Portia found that she couldn’t think about such a possibility right now. “Do you want to accept your brother’s invitation to visit?”
“Why should I put myself before such a man?”
“You have a brother and two sisters you’ve never met. As for your father?” She waved a dismissive hand. “What do you care about a bitter old man? But your brother came to see you the moment he found out the truth. You probably have an entire legion of other relatives. Oh!” she stopped abruptly. “Does this mean you are Lord Harrington?”
Stacy laughed. “I do not believe it works that way. Only my brother has a courtesy title, I am still a mere mister.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Well, that is beside the point. The point is you have a family, Stacy.”
“I already have a family, Portia.” The tender expression on his face made her heart swell. It also made her want to weep.
Dear Lord, how could she do anything that might cause her to lose this man?
The answer to that was simple: she couldn’t. She realized, with a shiver of apprehension, that she would do whatever it took to keep Ivo away from Stacy, their unborn child, and her marriage.
“Darling? Are you cold?”
Portia looked up and smiled. “All three of your sisters have known about this?”
“It sounds as though they were powerless to say no to the earl. Frances was in her late twenties when she left with me, the other two a few years younger. I know it was too much to expect very young women to defy such a man but I can’t help being furious with Frances.”
Portia brought his hand to her lips. “You must forgive her, Stacy. She loves you so much and must be in agony that you’ve banished her.”
His face settled into unyielding lines. “The old man sounds like an authoritarian monster, intent on getting his own way no matter who gets hurt in the process.” His jaw clenched, making him look a bit authoritarian, himself. “I understand keeping the secret when I was a child but how could Frances continue to do so?”
Portia swallowed. For once she was grateful that she couldn’t see his eyes. His face was a cold, hard mask; he had inherited his father’s implacability, if nothing else. If he sent Frances away for her deception, what would he do to Portia when he found out?
The answer to that question was terrifyingly clear: he must never find out.
Under other circumstances—those in which Ivo had not risen from the dead and commenced blackmailing her—Portia would have loved the cossetting and extra time with Stacy. But every second of enforced bedrest was agony when she could think of little except Ivo prowling about in the woods, waiting for his money.
Who had been coming to meet Ivo that day? Whoever it was, Ivo had a partner in blackmail—and somebody who frightened him. Judging by his pathetic campsite he could not have much money. What if someone discovered his makeshift quarters and his presence became known before she could get the money?
And that was another crushing worry: the money. Two thousand pounds? Just thinking the number nauseated her. The only money she had was the two hundred pounds Stacy had given her before the wedding. At the time, she’d tried to refuse the money—why would she need so much? Where would she spend it? He’d already paid her mountain of debts, even though it had shamed her to allow him to do so.
Portia bit her lip; how could she ask Stacy for more money? She couldn’t ask for two thousand pounds. Her desperate brain moved inexorably to the pearls he’d given her. The thought of selling them made her sick. They had belonged to his mother; how could she even contemplate doing such a thing?
Portia had learned how to pawn her possessions when Ivo was recovering from his accident and she needed money. It was possible to borrow against an item with the intention of retrieving it—although she’d never done so. Perhaps she could take the jewels to a broker who would contrive such an arrangement? But where? How could she do anything with Stacy watching her every move? He would not even let her out of bed, how would she manage to sneak the jewels to a pawnbroker? And where was the nearest one? Stratton? Plymouth?
Thinking about Plymouth made her recall he’d spoken of a bank account and marriage settlement. Where was the account and how much did it hold? And where did a person go to find out such details? Could she ask him without generating suspicion?
Portia groaned and thumped the bed with her fist. Why had she not paid more attention when he’d spoken of those matters before their marriage?
Think, Portia, think!
Stratton or Plymouth?
Stratton was far closer, but also smaller—and she might see someone she knew. It would have to be Plymouth and she would just need to figure out a way to get there.
Portia gave a laugh that contained hysteria rather than humor. How in the world could she go to Plymouth without her husband noticing?
The opportunity came far sooner than Portia could have hoped. Two days after Stacy released her from bedrest—a full five days after seeing Ivo—Stacy received an urgent message from his factor in Barnstaple.
Stacy and Portia had been writing letters in the library after breakfast when Soames entered with the note. “The messenger is waiting for your response, sir.”
Stacy’s frown deepened as he read. He looked up at her. “It seems there is a tempest brewing in Barnstaple. I’m afraid I have to set off as soon as possible.” He turned to Soames. “Have Hawkins prepare the coach and tell Powell to pack for three—no four—nights.”
“Very good, sir.” Soames shut the door behind him.
Stacy turned back to her. “I am sorry, my dear, but Carew wouldn’t send for me if it weren’t important.”
Portia tried not to show her excitement. “Naturally you must go. You needn’t worry about me. I shall have my time filled with the nursery.” Fixing up the nursery had been Stacy’s idea, no doubt something he’d conceived of to keep her occupied while she was under house arrest. “Daisy is already very keen to stitch every part of the room with her own hands.”
Stacy nodded absently, his mind on other things. “If you were feeling better I would take you with me, but—” he shrugged the thought aside. “I shan’t be longer than a few days. At least I don’t think I will.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Portia.”
