The Viscount and the Vixen

by Lorraine Heath

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “He was like a raging bull, wanting to know where you were. But as you didn’t tell me where you were going, I couldn’t tell him no matter how dire his threats.”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  With a scoff, Sophie shrugged and laughed. “Sheridan would have killed him if he touched me and well he knew it. But recently I saw the announcement about your marriage in the paper. You married a lord!”

  “And now I must divorce him.”

  Clear concern mirrored in her expression, Sophie leaned toward her. “Why? You have a title, money, position. You have everything we ever dreamed of having, whenever we talked. Portia, why give it all up?”

  Gently, she placed her hand on her belly. “What if it’s a boy? I can’t do that to him. I thought I could, but I can’t. His titles and estates should go to a son who carries his blood.”

  “Oh, Lord, why?” Sophie hopped up and began to pace. “They don’t care about us. They’re spoiled and rotten. They think nothing of taking advantage because they consider us below them.” Spinning around, she grabbed the back of the chair. “We don’t owe them anything.”

  “Nor do they owe us. He didn’t put this babe in my belly. It’s not his responsibility.”

  “And how are you going to care for it?”

  “I haven’t worked out the particulars yet. All of this came about rather suddenly.” Lifting her shoulders, she smiled self-consciously. “I’m very good at cleaning houses.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Sophie dropped back down into the chair. “It would be less exertion and far better benefits to find another lord to take you on.”

  She shook her head. “That wouldn’t work for me.”

  Sophie stared at her. “Oh, my God. You fell in love with him.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, that was a rather silly thing to do. That’s why you want a divorce.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “Ironic, yes? I’m leaving him because I love him. I love him so much, Sophie. Ten, twenty . . . a hundred times more than I ever loved Beaumont. He married me to protect his father. He’s a good man.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and a maid poked her head in. “His Lordship’s here, miss.”

  Nodding, Sophie rose to her feet. “Thank you. Tell him I’ll be down in a moment.” Once the maid left, she looked at Portia. “I’m wanted.” Only she wasn’t, not really, not in the way Portia had felt wanted by Locksley. “Make yourself comfortable, get some rest, and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Sophie. I shan’t linger.”

  “You can stay as long as Sheridan doesn’t know you’re here. Good night.”

  After she was gone, Portia set the tray aside, walked over to the bed, and stretched out on it. She should have packed some clothes, but she’d been worried about waking Locksley, and traveling with a trunk would have made it more difficult to move about quickly and unnoticed.

  She’d ridden in a mail coach going north. At the first village, she’d disembarked and waited for a mail coach headed to London. She’d known the proprietress of the Peacock Inn had seen her climb into the mail coach, so she’d wanted to leave a confusing trail, just in case Locksley awoke early and searched for her. He’d either slept late or hadn’t come after her. Probably the latter, which was just as well. It would make things so much easier going forward.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t ease the pain of her broken heart.

  Chapter 25

  He’d ridden like a madman all through the day and into the night in order to catch up with the mail coach. When he finally did reach it, he discovered she’d disembarked in the first village at which it had stopped. Naturally by the time he returned there, she was nowhere to be found.

  So where the bloody hell had she gone?

  She wasn’t going to return to Havisham. Of that he was fairly certain. In no mood to explain the situation to his father, he’d sent the coaches and servants back to London while he carried on to Fairings Cross. He thought it unlikely that she would seek out her parents for help, but he was hopeful they could shed some light on where she might seek refuge.

  Having attended a couple of balls at Beaumont’s country estate, Locke was familiar with the area and sought out the parsonage near the church. After knocking on the door, he glanced around, his chest tightening as he studied the towering oak that brushed up against a window on the uppermost level. He imagined Portia—bold, brave, undeterred by the dangers—clambering down it. He did hope that wherever she was now, she was exercising more caution. When he caught up with her, he was going to sit her down and ask her a thousand questions so he knew every damned thing about her and she could never again elude him. He needed to know how she thought, where she might go, what she hoped to accomplish.

  The door opened and a young maid looked up at him. “Yes, sir?”

  He handed over a card. “Viscount Locksley to see Reverend Gadstone.”

  “Yes, m’lord. Please come in.”

  He stepped through into an austere entryway and was led to an equally Spartan front parlor. Except for the roses, which reminded him of Portia. She so enjoyed her flowers. At least he knew that much about her.

  Everything here was clean and tidy. She must have been appalled when he took her on her first tour of Havisham. No, she’d merely looked at everything and seen the potential. He wondered if she’d recognized the potential in him, if she’d known she could open him up as easily as she did the house. She could swipe away the cobwebs surrounding his heart and bring in the light.

  Turning at the clip of footfalls, he wasn’t surprised by the stiffness of the man who entered or the grim expression of the woman beside him. Neither of them appeared to be the sort who ever laughed.

  “My lord, I’m Reverend Gadstone and this is my wife. How might I be of service?”

  “I’m looking for your daughter.”

  He tilted his head to the side like a confused dog. “Florence or Louisa?”

  “Portia.”

