Chapter Thirteen
“Idon’t like this.”
Honora wondered if Mr. Stanton had that phrase on a plaque somewhere, hung proudly for all to see. Perhaps he read it every morning before he left his bedchambers, ingraining it into his mind. That might explain why it kept rolling off his tongue.
“We haven’t even done anything,” she said, trying to fight her smile. He might think his prickly demeanor would ward her off, but she found the way he was unapologetically honest and himself to be quite refreshing—nothing like her father at all.
With arms crossed over his chest, he leaned over just enough to peer out the window and see their surroundings.
“We certainly have done something.” He spared her a glance.
“You awoke me, dragged me from my home in the early hours of morning, and then forced me into a hired cab whose springs are in much need of repair.”
As if to prove his point, they hit a bump on the road, to which Stanton grimaced and rubbed his hip.
“Come now,” Honora said, no longer fighting her grin. “You are not an old man. Crusty, yes. Old, no. Surely your hip will survive.”
He rolled his head to look at her. “Survive, yes. Enjoy, no.”
She covered her mouth, laughing. “See? You are actually quite funny once one looks past the other attributes of your personality.”
“Oh, joy. I am a lucky man indeed.”
Shaking her head, she looked out the window to see if they were near their destination. The neighborhood was modest, clearly inhabited by the working class, who were well enough off to own a few pieces of less than spectacular jewelry. An opal necklace, to be exact.
“I think we are nearly there,” she said, sitting back in her seat.
While waiting to come to a stop, she took a moment to study her partner in crime.
Or rather, partner in skirting about a crime she had already committed.
His brown hair still adorably waved over his brow, drawing attention to his eyes, which were a few shades darker than his hair.
And his mouth, which had distracted her with all his incessant tea sipping that morning, looked rather soft.
Mr. Stanton was a riddle she wished nothing more than to solve. Either he had more layers to him, or he had a reason to keep himself from people. Honora guessed both held an element of truth.
“Why do you not wish to marry?” she asked. It seemed odd that a man of his age and station be not only unmarried but actively warding it off.
His head flew up, cheeks flaming.
Also adorable.
“Excuse me?” he asked. He looked positively repulsed by her question, but she guessed he was more horrified by the idea of having to answer such a question.
“The other night you insinuated that you do not wish to. My question is, why?” When he didn’t open his mouth to answer, she pried further. “Was your heart broken?”
With wide eyes settling, his mouth softened, and he shook his head, leaning against the wall of the carriage. “No. At least, not in the way you are thinking.”
Interesting.
“Care to elaborate?”
He lifted his chin, eyes squinting as if deep in thought, only to bring his chin back down as he glared at her. “Not particularly.”
With a sigh, Honora’s shoulders drooped.
How was she to get this man to open up to her?
If people kept their emotions bottled up, sooner or later they were sure to pop.
She was rendering him a service, really.
“Come now.” She tried her best to sound kind and enticing.
“I know we did not begin on the best of terms, but I have admitted I enjoy your company. Would it be so awful to admit you enjoy mine too?”
He watched her for three long beats of silence before opening his mouth to speak. “I will not dignify that with a response.”
“Your hesitance to answer speaks louder than your words, Mr. Stanton.”
He opened his mouth to speak again, but the carriage rolled to a stop, bringing whatever objection he was about to bring to a quick end.
As the door opened, they were greeted with yet another cloudy sky. Honora puckered her nose but rose to exit the carriage. “Come along, Mr. Stanton. We are wasting precious daylight.”
She stepped down, taking a deep breath of air. It was stagnant, but still preferable to the inside of their cab.
Exiting after her, Mr. Stanton rubbed a hand along his cheek. Apparently she hadn’t given him enough time to shave this morning, for a light shadow graced his jaw. It was actually quite becoming and made her notice the straight line with an appreciation only a woman could understand.
“I hardly think we are wasting precious daylight,” he said, bringing her back to the present. “It is just past nine in the morning.”
“Ah, yes. But these are working folk. Not wealthy landowners who are able to laze about for half the morning.”
“I do not laze about.” Mr. Stanton jerked on his lapel.
Ah. The idea of him being lazy was a sensitive subject. While he might not be willing to share overt details, he forgot she was an incredible observationalist.
