Ignoring her coachman’s protests, she slammed the hatch shut and waited on events.
St. James’s Street was, not surprisingly, close to St. James’s Palace. She’d seen it before and gazed at it, mouth agog with the accounts of the treasures that lay inside, but today it held nothing for her. Grand houses lined the street, with some gaps and new buildings, but it appeared respectable enough. She had no idea what her coachman was talking about and didn’t bother to listen. This was her only chance. Otherwise she’d have to put up at an inn and go home.
Of course number twelve was opposite the palace. She tried not to let that intimidate her.
This time she sent her card in first. The building was a large one, more so than most London inhabitants, even the aristocratic ones, lived in and she wasn’t sure it was the right place. Or that it would be bachelor lodgings. In such an exalted position? The grand exterior, grey stone, was blackened in an irregular piebald pattern by the smoke that belched out of the chimneypots of the city. While she waited for a response, Portia counted the windows. Six imposing, arched windows on the first floor. It must be a virtual palace inside, although not as grand as the redbrick one that faced it like an old soldier.
Dusk was settling on the streets of the city and despite her determination, fear clutched a hand around Portia’s heart and squeezed. In a moment she’d order the crest covered up and try to find somewhere respectable to stay the night. She wouldn’t call herself Mrs. Welles. Who knew what was happening? She probably wouldn’t use Miss Seaton, either. Maybe Carter wouldn’t mind her borrowing her name.
The maid sat, bereft of speech, eyes wide as she peered at the house.
Then the footman returned and opened the carriage door. “You’re to go in, ma’am,” he said. “If you please,” he added as if it was an afterthought.
He leaned into the coach, something no London footman would dream of doing, but from a man who had known Portia from her childhood, it seemed wholly appropriate. “If you should get into any trouble, ma’am, scream and I’ll be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. We’ll take ourselves further up the street. Not so obvious.”
Not so obvious that she was visiting a single man in his own home, he meant. He was right. “This is my only choice, Foster. Please cover the crests.” The last thing she wanted was for her father to get wind of her dilemma and come roaring into town. Although he might take it upon himself to do just that. He was nothing if not protective.
With trepidation, she let Foster help her down and quickly ascended the steps at the front of the building. The door was already open.
Portia stood in a large hall, all shiny wood and marble, which didn’t have the air of a domestic dwelling. A large table stood to one side. Everything gleamed, the scent of lavender polish overpowering even in this large space. The footman who let them in wore a livery, black coat and breeches over white-and-silver waistcoat. Startling and memorable, but she had no idea who used it. He waited while she removed her hat, gloves and cloak, handing them to him. He took them away. She was trapped here, unless she found out where he’d put them.
He returned quickly enough and bowed. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am, I’ll take you to the comte.”
The man led them up the broad oak staircase and along a landing. They ascended another flight. She glanced along the wide hallway to the sets of doors, all closed, some of them double. The smell of fresh paint overwhelmed the scent of lavender furniture-polish. Builders and decorators had been busy.
At the top of the stairs, the smell wasn’t quite as powerful. The footman led them to a door about halfway up this corridor, which followed the line of the one below, and opened a door.
“Please go through.” He bowed and left them.
D’Argento stood gazing at them, not a trace of the good humour she’d seen in him before. He wore silver-grey, and never had he appeared more like the embodiment of his godhead. Mercury, not the Comte d’Argento.
Driven by his obvious power, she went forward and stood before him, unsure whether to bow or curtsey. Before she could, he reached out and took her hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have told you. I’ve been busy, although I know that isn’t an excuse. The true reason is I was hoping he’d come out of it.”
She was so relieved to find someone who believed her she nearly burst into tears. She fought them back, lifted her chin to gaze into his face. “Then you’d better tell me now.”
“Why did you come to London so precipitately?” he demanded. Releasing her hands, he strode to the window with ill-concealed impatience. Spinning around, he came back to her. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m forgetting my manners. Are you hungry or thirsty?”
“Both,” she confessed, “as is my maid, Carter. Or rather, my mother’s maid.”
D’Argento shot Carter a glance and nodded. “You may trust your mistress with me,” he said. “We need to speak in private.”
Carter looked at Portia and pursed her lips. “Your lady mother wouldn’t appreciate that.”
“No,” Portia admitted. “You need to leave us alone. I want to find out what happened to my husband. If you don’t tell anyone, nobody will know.”
Reports of her closeted alone with a man could prove dangerous for her reputation. Not that she cared. Her reputation was ruined in any case.
Carter curtseyed and left.
“My man will show you to a room you may use. The house isn’t open yet, so there are plenty of bedrooms.”
Her heart throbbing, Portia realised how vulnerable she was. “The house? You’re opening a—a—”
The word brothel hung in the air.
For the first time a smile pulled at the corners of d’Argento’s lips. He glanced towards the window, where the palace loomed opposite. “With them watching? No, this is something very different and entirely respectable. I have created some controversy by declaring my intention to allow female members. I have a public drawing room downstairs specifically for their use. Most men are deriding me, except for those who know the truth.” He sighed dramatically. “Visionaries are often sneered at before they obtain their greatest successes.”
