Chapter Nineteen
Chapter
NINETEEN
Portia was nowhere to be found when Leo got up.
Her things were still in her room so he assumed she was coming back, but nobody knew where she was or had seen her leave and that bothered him.
He bitterly regretted giving her some space to calm down while he read Abigail the riot act.
And he wished he had begged Portia to speak to him after she had barricaded herself in her bedchamber.
He was already second-guessing himself over the way he had dealt with the situation last night.
Especially now that he had dragged the whole truth out of his troublesome sister, who had corroborated every single bit of Portia’s story.
He now knew that he could have and should have handled it all better if only he hadn’t allowed his panic to overwhelm him.
Portia had been rightly furious at being pushed into pleading guilty to a crime that he had known in his heart that she did not commit.
And as he had spiraled into contemplating apocalyptic what-ifs, he had pushed her.
Instead, he probably should have guarded her all night rather than harangue her into seeing his panicked version of sense in her hour of need.
Or sent in a couple of burly guards to protect her while he interrogated every single witness himself.
Used his privileged position as a magistrate to put the fear of god into those soldiers who were lying for the constable.
Found other witnesses. Put Abigail on the stand rather than try to keep his foolish sister out of further trouble.
Then used his extensive knowledge of the law to blow holes in the rest of Nolley’s flimsy arguments and call the man a liar and a perjurer in that court too.
Worse than that! A petty, vengeful, morally corrupt bully, who was only using Portia as a way to get back at him.
Powerless to do anything other than worry about her while he waited for her to return, he fired off a message to the constable to report to him as soon as he received it.
That had been hours and hours ago and there was still no sign of either of them.
While relieving Nolley of his duties could wait a few more hours, making amends with Portia couldn’t.
Her obvious disappointment in him was eating him from the inside.
He needed her to understand that she mattered—especially to him.
That he would always be on her side. And that he was going to do his very best to move mountains for her and clear her good name if it was the last thing he ever did.
Hence he was here.
Riding into Newton St. Loe.
Hoping that Portia had run home to her mother so he could beg her forgiveness and start to make those amends.
Leo checked the address the local postmaster had given him again and frowned.
He hadn’t expected her ailing mother to live above a shop.
He searched down the side alley for a separate entrance and when he couldn’t find one, went into the draper’s shop to inquire.
He was instantly greeted by a handsome, smiling dark-haired woman in her middle years.
“Can I help you, sir?” She returned a heavy bolt of fabric to the shelf before approaching him.
“I am looking for a Mrs. Kendall.”
“Are you indeed? Now there is a name that I haven’t heard in a few years.”
“Then she doesn’t live here?”
“She does—I just go by Mrs. Byrne nowadays to please my husband.”
This could not be Portia’s mother despite the more-than-passing resemblance.
Portia’s mother wasn’t well and needed looking after, while this woman looked to be as fit as a fiddle.
She was probably a relation of some sort.
An aunt or some such because Portia’s mother was all on her own.
Far too old to be on the right side of fifty like this woman with Portia’s exact dark brown eyes.
“I don’t suppose you have a relative called Portia, do you, Mrs. Byrne? ”
“I do, as it happens.” Friendliness turned slightly into wariness.
“Portia is my daughter. Why do you ask?” Wariness instantly gave way to worry.
“She’s not gone and got herself into any trouble, has she?
As I wouldn’t put it past her. I’ve warned her time and time again that her opinions are dangerous but she’s a headstrong girl. Always has been.”
“She’s not in any trouble.” It wasn’t his place to tell her mother about last night.
“I was just passing and urgently needed to talk to her.” As that comment made a pair of dark eyebrows as expressive as Portia’s shoot skyward with alarm, he tried to ignore his twitching scalp and introduced himself.
“I am Leopold Sloane.” When she still blinked at him blankly, he was forced to use the title Portia hated. “The Duke of Debden.”
“Oh good heavens above! My humblest apologies for my informality, your grace.” Mrs. Byrne, who was apparently neither a widow, an invalid, nor a Kendall, bobbed a surprisingly spry curtsy.
“I would be happy to send whatever word to Portia that you need me to—although I cannot fathom why on earth you would need to speak to her.” The eyes went back to suspicious again.
“But if you apprise me and I deem it important enough, I will give you her address in Mayfair if you would prefer to write to her yourself.”
The hairs began to prickle on Leo’s neck. “Mayfair?”
“That is where she works, your grace.” Portia’s mother smiled proudly. “She’s been the governess to Lord and Lady Warley’s daughters for the past two years.”
The plot thickened. “I take it that you haven’t recently seen her then?”
“Not since Christmas, your grace, when she came home for her last visit.”
What the blazes was Portia up to? Whatever it was, there were alarm bells ringing in Leo’s head now. Big, clanging, and insistent alarm bells. Because the woman he suspected he loved was clearly a liar as well as a conundrum—but by the end of today he was now doubly determined to get to the truth.
Mrs. Byrne’s dark brows kissed exactly like her daughter’s did. “Might I inquire how you know my daughter?”
“We are friends,” he answered not entirely sure what they were anymore. “We met in Mayfair … recently.”
“She’s never mentioned any sort of acquaintance with a duke in any of her recent letters, your grace.
To be frank, that she is surprises me given her visceral dislike of the aristocracy in general.
” Portia’s mother now looked perplexed, which mirrored his own feelings because none of this made any sense.
“Not that I am insinuating that she dislikes you, your grace.” A blush bloomed on Mrs. Byrne’s unbelievably healthy face as she backtracked.
“You must be a very fine duke indeed for Portia to even consider calling you a friend.”
