Just Like Heaven

Marcus finally set the bucket down. It was growing heavy, and the handle was digging into his palm.

“Oh, no,” Daniel said, grabbing Marcus’s bucket with his free hand and giving it back to Marcus. “We are going home.” He glared at Honoria. “Out of our way.” “Why are you nice to everyone but me?” she asked.

“Because you are a pest!” he fairly yelled.

It was true, but Marcus still felt sorry for her. Some of the time.

She was practically an only child, and he knew precisely how that felt. All she wanted was to be a part of things, to be included in games and parties and all those activities her family was constantly telling her she was too young for.

Honoria took the verbal blow without flinching. She stood still, staring venomously at her brother. Then she sucked in one long, loud breath through her nose.

Marcus wished he had a handkerchief.

“Marcus,” she said. She turned to face him, although it really wasn’t so much that as it was turning her back on her brother.

“Would you like to have a tea party with me?'

Daniel snickered.

“I will bring my best dolls,” she said with complete gravity. Dear God, anything but this. “And there will be cakes,” she added, in a prim little voice that scared him to death.

Marcus shot a panicked look at Daniel, but he was no help whatsoever.

“Well?” Honoria demanded.

“No,” Marcus blurted out.

“No?” She gave him an owlish stare.

“I can’t. I’m busy.'

“Doing what?'

Marcus cleared his throat. Twice. “Things.'

“What kinds of things?” “Things.” And then he felt terrible, because he hadn’t meant to be so adamant. “Daniel and I have plans.” She looked stricken. Her lower lip began to tremble, and for once Marcus did not think she was faking.

“I’m sorry,” he added, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. But for heaven’s sake, it was a tea party! There wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy alive who wanted to attend a tea party.

With dolls.

Marcus shuddered.

Honoria’s face grew red with rage as she swung around to face her brother. “You made him say that.'

“I didn’t say a word,” Daniel replied.

“I hate you,” she said in a low voice. “I hate you both.” And then she yelled it. “I hate you! Especially you, Marcus! I really hate you!'

And then she ran to the house as fast as her skinny little legs could carry her, which wasn’t very fast at all. Marcus and Daniel just stood there, silently watching her go.

When she was nearly to the house, Daniel nodded and said, “She hates you. You are officially a member of the family.'

And he was. From that moment on, he was.

Until the spring of 1821, when Daniel went and ruined it all.

Chapter One

March 1824

Cambridge, England

Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith was desperate.

Desperate for a sunny day, desperate for a husband, desperate —she thought with an exhausted sigh as she looked down at her ruined blue slippers—for a new pair of shoes.

She sat down heavily on the stone bench outside Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Discerning Gentlemen and pressed herself up against the wall behind her, desperately (there was that awful word again) trying to wedge her entire body under the awning. It was pouring. Pouring. Not drizzling, not merely raining, but pouring proverbial cats, dogs, sheep, and horses.

At this rate, she wouldn’t have been surprised if an elephant tumbled down from the sky.

And it stank. Honoria had thought that cheroots produced her least favorite smell, but no, mold was worse, and Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Gentlemen who Did Not Mind if Their Teeth Turned Yellow had a suspicious black substance creeping along its outer wall that smelled like death.

Really, could she possibly be in a worse situation?

Why, yes. Yes, she could. Because she was (of course) quite alone, the rain having taken thirty seconds to go from drip to downpour. The rest of her shopping party was across the street, happily browsing in the warm and cozy Miss Pilaster’s Fancy Emporium of Ribbons and Trinkets, which, in addition to having all sorts of fun and frilly merchandise, smelled a great deal better than Mr. Hilleford’s establishment.

Miss Pilaster sold perfume. Miss Pilaster sold dried rose petals and little candles that smelled like vanilla.

Mr. Hilleford grew mold.

Honoria sighed. Such was her life.

She had lingered too long at the window of a bookshop, assuring her friends that she would meet them at Miss Pilaster’s in a minute or two. Two minutes had turned to five, and then, just as she’d been preparing to make her way across the street, the heavens had opened and Honoria had had no choice but to take refuge under the only open awning on the south side of the Cambridge High Street.

She stared mournfully at the rain, watching it pummel the street.

The drops were pelting the cobblestones with tremendous force, splashing and spraying back into the air like tiny little explosions.

The sky was darkening by the second, and if Honoria was any judge of English weather, the wind was going to pick up at any moment, rendering her pathetic spot under Mr. Hilleford’s awning completely useless.

Her mouth slipped into a dejected frown, and she squinted up at the sky.

Her feet were wet.

She was cold.

And she’d never once, not in her entire life, left the boundaries of England, which meant that she was a rather good judge of English weather, and in about three minutes she was going to be even more miserable than she was right now.

Which she really hadn’t thought possible.

“Honoria?'

She blinked, bringing her gaze down from the sky to the carriage that had just rolled into place in front of her.

“Honoria?'