The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  Her mother’s family was here to fill the near gallery’s first row, dangerous as a pack of wolves guarding their littermate. Uncle Hal Lindsay, big and bold with Aunt Rosalind by his side, assessed the lawyers down below like hyenas to be carved up as quickly and neatly as possible. Grandfather Richard Lindsay sat still and erect like the naval officer he’d been, intensely aware of the judge’s least flicker. Her Lindsay cousins occupied the seats beyond him, more menacing in their silent watchfulness than the courtroom’s guards’ twitching wariness beside the doors.

  As for Uncle William and Aunt Viola, they sat at the edge of the gallery closest to her, ostensibly the best behaved of all her family. Yet the guards gave the big Irishman with his California accent and London-made clothes the widest berth of any Lindsay family member. And Aunt Viola—dear, dear Aunt Viola—was pale and slow-moving, due to her third bout of pneumonia in the two years since the twins had been born. Yet she still stared at the bailiff as if she wanted to dowse him in the foulest animal matter possible.

  Portia longed to yell at her to rest, almost more than she wanted to make the bailiff fall silent. Yet she was caged, able to see but not touch or call out to her family. They might as well have been on another continent.

  Gluttonous stares swept over her from the other onlookers, like locusts hunting for tidbits. United in black and white clothing, they swayed to and fro under the legalistic chant’s hypnotic sway. Their jaws were poised to clack rapidly, their elbows ready to jostle their neighbors’ ribs at the first hint of any weakness on her part.

  Idiots. Flesh-eating beetles would have been more discreet, since they’d at least run back into dark corners if she stomped her feet.

  Amabel Mayhew, St. Arles’ mistress, leaned forward from her seat in the far gallery, her close-set eyes avidly scrutinizing Portia. Was she staring at Portia’s attire, rather than her expression like everyone else? Didn’t the fool realize whose money paid for everything—and it wasn’t the earl’s?

  The legal chain of words reached out for Portia again.

  “On the grounds of having held criminal conversation…”

  A cold draft stirred her hem and dragged it back toward the drop through the stairwell down to the prison.

  Portia immediately twitched it away from the verge and settled the ruffled, whispering mass safely away from danger. Gareth had always said her liking for feminine frills would get her into trouble—but, please God, not here and now.

  Why couldn’t the court’s servants be honest enough to simply say adultery? Surely criminal conversation could be interpreted as something else, just as infidelity required more than words.

  “Five times…” the bailiff intoned with notable satisfaction.

  Five times? The same number as his mistress had borne children to her late husband, thereby proving her worthiness to become the next Countess of St. Arles. Unlike Portia’s complete and utter failure as a breeder.

  Only the past years’ bitter lessons in how to become an acceptable British countess kept Portia from shrieking a denial.

  St. Arles had only discussed one count with her, not five. Why the devil should she heap even more opprobrium on her head by accepting—no, standing here in court and agreeing to—so many more occurrences of infidelity?

  The infernal bastard who still styled himself as her husband leaned back in his chair and studied his fingernails.

  Portia measured the distance to the nearest inkwell. Too far below her on that lawyer’s desk to grab, dammit, but perhaps she could hurl one of those appalling wigs instead?

  No matter what words Shakespeare had placed in her name-sake’s mouth, she could not pray for mercy for St. Arles, only justice. If not from this court, then another.

  The bailiff’s phrases continued to roll inexorably onward like a sorcerer’s incantation.

  “With one Robert Brundage…”

  A down-at-the-heels actor whose hair was so oily that it seemed to beg for the latest carbolic soap.

  “How plead ye?” the bailiff thundered, cracking the question at her like a lion tamer’s whip.

  She caught the statue of Justice’s unblinking gaze. Her mouth tightened and she quickly looked away.

  But true justice would not be found between these four walls, only prearranged lies and half-truths. Gareth’s watch ticked steadily against her throat under her collar, in a silent reminder that like time and tides, some things were beyond the power of man to change.