  His wife gave a small gasp, while the reverend merely hardened his features into an uncompromising mask. “We have no daughter named Portia.”

  “So I’ve heard. Is there anyone in the family who might not have judged her as harshly as you?”

  His chin came up in a manner similar to Portia’s, yet Locke didn’t find it anywhere near as adorable or charming. Rather he had an urge to introduce it to his fist.

  “She is a sinner, bringing a bastard into this world. Is it yours? Did you fornicate with her?”

  “You’ll watch your tongue when you speak of my wife.”

  Their eyes widened and both their heads snapped back as though he’d punched them.

  “She’s your wife?” Mrs. Gadstone asked, clearly flummoxed by the notion.

  He considered how any other woman who might have married him would have come here, draped in silk and jewels, arriving in a well-sprung coach, and lorded her newly obtained position over them, would have insisted they bow before her, address her by her title, and acknowledge that they were beneath her. But not his Portia, because gaining a title had not been her goal, had meant nothing to her. He’d come to realize that fact about her, but having it reconfirmed now only emphasized how badly he’d misjudged her. How he’d misjudged his own value. She’d needed someone to protect her and her child. Even if he possessed no title, no estates, he had it within him to shield her from the harshness of life. “She is. For some months now. She and I had a bit of a row. I’m striving to determine where she might have gone.”

  “I’m not the least bit surprised that she ran away from you because things weren’t quite to her liking,” the reverend said. “She was always scampering off, hiding when she knew it was time for the switch, never willing to take her responsibilities, accept her due.”

  “You took a switch to her?” Those who knew him were aware that his low tenor spoke of warning, of menace, yet Gadstone didn’t have the foresight to realize he was treading on dangerous g
round.

  “Often. She had the devil in her. Never sitting still in church. Never properly memorizing the Bible passages I gave her. Hiking up her skirts to chase after butterflies. She was incorrigible, refused to bend to my will.”

  Jolly good for her hung on the tip of his tongue, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Little wonder she’d seen Beaumont as her salvation. It wouldn’t have taken much kindness on his part to win her over. “Has she any friends in the village?”

  “None that would acknowledge her now. She’s a fallen woman, a disgrace. They would neither associate with her nor help her. They all know what she is,” he sneered.

  She’d told him that she had no one, but still he’d had a difficult time believing she was completely, absolutely alone and without resources. Although since he’d judged her poorly when he met her, was he any better than these horrid people? He gave a quick impatient tug to his gloves. “What she is, sir, is a viscountess who shall one day be a marchioness. Yes, I can see why they might not wish to be seen in her shadow. I thank you for your assistance.”

  “Pray you don’t find her, my lord. She will be your downfall.”

  The need to hit Portia’s father had his muscles quivering with his restraint, but one did not strike a man of God. He walked past him—

  To hell with it. He swung around and landed a good solid punch to that self-righteous chin. The blow had the man landing on the floor in a sprawl and his wife screaming. Locke bent low over him. “She is the most remarkable woman I have ever known. I will find her. If it takes me to the end of my days, I will find her.”

  He strode out, mounted his horse, and began riding hard back to London. He’d known coming here would probably be a wild goose chase, but a part of him had wanted to see where she grew up, to meet her parents. That she had turned out to be so giving and kind was a miracle. That she was strong, not so much. She’d had to be to survive. They could have killed her spirit, but they hadn’t. He admired her all the more for not succumbing to their dictates. He would find her.

  The Earl of Beaumont had never had as much luck playing cards as he was having this evening at the Twin Dragons. From the moment he’d sat down half an hour earlier, he’d taken every hand. This latest would be no exception. Fortune was smiling so brightly on him—

  “I need a word.”

  Christ, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the low rasp near his ear. He recognized the owner’s tone as one that didn’t bode well. He snapped his head around, his gaze slamming into Locksley’s, the green eyes indicating a high price would be paid for any disobedience. But he was known for his stubbornness.

  “I’m otherwise occupied.” Did he have to sound as though his heart was lodged in his throat?

  Locksley grabbed his cards, tossed them down. “He’s out.”

  “See here—”

  The viscount swung back around to glare at him. There was a tenseness, a danger, to him that had no doubt led to his surviving his treks into the wilds. Not even the king of the jungle would want to tangle with a man who looked as though he’d take great delight in devouring his prey for dinner.

  “Outside.”

  One word. A command. But Beaumont wasn’t a complete fool. He needed to be certain there were plenty of witnesses so he didn’t suddenly disappear from the face of the earth. “The library.”

  A curt nod, and the viscount stepped back. Regaining his composure, Beaumont glanced around the table. “I shall return.” He hoped, prayed. “Hold my winnings for me.”

  The Dragons might be a club of vice, but it was an honest one. Reluctantly he followed Locksley to the library, remembering the night when he’d joined him here in hopes of learning more about his marriage to Portia, of striving to determine when he might see her.

