The Trouble with Honor Read Online Free PDF Page B

imagined White’s on St. James to be.
    Tom Rivers, the ladies’ brother, had been at Coventry House last night, too, and George had only a vague recollection of too much drinking and laughter. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and stood up, extending his hand for the hat.
    He strode down the thickly carpeted stairs of the stately Mayfair home he’d purchased quietly from the Duke of Wellington. The duke had not wanted to sell to a man like George—that was, a bastard son of a duke and the half brother of a duke who despised the very idea of him—but the duke had wanted the cash George had offered.
    The house was quite spectacular even for fashionable Audley Street in Mayfair. A crystal chandelier the size of a horse hung daintily from the high foyer ceiling, and the stairs curved down around it. The silk-covered walls of the foyer were adorned with paintings and portraits, all purchased by the duke.
    George scarcely noticed them today, but many times, he’d searched them all, looking for any resemblance to him. In the end, he supposed any of them could have been his ancestors, and it hardly mattered if any one of them were. When one is the son of a duke and a lowly chambermaid—a chambermaid the duke had sent away upon discovering her pregnancy—one can be assured of many closed doors and painful silences when inquiring after one’s heritage.
    The footman, Barns, was standing at the door, and opened it before George reached it. That was Finnegan’s doing. Finnegan was the only person in George’s life, now or ever, who treated him like the great-grandson of a king, the nephew of another. George wasn’t certain he liked it, however. He rather preferred opening his own doors. He preferred to saddle his own horses, too—he was fast, having learned the skill as a lad, working in the Royal Mews while his mother cleaned chamber pots.
    “Thank you, Barns,” George said. He stood a full head taller than his footman. George had the height of the royal family but the robustness of his mother’s family, who had all worked with their hands and their backs for their livings. There was a portrait of his father that hung in Montagu House, which George had studied on occasion. He believed he had his father’s thin and aristocratic nose and his strong chin, the streaks of his mother’s dark chestnut hair in his brown mop and her pale blue eyes. The other children who had worked in the Royal Mews used to say he was a mongrel. Not the nephew of a king.
    George’s horse was waiting on the cobblestones before the house. He tossed a farthing to the boy holding the reins, who caught it adroitly over the horse’s neck and pocketed it as he handed the reins to George. “G’day, sir,” he said, and was off, running back to the mews.
    George fixed his hat on his head, swung up and spurred his horse into a trot down Audley Street.
    He arrived at the offices of Sweeney and Sons a quarter of an hour later. Sam Sweeney, his solicitor and agent, was smiling broadly. “What’s that look?” George asked as he handed his hat to an elderly woman in a lace cap in the foyer.
    “One of joy, of happiness,” Mr. Sweeney said, taking George’s hand and shaking it with great enthusiasm. “Do come in, Mr. Easton. I have some wonderful news.”
    “Has the ship been found? Has it come to port?”
    “Not exactly that,” Mr. Sweeney said, showing George into his office. Once inside, he made a show of dusting off a leather chair with his handkerchief, and gestured with a flourish to the seat.
    When George was seated, Mr. Sweeney said, “The St. Lucia Rosa is in port. I have personally spoken with the captain. He said that Godsey and his crew did indeed reach India and were to depart a week later for England. That means she should be in port within the week.”
    Relief. It flooded through George like a swollen river. He’d put a substantial portion of his fortune into this ship and couldn’t bear the thought of having lost it all, of