Chapter Twenty-Four
Bloody, fucking hell!
Stephen gritted his teeth as he strode away from the Foxton residence.
How could he have been so blind? The signs had been there, only he’d been too weak-minded to notice them—her insistence on justifying dishonesty, her defense of that creature the Farthing.
No…she was that creature.
Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“I beg your pardon, young man?”
He looked up and startled as he almost collided with a couple strolling arm in arm along the pavement.
Bloody hell, that was all he needed—Earl sodding Thorpe and his mother.
The dowager countess tilted her head to one side and glared at him, her eyes the color of ice. Then slowly she arched a perfectly formed brow and waited.
“Lady Thorpe, I must apologize,” Stephen said. “That was most unseemly of me.” He bowed, offering his hand. But she made no move to take it.
“What are you about, Reid?” Thorpe said. Then he glanced toward the white-fronted building from which Stephen had emerged. “Ah! Foxton gave you a hard time about bolting from his sister?”
“Giles, please refrain from being so coarse,” the dowager said, her gaze still fixed on Stephen. “No matter the provocation.”
Stephen opened his mouth to tell Thorpe exactly what he thought of Foxton’s sister, then he closed it again.
“Lady Thorpe, I’ve had a somewhat trying afternoon—but that is no reason to act so dishonorably in your distinguished presence. Please accept my unreserved apology.”
The eyebrow lowered, but the frown remained. Then she turned to Thorpe.
“Giles, darling, is Society so unchanged that young men still seek to flatter a woman with vacuous words? I’d rather subject myself to brutish honesty than flattery any day.”
“But you’re more intelligent than most, Mother,” Thorpe said. “Perhaps the colonel has encountered few women who are truly immune to flattery.”
Stephen ignored the little voice in his head telling him of the one woman he knew who cared nothing for flattery.
“We cannot waste our day standing around on the street,” Lady Thorpe said. “Henrietta will be waiting for us.”
For a heartbeat, Thorpe’s expression softened and Stephen tempered the spike of jealousy when faced with a man who loved his wife, and whose wife loved him.
He tipped his hat, then resumed his journey home.
Inside, he heard soft music. Angela was singing in the morning room, accompanied by Mrs. Stowe on the pianoforte. As he entered, Angela rushed toward him, arms outstretched.
“Brother!” She buried her head in his chest while he embraced her, and his heart filled with love. He’d feared that her sweet innocence and joy for life had been irrevocably crushed.
Over the top of his sister’s golden head, he saw Mrs. Stowe watching them, a mixture of wariness and sorrow in her soft gray eyes.
“Angela has been coming along very well with her music, colonel,” she said. “We were about to take tea—but perhaps you’d like to spend some time alone with your sister. I’ve several errands to run and have no wish to be in your way.”
“You could never be in my way, Mrs. Stowe,” he said. “I’m only glad that you agreed to resume your duties, given how unfairly I treated you.”
She colored, then moved to the pianoforte to gather the music. “Your desire to protect your sister is to be admired,” she said. “You have taken on the responsibility of a parent, and a parent always places their child above all other considerations.”
“We’ve been learning a love song,” Angela said. “In Italian, would you believe! I found the language difficult at first, but I can speak a few phrases. I thought it might be useful if ever you took me to Rome. Lady Hardwick told me that Rome is the most beautiful city in the whole world, and…”
She rattled on excitedly. At the far end of the room, Mrs. Stowe bustled about, tidying up the various papers.
She reached for a book, then cringed. It slipped out of her grasp and fell to the floor with a clatter.
She bowed her head, eyes closed, and massaged the fingers of her right hand.
At length, she opened her eyes, which were bright with moisture.
She met Stephen’s gaze and lowered her arms, moving her right hand to conceal it behind her back.
Her lips curled into a smile that did not reach her eyes.
“I’ll leave the two of you in peace,” she said. “I can ask Mrs. Green to make tea.”
She exited the room, and Stephen retrieved the book she’d dropped.
“Latin?” he asked, opening the first page.
“It belongs to Mrs. Stowe. She’s been teaching me a few phrases.”
“I trust you’re not taking advantage of her, Angela. She’s your chaperone, not your governess. Though perhaps I should be grateful that she’s managed to encourage you to further your education. Poor Miss Treacher quite despaired of you.”
