“One more question, Edward. Did a letter go out to Lady Trent shortly after Lord Tarrington’s visit?”
He bowed. “I sent the messenger myself.”
“Thank you, Edward.” Honora waved him away and turned to her cousin. “He would believe Lady Trent if she came to him with such damning evidence against me. I wish I could say he would not, but—” Honora twisted her fingers together, thinking of Gideon in the firelight, waiting for her to push him away in disgust.
“What will you do?” Emmie asked.
Honora’s first inclination was to allow Gideon to stew. He’d left her, believing Lady Trent without even speaking to Honora or allowing her to explain. It meant he didn’t trust her or their connection. It pained her terribly, but part of Honora understood. What she could not do was allow the misunderstanding to fester between them.
“I’m going after him,” Honora stated firmly. “Today.”
“But you don’t know where his country estate is, Honora. I haven’t any idea either. I suppose we can ask”—her lip curled—“my brother’s wife, Rebecca. But I’m not sure she knows.”
“Which is why I’m going to pay a call to the Earl of Montieth. I do hope Lady Trent is visiting, because I would like a few words with her. Edward,” she called into the seemingly deserted hallway. “Have the carriage brought around. I’m going out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Almost everyone knewwhere the Earl of Montieth lived. His family was so ancient and prestigious they’d managed to snag a plot of land in a very desirable location, one they’d held on to for several generations. Made of white brick, with ivy crawling up one side, Montieth’s London home was tucked into a small pocket next to the park. It was fairly easy to find.
He wasn’t pleased to receive Honora, but he did.
“I’m sure I’d remember,” Montieth drawled in his snide, arrogant way as he greeted her, “if you and I had been indiscreet, Mrs. Culpepper.”
“I would have had to be foxed,” Honora replied. “So completely filled with spirits as to not recall my own name. Did you inform your mother of such? I’m sure she’s visited.”
“I had the delight of first being accused of a crime I didn’t commit—namely, bedding you beneath my friend’s nose, madam. Which I staunchly denied. I then had the pleasure of being informed of all your trespasses. The evidence against you is much more damning, Mrs. Culpepper. Were you really going to tell everyone he couldn’t bed you because a caiman nearly took his leg off? All over some incident that happened when you were a girl?” Montieth let out growl of anger toward her. “You and your bitch of a cousin have much to answer for.”
Honora took a step forward. “If your involvement with me was lied about, my lord, why are you so certain the remainder is the truth?”
Montieth glared at her for the longest time before taking a piece of paper from his desk and scribbling out instructions to Southwell’s estate, Longwood. At least, she hoped the directions were to Longwood. Montieth could be sending her on a wild goose chase for all she knew. He held the paper out to her.
Honora’s fingers closed over the edge of the note, but Montieth didn’t let go immediately. He tugged until she had to lean forward.
“Don’t break him again, Mrs. Culpepper. I’ll be rather put out if you do.”
Honora gave him a brittle smile, snatching the paper from his fingers. Montieth could threaten all he wished. She didn’t feel the need to grant him any reassurances, imposing brute that he was. She didn’t give a fig for his opinion. Or him.
Several hours later, Honora looked out at the gently rolling hills outside the coach window. She’d been along this road before. It was the same direction she and Gideon had traveled for their picnic. His estate wasn’t so far from London at all, it seemed.
The sun began to set as Longwood came into view. Admiring the tall columns and arched roof, Honora tried not to worry over what would happen if Gideon chose not to listen to her. Or had decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.
The irony was she’d accomplished her long-ago scheme to break Gideon’s heart only to find out how terrible it really was.
The coach rolled to a stop before the door as two footman and a butler came to greet her, looking askance at Honora and the coach bearing a small mountain of trunks.
The butler, a bulky man with suspicious eyes, gave her a pointed look, trying to maintain a polite demeanor. He had a scar just below one cheek and a nose that had been broken. Very uncommon-looking for a butler. She wondered where Gideon had found him.
Bowing slightly, the butler raised a brow. “I am Dunst. This is the home of the Earl of Southwell.” He looked again at her coach, devoid of any family crest. “May I be of assistance?”
“Yes, you may.” Honora bestowed a brilliant smile on him. “I wish to see Lord Southwell. I am Mrs. Culpepper,” she supplied, waiting for any sort of reaction from the butler. Finding none, she soldiered on. “He isn’t expecting me.”
The butler was eyeing Honora as if she was…well, some sort of light-skirts. “Lord Southwell is not receiving. Nor is he in need of your services, madam. There is an inn a short distance away. Perhaps you can avail yourself—”
Honora marched right past Dunst, ignoring his attempts to stop her, and strode into the foyer. If she was going to be thrown out, the butler and shocked footmen would have to bodily pick her up and toss her into the coach. She wasn’t leaving until she spoke to Gideon.
“Gideon!” Honora shouted, listening to her voice echo over the tiled entry.
Dunst was at her heels. “Madam. I must ask you to leave. Immediately.” The butler’s polite accent had dropped. He sounded like he belonged on the docks. Which was probably where Gideon had found him.
