“Kitty.” The single word was ragged, as though it had been dragged over rocks before escaping his mouth. “I need—”
“She’s already agreed to go to dinner with me, old man.” Stacy cut Robert a look that should have brought him to his senses. Really, was his brother an idiot? Did he not see how his wife was watching? Did he not notice how Kitty was as fragile as glass? Stacy added in an undervoice, “You can talk to Mrs. Charring later, Robert.”
Stacy turned to talk to Portia, but she was walking away on the arm of a young man.
The dinner gong rang and Stacy gritted his teeth to keep from howling. Instead, he smiled down at Kitty and guided her toward the dining room.
“Thank you, Stacy.” Kitty’s voice was almost inaudible, but Stacy could feel the tremors shaking her delicate body.
“Don’t let her see your suffering.”
They both knew who he meant, and Kitty stiffened. “No, you’re right.”
He placed his hand over hers and smiled at another couple who approached the door. “I cannot imagine you will be seated near him at dinner,” he murmured, not really sure of any such thing. Who knew what his sister-in-law was up to? And Stacy was positive it must have been Rowena who’d invited Kitty here, luring her with promises of information about her child. And if she’d invited Robert’s old lover why would she draw the line at seating them together? He could only hope her respect for precedence superseded her desire for making mischief. He twisted around to look for Portia. She was taking her seat and smiling up at the young man beside her, laughing at something he said. She looked happy and seemed to be enjoying herself.
Stacy heaved a sigh of relief; he must have been wrong about her reaction to Kitty.
It was the longest meal of Portia’s life. Stacy sat directly across from her and she was forced to watch as he charmed his two dinner partners in between darting glances at Mrs. Charring, who was seated almost all the way at the other end, not far from Robert.
It was all Portia could do to make basic responses to the two men beside her as she doggedly ate her way through three courses, planning her escape.
As soon as dinner finished, she stood with unseemly haste, grateful for the brief escape from Stacy the thirty minutes of port and cigars would afford her. In the drawing room she planted herself between two matrons who were discussing their servant problems. Half an hour later the women had moved on to the subject of the best London warehouses to find draperies when Katherine Charring stopped in front of Portia, her smile uncertain.
Portia wanted to scream. Why in God’s name did the woman insist on attaching herself to Portia like a limpet? She resisted the urge to claw out her gorgeous green eyes and gestured to a vacant chair, her smile as brittle as glass.
“Please, join us.” What else could she say? “We are thrashing out the important topic of new draperies.”
Portia was still wondering how to escape ten minutes later when two footmen opened the enormous double doors that led to the grand ballroom and a hush fell over the group.
“My goodness,” one of the other women whispered.
Hundreds of candles burned in giant chandeliers—the light reflecting off the gilt ceiling and bathing the dark wood walls in a warm glow. The floor was breathtaking, an ornate design that looked almost Moorish and radiated out from a massive medallion in the center. An elevated pavilion off to one side held a full orchestra.
Katherine Charring shot to her feet, her eyes on something on the far side of the room. “Will you excuse me?” she asked, not waiting for a response before she fled. Thank God.
A few moments later the two matrons stood. “Shall we move closer?”
Portia followed them until she saw Stacy’s distinctive white head in front of them, and then she turned right, which conveniently led to the long bank of tables along the far side of the room that had been set up with refreshments. She looked at the heaping platters of food and her stomach rumbled. She had to laugh; dinner had ended less than three-quarters of an hour ago and her body was hungry, even though the mere thought of more food made her ill.
She looked out over the crowd and quickly located her husband. Right beside him was a distinctive redhead. She turned her back to the room, took a plate and filled it with cakes, no longer caring if she ended up weighing twenty stone.
Portia had just declined her second invitation to dance and was systematically consuming the contents of the buffet when a footman wheeled the earl toward her. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat; this was exactly what she needed to make the evening completely miserable.
She resisted the urge to scream and run. Instead she swallowed her mouthful of cream cake and prayed he would bypass her and go somewhere else, perhaps America. But the poisonous old bastard rolled toward her as inexorably as bad weather. Portia was in no mood to tolerate his snide comments tonight. He’d better mind his nasty mouth or he might find himself the recipient of some of his own medicine.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington.” He smiled; the expression as festive as a funeral procession.
He was up to something.
She gave him a mockery of a curtsey. “My lord.”
Her terse greeting amused rather than insulted him and he chuckled. Portia stared at the dance floor, hoping he would go away if she ignored him. Unfortunately, the first thing she saw was Stacy leading Kitty out for the next set.
“That redheaded chit is causing quite a bit of heartburn tonight, eh?” He laughed and Portia turned to glare down at him. He gave her an ingratiating smile, as if they were partners in an amusing caper. Portia entertained herself with a vision of pushing his chair down the stairs with him in it and was able to smile back.
“I see your husband managed to get her for a waltz. Perhaps he has more of me in him than I gave him credit for.” His unpleasant cackling drew curious looks from several people standing nearby.
“My husband and Mrs. Charring have a prior acquaintance. They are friends,” she said in the most repressive tone she could muster.
