Page 24 of A Taste of Miss Honey

“Don’t stop on my account.”

Abashed, Izzy snatched up the empty bowl and fled.

Ben watched her go, still smiling. It was too bad of him to tease her, but she was such a delight, bold and yet innocent, brought together in a remarkably lovely package. Remorse swept over him as he realised he must leave her. He could not dally here. As soon as he was strong enough to stand without falling on his face, he must go. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Somehow, he must get word to his men, for he needed to get away before Captain Underwood got wind of his presence in the area. Though he did not like to ask her, he knew he must task Miss Honey with that errand.

He closed his eyes and turned his face onto the cool cotton of the pillow.

Izzy.

He liked the little nickname. It was sweet and vibrant and suited his Miss Honey, who was all of that, but so much more. Closing his eyes and dismayed to discover how weary he was, he frowned as images returned to him, memories of his illness and the fever that had damn near done for him. Had she cried for him? He smiled again as he remembered the way she had held his hand, kissing it repeatedly when she realised he was awake. Yet other images crowded in too, memories of people long dead and things he wouldn’t let himself dwell upon. He shoved them back into the mental box he’d constructed, shutting the lid tightly. Instead, he thought of her, though he knew he ought not. He would leave soon, and his life was too dangerous and too complicated to involve her in, even if he wanted to, which he did not, obviously. But the regret that sat in heavy in his chest told him he was a liar.

Ben reached for the glass of water she had left beside him and sipped at it, grimacing. Everything tasted strange. A shot of brandy would be the thing, but he looked around to no avail. No doubt she’d known he’d want it and had taken it before he could prove her right.

He sighed and picked up one of the books she had left him, turning to the first page, but the words blurred, and he felt suddenly exhausted. Dropping it back on the stack, he stared up at the rafters overhead.

Would she miss him, he wondered? Yes. For a while, at least, until she came to her senses and realised what a lucky escape she’d had. If anyone thought she had spent time with him, she’d be ruined, and he’d not have that on his conscience. She’d marry soon enough, for a lovely creature like her would have suitors breaking down the door. Her sisters had certainly done well for themselves. An earl and a marquess. Not bad for a vicar’s daughters. But then there was something special about the Honeywell family. He’d not known the elder sisters, but if they had half the spark their little sister did, they could each have caught themselves a duke if they’d been so inclined.

Izzy could, he thought with a smile. If she wanted one. Would she settle for a mere Mister, and one whose past was too murky for such a lovely creature to stomach? Perhaps if he tricked her and seduced her into believing he was a good man. He could do it, he knew. Lord knew he’d tricked enough people in his life into believing things that were not true.

Bad blood. Just like your father.

He shook his head as if he could shake his mother’s words free of his mind. Yet her image rose behind his eyes, the accusation there, inevitably replaced by the image of her body, lifeless on the floor of the dingy two-roomed apartment they had inhabited. If only she had given him a little more time. But he had trodden the path of what if and if only too many times before. He’d not think of it now. He had too many regrets to number but dwelling on them changed nothing. At least he had a job to do now, a purpose, and when that was over, he did not much care what life held for him next.

He’d not drag Izzy into that, into his wretched mess of a life. He’d ask nothing of her, not when she’d given so much. Yet that sat ill with him. She should have something by way of thanks, whispered a sly voice in the back of his head. At the very least, you ought to thank her for her trouble and leave her something to remember you by.

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 24th January 1816

The dining room looked lovely this evening, the candles bathing the room in a warm light whilst the fire crackled merrily in the hearth. As ever, Mrs Adie had done them proud, and a meal fit for a far grander table than that of a mere vicarage had been set before their illustrious guest.

Lord Alveston was a handsome fellow in his early thirties, with thick, dark, waving hair and an aristocratic profile, and didn’t he know it, Izzy thought with amusement, wishing she could abandon the man to her father’s less than politic ways and escape to the attic. Boreas was certainly on the mend, yet he tired easily and was constantly hungry. She had left him food enough to keep him going until she could escape to visit him later, which could not come soon enough. Yet their guest was charming and attentive, regaling them with stories of the ton and giving them an impression of a life filled with pleasure-seeking and luxury. He seemed to find everything delightful, including Izzy.

She knew most people would think she ought to be flattered by his attention and the admiration in his eyes, but it made her increasingly uncomfortable as the evening progressed. She had the unwelcome sensation that he was mentally undressing her, and it made her skin crawl.

“A splendid meal. The best I’ve had in a long time. My compliments to your cook,” Lord Alveston said, raising a glass to Izzy and her father. He set it down carefully, taking a moment to adjust his gold cufflinks. His shirt collars were so high Izzy had noticed he had difficulty looking down at his plate and was reduced to eyeing it suspiciously, which she had found remarkably entertaining. Yet he was rather fine for all that, fashionable she supposed, his dark hair elegantly windswept and his waistcoat an eye-catching shade of bright blue.

She smiled at him, warming a little in the light of his praise, for she knew what work it had taken to produce. “Mrs Adie will be pleased. She is a marvel and does not get enough credit just cooking for myself, Papa, and the little ones.”

Lord Alveston nodded and returned her smile, his expression indulgent. “And soon to be just your Papa and the children, I imagine.”

Izzy frowned, not understanding what he meant. “It will?”

He laughed, a sound she felt certain he believed to be melodious and appealing, but which suddenly sounded rather false to her ear. “But you’ll be coming out, will you not? Now your sisters are both married ladies, you’ll be wanting to take your turn and catch yourself a husband.”

Catch herself a husband? Good grief, he made it sound like she would set out with a fishing rod and hook the first passing male. Izzy blushed, glancing at her father, who looked equally startled. “No. I have no intention of doing so. I mean, Clementine did offer, but Papa needs me, and there’s really no rush. I’m only nineteen. Not on the shelf yet.”

Lord Alveston, however, did not agree and looked horrified. “But this cannot be! A beauty like yourself cannot bury herself in this little backwater when the delights of the season are coming fast upon us. You are missing out on a world that you are now entitled to enter, as your sisters’ social standing has been elevated to such heights. I’m quite certain your papa is not so selfish as to keep you all to himself.”

“Papa is the least selfish person I’ve ever known,” Izzy retorted, too incensed to mind her manners. “And I’m not the least bit interested in society.” His Lordship chuckled, apparently unperturbed by her show of anger, his manner condescending and coaxing as if he were dealing with a stubborn five-year-old. “Ah, now I know you are fibbing. All young ladies delight in society and long for the day they come out. All the parties and balls and dancing, and handsome young fellows vying for your attention. No, indeed, Miss Honeywell, you protest too much.”

Izzy forbore to point out that she had not yet begun to protest, and he’d know it when she did. The smug devil. Instead, she held her tongue, not trusting herself to speak.

“Did Clementine really invite you, Izzy? You never said so.”

Izzy looked around at her father, who appeared troubled. “Why, yes, Papa, but there’s no earthly reason I should go. I am perfectly content here in Little Valentine.”

Lord Alveston made a quiet scoffing sound, and she had to fight the temptation to kick him in the shin. As it was, she contented herself with glaring at him. How dare he come here, stirring things up?

“I imagine it must be difficult for a man who immerses himself in such gaiety at all hours of the day and night to understand that life can be filled with simpler and more down-to-earth pursuits, but I assure you it is possible. I expect you’ll wish to return to town as soon as you are able, but might I ask what brings you to our little backwater, sir?” she demanded, with undisguised hostility.