“Or if I do laze about,” he continued, not meeting her eye, “it is not by my own choosing.” He paused and shook his head. “Never mind. Let us just get on with this.”
Another small tidbit of information to stick into her pocket and pull out to dissect later.
“Stop it,” he said, his brown eyes roving over her face.
She blinked. “Stop what?”
A scowl wove across his brow, especially just at the bridge of his nose where two parallel lines formed an angry ridge. “Stop trying to figure me out.”
“Who says that I am?”
“I have known you just long enough to know when you are trying to ascertain things about a person.”
“You think me capable of figuring you out, do you?”
This brought him up short, his mouth snapping shut. Then it opened again, but only long enough to utter a quick and decisive “no.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” She smiled and sashayed past him, his little admission adding a bit of wind to her sails.
Steps sounded from behind her, and she slowed so they could walk side by side.
This time, he actually offered her his arm.
She stared at it for a moment, surprised by the display.
He was a gentleman—and while gentlemen were supposed to escort ladies by arm, she still did not feel like one.
No matter how many times she stood in front of the mirror, dissecting every part of herself.
The clothes could mask what was beneath, but not to those who knew better.
When she saw herself all primped and primed, she could admit she looked pretty, but she felt like no lady.
Like Mr. Pratt had said, she would always be little Honora. A thief’s daughter.
“You are strangely quiet,” Mr. Stanton said as he led her down the sidewalk.
“I’m surprised you would deign to break the silence.”
He lifted his shoulder. “I need to know where we are going. Care to share?”
“Oh.” What a dunce she was. Deep in the recesses of her mind and wandering aimlessly when there was an important task that needed to be done. “Yes. I know this is the street they live on, but I do not know which home, precisely.”
“Lovely,” he drolled.
She puffed a quick breath. “Not to worry. I will contrive a way to find their residence. It will not take long, I assure you.”
“The best news I’ve received all day.”
They walked arm in arm, Honora’s eyes taking in everything. Which windows were open and which had drapes pulled, all points of exit from the street if they needed a quick getaway, even a broken gate on the lower end of the road that had not been repaired.
But she needed to come across someone who resided nearby. Once she had that, it wouldn’t be difficult to ascertain where the Fageans lived.
Unfortunately, after fifteen minutes of walking, there was still no one on the street.
“My feet are getting sore.” Stanton looked at his feet with a grimace, lifting one in the air and circling it about.
“Oh, posh. You are such a liar.” She glanced over her shoulder to be sure she had not missed someone exiting their home or leaving the park down the way. “It has not been that long.”
“It’s been longer than I care to be here.”
Biting her cheek, Honora pulled Mr. Stanton’s arm toward the small park they had walked past nearly five times already that morning. She had not wanted to enter, thinking it better to stay near the townhouses, but if he needed a rest, she could allow a quick respite.
“Where are you dragging me?” he asked, pulling back on her arm.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She dropped his arm, spinning on him. “I was going to lead us to the park for your precious little feet to rest. Do you wish to complain about that too?”
For once, the man had the decency to look ashamed of himself. He looked at the ground, his hair tumbling down the middle of his brow. “No.”
She jerked her head toward the entrance. “Let us go, then.”
Past the entrance, there was a bench not a hundred feet inside.
It was tucked just off the path, under a weeping willow tree and beside a lovely pond where several ducks paddled about.
While Honora thought it a beautiful spot, she had no doubt that the man beside her would find some fault with it—probably mention something about animal droppings barring their path.
“Will this suit your lounging needs?” She swept her arm out toward the bench. “Or shall I search for something more suitable?”
He dipped his head, his mouth sheepish. “This will be fine. Thank you.”
No sarcasm in his tone, no haughty lift to his brow or judgmental furrowing. Instead, he took his seat and clasped his hands, his leg bouncing wildly away. Never had she seen him so discomfited.
“Oh.” She walked over, her steps tentative as she took the seat beside him. “I had rather thought you would complain.”
“I know.” More leg tapping.
“I should not have snapped at you,” she admitted. “This is all my doing, and I appreciate the favor.”
“You had every right to snap at me. I was being abhorrent.”