Her current dilemma temporarily disappeared as she heard his outrageous proposal. “You can’t say it’s for immortals!” They had kept themselves hidden for far too long to let the secret go. Then they’d be at war on two fronts, Titans and mortals, and maybe more, who knew?
“No, I won’t. The last time immortals met without the protection of mortals, a disaster ensued. I won’t risk that happening again, so I will admit mortals to most of the areas. A shield and disguise, you could say. However, it’s a large establishment, and there is room for all. The requirement for entry to the restricted areas is a simple blood test. You know the one.”
Ah yes, the one that compared an immortal’s blood to a mortal’s. If the mortal could be converted, when the ichor from a god and the blood from a human were mingled in a glass of water, they blended to clear. If there was no match, the mortal blood formed clots. “How will you explain that?”
“I don’t have to. It’s a quirk. Some London clubs have stranger admission requirements. This is mine. The club is named the Pantheon.”
He took her hands again. “It’s my passion. I’m the messenger. I’ve spent the last thirty years rushing around Europe, even the colonies on occasion, hunting immortals who were destroyed in the explosion thirty years ago. Most don’t know what they are. Some have realised some of their powers and they are using them in unfortunate ways. This is a place for them to come. Any who have noticed something unusual, anyone confused or in ignorance may come here and find sanctuary if they need it, and answers.”
“What about the Titans?”
His mouth hardened. “They must shift for themselves.”
“My father is a Titan.”
He dropped her hands as if she held poison. “Who?”
> “Oceanus.”
He rolled his eyes and gazed at the fresh plasterwork on the ceiling. “I should have stayed in Dover.”
“No.” She reached out this time and put her hand on his arm. “He means no harm to Olympians unless they interfere in his business. He has an empire, and he’s content with that.”
“How long for?”
“It’s why so few people know. If you’re to help me, you need to have that knowledge. I will go if you wish it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Come and sit. I’ll order food served, and you may eat here.”
She gazed around the elegant room. Not a large reception room, but a comfortable sitting room, decorated in rich blue with mahogany furniture. Everything was exquisite, and of the best, but it was a masculine room. No china shepherdesses graced the mantelpiece and the furniture was the polished English kind, not the gilded, spindly French variety. It was a room to relax in, with comfortable, well-upholstered sofas and chairs, and tables where tea-dishes could be placed.
She couldn’t withhold her sigh when she sat on one of the sofas. It was as soft as it looked and so new she feared her travel-dusty clothes would mark it.
D’Argento showed no qualms about letting her sit. He settled in a chair close enough for easy conversation, far enough so she felt comfortable with his presence.
He crossed his legs. “The servants will bring food for you and your maid will be cared for. I’m about to tell you the truth. Will that do?”
Bewildered by his change of heart, by his kindness to her, she nevertheless determined on discovering what he would tell her. “Yes, yes, please. Why did Edmund reject me?”
“You went to the London house.”
“He wrote from that address when he first arrived in London. He gave me the address in case I needed to contact him urgently. I wrote, but he never replied.”
D’Argento sighed. “Yes, I see. It is his house. Now that his mother has no need of it, Edmund might as well use it. It’s leased to the Dukes of Kentmere.”
“So he’s a friend of the duke’s?”
D’Argento covered his eyes. “My dear, he is the duke. He’s Edmund Welles, Duke of Kentmere, and you’re his duchess.”
She couldn’t breathe. “No.”
He lifted his head. “Yes,” he said softly. “I can hardly believe he didn’t even tell you that much.”
While she tried to recover her senses, the door opened on a knock to admit a neatly dressed maid. The girl didn’t seem in the least concerned to discover her master in conversation with a woman. A well-trained maid, then. She carried a huge tray, which contained a number of dishes that gave off appetising odours.
Despite her shock, Portia’s stomach rumbled again. The maid placed the tray on a table by the window and set about lifting one of the smaller tables and placing it before Portia.
“I will serve the lady,” d’Argento said quietly, and the maid curtseyed and left.
At least he had not called her something impossible like “her grace”. She was not a duchess. She couldn’t be.
D’Argento got to his feet and crossed to the table. “A little of everything? Do you like chicken fricassee?”
“Anything,” she said distractedly. She’d eat cabbage right now, and she hated cabbage. The sound of spoon on crockery followed, and he returned to her, with a plate of steaming food and some flatware.
“Please don’t stand on ceremony. I will join you, but I’ve already dined, so I won’t need as much. I think wine is in order.”
He put a similar plate with a few morsels on a nearby table. His coat swished, like expensive fabric did, as he crossed to a sideboard which contained a selection of decanters, all filled.
He picked the red wine, but paused when he unstoppered it and returned it to its place. “I find I’m not in the mood for burgundy. Would you prefer a good sack instead? I promise it’s not the dyed French stuff.”
She knew all about that. The habit of dyeing cheap wine and putting it in casks meant for better vintages had plagued their smuggling business recently. Until her father had made a point of seeking out the perpetrators and making it clear to them that it was not acceptable.