  Today was her battle to fight—and win.

  She stared back at the bailiff impassively, her hands firmly folded in a lady’s formal public barricade. Now was the only time she controlled this public flogging. She’d do exactly what she wanted to with it, not what the men decided.

  If she denied committing adultery, the divorce would take longer but it would still go through. St. Arles had made that very clear and she believed him.

  If she agreed, matters would move far faster and she’d still keep one priceless asset, an item that would infuriate him.

  Her continued silence had drawn everyone’s nervous attention, even St. Arles. Very good.

  “How plead ye, my lady?” The judge reiterated the bailiff’s question, sharpening the whip’s edge in an implicit threat to hurl her back down into the pit if she didn’t obey him quickly.

  How much choice did she truly have, if she wanted to start afresh?

  “Aye.” Her admission rang out through the room like a battlefield bugle call compelling attention and belief. After all, she would have done everything she was accused of, and more, with Gareth Lowell.

  If she’d only had the chance.

  Chapter Twelve

  Newport, Rhode Island, February 1887

  Viola Donovan fought to bring the spyglass back into focus. She refused to curse either the high winds that kept her inside, far away from the fast moving boats, or her own weakness which left her unable to hold the heavy bits of steel and glass for more than a few minutes.

  William and Hal were outside, standing in the sun and probably chatting about the Navy’s recent annexation of Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. William knew more about it than any of the East Coast-based Lindsays, thanks to his San Francisco home. Hal’s Great Lakes empire was immense but he always had a keen eye for his Lindsay cousins’ potential advantage.

  She’d always worried how he’d treat his own son but she never fussed over his handling of the various male relations who sought their fortune under his auspices.

  Marlowe and Spenser, her five-year-old twins, raced across the finely manicured lawn, their black hair blowing in the wind just like their Irish father’s did. Fourteen-year-old Neil watched them warily, ever careful to keep himself between them and the sea, despite the stout brick wall hidden by the steep cliff edge.

  Thirteen-year-old Brian, on the other hand, willingly chased his little brothers in yet another game of tag. He even pretended to stumble and fall over a non-existent bump, no doubt hidden under the sere grass by last night’s bitter frost. Little Spenser laughed and jumped into the air to clap, while Marlowe raced to victory atop the garden wall.

  Brian sat up quickly—and her heart eased. She should have known nothing physical would injure her fairy-blessed second son. Not for him was Neil’s horrified frown when Spenser’s coat came unbuttoned, bringing the attendant horror of possible bronchitis. No, Brian chuckled and teased and fastened his little brother up again, while Viola shuddered and prayed that her youngest might be spared to live another day.

  She’d paid too high a price to have him. She’d even sworn to her frantic husband that they’d never have another child, lest they not be able to dismiss death from both her door and the babe’s.

  But she didn’t have to think about that today. This afternoon was for sharing family joys. She was with her father again, able to talk about the Lindsay clan’s passion for boats. She was warm and comfortable behind her cousin’s observatory’s thick glass panes, no matter what else they might think about. Like the upcoming finaliz
ation of Portia’s divorce.

  “There, d’you see the triple-masted yacht? That’s Gould’s latest.” The old commodore, still unbowed by his many decades, pointed out to the foaming seas where a sleek black funnel sprang into life above the white caps.

  “Very pretty,” Viola approved, remembering old lessons from her hometown’s shipyards. More of the boat revealed itself coyly, glimpses snatched between waves reaching for the sky. “She’s very big—and very seaworthy.”

  “Aye, Gould builds them well.”

  “Them?” She set the spyglass down and tucked her shawl around her more closely. She’d somehow grown less tolerant of drafts since the twins’ birth. If William caught her without a coat, he’d blister her ears—or worse, look terrified. But she hadn’t had pneumonia yet this winter so there was nothing for him to worry about.

