No. She couldn’t. It would be a gross breach of trust, a complete invasion of Marcus’s privacy. And of Daniel’s.
But then again, what could they possibly have to talk about that would not be of her concern?
She turned, glancing toward the door the maid had motioned to. She couldn’t hear anything coming through it. If Marcus was finished with his bath, surely she’d hear him moving about. She looked back at the letter.
She was a very fast reader.
In the end, she didn’t really make a decision to read Daniel’s letter to Marcus. Rather, she didn’t allow herself to decide not to. It was a small distinction, but one that somehow allowed her to ignore her own moral code and do something that would have incensed her if it had been her letter lying on the table.
She moved quickly, as if speed might make the sin smaller, and snatched up the two sheets of paper. Dear Marcus et cetera et cetera . . . Daniel wrote about the apartment he’d rented, describing all the neighborhood shops in lovely detail but managing to omit the name of the city he was in. He then went on about the food, which he insisted was superior to English fare. After that there was a brief paragraph about his plans to come home.
Smiling, Honoria turned to the second sheet of the letter. Daniel wrote the way he spoke, and she could practically hear his voice coming from the page.
In the next paragraph Daniel asked Marcus to inform his mother of his impending return, which made Honoria smile more broadly. Daniel could never have imagined that they would be standing with Marcus when he read the missive.
And then, at the end, Honoria saw her own name.
I have not heard any news of Honoria marrying, so I assume she is still unwed. I must thank you again for scaring off Fotheringham last year. He’s a rotter, and it infuriates me that he even attempted to court her.
What was this? Honoria blinked, as if that might somehow change the words on the page. Marcus had had something to do with Lord Fotheringham not coming up to scratch? She had decided that she did not like Lord Fotheringham and would not accept him, but still . . .
Travers, too, would have been a bad alliance. I hope you did not have to pay him to leave her alone, but if you did, I shall reimburse you.
What? People were being paid to . . . to what? To not court her? That didn’t even make sense.
I appreciate your looking out for her. It was a great deal to ask, and I know I did not give you much choice, asking as I did on the eve of my departure. I shall assume the responsibility when I return, and you shall be free to leave London, which I know you detest.
And that was how Daniel ended his letter. Setting Marcus free of the dreadful burden that was, apparently, her.
She set the pages down, then rearranged them so that they would appear as they had been when she had picked them up.
Daniel had asked Marcus to watch over her? Why hadn’t Marcus said anything? And how stupid was she, really, that she had not figured it out? It made such perfect sense. All those parties when she’d caught Marcus glowering in her direction—he hadn’t been glowering at her because he disapproved of her behavior; he’d been in a bad mood because he was stuck in London until she received a good marriage proposal. No wonder he had seemed so miserable all the time.
And all those suitors who had mysteriously dropped her—he’d scared them off. He’d decided they were not what Daniel would want for her, and he’d gone behind her back and scared them off.
She should be furious.
But she wasn’t. Not about that.
All she could think about was what he’d said the night before. “I wasn’t looking at Sarah.”
Of bloody course he hadn’t been looking at Sarah. He’d been looking at her because he’d been forced to do so. He’d been looking at her because his best friend had made him promise.
He’d been looking at her because she was an obligation.
And now she was in love with him.
A horrified spurt of laughter burst from her throat. She had to get out of his room. The only thing that could make her mortification more complete would be his catching her reading his correspondence.
But she couldn’t go without leaving a note. That would be completely out of character; he’d know for sure that something was amiss.
So she found paper, and she found a pen, and she scrawled a perfectly ordinary, perfectly boring farewell.
And then she left.
Chapter Seventeen
The following week
The recently aired-out music room
Winstead House, London
“Mozart this year!” Daisy Smythe-Smith announced. She held her new violin aloft with such vigor that her blond curls nearly bounced out of her coiffure. “Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s a Ruggieri. Father bought it for my sixteenth birthday.”