“Is that what you call it in Italian? Friends?” He guffawed. “I believe Robert might be her friend, too. I believe she is the sort of woman who has lots of friends.”
Portia’s gaze flickered across the faces of the observers until she found Robert. He did look rather . . . intent. Just what was going on?
“He’s an idiot,” the earl said, slicing through her thoughts with his harsh indictment. His tone was no longer amused and he wasn’t staring at his son, but at the viscountess, who was chatting with a handsome older man, the same cool, supercilious smile on her face. “His wife is the perfect woman. The very pinnacle of breeding—everything our class has striven to produce.”
“You sound as though you’re describing a horse, my lord.”
The footman who’d been stationed behind him snorted, and then coughed to cover it.
The old man twisted in his chair. “You may go,” he snapped.
The unfortunate footman fled the ballroom as if the hangman of death was on his heels and the earl shot Portia a poisonous look. “You can be the one to push me about now, missy.”
“Ah, but you might not like where I push you, my lord.”
He laughed, his hawkish eyes narrow and hard. “Oh you’ve got fire, I’ll give you that. No doubt a gift from your mongrel father.”
Portia refused to take the bait and shrugged. “A fair trade for the musical ability I inherited.”
His skull-like face shifted into something that might have been a genuine smile. The expression was awkward, as though he hadn’t used it in at least fifty years. “You are correct in that; I wish you were playing tonight instead of this claptrap. My head is pounding already.”
“I did not see you in the receiving line, my lord.”
He gave another of his barking laughs. “I’m master here, not court jester.”
One of the houseguests, Baron Langston, strolled over to engage Broughton in conversation—or at least tried to. Portia listened with
one ear, watching the dancers as she tried to think of a way to leave the ball without drawing attention. Stacy led Lady Elizabeth into the next set. He saw her watching and flashed her a quick smile. Portia returned his smile before she recalled he was in love with another woman, and then wrenched her eyes away only to encounter her father-in-law’s sharp stare. He was ignoring Langston, who was droning on about a hunter that was short in the back or some such drivel.
The earl’s smile was distilled spite; the man saw too much.
One of the young men who’d sat beside her at dinner came to request her hand for the next set but Portia declined. “I’m afraid I lack the energy this evening. But I do thank you for your kind offer.” Portia wasn’t lying; she was exhausted. She wasn’t even sure she could walk all the way back to her room—if she could find it.
Langston asked her a few unanswerable questions about horses and hunting and then began to pontificate on both topics and required no responses from either Portia or the earl. She looked over the couples on the dance floor but could not see Stacy. The group of men who’d been standing with him had dispersed and now three older ladies occupied the spot. Portia wondered if he’d gone to the room Rowena had set up for those who preferred cards to dancing. Without thinking she scanned the room for a distinctive redhead. But Katherine Charring was nowhere to be seen. Portia swallowed and kept her eyes on the dance floor, unwilling to let her father-in-law see her pain.
Two more sets passed and Portia declined yet another offer to dance. Stacy and Mrs. Charring had not returned and Langston, amazingly, was still talking about hunters and withers.
The Earl of Broughton yanked on her hand. “I’ve had quite enough of this foolishness.” He made no effort to keep his voice down and glared at the rotund peer beside him, whose plump, pleasant face was gaping down at him in shock.
“Take me out to the hall and send somebody to fetch my man,” Broughton said, using the same tone he would on the lowest scullery maid. Portia stared at him, considering her choice of responses. She finally decided she would carry him to his chambers herself if it meant being shed of his company.
“Excuse me, my lord,” Portia said to the stunned Langston. She pushed the earl through the clusters of people forming up for the next set.
“Goddamned windbag,” Broughton muttered loud enough that several people cast startled looks in their direction.
“At least he has good manners.”
“Ha! Manners, hey miss? What would the likes of you know about manners?”
“I know I have enough of them not to launch you and this chair off the balcony into the rose garden, my lord.”
Her threat tickled him so much she thought he might choke to death. Unfortunately, he recovered by the time they reached the grand staircase. While he caught his breath, Portia locked the brake on his chair and sent one of the footmen to fetch the earl’s valet.
“I’ve laughed more in your company than I have in years.” The old man wheezed, looking at her as though she should be proud of such a miraculous feat.
“I haven’t.”
He went into another fit of laughter mixed with coughing. Portia was staring at the handsome marble floor and listening to the last of the earl’s paroxysm when an enormous man hastened toward them.
“It’s about damn time,” the earl snarled. “What the devil have you been doing up there? Drinking my port, I’ll wager.” He gave his servant the same evil stare he bestowed on every living thing.
“Good night, my lord.” And good riddance! Portia turned to go but he reached out and caught her hand with one skeletal claw and yanked her back toward his chair. He was surprisingly strong for such a frail-looking old man.
She sighed and raised her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her irritation. “What?”
He squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. “You keep that son of mine in hand, do you hear?”
Portia pursed her lips in irritation, not sure what he meant or what she was supposed to say.