What the blazes did that mean? “She is clearly a woman who keeps her cards close to her chest.” The duplicitous minx! “On the subject of which, I’ll confess, I believed you to be a widow, Mrs. Byrne.” One knocking loudly on death’s door.
“I am—or I was. Portia’s father has been dead over a decade. But I remarried two years ago.” She gestured around her shop. “So I am now Mrs. Byrne, the draper’s wife.”
“She neglected to tell me that, despite our many conversations.” That and a whole host of other important things!
“She excels in neglecting to tell things, your grace. Especially if she knows that you will heartily disapprove of them.” Her lips pursed briefly before she smiled, uncomfortable, her eyes wary again but also apologetic.
“But what can you do? A daughter will only let you mother her for so long, and Portia is used to doing as she pleases nowadays. She’s always been headstrong like that, truth be told, which I am sure, as her friend, you would know.
” Eyes, so like Portia’s, narrowed in challenge.
“I do indeed,” he agreed, chuckling as if he did while his head spun.
If she didn’t spend every single evening and all of every Sunday here, where the blazes did Portia go until silly o’clock every night?
And why the bloody hell would she constantly lie about it?
“I’ve often been at the sharp end of one of her lectures. ”
“Oh good heavens above, that girl! Only she would be brazen enough to lecture a duke!” Mrs. Byrne shook her head.
“But she can be intractably single-minded about causes when she has a particular bee in her bonnet.” Causes?
“I take it that’s how you met her?” At his blank expression, she elaborated. “At the United League for Reform?”
“Didn’t I tell you that you were playing with fire!
” It was hardly a surprise that Edgar had little sympathy for her predicament as Portia shared her awful news with everyone, but the venom in his tone was particularly vicious.
“You weren’t satisfied with dallying with the magistrate and now the bloody constable has a personal vendetta against you!
” The spiteful typesetter immediately turned to William.
“She’s put us all in enough danger, I say we send her packing back to London and lie low for a while. ”
“This isn’t Portia’s fault.” That came from Percy, who was still as white as a sheet at discovering that his beloved fiancée had been arrested too. “She had no choice but to go after Abigail—it is her job.”
“None of us were supposed to go anywhere near that protest!” Edgar glared at her with malice. “And you should have done a better job of handling your woman, Percy, else this wouldn’t have happened!” But of course, he didn’t expect William to send Percy packing back to London.
“Pointing fingers isn’t helpful.” Gentle Jim tried to pour oil on troubled waters. “What’s important now is keeping everyone here safe and most especially Portia, who is in the most danger.”
“Agreed.” William was his usual circumspect and supportive self as he patted her hand. “We need to get you out of the duke’s house today. Can you stay with your mother until we can find you another job and less exposed lodging?”
“Of course.” She knew that she couldn’t risk staying at the Crescent anymore, but it still hurt to have to do it.
Leaving Leo and never seeing him again, irrespective of how angry she was at him, would be a wrench.
She had too many complicated feelings for him even if they were all as foolhardy as they were futile.
“Will your Abigail tell her brother anything that we do not want him to know?” William asked that of Percy.
“Not if I tell her not to. I could try and see her tonight and—”
William stopped him mid-sentence. “Out of the question. You cannot go anywhere near the duke’s house in this current climate—or his sister.
We cannot risk anyone making any links between us and Equitas.
The law will be gunning for this newspaper after last night and so we must all be extra vigilant and extra cautious.
Write her a note and Portia can slip it to her before she leaves. ”
Percy nodded even though it was obvious he was desperate to see Abigail. He couldn’t believe that she had been so stupid and had apologized to Portia twice already for her ill-informed zeal.
“Excellent,” said William. “Then we have a plan.”
“A stupid one!” Edgar shot up from his chair like a firework.
“Am I the only person here who can see that she is a poisoned chalice?” He pointed his finger so close to her face that Portia had to clench her fist to stop herself from slapping it away.
“Her card is marked! What if Nolley has her followed? And what if she leads him here?”
“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it.” It was Jim who pushed Edgar out of her way.
“And we stick together—because we are all in this together and we have all always known the risks of what we do here. If this was you in trouble, Edgar, you’d expect us all to rally around you as a mark of loyalty for all you do for us, and to move heaven and earth to try and get you out of it.
If you can’t do the same for all of the rest of us, then perhaps it’s you that should be sent packing? ”
“Nobody is being sent packing.” William glared at Edgar too before he smiled kindly at Portia. “You have had enough of an ordeal. Get yourself home and packed, dear girl. We can all regroup tomorrow and decide if we think it’s prudent to still go to print this week or not.”
“It’s not!” Edgar was shouting now. “You don’t prod a bear when it’s angry!”
“And you don’t roll over and play dead either because you still get eaten regardless!” She was sick to the back teeth of Edgar, but even more sick of being told what to do.
“We can decide on that tomorrow when we are all calmer.” William pleaded with her with his eyes.
“Our first priority is getting you out of the constable’s way.
So get yourself to your mother’s with all haste and then get a good night’s sleep.
I hope it is not being unkind to say that you look thoroughly exhausted and if we do go to print this week, Equitas and everyone who relies on it to tell them the truth will need you to be at your very best.”
He was right. She knew he was right. But leaving here meant also leaving Leo and she was trying to put that inevitability off. “I shall see you tomorrow. Bright and early.”
“Bring your pen.” It was William’s way of telling her that he was keen to print and be damned, and she was grateful. There were so many things that needed saying now and the only way she could realistically fight back was to say them in her column.
“I’ll bring two.”
She gathered her coat and bonnet and trudged her weary way out. She was so tired, disappointed, and so utterly wretched that she failed to notice the man watching her from the shadowy doorway farther along the quay.