“I will be fine; you must do what you need to do.”
“Right now I’m afraid I must finish this letter.”
Stacy was packed, changed, and ready to depart in less than two hours.
Portia took his hand before he stepped into his traveling carriage. “I shall miss you, Mr. Harrington.” She looked up at two images of herself reflected in his glasses, marveling at the ease with which she could paste such an innocent expression on her face.
He kissed the palm of her hand and the casual, sensual gesture squeezed her heart. “I shall be back before you know it.”
Portia watched his carriage roll down the drive, her mind spinning quicker than its wheels.
Leaving Whitethorn proved much more difficult than she’d anticipated. When Portia made it known that she and Daisy would make an overnight trip to Plymouth she faced opposition in the form of Soames, who balked at having the smaller carriage made ready.
“You were thinking that Bannock would serve as your coachman, ma’am?” His face was impassive but there was a tense awareness in his hazy blue eyes.
“Has Bannock never driven Mr. Harrington’s carriage?” Portia asked.
Soames looked pained, as though he suspected her of trying to get him in trouble. “Bannock drove Mr. Harrington when Jewell was ill a few years back,” he admitted, every word grudgingly given.
“Then I do not foresee any problem.”
Soames’s gray brows shot up to his hairline, but his voice remained level. “I’m afraid the master has taken the coach horses, ma’am.”
She adopted her loftiest expression, one she’d not needed to use since the night she’d arrived at Whitethorn under a cloud of deception and shame. “Send Bannock to the inn to procure
job horses, Soames.”
He hesitated a long moment before bowing. “Very good, ma’am.”
Daisy proved even more resistant than Soames. “Oh, Mrs. Harrington, wouldn’t it be better to wait for the master to come with us?”
“No, it would not. We will be shopping for the nursery. Men do not care for such things. I doubt we will be gone much longer than Mr. Harrington. We shall leave at first light and be back before my husband returns from Barnstaple.” Portia very much doubted that would prove to be true and expected to receive a rather severe admonishment when Stacy returned to find her gone. But she had no other choice. “Please see to the packing, Daisy.”
Portia almost made it to the door before Daisy’s voice stopped her.
“Mr. Harrington told me you should not exert yourself, ma’am.”
Portia turned and regarded her servant through slitted eyes. Daisy’s pretty face flushed and Portia knew a moment of shame for putting the poor girl into such an uncomfortable position. But what choice did she have?
She adopted the cold and haughty tone Stacy employed to such effect. “I’m grateful for Mr. Harrington’s solicitude on the subject of my health. I’m also cognizant of your wish to follow his instructions. I can certainly go without you.”
Portia felt like an inhuman monster when the younger woman’s thick brown lashes quivered against her creamy cheeks.
“I’ll go, ma’am.”
“I’ll leave you to pack, then.” She left the room in a cloud of embarrassment at having become such an ogre. She went directly to the library to fetch the jewels from Stacy’s safe, even though she’d spoken to him about her bank account only yesterday.
“I might wish to order some nursery furniture and may need to draw on the account you set up for me. I forget which bank it is.”
“The account is in Plymouth, at Nelson’s Bank. But that money is for you, Portia, not for household matters. Please send any bills for the nursery or anything else for the house to me.” His honest generosity made her feel like a scheming louse, which she was.
She’d not been able to scruple asking him how much money was available, so she’d need to bring the jewelry just in case.
He’d told her the combination to the big wall safe behind his desk when he’d shown her the remainder of his mother’s jewelry. If there was not enough money in her account she hoped to raise the remainder by pawning some of the lesser pieces before resorting to the pearls.
There was a roll of bills in the safe but she felt a visceral revulsion at the thought of taking money. She snorted at her asinine scruples; wasn’t pawning his mother’s possessions worse? Portia bit her lip and pushed the wretched thought aside.
She left the jewelry boxes behind and poured their contents into her needlework bag, the only place Daisy was unlikely to look.
Portia was more than a little surprised the following morning when there was actually a carriage and four waiting. Not only that, but Daisy was packed and ready. Even an hour away from Whitethorn Portia kept expecting Stacy to come thundering up beside the coach and demand she return his mother’s jewels.
Daisy looked as nervous as Portia felt and she wondered what Stacy had said to the poor girl. Perhaps she feared for her job? The notion made her feel like a selfish shrew. But she told herself that if she did not get Ivo’s money, she wouldn’t need the services of a lady’s maid. Not that she believed Stacy would throw her out with only the clothing on her back. After all, she was carrying his child. But even if he believed her—in the face of marriage lines he would be powerless to do anything. Under the law, their baby would belong to Ivo. Portia closed her eyes and fought down the wave of sickness that threatened to swamp her. She couldn’t think about that or she’d crawl into bed and never leave it.
The carriage was modern and light and they made better time than Portia dared to hope. They changed horses in Launceston and used the new Tavistock Road. The quality of the road easily made up for the frequent stops and they reached Plymouth at just past four.