He saw her perplexed look and laughed. “Don’t you fret about whores, missy, he’s a man, goddammit. Men have needs.” He let out another bark of humorless laughter and his eyes dropped to her slightly protruding midriff. “You just hold his interest enough to make sure he mounts you regularly—not like my heir.” He spat the word; his grip unbreakable. “Just concentrate on giving me a few grandsons and you’ll be amply rewarded.” He released her hand and turned to his waiting servant. “What the devil are you gawking at, you fool? Get me to my room. I’ve had my fill of foppery.”
The muscular servant lifted the fragile old man from the chair and began the long journey to the earl’s chambers. A footman followed, carrying the wheeled chair. Portia watched them until they disappeared up the stairs.
She looked through the doors into the ballroom and saw the floor was full of dancers. Nobody was paying her any mind and now was a perfect time to escape to her room. Unfortunately, she needed to find the necessary and use it first.
The retiring room was overflowing with women repairing loose curls, torn hems, and a variety of other sartorial disasters. There was a wait, but Portia did not think she would make it all the way back to her room—if she could actually find it. It took far longer than she hoped—not to complete her business, but to get away from at least two dozen nosey women, all of whom wanted to have a chat with her—before she could escape.
Her chambers lay in the west wing, which could only be reached by going to the great hall and taking a smaller set of stairs. Her feet were heavy and it was an effort to walk.
And five minutes later she realized she was lost.
Portia stood in the middle of the dimly lighted hallway and considered curling up in the nearest corner and going to sleep.
“Mrs. Harrington?”
She screamed and whirled around.
“I’m so sorry to have startled you,” the viscountess said.
Portia gaped at her sister-in-law, her hands fisted at her sides. “What are you doing?” she demanded, even though she knew it was beyond rude to interrogate the woman in her own house.
Rowena’s smile was not her usual supercilious sneer. “I was looking for you, actually.” She bit her lower lip in an uncharacteristic display of agitation.
“What is it?”
Rowena looked away. “I daresay you will not thank me for this. . . but—” She grimaced and her face twisted in misery, almost as if she were fighting tears. “I overheard your husband and Mrs. Charring—they have arranged a . . .a meeting of sorts for tonight.”
Portia could only stare; of all the people to know about the relationship between Stacy and Kitty, why did this woman have to be the one?
She crossed her arms. “I already know about them, my lady. What do you want me to do about it?”
Rowena opened her mouth, paused, and then took Portia’s arm. “Come with me.” She led Portia back up the stairs, turning right instead of left at the top. She stopped in front of massive double doors Portia knew led to an enormous library at least five times the size of the one at Whitethorn.
Portia pulled her arm from the other woman’s grasp. “They’re in there?”
“No, but I know where they are going.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this why you invited Katherine Charring to this party?” Portia demanded.
Rowena’s eyes widened. “But I didn’t—I never met her before today.”
Portia stared. “If you didn’t, who did?”
The viscountess opened her mouth, and then closed it.
“Who?”
“I’m afraid it was the earl.”
“The earl? Why would he do such a thing?” Especially after telling me I’d better keep breeding, she thought, but did not say.
Rowena took a deep breath, released it, and then took another, as if she needed to fortify herself. “This is exactly the kind of thing he enjoys, watching people tear each other apart.”
Portia recalled the earl’s gleeful venom in the ballroo
m. “Who does such things?”
“The kind of man who throws out his own son.”
Portia stared at the other woman, whose expression, for once, was one of compassion. Rowena laid a hand on her arm. “I know how you are feeling—Robert has paraded his mistresses in front of me for years. I suppose that makes me sympathetic to you. I want to help you—not just because you may be carrying the heir, but—” she chewed her lip, her pale cheeks reddening. “I’ve grown to like you.”
Portia gawked at her in disbelief; would the surprises never end? She shook her head and pulled away from the woman; she needed to sit. She opened the library door and went inside, slumping into a chair and dropping her head in her hands. Rowena moved away, but Portia could hear sounds coming from the far side of the vast room.
“Come and help me,” she called to Portia.
Portia groaned and sat up. She just wanted to go to bed—forever. But she forced herself to her feet and went to join the viscountess, who’d begun pulling books off the shelf and piling them on the floor.
Portia stared; the woman had run mad. “What on earth are you—?”
A low grinding sound filled the room as the entire bookshelf—a good ten feet high—slowly swung inward. Her mouth fell open.
Rowena took a candle from the candelabrum and turned to her. “This passage will get us to the chapel much faster than following them above ground.”
“The chapel? But what—”
The viscountess disappeared into the darkness and Portia’s feet followed before her brain could stop them. Rowena was standing just inside the entrance and feeling for something in the panel beside the moving section of wall. Portia glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. At the end of the short hall was a set of stairs.
“Where do those lead? To the chapel?” When Rowena didn’t answer, Portia turned around, just in time to hear the scraping noise and watch the bookshelf door swing shut.
“Why did you shut it?” Her voice was shrill.
Rowena’s pale eyes glinted in the candlelight. “Don’t worry, the mechanism to open it is here.” She gestured toward a large wooden lever sticking out of the panel. “Come, follow me.” Rowena squeezed around Portia and headed toward the stairs.
The Music of Love Page 30