  Heaven knows they both spent enough time fretting about Portia’s refusal to come directly back to America, with its baying jackals called newspaper reporters. The trial’s coverage had been hell for her, with its mixture of a few facts and much fiction. Every British and American newspaper had discussed her for months, painting her in terms which made Jezebel appear virtuous.

  Her family had tried to silence them, or at least reduce the baying jackals to printing only what appeared in court. Nothing worked. They’d bought newspapers in America, blackmailed, bribed, called in favors from politicians and anyone else who might help. Viola suspected their most successful tactic was Hal’s unacknowledged use of bricks thrown by gangs of young thugs.

  Even so, the only apparent difference was a slight slowing in the torrent of purple vitriol.

  “Gould and his sons collect yachts, as well as railroad cars.” The former steamboat captain bit off the mention of railroads, despite his daughter in law’s family attachment to his land-based rivals.

  Viola tucked her hand into his and steered the conversation into less troubled waters. “Do they need so many?”

  “I doubt it.” He hugged her, putting himself between her and the cold air. “This one is a new design that Gould’s testing for ocean cruising. Rumor says his wife doesn’t approve of how the cabins are decorated.”

  “Does she plan to have them redone?”

  “No, she wants an entirely new yacht—so she can have new paneling.” The old millionaire’s tone was very dry.

  “A new boat? Even for the Goulds, isn’t that rather extravagant?” Viola couldn’t imagine how much it would cost to satisfy the whim. “Has he given in?”

  “No.”

  “He’s very thrifty,” she mused, remembering tales of how the railroad tycoon had raised his children to understand and manage their own money. “Perhaps we can help them both.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Her father cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Portia has decided to see the world, once the divorce is final, rather than return directly to the States.” Where she’d face so many reporters, the poor darling.

  “Harrumph.”

  “What if she had a trustworthy ship and crew to match?”

  The old naval officer stilled, as if he’d just heard drums beating the call to battle once again. Then he whipped his spyglass up and stared at Gould’s yacht for a long time.

  “Well?” Viola inquired, trying not to beg. This was the first time she’d ever asked her father’s help in something more than planning a birthday party. “Do you think it would work? She wants to head east, through the Suez Canal, then on to Singapore, Hawaii, and California. I’m worried,” she finished in a hoarse whisper.

  “That’s a very good idea which will help our Portia.” Her father gripped her fingers reassuringly. “Once I buy that little lady, Hal and I will find crew for her. Don’t worry, we’ll keep our sweet Portia safe no matter where she goes.”

  Viola leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and let his certainty fill her as it never had before, not even when she’d been Marlowe and Spenser’s age. She had to believe—and she had to pray, too—that Portia would come home safely.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cairo, March 1887

  Horses’ hooves and carriage wheels pummeled clouds of dust out of the street, like offerings to the ancient sun god floating overhead. Tall trees marched beside the curbs, providing color while great men’s transient striped awnings supplied shade. White helmeted men rode strutting horses or hastened across the street.

  Noontime had passed and the midday heat was rising inexorably to its brazen climax before Shepheard’s Hotel, the highest example of Cairo lodging. Broad marble stairs led down to the street below a latticed, wrought iron awning. Tables crowded the terrace on either side behind finely etched railings.

  A storyteller hooted at passersby, hoping for one last kiss from a coin. Dates, oranges, and slices of watermelon spun past on plates, their small vendors cheerfully willing to exchange them for silver.

  It could almost—almost—have been Tucson on fiesta day.

  Gareth Lowell would have spent hours among sights like these, wandering between the ancient river, the amusing tricks the young vendors played, and the tourists’ slow saunter.

  Portia Townsend Vanneck, who’d once been called Portia Countess St. Arles, dismounted from the barouche and turned to watch a particularly small, chocolate brown urchin. He was following a policeman, every step and gesture mocking all of the fellow’s very self-important movements. He far outshone the snake charmer and trained monkey performing on the hotel’s main stairs.

  Best of all, unlike most of his brethren, all of his limbs were sound and muscles gleamed through his filthy rags.