Portia decided to stay at the Marlborough House, which is where Soames said Stacy always lodged. She was exhausted by travel and worry and ordered a meal to be delivered to her private parlor.
She sent Daisy to ask the innkeeper for directions to the most superior cloth and furniture warehouses in Plymouth, where they would go in the morning. But Portia could hardly ask Daisy to inquire as to the most convenient place to pawn jewels, so she waited until the servants had gone to bed and summoned one of the inn porters, a thin, villainous-looking man with shifty eyes. He gave her directions to a pawn broker—along with an impertinent, knowing leer—in exchange for more money than such information merited.
After he departed Portia collapsed into her bed, too overwrought to sleep. She lay in the dark for hours before drifting into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams in which Ivo chased her through the streets of Plymouth.
Portia spent an hour with Daisy at the first cloth warehouse before putting her plan into action. She cupped her forehead and adopted a pained expression.
“It is another of those annoying headaches I’ve been getting, but we’ve come too far to quit now. You have the list. Indeed, you know better than I do what we need. I shall go back to the inn while you complete the shopping. Perhaps after I rest for an hour I’ll be ready to try again. You keep Baker with you to help with all the parcels.”
Daisy’s smooth forehead furrowed. “Oh, ma’am, I should go with you. Or at least Baker. I don’t need his help. I can return after you—”
“Nonsense, that would be a waste of time.” She gave her a reassuring but pained smile. “I know Mr. Harrington wants you to be with me when I’m out and about, but really, I travelled from London to Bude alone. I am perfectly able to take care of myself on a ten-minute journey back to the inn. I shall see you when you’ve finished.” Daisy could not argue when she spoke with such finality.
Baker told the hackney driver to take her to the Marlborough House but once they’d gone half a block Portia rapped on the roof and told him she needed to make a stop at Nelson’s Bank first. The bank was in a blocky, gray building not far from the inn. Portia gave the front clerk her name and he whisked her into small but elegant sitting room. She didn’t have to wait long until a slim, gray-suited man of indeterminate years bustled into the room.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harrington. I am Reginald Nelson.”
It appeared her husband was a significant depositor at their bank and Mr. Nelson was eager to keep his new wife happy. A quarter of an hour elapsed on pleasantries before Portia could work Mr. Nelson around to the point of her visit.
“My husband set up an account for me with your bank.”
Mr. Nelson nodded. “Yes, several. One for general use and one that is held in trust.”
Portia hadn’t known about the trust account. What else had he given her? She wanted to drop her head into her hands and weep with shame but now was not the time.
“I should like to withdraw two thousand pounds.”
The banker did not even blink. “Of course, Mrs. Harrington, I will be pleased to arrange matters for you. Are you sure you don’t care for tea?” he asked for the fifth time.
“Thank you, but I’m rather pressed for time.” Her not so subtle words sent him on his way.
The transaction did not take long but Portia was forced to spend another five minutes reassuring him she would be fine carrying such a large sum and did not need a guard to carry it.
“Very well,” he finally agreed. “But I’m afraid I must put my foot down on the issue of a hackney. I’ve had my carriage brought round for you.”
Portia was nearly mad with worry by the time she took leave of the officious little man and settled into his very comfortable carriage. It was an hour and a quarter since she’d left the warehouse. If Daisy and Baker had returned and found her gone it would be more than a little awkward.
She tucked her bulging reticule under her arm as the carriage slowed and the fo
otman opened the door and then handed her out with a flourish.
The first thing Portia saw upon entering the Marlborough House was her husband.
Chapter Twenty
Stacy was struggling mightily not to vent his spleen on the innocent innkeeper at his favorite inn. He took a deep breath and tried again.
“I already went to the address your porter gave the hackney driver and the clerk said my wife left for the Marlborough over an hour ago. Her maid confirmed that. Are you certain you did not see her return? Perhaps she came back and went out again? Would not your man have—”
“Stacy?”
He spun on his heel and found Portia looking up at him, her big brown eyes worried as they glanced from him to the innkeeper and back. The relief that surged through him at the sound of her voice was instantly replaced by four kinds of anger.
He tamped down his fury with no little effort. “Ah, Mrs. Harrington, there you are.” He looked from his anxious wife to the equally anxious innkeeper. “We shall use our private parlor right now, Mr. Withers.”
“Very good, sir, your usual rooms are ready for you, Mr. Harrington.” The older man glanced nervously from Portia back to Stacy, no doubt fearing a domestic altercation.
“Transfer my wife’s possessions to my rooms.” He held out his arm. “My dear?” Stacy impressed even himself with his cool, level tone.
When they reached the parlor he removed his driving coat, hat, and gloves and threw them onto a chair before turning to his silent wife.
She was clutching a large, bulging reticule before her as though it were a shield. When he reached for her cloak she flinched back. He froze, his arm still outstretched. One side of her mouth twitched into an embarrassed smile.
“Why do you flinch from me, Portia?” His tone was harsh and accusatory and he tried to soften it. “Did you think I would strike you?”
“No, of course I didn’t think that.” She smiled uneasily and pulled at the ribbons on her bonnet. Her hands were shaking.
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