Chapter Twenty-Six #2
His companion nodded. “Of course. A lesser man wouldn’t remain anonymous—he’d be unable to resist boasting of his prowess among his acquaintances.
He might continue to wear his mask to preserve the dignity of others, but it’d be the worst-kept secret in London.
However, nobody—nobody at all—knows the identity of the Farthing. ”
Except me.
“Though,” Wormleighton continued, frowning, “I wouldn’t consider it entirely honorable to pocket fifty pounds each time.”
“Perhaps he was in need of funds,” Stephen said quietly. “For his family, perhaps—or others.”
“A masked crusader?” Wormleighton’s eyes shone. “Mayhap he used the funds to help the poor, or the sick. That would make him a hero, would it not?”
A clock chimed in the distance, and Wormleighton set his glass aside.
“Best be off. Can’t keep my Kitty waiting. Come and pay us a visit in the country, Reid—when you can stomach the sight of our marital bliss, that is. No, don’t get up,” he added, as Stephen rose. “Finish the bottle.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Stephen said.
…and I have nothing to celebrate.
The two men exited the club, parting at the front door, and Stephen set off toward home, where a judgmental, angry sister awaited him.
Angela had every right to be angry—but she couldn’t be as angry as he was with himself.
Or as disappointed.
As expected, Stephen’s sister greeted him coolly as he entered the morning room. She then excused herself, leaving him alone with Mrs. Stowe.
“As least she spoke to me this time,” he said. “I thought she’d forgiven me, but ever since…”
“Ever since Lady Portia left London, Angela has blamed you?” Mrs. Stowe suggested.
Did she possess the ability to read his mind?
“Your sister will see reason eventually—she just needs to reconcile what’s happened with her conscience.”
“Have you spoken to her of the folly of her actions?” he asked.
“Your sister’s an astute young woman,” Mrs. Stowe said. “I merely provide the understanding silence that gives her the space to work it out for herself—the blank canvas on which she paints the portrait of her folly to enable her to understand the consequences of her actions.”
He stared at her, and she smiled.
“It sounds all rather grand, does it not?” she said. “But I fear you’d not appreciate any degree of frankness today.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Stowe, I insist you be frank.”
“In which case, I would say that Angela will need time to reconcile with her conscience the fact that her folly resulted in the brother she loves shooting Lady Portia Hawke.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “How the devil did you know?” He shook his head. “Has Angela been gossiping?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But it’s plain to see if you look closely enough.
Just because I’m unnoticeable, doesn’t mean I’m also blind.
For what other purpose would you have taken a turn about the park at dawn?
And I can think of no other reason why you’d abandon your courtship of Lady Portia.
Even the meanest intelligence could discern that you…
” She made a dismissive gesture. “It matters not. I ought to see to your sister.”
He caught her hand, and she let out a low cry. He released it, but not before he’d felt the misshapen fingers—the lumps and bumps and sharp shards, almost as if…
…almost as if someone had smashed her hand to pieces.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Stowe,” he said. “I meant no harm.”
She cradled her hand, then tugged at her glove to hide the scars peeping out from beneath the hem.
“I rather suspect you’re a great deal more intelligent than you’d have Society believe, Mrs. Stowe.”
She gave a wistful smile. “Society will believe what it wants,” she said. “There’s nothing I—or any woman—could do, or say, to convince the world otherwise.”
“Perhaps the world you’ve occupied has failed to appreciate you, Mrs. Stowe, but the little corner you occupy at present places great value on your qualities. In many ways, you remind me of…”
Lady Portia.
She approached the door and reached for the handle with her right hand, then hesitated and took it with the left. Then she turned to face him.
“Might I be so bold as to make a suggestion, Colonel Reid?”
“Please do.”
“You could always pay her a visit.”
There was no need to ask to whom she was referring.
“Lady Portia has left London, Mrs. Stowe.”
“I’m aware of that,” she replied, “but Forthridge Park is en route to your brother’s seat. It’s a short detour—barely five miles, on the outskirts of Saddleforth village.”
“You know the place well?” he said. “Have you visited? Forgive me, I had not known you were acquainted with Lady Portia.”
“I have not had the pleasure of an introduction with her.”
“Then her brother, the duke?”
Her eyes widened, then she shook her head, her cheeks reddening. “My late husband was a little acquainted with His Grace, I believe, though he wouldn’t recall it, for it was only a slight acquaintance.”
“And Foxton isn’t one to recall anyone he considered beneath him,” Stephen said. “Not to impugn the late Mr. Stowe, of course, but Foxton’s the most frightful—”
“I should go to Angela,” she said. “I fear that if I do not encourage her hourly, her trunk will never be packed in time before we leave.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to distress you,” Stephen said, “or to pass judgment on your late husband.” He lowered his gaze to her misshapen hand.
“It was nothing,” she said, smiling, though her eyes retained a gleam of sadness as she shifted her hand behind her back. “And you must forgive me for speaking out of turn. I have no wish to disrupt our journey to Somerset, and have no right to tell you what you must do.”
“But that doesn’t mean I should not at least listen,” he said. “When an insightful woman speaks, it is wise to take note.”
She nodded, then slipped through the door, closing it softly behind her.
Mrs. Stowe was right. In fact, Stephen had fought the urge to follow Portia and beg her forgiveness.
She was generous-minded enough to give him a chance.
After all, in their discussions he was the one who’d displayed arrogant intransigence.
His fear that she might reject him was born of a fear that she might be like him.
But she was a better person than he—a better person than the rest of the world. And, perhaps, if she forgave him, she might teach him to aspire to reach her level of goodness.
There was nothing to lose if he tried.