and terrifying in its strength. Marek took one last look at the lovely, and slightly deranged Mrs. Honeycutt. He suspected it was the last he’d see of her.
“Good evening, Mr. Brendan,” she said pleasantly, and moved out of his way.
“Good evening, Mrs. Honeycutt,” he said, and walked out of the room, his mind still reeling a little from the rise of heat in him.
Donovan was at the door. “Thank you,” Marek said, and donned his hat.
Donovan opened the door. But he didn’t move aside, which meant Marek had to scoot past him to exit the house.
“Good evening, Mr. Brendan,” Donovan said.
Marek touched the brim of his hat and jogged down the steps to the sidewalk. He stole a glimpse back at the door before carrying on.
Donovan was standing with one shoulder against the frame, his arms folded over his chest, watching Marek with a gimlet eye.
Marek strode down the sidewalk, moving as quickly as he could from that very strange house.
He didn’t know what to make of Mrs. Honeycutt and was certain the task of understanding her was far greater than he had the patience for.
But she was a beautiful, intriguing woman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New patterned silk fabrics from Brussels have arrived at Debenham & Freebody for Christmas dresses. Purchase by appointment, please.
The Alucian and Weslorian peace talks continue, but it is commonly agreed that progress is still quite slow. Does it not stand to reason that progress might be improved if negotiations were open to public scrutiny? Alas, the secretive nature cannot help but suggest something is amiss.
Volunteers from the Coalition for Decency and Morality have been seen around Piccadilly Circus on some evenings, distributing leaflets warning against the dangers of loose morals. Members of the metropolitan police were also on hand.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
IF THERE WAS one thing Hollis Honeycutt did not shy away from, it was a challenge. She’d learned that about herself when Percy had died quite suddenly, the result of a terrible carriage accident. At first, the shock of it and the inability to comprehend that she would never see Percy again had turned her into a wraith. When Hollis looked back on that time, she realized she had come dangerously close to carrying on like that for the rest of her life. She could very well have become one of those widows who never changed out of her mourning clothes, who aimlessly wandered the halls of her grand house, a mere shell without her husband. But even in the throes of grief and deep despair, in her paralysis at not knowing what to do without him, she’d heard the whispers. What will we do with Hollis?
As if she was a child. A mad child. A mad, mute child.
As she climbed the stairs to the master suite after Mr. Brendan left, she thought that she was indeed thankful she’d heard the whispers, because it had forced her to wake from her grief. It had cleared her muddied thoughts and made her see that decisions would be made for her if she didn’t make them herself.
At first, she’d been frightened by the prospect. Like so many women of her social standing, she wasn’t equipped to know what to do about anything much, other than her needlework. And menu planning, and how to set a table and make guest lists and attend church and participate in church bazaars with a few cakes her cook made and please her husband. She didn’t know how to read her husband’s financial ledgers or publish a gazette or ask complete strangers for help.
Hollis walked into the master suite of rooms she and Percy had shared in their marriage. They’d never had separate bedrooms, like so many couples in Mayfair. They had needed to be with each other. Through a door on the left was his dressing room. Through a door on the right was hers. They’d come together in here. This is where they’d reviewed their day, planned their future, read their books. This is where they loved.
The room looked exactly as it had at the time of Percy’s death. Hollis hadn’t thought much about it until a few months ago—she supposed it was one way of keeping him with her. In fact, his personal things were still on the bureau—a pocket watch he meant to give to Eliza to repair. A few coins, a handkerchief neatly folded. For the longest time, Hollis couldn’t bear to even think of changing a thing. It felt as if removing a single