  Once, she too had dared the authorities like that, when she’d snuck out of her uncle’s house with Gareth to gape at a burlesque show or leap for joy under forbidden fireworks.

  Unbidden, her feet shifted into an answering dance, echoing a half-forgotten, insidious beat for a few steps. Some of the child’s pure joy in successfully triumphing over his elders, even in so little as silently mocking one, slipped silently into her bones. Another day of sightseeing suddenly became a highlight.

  She dug into her purse, the eye-catching movement which every guide cautioned visitors against. More than one person turned to look.

  “There!” Cynthia Oates’ voice rang with triumph. She caught up with Portia, an enormous parasol shading her petite figure. “She is smiling.”

  Portia sniffed loudly at her dear friend’s teasing, even while laughter still lurked in her toes. Few of her British or American friends—no, acquaintances—had continued to speak to her after the divorce. Cynthia’s warmth and the ability to return it were an ongoing delight.

  “Are you certain, my dear?” asked Sir Graham Oates, neatly unfurling his large frame from their small carriage. “Perhaps the bright sunshine has addled your brain and we should take you inside.”

  “This was the third time today.” Cynthia tapped her husband on the chest in mock dudgeon.

  Portia tossed a few coins at the little mimic. Somehow the tiny fortune vanished like wisps of smoke between his fingers.

  She giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

  He bowed to her as if he were a mighty wizard, all flourishes and twinkling eyes, then scampered away one step ahead of his jealous brethren.

  Portia applauded him readily. She could celebrate a day if it brought sight of a success like his, which few did. Her own life was filled with silent, echoing spaces, albeit blessedly free of newspapermen’s howling questions.

  “There you see! I was perfectly correct!” Cynthia chortled.

  Portia shook her head and paused on the hotel stairs to wait for her friends. Ever since they’d left London, Cynthia had made it a private crusade to make Portia relax, preferably by smiling. How could one be angry at a friend like that?

  “Of course you were, my dear: all we needed to do was take Lady St. Arles far enough from London and she’d remember how to laugh,” Sir Graham agreed, smothering what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw.

>   Portia raised her eyebrow at him as if wielding a lorgnette. He countered by inclining his head before shooting her a wink. The three of them dissolved into soft laughter, the same gentle friendship that had kept them together on the long journey from London.

  Sir Graham offered each lady an arm and they turned for Shepheard’s Hotel, the ne plus ultra of Cairo lodging. Originally a harem, fifty years of catering to the very wealthy had adapted its stone bulk into a palace which promised comfort and privacy, rather than flaunting vulgar ostentation.

  Cynthia leaned a little closer to her husband, their steps falling into harmony with the ease of long practice.

  Bittersweet joy, too painful to be called envy, twisted Portia’s mouth.

  What would it be like to have someone who adored you so much it showed in something as simple as your walk?

  But the past was better left behind, with the dreams’ dust it contained.

  The hotel’s wide terrace spread before them, scattered with tables and palm trees. Red-jacketed waiters, topped by crisp red fezes and anchored by billowing white trousers, flowed between patrons like silent magicians, capable of any gift.

  A man rose out of the shadows like a spitting cobra emerging from a basket.

  Portia stopped, her feet immovably fixed to the stone paving and her blood spinning into Arctic realms.

  “Mrs. Vanneck.” His pitch-black eyes ran over her and her friends, noting every wrinkle on a once immaculate sleeve, lock of hair sagging from the heat, and trickle of sweat slinking down a flushed face.

  The so-called gentleman looked exactly the way he had the last time she’d seen him in that London courtroom, flaunting the gaudy cleanliness of a man who hired others to do his dirty work.

  “St. Arles,” Portia acknowledged. The dust of ancient pharaohs would have tasted better than those words on her tongue.

  What the devil was he doing here? The London Times had announced his marriage to That Woman months ago, within days of the divorce becoming final. He should be in England, breeding the heir who’d block his cousin from ruling St. Arles Castle.