Alarmed, Honoria spun back around to face her. “But he’s not coming."
“No, of course not, but he is our neighbor. And as Cecily said the other day, this means that he will dance with her in London, and one must seize one’s opportunities where one can."
“Yes, of course, but—"
“He does not bestow his favor on many young ladies,” Mrs.
Royle said proudly. “You, I suppose, due to your prior connection, and maybe one or two others. It will make it easier for her to capture his attention. This way, Lady Honoria,” she said, motioning toward a row of flower arrangements on a nearby table. “And besides,” she added, “our property is like a little bite out of his.
Surely, he’ll want it."
Honoria cleared her throat, not at all certain how to respond.
“Not that we could give it all to him,” Mrs. Royle continued.
“None of it is entailed, but I couldn’t possibly slight Georgie that way."
“Georgie?"
“My eldest son.” She turned to Honoria with an assessing eye, then waved her hand through the air. “No, you’re too old for him.
Pity."
Honoria decided there could not possibly be an appropriate reply to that.
“We could add a few acres to Cecily’s dowry, though,” Mrs.
Royle said. “It would be worth it, to have a countess in the family."
“I’m not sure he’s looking for a wife just yet,” Honoria ventured.
“Nonsense. Every unmarried man is looking for a wife. They just don’t always know it."
Honoria managed a small smile. “I shall be sure to remember that.” Mrs. Royle turned and gave Honoria a close look. “You should,” she finally said, apparently having decided that Honoria was not mocking her. “Ah, here we are. What do you think of these flower arrangements? Are they a bit too heavy on the crocuses?"
“I think they’re beautiful,” Honoria said, admiring the lavender ones in particular. “Besides, it is still so early in the spring. Crocuses are what is in bloom."
Mrs. Royle let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose. But I find them rather common myself."
Honoria smiled dreamily and trailed her fingers across the petals.
Something about the crocuses made her feel utterly content. “I prefer to think of them as pastoral.” Mrs. Royle cocked her head to the side, considered Honoria’s comment, and then must have decided it required no response, because she straightened and said, “I think I will ask Cook to make biscuits."
“Would it be acceptable if I remained here?” Honoria asked quickly. “I rather enjoy arranging flowers."
Mrs. Royle looked at the flowers, which were already expertly arranged, and then back at Honoria.
“Just to fluff them out,” Honoria explained.
Mrs. Royle waved her hand through the air. “If you wish. But don’t forget to change before the gentlemen return. Nothing blue, though. I want Cecily to stand out.” “I don’t believe I even brought a blue dress,” Honoria said diplomatically.
“Well, that will make it easy,” Mrs. Royle said briskly. “Have fun . . . er . . . fluffing."
Honoria smiled and waited until her hostess disappeared back into the house. Then she waited a bit more, because there were several maids dashing about, fussing with forks and spoons and the like. Honoria poked at the flowers, gazing this way and that until she saw the flash of something silver over by a rosebush. With a glance to make sure the maids were occupied, she took off across the lawn to investigate.
It was a small spade, apparently forgotten by the gardeners.
“Thank you,” she mouthed. It wasn’t a shovel, but it would do.
Besides, she hadn’t exactly figured out how one might use the words “shovel” and “inconspicuous” in the same sentence.
The spade was still going to take some planning. None of her frocks had pockets, and even if they did, she somehow did not think she’d be able to conceal a piece of metal half the size of her forearm. But she could stash it somewhere and pick it up later, when the time was right.
In fact, she decided, that was exactly what she would do.
Chapter Four
What was she doing? Marcus hadn’t been trying to keep himself hidden, but when he came across Honoria digging in the dirt, he couldn’t help himself.
He had to step back and watch.
She was working with a little spade, and whatever type of hole she was digging, it couldn’t have been very big, because after barely a minute she stood up, inspected her handiwork first with her eyes, then with her foot, and then—here was where Marcus ducked more carefully behind a tree—looked about until she found a pile of dead leaves under which she could hide her small shovel.
At that point he almost made his presence known. But then she returned to her hole, stared down on it with furrowed brow, and went back to the pile of leaves to retrieve her spade.
Tiny shovel in hand, she squatted down and made adjustments to her handiwork. She was blocking his view, though, so it wasn’t until she went back to the dead leaves to dispose of what was clearly now a piece of evidence that he realized that she had piled up loose dirt in a ring around the hole she’d dug.
She’d dug a mole hole.
He wondered if she realized that most mole holes did not exist in isolation. If there was one, there was usually another, quite visibly nearby. But perhaps this didn’t matter. Her intention—judging by the number of times she tested the hole with her foot—was to feign a fall. Or perhaps to cause someone else to trip and fall. Either way, it was doubtful that anyone would be looking for a companion mole hole in the aftermath of a twisted ankle.
He watched for several minutes. One would have thought it a dull enterprise, staring at a lady who was doing nothing but standing over a homemade mole hole, but he found it surprisingly entertaining. Probably because Honoria was working so hard to keep herself from getting bored. First she appeared to be quietly reciting something, except judging by the scrunch of her nose, she couldn’t remember how it ended. Then she danced a little jig. Then she waltzed, arms outstretched for her invisible partner.
She was surprisingly graceful, out there in the woods. She waltzed considerably better without music than she ever had with it.
In her pale green dress she looked a bit like a sprite. He could almost see her in a dress sewn of leaves, hopping about in the wood.
She had always been a country girl. She’d run wild at Whipple Hill, clambering up trees and rolling down hills. She’d usually tried to tag along with him and Daniel, but even when they refused her company, she’d always found ways to entertain herself, usually out- of-doors. Once, he recalled, she had walked around the house fifty times in one afternoon, just to see if it could be done.
It was a large house, too. She’d been sore the next day. Even Daniel had believed her complaints.
He pictured Fensmore, his own manse. It was monstrously huge. No one in her right mind would walk around it ten times in one day, much less fifty. He thought for a moment—had Honoria ever visited? He couldn’t imagine when she would have done; he’d certainly never invited anyone when he was a child. His father had never been known for his hospitality, and the last thing Marcus would have wanted was to invite his friends into his silent mausoleum of a childhood.
After about ten minutes, however, Honoria grew bored. And then Marcus grew bored, because all she was doing was sitting at the base of a tree, her elbows propped on her knees, her chin propped in her hands.