Page 64 of Honor Requires

Elizabeth could not help but laugh. “You move very swiftly, Jane.”

“I only think it would be pleasant,” Jane replied. “It is not often we have the opportunity to welcome a new neighbor—particularly one so…intriguing.”

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, considering.

Ashcombe House. The name lingered in her thoughts. It did not sit easily with what Jane had said.

“A Sardinian count,” she said slowly, “who calls his residence Ashcombe House.”

Jane tilted her head. “You find it odd?”

“I do,” Elizabeth admitted. “It suggests an English association, does it not? Or at least one not entirely foreign.”

Jane smiled. “Perhaps he has ties here we do not know.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed.

The curiosity remained.

Later that afternoon, Elizabeth found herself walking alone.

It was not unusual. She often took such walks when the weather permitted, finding in them a reprieve from the persistent rhythms of the household. A maid or footman generally trailed after her. Today, however, her steps led her in a direction she had not entirely intended.

Toward Ashcombe House.

She told herself it was mere coincidence, that she had no particular reason for choosing that route. That she did not, in truth, care who occupied the long-empty house across from her own.

Still, she slowed as she approached.

The house had been transformed. Where once there had been an air of neglect—subtle, but unmistakable—there was now order, polish, and distinction. The windows were clean, the steps freshly swept, the brass fittings at the door gleaming even beneath the muted light.

And there, beside the entrance, newly affixed—

A plaque that read Ashcombe House.

Elizabeth paused. The name was engraved in clean, elegant lettering, its simplicity only adding to its peculiarity.

Ashcombe.

It did not sound Sardinian. Nor French. Nor anything but English. Surely, a foreign count would have named his house after his title…or something more foreign sounding.

“Odd,” she murmured.

She stood for longer than she ought, her gaze lingering upon the door, wondering whether it might, at any moment, open and reveal its mysterious occupant.

It did not.

At length, she turned away, her thoughts more engaged than she cared to admit.

That evening, she and Jane attended a small gathering—one of those pleasant, all-female assemblies that required no great exertion of spirit and offered, in return, a comfortable degree of society.

Even there, the count was discussed.

“Have you heard?” one lady exclaimed, her fan fluttering with barely concealed excitement. “A foreign nobleman has taken up residence in Mayfair—quite near to Lady Bramley’s house, I am told.”

“Yes, yes,” another replied. “A count! And fabulously wealthy, by all accounts.”

“They say he has a brother as well—quite handsome, I believe.”