She had a sudden urge to dump ashes over Babette's... attributes.

It made no sense. First, because there were no ashes. And second, because Honoria couldn't care a fig how many women found

Mr. Flint attractive. Not a single fig. Not even half a fig.

"As long as it takes," Millicent said, as adamant as a colonel ordering the infantry to starve the enemy as she slopped mulled

eggs and a rasher of bacon onto her plate. Honoria's midriff issued a woeful honk that sounded like an elk in distress. "And

I want him gone, Babette, not lured into your bedchamber."

The broom clattered against the pail, and Honoria hastily croaked out a raspy Beg pardon as she finished sweeping. Then she drew a rag hanging from her apron string and began to polish the grate.

The conversation resumed as if she weren't there.

"The fact of the matter is," Cleo said, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table, "we must deal with this interloper

together. Dunnelocke Abbey was bequeathed to my family in the fifteenth century. It should have remained that way and would have done if not for a greedy lord treasurer who'd come along and tried to force my great-great-grandmother into signing the deed over to him. When she refused, he and his men-at-arms surrounded the abbey and tried to starve her into submission. When that failed, he kidnapped her, forcing her into marriage to make the abbey his. Which he then gave to his son from a prior union." She slammed her fist down, rattling the silverware. "It took more than three centuries before my aunt's father finally held the deed. And he swore that the abbey would never again be stolen from his bloodline and made sure of that when he drew up her dowry contract. It clearly states that, without an heir, the abbey belongs to whomever it is willed."

"Then, it is settled," Alfreda added with a note of finality as she lifted her teacup. "We shall work together to expose this

fraud and keep our home."

Babette draped herself over one of the side chairs, a scone clamped between her teeth, as each of them lifted their teacups

in turn. "Agreed."

No sooner had they made their pact than the very interloper appeared.

Honoria's breath caught. She didn't expect him to be up and about at such an early hour. Surely that accounted for the sudden

quickening of her pulse. After all, a man such as he was supposed to keep shadow hours and lurk in dark places to hide his

evil deeds.

"Speak of the devil."

"And good day to you as well, Aunt Alfreda. Aunt Millicent. Aunt Babette. Cousin Cleo," he said baring his teeth in a grin

before he turned to lift a plate from the buffet.

He never once let his gaze fall to the maid at the hearth. She was invisible. And since the last thing she wanted was to gain

his notice, she finished up her work and scuttled toward the serving room that lay beyond a concealed door in the corner.

"What a lovely sight to encounter first thing in the morning," he said before Honoria reached the concealed servants' entrance.

She stilled, heart thudding in her ears. Was he addressing her?

Then he continued, "I trust that each member of my adoring family enjoyed a peaceful repose last night since you all seem

to be in high color this morning."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Alfreda asked, her voice rising.

Shoulders—and hunch—sagging with relief, Honoria skirted into the slender passageway between the breakfast and dining rooms.

She lingered on the other side to peer through the crack from a more discreet distance.

"Nothing other than each of you appear to be in the bloom of health," he said, all innocence. "And I see your appetites have

improved since supper, when none of you wanted for more than bread."

Babette trailed her finger around the rim of her cup and looked at him from beneath her lashes. "And how did your night fair,

Oscar?"

"Well, after that delightfully mysterious meal, I went to the stables to ensure my horse did not meet with the cook's cleaver."

He paused as one of the widows coughed in her tea. "Relieved on that account, I then spent hours with your faithful steward.

Regrettably, Mr. Price was unable to locate the accounting ledgers for my perusal. He did, however, inform me of the terms

of the will set in place by my grandfather, which stated that—"

"Cease calling him your grandfather. And we are not your aunts. Your kinship, or lack thereof as I suspect, has not been proven,"

Millicent snapped. "One must wonder what you could hope to gain by this sudden appearance on our doorstep after nearly thirty

years of nary a word."

"I've shown each of you the papers and, if needs must, I will have the registry from the church sent here to peruse at your

leisure."

"We do not doubt that there was a marriage and a baptism," Alfreda remarked haughtily. "What I doubt is that you are he. There is nothing at all in your countenance that resembles my brother-in-law. And you carry no documentation written in his own hand stating that you are his son."

"The latter would be quite the feat, especially considering he has been dead three and twenty years. Shall I unearth his skull

to summon his ghost, do you think? No? Well, then, as for the fact that I do not resemble him, you are the first to comment

on it. My own recollections of him are rather vague, and he left behind no miniature for me to cling to in my youth when I

was in need of his guidance."

The words fell from his lips with an insouciant air. And yet, Honoria heard the faintest strain in his voice, a trace of tightness

around the vowels that only an actor drawing on firsthand experience might call upon when delivering a line.

It made her wonder how much this man might have in common with the real Vandemere.

Then again, Flint's acting ability might simply have been better than she imagined.

"I had been hoping to find his portrait hanging in the gallery. But I found none," he continued, casually lifting the silver

cloches from the platters on the buffet.

Cleo issued an offhand sniff. "My uncle was a rather unforgiving sort and had every surface bearing cousin Titus's likeness

destroyed when he married that... that actress and brought shame to the family."

Honoria took exception to that insult and narrowed her eye at the back of Cleo's head.

"Ah, yes, because there was no shame at all in having an opium-eater, adulterer or libertine in the family already," he said

dryly.

"How dare you!" Alfreda and Millicent said in unison.

"And at least an actor could deliver a more clever line," he added, warding off their slings and arrows with a shrug. Begrudgingly, Honoria had to give him credit for the way he'd put them in their places.

"As I was saying," he continued, lifting the plate to sniff the food and apparently believing it was edible, he moved to the

far side of the table and sat down. "Grandpapa's will states that, in the event no male heir could be found, the Dunnelocke

Abbey demesne would revert to the dowager viscountess as it had been before he acquired the property in her dowry contract.

Though, one must wonder if dear Grandmama has mistakenly promised the property to each of her sons' widows."

" Mistakenly? Why, you—"

"Millicent, sit down," Alfreda said. "He's merely baiting us."

He raised his teacup. "Testing the waters, shall we say."

"Then, I will politely inform you that you're in over your head. Unless you can produce definitive proof, I'm afraid we're

going to have you taken to gaol."

"Oh, dear. I think my betrothed will be quite disappointed by that."

Honoria resisted the urge to scoff.

Cleo scoffed for her. "And what, pray tell, does Miss Hartley have to do with any of this?"

"Surely you know that she and I have been corresponding for years. That is how I was able to find each of you. In her letters,

she kept me abreast of all the comings and goings at the abbey and any rumors regarding my family." He reached for the marmalade.

"You see, she was able to prove definitively who I am. I'm certain any court would take that into account, in addition to the supporting

testimony of her new brother-in-law, the venerable Duke of Longhurst."

Of all the nerve! Honoria seethed. Why that rotten blackguard, using her sister's husband in order to continue his deception.

Well, there was just one thing to do—find his secrets and use whatever she could against him.