Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(68)

“Listen to me,” Iris said again. “If we attempt this piece, we will be massacred.”

“By whom?” Daisy asked.

Iris just looked at her, completely unable to articulate a reply.

“By the music,” Sarah put in.

“Oh, you’ve decided to join the discussion, then,” Honoria said.

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Sarah snipped.

“Where were the two of you when I was trying to pick something out?”

“They were moving the piano.”

“Daisy!” all three of them yelled.

“What did I say?” Daisy demanded.

“Try not to be so literal,” Iris snapped.

Daisy hmmphed and started leafing through the music score.

“I have been trying to keep everyone’s spirits up,” Honoria said, planting her hands on her hips as she faced Sarah and Iris. “We have a performance to practice for, and no matter how much either of you complains, there is no getting out of it. So stop trying to make my life so difficult and do what you’re told.”

Sarah and Iris could only stare.

“Er, please,” Honoria added.

“Perhaps this would be a good time for a short break,” Sarah suggested.

Honoria groaned. “We haven’t even started.”

“I know. But we need a break.”

Honoria stood still for a moment, feeling her body deflate. This was exhausting. And Sarah was right. They did need a break. A break from doing absolutely nothing, but a break nevertheless.

“Besides,” Sarah said, giving her a sly look, “I’m parched.”

Honoria raised an eyebrow. “All this complaining has made you thirsty?”

“Precisely,” Sarah returned with a grin. “Have you any lemonade, darling cousin?”

“I don’t know,” Honoria said through a sigh, “but I suppose I could inquire.” Lemonade did sound nice. And to be perfectly honest, not practicing also sounded nice. She got up to ring for a maid and had barely sat down again when Poole, Winstead House’s longtime butler, appeared in the doorway.

“That was fast,” Sarah remarked.

“A caller for you, Lady Honoria,” Poole intoned.

Marcus?

Honoria’s heart thumped wildly in her chest until she realized it couldn’t possibly be Marcus. He was still confined to Fensmore. Dr. Winters had insisted.

Poole came over with his tray and held it forward so that Honoria could take the calling card.

THE EARL OF CHATTERIS





Good heavens, it was Marcus. What the devil was he doing in London? Honoria completely forgot to be mortified or angry or whatever it was she was feeling (she had not quite decided) and went straight to out-and-out fury. How dare he risk his health? She had not slaved at his bedside, braving heat, blood, and delirium only to have him collapse in London because he was too foolish to stay home where he belonged.

“Admit him at once,” she snapped, and she must have sounded rather fierce, because all three of her cousins turned to stare at her with identical expressions of shock.

She scowled at them all. Daisy actually took a step back.

“He should not be out and about,” Honoria growled.

“Lord Chatteris,” Sarah said, with complete confidence.

“Stay here,” Honoria said to the others. “I shall return shortly.”

“Need we practice in your absence?” Iris inquired.

Honoria rolled her eyes, refusing to dignify that with a response.

“His lordship is already waiting in the drawing room,” Poole informed her.

Of course. No butler would insult an earl by forcing him to leave his calling card on the silver tray and depart.

“I’ll be right back,” Honoria said to her cousins.

“You said that,” Sarah said.

“Don’t follow me.”

“You said that, too,” Sarah said. “Or something quite synonymous.”

Honoria gave her one last glare before leaving the room. She had not told Sarah much about her time at Fensmore, just that Marcus had taken ill, and she and her mother had aided in his convalescence. But Sarah knew her better than anyone; she was going to be curious, especially now that Honoria had nearly lost her temper at the mere sight of Marcus’s calling card.

Honoria marched through the house, her anger growing with every step. What on earth was he thinking? Dr. Winters could not have been more clear. Marcus was to stay in bed for a week and then remain at home for another week after that, possibly two. In no mathematical universe could that equate to his being here in London at that moment.

“What on earth were you—” She thundered into the drawing room but stopped short when she saw him standing by the fireplace, a veritable picture of health. “Marcus?”

He smiled, and her heart—wretched, traitorous organ—melted. “Honoria,” he said. “It’s lovely to see you, too.”

“You look . . .” She blinked, still not quite believing her eyes. His color was good, his eyes had lost that sunken look, and he appeared to have regained whatever weight he’d lost. “ . . . well,” she finally finished, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“Dr. Winters declared me fit to travel,” he explained. “He said he had never seen anyone recuperate from a fever with such speed.”