“I don’t see Mrs. Stowe as a governess,” Angela said. “Nor do I view her as a chaperone—she’s a friend. Which was why we were going to take tea together after—” She broke off, frowning. “Were you not supposed to be taking tea with Lady Portia?”
He nodded, and she fixed her clear gaze on him.
“What’s wrong, brother?”
“Nothing.”
“I can see you’re distressed. Something’s happened.” Then her frown deepened. “Oh no—I’ve ruined your life as well as risking my own, haven’t I?”
“What the devil do you mean?” he asked.
“She can’t forgive you, can she?”
No. And I daresay she never will.
Stephen ignored the taunts of his conscience.
“You left Duchess Whitcombe’s house party because of me.” She withdrew from his embrace and approached the door.
“Where are you going, Angela?”
“To explain to Lady Portia that it’s my fault you left early.”
“It won’t make any difference.”
“I can try, brother. She might listen to me.”
“The fewer people know about your little escapade, the better,” he said. “We’re trying to prevent gossip from spreading.”
“Lady Portia isn’t a gossipmonger. You’ve said yourself, she’s the most honorable person of your acquaintance. And if she’s to become my sister—”
“There’s no chance of that, now.”
Her face creased with distress. “No…” she whispered, her eyes glistening with sorrow. “Oh, brother, I’m so sorry!”
“I thought you disliked her,” he said. “After all, it was your incivility toward her that resulted in your not going to Rosecombe.”
She blushed. “I was angry because she seemed to dislike Sir Heath, and thought she was jealous. But I know now that I was wrong.” Then her smile returned. “Perhaps if I apologized, it would set things right? If she knows that I’d like nothing more than have her as a sister, she might—”
“No!” he said, and she flinched at the harshness in his voice. “Lady Portia and I will not be marrying—and that’s an end to the matter.”
“But you said she was the only—”
“She was,” he said. “But she no longer is.”
“Why?”
“It’s not your place to ask why.”
“It is if it’s made you so unhappy!”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“Don’t lie!” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be a paragon of honesty? Don’t you always lecture me about how it’s important not to utter falsehoods, and not to harbor secrets?”
“Some secrets are best kept hidden.”
She let out a snort. “I recall others saying that very same thing, and your criticizing them for doing so.”
Others such as Lady Portia—but what a secret she’d kept hidden!
“I’ll not rest until you tell me.”
“Lord save me from belligerent, stubborn females!” he said. But perhaps it was best if Angela knew the awful truth—then she might reconsider any foolish escapades.
He took her hand, steered her toward a chair, and sat her down.
“Brother?” Her voice wavered with apprehension. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, sweet sister,” he said. “It’s only that…” He drew in a deep breath and braced himself. “Lady Portia Hawke is the Farthing.”
For a moment, she stared at him, open-mouthed. Then she threw back her head and laughed.
“Oh, brother!” she cried. “You almost completely fooled me! I ought to strike you down, for you had me so worried. But you can be forgiven, considering the worry I’ve caused you.”
“No, Angela, I—”
“You can’t be too distressed over Lady Portia if you’re capable of making such a jape of it,” she continued.
“Though I’m not sure she’d find such a tale amusing.
So I take it you’ve not broken faith with her and that she is to be my sister?
” Her eyes narrowed. “In which case, why have you returned so early when you were supposed to be taking tea with…” She hesitated. “I mean, you wouldn’t…”
The color drained from her face, and her mouth formed an “O.”
He took her hands, and she lowered her gaze, then looked back up at him.
“L-Lady Portia?” she whispered. “B-but…” She shook her head. “I always thought she was different to other… Oh!” She let out a cry. “Does that mean you…you shot her?”
“Angela, I didn’t know she was—”
She withdrew her hands. “You shot her,” she said quietly.
“I shot the Farthing.”
“Is she badly injured?”
“Just her arm.”
“Just,” she said, with a snort.
“Angela, if she hadn’t chosen to play a man’s game, she wouldn’t have suffered a man’s punishment.”
“Do you really believe that, brother? Or is that your argument to justify what you’ve done?”
“Surely you’re not condoning what she’s done.”
“She’s always been different,” Angela said. “You said so yourself—in fact, it’s why you admire her so much. Or did. Because she’s not like other ladies who only want to find husbands for themselves. And Mrs. Stowe says—”
“Oh, do tell me what the learned Mrs. Stowe says,” Stephen said, aware of the petulance in his tone. But his sister was placing a mirror in front of him and he wasn’t fond of the reflection he saw.
