Chapter Twenty-Three
“He’s here.”
Portia glanced up from her embroidery. Her brother stood, silhouetted against the drawing room window.
“He has the largest bouquet of roses I’ve ever seen.”
“Larger than the bouquets you’re continually sending to Mrs. Scarlet?”
“Careful, puss,” he teased. “You sound envious.”
“I wouldn’t envy any woman who’d fallen in love with you.”
He laughed. “And quite right. But I have it on good authority that Mrs. Scarlet is incapable of love.”
“Which explains why the two of you are such good friends. I believe that’s what they call it—friends?”
He grinned. “Do you speak like this to the colonel?”
“Not yet.”
“Very wise,” he said. “Best to keep him in the dark with regards to your faults until you’ve slipped the parson’s noose around his neck. A man’s best not knowing everything about the woman he’s to wed.”
In that, at least, she agreed with him.
Adam moved to sit beside her while footsteps approached. Then the door opened. Portia’s heart gave a little flutter as Stephen stood in the doorway, resplendent in his uniform, bearing a bouquet of roses in various shades of pink and red.
He met Portia’s gaze, and a little jolt impacted her heart at the expression in his eyes—one of remorse, and love. But as she continued to gaze at him, her breath caught at the memory of the pure hatred in those dark eyes when he’d promised to end the Farthing’s life…to end her life.
I cannot tell him—I simply can’t.
Nor could she tell her brother what Stephen had done. Adam stared at him, his face grim, ready to punish him for disappearing from the house party without so much as a message. Were he to know that Stephen was the man who’d shot her…
“Reid,” her brother said, rising, his voice laced with ice.
“Foxton, I-I must apologize,” Stephen said, not moving from the doorway. The footman beside him shuffled from one foot to the other, and Adam let out a sharp sigh.
“You may go, Simon. I’m not about to toss our guest out on the street.”
The footman disappeared, and Adam tilted his head to one side.
“Not yet,” he added.
Stephen bowed his head and stepped inside the room. He glanced over his shoulder. “Shall I…?”
“Close the door, yes,” Adam said. “I take it you’ve something to say to my sister.”
Stephen’s cheeks reddened, and he approached Portia, holding out the bouquet. She reached toward it then withdrew, wincing at the flare of pain in her arm.
Heaven! That hurt. She’d refused to take laudanum with her breakfast, despite Euphramia’s instructions. Today, she needed her wits about her.
On no account must he know who I am—or who I was.
He narrowed his eyes. “Portia? Are you well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she said.
“Right,” Adam said, crisply. “That’s the pleasantries concluded. Now’s the time for explanations.”
“Adam,” Portia warned, but Stephen nodded.
“Your brother’s right, Portia. I must explain my uncivil behavior toward you—at the very least, I ought to have sent you a note when I left Rosecombe. You see, it was a rather delicate matter. I…” He glanced toward Portia’s brother.
“You can have nothing to say to my sister that you cannot also say to me, Reid.”
Stephen nodded. “Of course. I presume I can trust you to be discreet.”
Adam frowned. “Discretion is a quality I value most highly—as do all men of a similar rank to mine.”
Portia shot her brother a warning look while Stephen shifted from one foot to the other, mirroring the footman’s earlier nervousness.
“Very well,” he said, lowering his voice. “I received a note that my sister had been compromised.”
“Good heavens!” Adam said. “And had she?”
“I believe her when she says the man in question did not ruin her—but, of course, I was compelled to act to preserve her honor.”
“You mean you challenged him to a…”
Adam trailed off and turned toward her. His eyes darkened with understanding as he continued to stare at her. Then he lowered his gaze to her arm and it began to itch, as if it burned under his scrutiny.
“I see.”
Though his voice was almost a whisper, it seemed to resonate through the room, thickening the atmosphere with menace.
“Adam, perhaps we should serve tea,” Portia said, rising. “I’ll send for someone to tend to the flowers. Thank you, Stephen, for such a beautiful bouquet.”
“Back to pleasantries again, I see,” her brother said, as he continued to stare at Stephen.
Portia reached for the bellpull, then let out a soft moan as the pain in her arm deepened. Placing a protective hand over her arm, she returned to her seat, aware of her brother’s eyes on her.
