Chapter Twenty-Seven
After traveling what seemed like several miles through the trees, the carriage rounded a corner, and the trees thinned to reveal the landscape.
A lake dominated the foreground, and the drive wound around one side of it, following a slight incline leading toward the main house, a building of soft gray stone.
The central section was topped by a dome with a flagpole, the flag fluttering in the breeze, and was flanked by the main body to the building—two halves that extended either side, with row upon row of windows that stared out across the landscape.
Angela leaned out of the carriage window.
“My heavens—it’s huge!” she said. “I’ve never seen anything the like. It must be ten times the size of our home. And Lady Portia lives here with her brother? How can one building house only two people?”
“Not just two people, Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said. “There will be a whole household living there. Not to mention the steward whose offices are likely to occupy some of the rooms.”
“How would you even begin to take care of a house that size?”
“The housekeeper will see to that,” Mrs. Stowe said.
“Overseen by the mistress of the house, I suppose,” Angela said. “But it doesn’t have a mistress at present.”
“I daresay Lady Portia keeps house for her brother, at least while they’re both unmarried.”
“I wonder how she’ll feel when the duke marries?”
“Relieved, I’ll warrant,” Stephen said, tempering his apprehension at the anticipation of seeing Portia again.
Assuming she’s willing to receive me.
“You don’t think she’ll be disappointed to be supplanted by another?”
Stephen smiled. “I doubt that. Your sympathies are better directed toward the future duchess, whomever she may be. What do you think, Mrs. Stowe—would you relish being mistress of Forthridge Park?”
Mrs. Stowe shrank away from the window, as if she feared the building watched her. Then she drew her shawl around her shoulders.
“It’s not something I’m likely to experience.”
“You were mistress of your former home, were you not?” Angela said. “I overheard Lady Staines say—”
“Angela, I think perhaps you’d do well to remain in the carriage when we arrive,” Stephen said, aware of the distress in Mrs. Stowe’s eyes.
“You can’t leave me in here!” Angela protested.
“Only until I’ve seen Lady Portia,” he said. “I fear my conversation with her may at first be of a somewhat delicate nature.”
“And whose fault’s that?”
“Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said, a tremor in her quiet voice, “I’m sure your brother knows best.”
“Would you accompany me, Mrs. Stowe?” Stephen asked.
Her eyes flared with fear. “I-I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
“A respectable widow is the best advocate for a man begging forgiveness.”
“I doubt anyone would wish to hear anything I’d have to say.”
“Not Foxton, perhaps,” Stephen said, and she flinched at the mention of the duke’s name. “But Lady Portia’s a sensible sort. She’ll not dismiss anything you have to say merely because of your sex—or your rank.”
The carriage drew to a halt. Stephen climbed out and helped Mrs. Stowe down. Angela folded her arms and slumped in her seat, sticking out her lower lip.
“Sit up straight, Angela,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Remember what we said about posture.”
“There’s nobody to see me here, stuck in the carriage.”
Mrs. Stowe gave a nod, her expression impassive, and, at length, Angela straightened her stance. Then Stephen offered his arm and escorted the chaperone to the main doors.
They opened even before they reached the threshold, to reveal a black-clad butler with the same cadaverous appearance as Foxton’s butler in London.
“Yes?” he said sharply.
“Is the family at home?” Stephen asked.
“Are you expected?”
“I’m acquainted with the family.”
“So that’s a ‘no,’ then.”
“Please say that Colonel Stephen Reid begs an audience.”
“And…?” The butler turned his disapproving gaze to Stephen’s companion.
“And Mrs. Stowe.”
“Very well, Colonel Reid and…Mrs. Stowe. Wait here.”
“Perhaps we should leave,” Mrs. Stowe said as the butler shut the door. “Or at least let me wait in the carriage with Angela. I fear my presence will do no good.”
She glanced about the building, fear growing in her eyes. Then footsteps approached and the door opened once more.
Mrs. Stowe let out a little gasp and tightened her hold on Stephen’s arm as Foxton regarded them both with disdain.
“To what do I owe the…pleasure of this visit?” he said.
“We’re come to see Lady Portia,” Stephen replied.
Foxton curled his lip in a sneer. “Are you come to tell my sister that your tastes now run to dowdy widows?” He let out a cold laugh.
“Foxton, if you’d permit me to say—”
“No, I do not permit.”
Foxton took a step forward. Stephen held his ground, but Mrs. Stowe moved back.
“How dare you?” Stephen said. “Of course, I’d expect a man of your rank to bully your fellow men—it is, after all, how dukes assert their superiority. But no man has the right to bully a woman.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you shot my sister and left her for dead,” Foxton snarled. Then he turned his gaze to Mrs. Stowe. “Do I shock you, madam, with the revelation that your protector has a penchant for shooting the women he beds?”
Mrs. Stowe inhaled sharply, then glanced at Stephen.
“At least let me see her,” Stephen said.
“I’m delighted to say that’s impossible,” came the reply. “She’s not at home.”
“You lie.”
“For what purpose would I lie?” Foxton said.
“To keep the knowledge of your presence from my sister? She wishes to see you even less than I do. You don’t matter enough to lie to, Reid.
Whereas I have nothing to hide.” He stepped forward again.
“My sister’s not in the county. She’s taking a vacation—a rest cure. ”
A pulse of fear swelled in Stephen’s gut. “Is she unwell? Has her wound festered?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Foxton said. “My sister is my concern.”
“It’s about time.”
Foxton’s eyes—the same shape and color as his sister’s—darkened with dislike.
“I hardly think you’re in a position to lecture me on my sister’s welfare,” he said. “Now go, and take your drab little woman with you.”
“But—”
“Go!” Foxton roared, and Mrs. Stowe flinched. “I’ll give you to the count of ten to get off my land—then I’ll set the dogs on you.”
Stephen remained still, and Foxton tilted his head and roared, “Moore! Let loose the dogs…and fetch my shotgun!”
Stephen’s companion tugged at his sleeve. “Please…” she whispered.
“This isn’t over, Foxton,” Stephen said.
“It will be if you remain here.”
Footsteps approached and the butler appeared, brandishing a shotgun with a polished wooden handle.
Stephen retreated, escorting Mrs. Stowe to the carriage. Angela’s concerned face appeared at the window.
“Would she not see you?”
“She’s not at home,” Stephen said, helping Mrs. Stowe in and then following her. He rapped on the side of the carriage, and it lurched forward, turned in a wide circle, then set off down the drive.