“Mrs. Stowe says that many women crave independence, and they should not be denied.”
“But with independence comes responsibility—a woman making such a wish must take responsibility for her own actions and suffer the lack of security, having to fend for herself. And no woman wants that for herself.”
“Perhaps, for some women, they do not have the privilege of choice, and instead must suffer the misfortune of circumstance.”
What preposterous nonsense was Mrs. Stowe filling Angela’s head with? But as Stephen opened his mouth to reply, he recalled the sight of the chaperone’s misshapen hand, which not only gave her discomfort, but also shame, such that she strived to hide her pain.
Some women kept secrets to protect themselves, and others.
And some, no matter how misguided they may be, acted out of good intentions, and the wish to do better.
I’ve been a fucking fool.
“Brother!”
Bugger, he’d spoken aloud. “Forgive me, Angela.”
“It’s not my forgiveness that’s in doubt, but Lady Portia’s,” Angela said. “Perhaps you ought to beg for it. I can come with you, if you like. After all, I’m the reason you shot her.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t seem at all angry that I’d shot her. Her brother was furious, as expected, but Portia…”
He recalled her expression not half an hour earlier when he’d stepped into the drawing room brandishing the bouquet of roses—the bouquet that he’d tossed aside with such contempt.
Not a trace of anger or hatred, or even dislike, had he seen.
Instead, though she’d seemed apprehensive, the delight in her eyes as he presented her with the bouquet had soothed his soul.
Whether or not Portia was the Farthing—whom he’d described as the most vile person alive—she had a good soul and a kind heart. And she was a better person than he could hope to be.
Oh, Portia—my Portia!
There was a knock, and Mrs. Stowe appeared together with a maid brandishing a tea tray.
“Set the tray over by the window, please, Millicent,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Colonel, Angela, I’ll leave you to your tea.”
“No, please come in,” Stephen said. “Angela considers you a friend, and your original plans were to have tea together without my getting under your feet. I have no wish for you to take your tea alone.” He glanced at Angela and smiled. “I’ve a very particular errand to run.”
“Shall I bring you a cup for when you return, sir?” the maid asked.
“No need, Millicent,” Stephen said. “I have committed a grave transgression, you see—and the time a man needs to make amends should be in proportion to the gravity of his sin. In which case, I fear I may be some time.”
Mrs. Stowe smiled. “A penitent man is always to be admired,” she said. “The majority of the male sex lacks not only the propensity to recognize when he’s sinned against another, but also the willingness to apologize and atone. I trust your quest will be successful.”
He bowed, took his leave, then exited the building and retraced his steps toward the Foxton residence, darting behind a wall when he caught sight of Lady Thorpe and her son.
By the time he arrived, the sun had shifted toward the horizon, and shadows of the trees lining the road lengthened across the pavement. He knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal the butler, who arched a dark brow and glared at him.
“Yes?”
“Is Lady Portia at home?”
“You’ve just missed them, I’m sad to say,” the butler said in a tone that expressed anything but.
Behind, Stephen could discern footmen bustling about the hallway. Two carried a trunk across the floor, while a third placed a dust sheet over a chair. Another opened the longcase clock at the foot of the staircase, stopped the pendulum, then closed it again.
A little shiver of apprehension rippled through Stephen.
“May I call on them after they have returned?”
“His Grace has left for the country.”
“Somewhat unexpected,” Stephen said. “Why—”
“It’s not my place to ask,” the butler interrupted. “One must never question whether the duke acts in a manner that those of lower ranks expect.”
“And Lady Portia?”
The butler gave a cold smile. “She was most eager to leave. She particularly asked me to tell you, were you to darken our threshold again, that you were no longer welcome.”
“How dare you speak to me with such incivility!” Stephen said.
“Both his Grace and Lady Portia gave me leave to speak to you as I saw fit,” the butler said.
“I cannot entertain the notion of one such as you crossing my master’s threshold, tainting his name with your own family’s disgrace—your sister’s ruination, not to mention your taking part in an illegal duel.
I’m sure the Society gossip columns would take a great interest in the former, and the authorities in the latter. ”
“Surely you wouldn’t—”
The butler’s lip curled in a sneer. “Lady Portia was most precise in her instructions before she left.”
Portia…
Stephen caught his breath as nausea swelled in his gut. Then the butler gave a cold smile, inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledgments, and shut the door in his face.
Portia had gone. She was lost to him.