“Thank you.” Red wine might bring solace, but in her current state of exhaustion, Portia feared it might put her to sleep. Oblivion was preferable to the series of shocks she’d undergone since she arrived in London.
She’d rarely eaten a stranger meal, or a more delicious one. Chicken carefully prepared in a light but creamy sauce and vegetables cooked to perfection startled her taste buds into appreciating what she was eating. Her involuntary “Mmm” made d’Argento glance up at her and smile.
“I engaged the best cook I could find. They will have to serve the most discerning palates.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak because her mouth was full.
He didn’t try to engage her in conversation until she’d emptied her plate. A duchess? There had to be some mistake.
When she put her knife and fork neatly down and set her empty chinaware aside, he got to his feet and took the crockery to the tray before refilling their glasses. “Do you wish for any more? There’s plenty.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I’ve had sufficient.” And then some, because the food had been too delicious to leave. She sipped from her glass, the facets winking when she set it down. A fire burned in the grate although it wasn’t as necessary as a month ago. If not for the situation, Portia would have sat there perfectly happily.
Concerns weighed her down. “Does that mean I’m a duchess? Truly?”
“Yes, it does,” he answered immediately, without prevarication. “The fact that he does not remember you is immaterial. It doesn’t change what you are.” D’Argento spread a hand in an elegant gesture. “It was just as well that he went under an alias. He didn’t know it, but his mother was trying to locate and kill him at the time.”
“What?” Sitting upright, she leaned forward and confronted him. “And you didn’t tell me that when you visited us?”
“I’m telling you now.” D’Argento’s lips flattened. “He probably never expected the subsequent events to happen. He never expected to fall in love.”
Her mouth twisted at the memory. “Yes he did. He pricked me with an arrow, then caught the pin himself.”
Heedless of propriety, she plunged her hand down her front and retrieved the brooch that was never far away.
The pretty object on her palm glittered in the light of the candelabra the servant had lit. “See? He gave it to me and the pin was loose, although I’ve never had any trouble with it since.”
“Nor will you,” d’Argento said softly. “Why would he do that, I wonder?” His grey gaze searched her face. “Of course,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Your father.”
Miserably, she nodded. “He wanted to find out who my father was. I discovered he was Eros on our wedding night. He planned it all. And now it seems he doesn’t want me. I’ve served my purpose. He threw me out of his house as if I was a woman of the streets!”
Unable to hold them back any more, the tears came. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief but found one thrust into her hand.
D’Argento got to his feet and strode to the sideboard. This time he poured red wine. She saw the glint of the ruby liquid through her tears.
He put the glass in her hand and knelt before her. “It’s not like that,” he said. “That’s not what happened.”
“Then tell me.” She steeled herself for whatever he was about to tell her. It would not be pleasant, she knew that already.
D’Argento nodded. “I came to Dover to tell Edmund that his sister was in trouble, that she needed him. Their mother was escalating her plans to destroy him, but she was also planning to destroy Bacchus because he threatened to take Aurelia away from her influence. She turned her attention to him
first. To make the story brief, when Edmund tried to destroy Stretton—Bacchus—he retaliated. Being the god of madness, he did it in the way he knew best. Your husband was unconscious for the best part of a day and raving for some of that. Mad, I mean. When he recovered, he didn’t remember you or the house in Dover. I hoped it was a temporary effect, but fully taken up in aiding Stretton and Aurelia, I let the matter rest. You were better hidden in the country as Mrs. Welles. Then the dowager duchess died, and Edmund has been publicly mourning her and privately arranging her affairs.” He got to his feet. “He didn’t remember you, but matters were in such turmoil I considered it better to leave things as they were. Your father was powerful enough to protect you.”
“So Edmund still does not remember me?” Her voice sounded weak, but at least, unlike Edmund, she had retained her senses. What d’Argento told her explained a great deal, even if it did not excuse anyone.
“It appears not. I planned to send for you and let the sight of you do the rest. But that did not work. It might have, had I had a hand in the introduction. Portia, you’re still in danger, coming here. Edmund still has enemies. Would you consider returning to the country for a time, as Mrs. Welles?”
Pursing her mouth, she shook her head. “Never. I will face whatever comes of this.”
“Then let me at least offer you rest for tonight. Tomorrow you may think clearer. You are safe here, I swear it.”
She looked into his clear eyes and sighed. “I believe you.”
Although nothing had changed in the morning, the rest did her good and the hours spent awake in an admittedly soft feather bed helped Portia to regain some semblance of sangfroid. Although she had no idea how to proceed.
Her maid appeared with her freshly laundered clothes and some breakfast. Portia ate sparingly, but felt better for the tea.
Thus fortified, she decided to go down to the drawing room and try to discover her host. She had to do something soon. Apart from any other consideration, the duchesse would be on her way. It was Saturday, the day she was supposed to meet the duchesse and Susanna on their shopping trip. Very few people travelled on Sunday, it being the Lord’s Day, so that might give her some extra time. The duchesse would be here on Monday or Tuesday, ready to stake her ward’s claim.
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 17