“I-I trust Angela is not too distressed by what happened?” she said.
“She’s almost fully recovered,” Stephen said, “though she’s aware of the folly of her actions and the danger she placed herself in. But I trust you understand why I had to rush to her side—and take up my responsibilities as an older brother.”
He glanced at Adam, who seemed to be shimmering with barely controlled anger. “I am well aware of the responsibilities of an older brother, colonel,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “He would do anything to defend his sister’s honor—even kill those who brought her to harm.”
Stephen flinched and took a step back. “Have I said anything amiss?”
“Not said,” Adam replied. “Am I right, sister?”
Please don’t, Portia mouthed to her brother, but he curled his hands into fists.
“Adam!” she cried. “We should serve tea before it gets cold. If Mrs. Winston has gone to the trouble of baking shortbread, we should at least offer a slice to our guest.”
He turned toward her. “Shortbread? Is that all you can speak of?”
“Forgive me,” Stephen said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Then I’ll make you understand, given that you consider yourself the expert in an older brother’s responsibilities.”
“Adam!” Portia said. “Please, I-I’m sure Stephen has no intention to harm Sir Heath, and I—”
“Sir Heath?” Stephen’s head snapped round as he shifted his gaze to her. “How the devil do you know it was Sir Heath who compromised Angela?”
“You really are a simpleton, aren’t you, Reid?” Adam sneered.
“Stop it!” she said. “I-I merely assumed, given Sir Heath’s reputation.”
“Sir Heath isn’t the only rake in Town,” Stephen said, and she flinched at the hardness in his voice—the tone that had made her blood freeze with terror only that morning. “Is he, Foxton?” he continued, his voice almost a snarl. “You’ve not exactly been a paragon of gentlemanly behavior.”
“We’re not calling my behavior into question, Reid,” Adam said. “Besides—”
“What the devil is that?” Stephen said, gesturing toward Portia’s arm. She lowered her gaze and suppressed a cry of horror.
A dark red stain had appeared on her sleeve. Glistening and wet, it seemed to grow with each heartbeat.
“How did you sustain that, Lady Portia?”
“I-I dropped my cologne bottle, and—” she began, at the same time her brother spoke.
“She fell off a horse and cut—”
She met her brother’s gaze.
“Which is it?” Stephen said. “Cologne bottle, or horse? Or…”
He approached Portia, his body seeming to fill the room, his eyes so dark that they were almost black.
“Or gunshot wound?”
Fear flared in her as the first seeds of hatred began to shimmer in his eyes—cold sparks of ice.
“I—”
He raised his hand. “Speak no further, madam, if you wish to deceive me. Or should I say, if you wish to continue to deceive me. If you possess a shred of decency, pay me the courtesy of telling me the truth. Answer the question you know that I must ask.”
“How dare you?” Adam said, raising his hand. “I hardly think you’ve the right to—”
Portia caught her brother’s wrist. Then she turned to face the man she loved—the man who loved her—and uttered the confession that would destroy that love irrevocably.
“I am the Farthing.”
He cradled the bouquet, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the air, a steady beat marking time from the moment of the dissolution of her hopes.
With each beat, the love seemed to drain from his eyes until, at last, there was no trace of emotion. No love, no anger, no hate.
As if she no longer mattered to him.
“Stephen,” she said, and he narrowed his eyes, “won’t you hear what I have to say—or tell me how you feel?”
“I feel nothing,” he said, his tone flat. “I therefore have nothing to say.”
“Are you not at least angry?”
He shook his head. “Only disappointed. But not with you—with myself, for having been deceived by you.”
Adam let out a cold laugh. “You express disappointment when you’re the one who shot my sister?”
“I didn’t shoot Lady Portia,” Stephen said. “I shot the vile creature who took pleasure in profiteering from the misery of others.”
“I didn’t do it for profit,” Portia said. “I-I give the money to Dr. McIver.”
“Good God!” he cried. “You mean to say you’ve persuaded that good man to enter into your deception?” Then he shook his head. “I suppose you believe you were in the right.”
“It’s not a question of right or wrong,” Portia said.
“I’m afraid it’s exactly that,” he replied. “A man—or in this case, a woman—is either honest or deceitful, right or wrong, good or…” He made a dismissive gesture. “It matters not.”
