Page 55 of A Taste of Miss Honey

“My dear, of course I am not cross with you,” he said, his voice a smooth purr as he smiled at her with such insincerity Izzy felt ill. “Only a gentleman’s good name is a precious thing. If some villain is slandering me, I must know about it so I can act appropriately.”

Izzy sniffed and fumbled about for a handkerchief she did not have until Lord Alveston supplied his own. She thanked him sweetly and taking a little vindictive delight in blowing her nose on the pristine white linen before offering it back to him.

With a look of revulsion, he advised her to keep it.

“Now, Miss Honeywell, what was said that upset you so?”

Izzy swallowed, gathering her courage before she spoke. “Well, I could not hear precisely what was said, but it seemed to imply that… that you would not fight because you had strong personal ties to France, and that you rather admired Napoleon.”

His response was more immediate and profound than Izzy had expected. Her breath caught and, in that moment, she could well believe that treason was not the man’s only crime. Picturing him wielding a knife and intending to use it upon her was all too easy to do. Oh, Lord, what had she done? Colour crested his cheekbones, fury glittering in his eyes to such a degree she took a step back. He gathered himself quickly, but not before she had seen and understood the depths of the danger she was in, that Ben had warned her of.

“People are fools,” he said, his voice low and scathing. “They hear a French accent, and they make assumptions. I do not know how many times I must explain that my mother is Swiss. The moment the war started, people loved to make insinuating comments. I am glad to know, at least, that you had the good sense not to read anything into such insulting gossip.”

Izzy let out an all too genuine breath of relief. Yet he was so angry, perhaps he would let something slip. Now was not the time to play it safe; she ought to push him just a little harder. “Oh, no. Indeed, I would never do so, and… and I cannot believe they had any grounds to suppose that she had brothers who supported Napoleon. Indeed, how could she have, if she was Swiss not French,” she added with a nervous laugh.

It was only a guess, but Alveston’s gaze narrowed, his fists clenching, and Izzy felt a flutter of anxiety. Fighting back the icy sensation creeping up her spine, she held his gaze, hoping she looked entirely guileless and every bit as fatuous as she was pretending to be. This was for Ben, she reminded herself, to keep him safe, and for all the men who had died because of Alveston’s duplicity.

Lord Alveston’s expression smoothed out, and he sighed. “Well, we cannot account for the chatter of silly women, Miss Honeywell. But what we can do is enjoy this splendid evening, and I believe this is our dance. Shall we?”

He offered his arm once more, and it took every ounce of determination Izzy had to smile warmly at him and place her hand upon it, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

Ben searched the crowd, assuring himself he was not in the least desperate to see Miss Honeywell, it was only that he wished to convince himself she was safe. The girl seemed hell-bent on helping him prove Lord Alveston a traitor, and the idea of her being anywhere near the blackguard made his guts clench. She did not yet understand how dangerous the man was. Or perhaps she did. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

He fought the urge to drag his hand through his hair in frustration, instead keeping his icy demeanour firmly in place. He would ensure Izzy was safe and kept out of this and see Alveston get what he deserved. Especially as his case against the man was finally on a stronger footing.

He knew now that he’d been right to leave his personal documents with Izzy’s father, Reverend Honeywell. Documents he’d stolen as a boy from his father’s locked chest, driven by nothing more than instinct that he’d one day need them. They proved who he was, proved his right to Winsham Castle. There was also correspondence that verified he had been working against the French on behalf of the British government.

Most importantly, Honeywell had found his letter, too—the one begging him to discreetly investigate Lord Alveston. The reverend had always been the ideal contact for intelligence: respected, well connected, and so unassuming that no one ever imagined how many important men confided in him. Ben had warned him to act with care, but of course the man knew the risks. He always had.

And now his message, which had only arrived that afternoon, burned in Ben’s pocket. He wasn’t sure it was enough to gain a conviction for treason, not yet, but it was more than enough to confirm Alveston had both the motive and the connections to sell out his own country. If he made the information public before Alveston accused him of wrongdoing, he’d be ruined socially, which was as good as death for a society dandy like Alveston. The problem was getting the information into the right hands quickly enough. His work for the government had been necessarily covert, with Honeywell as his only contact. He did not know whom else to trust. But if he managed it, then a proper investigation into Alveston’s affairs would be demanded. If that happened, Ben felt certain they’d find proof. Alveston was too arrogant, too certain of himself, he’d be bound to have left clues. The difficulty was in getting the information out there without being accused of slander, for it would be far easier for Alveston to retaliate and turn the tables. He was well thought of and respected, whereas Ben’s reputation was decidedly shady, the gossip that his father was a traitor already circling. Why would his son be any different?

As for his own sire, the information Honeywell had shared was still a little hard to digest. His father was dead—beaten to death in some low gaming hell. Ben had tried to muster some emotion upon reading the words, anything, whether rage or disgust or joy at the bastard coming to such an end. But he’d felt nothing, save relief that the devil could do him no more harm than he already had.

The chandeliers glittered overhead, illuminating the glamorous crowd. Somewhere in the throng was Izzy, and he meant to find her. He prayed she was keeping out of trouble, but the knot in his gut suggested that was a forlorn hope.

“Evening, Ben. Late to the party as ever, I see. I’ve already had the pleasure of dancing with your Miss Honeywell.”

Ben turned, quelling a flicker of jealousy when he saw it was Lord Hartwell who addressed him. Hartwell delighted in provoking a fellow, usually hoping something exciting would ensue, like a fight.

“She’s not my Miss Honeywell,” he returned coolly, returning his attention to watching the room.

Hartwell clapped him on the back, hard enough that Ben might have staggered if he did not know Hartwell’s tricks of old. “She’s not? Why, my dear fellow, I’m so glad to hear it. You’ve quite made my evening.”

Smothering a growl of frustration, Ben turned to glare at Hartwell, who just stood looking large, amiable and well-meaning. Ben didn’t buy his hale fellow well met act for a moment. Hartwell might be notorious for having been sent down or expelled from most every decent school in Britain, but he was a great deal sharper than most people gave him credit for.

Instead of asking the obvious question, Ben just regarded him, waiting. Hartwell stiffened, his expression indignant.

“Well, there’s no need to look like that. I just mean that I’ve decided it's time to settle down and I rather like the looks of her. Those spectacles are adorable, and she’s a lively, funny little thing. I know his grace will kick up that’s she’s not got the pedigree he’d like, but her dowry is generous, thanks to her brothers-in-law, and I think we’d rather suit each other. Besides, Stonehaven married one of her sisters, and if it’s good enough for him—”

“No.”

Hartwell trailed off, blinking innocently at Ben. “No?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Hartwell pursed his lips, considering this. “So…when you said, she’s not my Miss Honeywell, that was, in fact, a lie? Is that about the size of it?”

Amusement glinted in the fellow’s eyes and Ben wished he didn’t like the devil so well. The urge to break his nose was sometimes hard to resist. “Bugger off.”