  Not surprisingly, Locksley chose a seating area in a back corner of the room, away from everyone else. When they’d settled in, he did little more than study Beaumont with an intense stare until a footman delivered their drinks. Beaumont hated that his hand shook as he lifted his glass, took a fortifying swallow, and leaned forward. “Look, I haven’t said a word regarding Portia’s past—”

  “Where is she?” Locksley was curt, to the point, except Beaumont didn’t know what the point was.

  Leaning back, he glanced around. “Who?”

  “Portia.”

  “How the devil should I know?” Then the point came to him, sharp, clear, and ever so satisfying. He couldn’t help but grin like a lunatic. “She ran off.”

  It boosted Beaumont’s pride to know he wasn’t the only one she’d left. Locksley narrowed his eyes until they resembled the finely honed edge of a sword. Beaumont’s smile dwindled and he fought the urge to scurry away. “She didn’t come to me.”

  But dear God, he wished she had. He missed her more than he thought it possible to miss anyone. He’d handled things poorly on the terrace. Instead of ordering her about, he should have wooed her as he had in the beginning. He could have won her back with the proper approach.

  “Where was her residence?”

  With the viscount’s obvious need of his assistance, suddenly he was feeling quite superior. “You nearly broke my jaw. It still aches.” The bruise was an embarrassment, but worse was the fact that he had to cut his food into tiny pieces because he could barely widen his mouth.

  “If you don’t tell me where she lived, the next blow will surely break it, then.”

  He sighed. “You’re not going to punch me here.”

  The stony look he gave said he would indeed. Beaumont sipped his scotch, studied his glass. “She’s not there. My current mistress is the jealous sort. She’d have not welcomed her.”

  “It didn’t take you long to replace her.”

  “A man has needs,” he said indignantly. “Besides, no one could replace her. I loved her, you know.”

  “You had a strange way of showing it.”

  “She brought neither coin nor position to a marriage. I’m in need of both.”

  “You were going to have the child she carried killed,” he hissed.

  “Wives don’t like having bastards running around. My father took care of his in the same manner. Anyway, I can’t afford to take care of a passel of children.”

  “But you can afford a mistress.”

  “As I stated, a man has needs. One must prioritize.”

  “I have an overwhelming need to punch you again. You’re spared only because I have no wish to touch you.”

  He hated that this man who was beneath him in station was commanding him about and lording over him. “Well, at least my father wasn’t a nutter.”

  Locksley struck so fast that Beaumont didn’t even see it coming, but the pain that shot through his face told him that his nose, at least, was broken. His eyes watered as he dug his handkerchief out of his pocket to collect the blood pouring down.

  “Where did she live?”

  Through clenched teeth, he ground out the address. “But as I said you won’t find her there.”

  “I’m well aware. Keep this conversation and your past relationship with her to yourself, or I shall see you ruined. Ashebury and Greyling will help me see to it.”

  As though he wished to tangle with the Hellions. One was bad enough. All three would ensure he was never again welcomed in polite Society. “The threat is unnecessary. Believe it or not, I want her to be happy. But if you hurt her—”

  He had no chance to complete his threat, as Locksley was already gone. It was an odd moment to realize that he had never envied a man more.

  She’d hated parting with the pearls, but she didn’t have any other choice. Unfortunately they didn’t bring in as much money as she’d hoped, but it had been enough that she had felt confident going to her solicitor, that she could pay his fee. As it turned out, he didn’t charge her for his advice, as there was nothing he could do for her.

  “I can’t divorce him.” Portia paced in front of the fireplace in her temporary bedchamber.

  “I thought infidelity was a jus
tifiable reason for getting a divorce,” Sophie said.

  “Yes, but I can’t divorce him because I committed adultery. Only he can divorce me for my transgressions.”

  “You can divorce him if he commits adultery, so say he did.”

  Shaking her head, she stopped pacing. “No. I’ll not have some woman he might wish to marry questioning his faithfulness. He is loyal. Besides, it’s not enough for him to be an adulterer. He must desert me for two years. Yet I don’t have to desert him. There are different laws applied to men than to women, which makes it near impossible for a woman to get out of an unwelcomed marriage. In truth it makes everything hard for a woman.” Not that hers had been unwelcomed. It had been wonderful and exquisite.

  “Well, the law always has, hasn’t it? Made it difficult for women.”

  “Sophie, I don’t know how to make this right.” She dropped into the chair. “I could write a letter to the Times, explaining I was unfaithful. Once published it would leave him with no choice except to divorce me. Although he would hate me all the more.”

  “What does it matter how much he hates you?”

  She nodded, fighting back the desolation and tears. “You’re right. What matters is that Beaumont’s child not become Locksley’s heir.”

  “And when you are free of Locksley?”

  Her throat and chest tightened. She couldn’t have swallowed if she needed to. “I’m going to find a family—a proper family who will love and care for this babe as though he were their own. I should never have been so selfish as to want to keep him.”

  “Or her.”

  She laughed. “Or her.” Although of late, it seemed she could envision herself with a son, one with coal-black hair and green eyes.

  “But how will you support yourself?”

  “Go into service, I suppose.” Without an illegitimate child to mark her as a fallen woman, it would be easier to find employment. But how she would miss having someone to love her unconditionally.