“Good or evil?” Adam said. “Is that what you were going to say?” He stepped toward Stephen, his expression grim with determination.
“Let me tell you what the good, honest thing to do is. You are to make amends for what you have done to my sister. Our acquaintances expect you to marry her, and therefore, although I would rather her shackle herself to any man but you, I insist on your doing the honorable thing, seeing as you set such store by honor.”
“No!” Portia cried, taking her brother’s hand. “Do not make me. I couldn’t bear to marry a man who hates me.”
Stephen blinked, and for a moment she caught a sheen of regret in his eyes. He lowered the gaze to the bouquet in his hands, then sighed.
“I do not hate you, Portia,” he said. “I may think what you’ve done is beyond despicable, but I can never hate you.”
A small flame of hope swelled in her heart—which his next words doused.
“I have no feelings toward you at all.” He cast another glance at the bouquet, then dropped it onto a chair. “Do with those what you will.”
“P-perhaps Angela might care for them?” Portia suggested. “She’s in need of comfort.”
“What my sister is in need of is no concern of yours,” he said. “And I would thank you to refer to her as Lady Angela.”
“Damn you, Reid,” Adam said, “I ought to—”
“No,” Portia said quietly, forcing her sorrow into the back of her mind. “Let us not stoop to the sort of display of feeling that befits those of lower rank.”
Stephen frowned, but she tilted her head up, ignoring the gleam in his eyes.
“Brother, please ring the bell for Charles, so he can escort your visitor out.”
“If you’re so desirous of my absence, I can see myself out.”
“Then please oblige us before I fetch my pistol,” Adam said. “We wouldn’t want you collapsing in a fit of apoplexy at the sound of a gunshot, would we? Or perhaps you’re less of a blubbering coward when you’re shooting a woman.”
“Adam, leave him be!” Portia said.
The resoluteness in Stephen’s expression almost faltered, then he turned his disapproving gaze on her.
“Please refrain from attempting to speak on my behalf, madam,” he said. “I reserve that privilege for those whom I care about.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Adam opened his mouth to respond, but she squeezed his hand. Then Stephen turned to her, and her heart shuddered at the soullessness in his eyes—as if he were no longer alive…
Or as if she were dead to him.
“Lady Portia,” he said with a nod. Before she could respond, he turned and exited the drawing room. His footsteps faded, followed by a murmur of voices as Reeve intercepted him at the front door. Then the door opened and closed in the distance, followed by silence.
Adam picked up the bouquet. “I’ll dispose of this.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “Although I’ve no wish to have them, they’re pretty enough and would brighten someone’s day. I could take them to the hospital—the soldiers always appreciate a little color in that dreary ward.”
He let out a sharp sigh. “Portia, don’t you think your devotion to that place has landed you in enough trouble?”
She wiped her eyes. “You didn’t have to be quite so harsh on Ste”—she checked herself—“on the colonel about his fear of gunshots.”
He snorted. “I was generous—more than generous. He left our home with his balls and head intact. By rights, I should have shot him on the spot. It would have restored the honor attached to our name and given me much gratification.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He turned toward her, and his expression softened. “Because it wouldn’t have made you happy. Perhaps had I considered your happiness a little more over our family’s honor”—he gestured to her arm—“none of this would have happened.”
He picked up the bouquet and strode to the window.
“We should leave Town.”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“I cannot deny I’m disappointed at the turn of events, but I doubt you’ll relish the prospect of remaining here for the rest of the Season. After all, there’s always the next. And you can recover at Forthridge Park in peace.”
“Tucked away in your country seat in obscurity so I don’t disgrace you?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Kept safe away from prying eyes and the gossipmongers’ tongues. And…” He grinned, though his eyes were glazed with moisture. “You can spend your days shooting game rather than rakes.”
She shook her head. “I intend never to pick up a pistol again. I’ll stick with a bow and arrow.”
“Then I can rest easy that you’re no longer placing yourself in danger and that you’ll never suffer hurt again.”
Hurt to her person, perhaps. But as for her heart, it was too late.
It was broken beyond repair.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us retire to the country. I only ask one thing.”
“Which is?”
“I wish to be gone from London within the hour.”