by Deb Marlowe
But was it the whole truth?
Now was the time for truth-seeking, was it not? Now, at this time, when her future poised, teetering, on the brink of what might be, perhaps she should look deep and accept her own truth.
She did not want to—but she feared she was to be given no choice. All the platitudes and excuses she’d used to reassure herself were flaking away. She dropped her head in her hands, tried to block out the comprehension that rose like the sun within her. But there was no escaping it. She’d accepted James Talbot because she’d been afraid. Afraid to stand up to her brothers. Afraid they were right and she wouldn’t ever be anything but a burden to the people she loved.
And that wasn’t all. She delved even deeper into the ache that lay buried at the heart of her and winced at what she found. Mateo had hurt her, and her unsuccessful Season had frightened her. Before she’d fully recovered, her brothers’ disregard had wounded her further. And she’d given in to that hurt and fear. She’d been afraid that no other man would ever want her. She’d been afraid to even try—she’d never fought for her chance at happiness.
It was an ugly, painful realisation—but worse was the sudden thought that she might be doing it again. Was she fixating on Mateo because it was easy? Because he was here? Was she dredging up old feelings because despite all of her talk, she was afraid to be alone?
The door opened with a bang behind her, startling her out of her bleak thoughts. Peering around the high back of her chair, she saw a servant girl backing into the room, burdened with an armful of towels, and a pitcher of hot water, with a heavy coal bucket hanging off one arm.
‘…inconsiderate…out of bed…heating kettles in the dead of night…’ The girl kept up a continuous, discontented rumble as she made her way into the room.
Portia started out her chair. ‘Let me help with that.’
‘Oh, no!’ came the sharp, indignant reply. ‘You want hot water in the middle of the blasted night, you’ll get it. My papa runs the best inn in Reading, with the best service! Anyone will tell you. A thousand times a day I have to listen to it, on and on…’
Portia shrank back in her chair. Her nerves were too frazzled to deal competently with such blatant disrespect, her emotions too raw. The woman’s grumbling continued as she deposited her burdens at the wash stand. Carrying the coal, she crossed the room to the hearth. Portia curled tight into the chair, out of the way, and watched the back of her head as she quickly built up the fire.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as the coals flared to life.
‘Not at all,’ the girl returned, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She shot Portia a quick glance of dislike over her shoulder. ‘If you suffer a longing for fine French cuisine, just say the word, my papa will have me on the first packet to Calais.’
But Portia sat frozen, arrested by what she’d just seen.
The woman finished, rose, and managed to dip a curtsy that oozed mockery. By the growing light of the fire, with the woman in full view now, Portia could see it all: the ruin of a once-pretty face, marred by a network of reddened scars that ran across one side of her face and disappeared under the wilted linen of her cap. The girl noticed her changed manner and shot her a look of scorn. Head high, she flounced across the room to the door.
She paused on the threshold. Portia’s nails dug into the padded arm of the chair.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
After all of Dorrie’s precautions—Portia bit back the sudden, mad urge to laugh.
It was her. Moira Hanson. Her husband’s mistress.
Behind her, one hesitant footstep sounded, back into the room.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ The girl’s voice rang low now, incredulous. Slowly she retraced her steps, stopping at the side of Portia’s chair to stare down at her. ‘It is! I’ve seen you, once before,’ she said wonderingly. Then she laughed, an ugly, brittle sound. ‘It was at the theatre. You were with your fine, fancy friends. Me and J.T. had a box, not far away. You never even saw us…’ her mouth twisted ‘…or what we got up to, right there under your nose.’
Portia kept her gaze locked on the fire. ‘Thank you for the water.’ She gestured. ‘And for the fire.’ She had to work to keep her voice neutral, flat. ‘That is all I require.’
‘Oh, no!’ Moira said, low and vicious. ‘You’ll not get off that easy. Did you think to come here and lord it over me? Is that why you’re here—making demands in the dead of night?’
Portia looked up then, focusing on her narrowed, mean eyes, and pointedly not on her disfigurement. ‘I had no idea you were employed here.’
‘I’m not employed here, Miss High and Mighty. My father is the landlord.’
It was the scorn in her voice that did it. Dread and chagrin began to turn to anger and indignation. She had been the victim in this mess, not this greedy little harpy. It had been a horrible, humiliating, tragic episode—but none of it had come through Portia’s actions.
She stood. ‘That would be Mrs High and Mighty, as you would have good cause to know.’
The other woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve come to gawk at me, haven’t you? Have a laugh at my expense?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Me? You’re the ridiculous one, so fine—you think you are.’ Moira stepped forwards. Her voice rose. ‘I don’t care who your father was, you weren’t woman enough to keep your husband happy.’
‘That is enough. Just please go.’
‘You think you’re better than me?’ the woman shrieked.
Portia shook her head.
‘Why haven’t you answered my letters, then? Tell me that.’
Portia raised her chin. Her heart ached at the thought of the wicked taunts and hurtful accusations that had been in those letters. How she’d love to give as good as she got, just this once. Make this vulgar strumpet eat every one of the hateful words she’d spewed at her, in writing and in person. But they had each paid a steep price already, and Mateo slept just across the hall. She shrunk at the idea of him being witness to this woman’s vitriolic hatred. It would be her last, greatest humiliation.
The door opened again. Portia flinched, but it was only Dorrie, carrying a covered tray. She stared. It took a moment for her to recognise the confrontation taking place in the room, and then all her colour drained away. ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned.
Moira laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. You thought to humiliate me? You’ve done enough already!’ She gestured towards her marred face. ‘You ruined my life! And it’s time you paid.’
‘Please,’ Portia asked. ‘This is neither the time nor the place. Just go.’
‘You don’t know how right you are, my lady.’ The girl nearly choked on a sob. ‘This is not the place, not my place. Do you know how long it took me to get out of here? To make my way to London and break into the right circles? But I had done it! I was on my way to becoming one of the most glittering courtesans in history! I had my own rig, my own servants. And now here I am, back again, fetching and carrying for every loose screw on their way in and out of Town.’
She slammed the coal bucket down with a horrendous crash. ‘It’s all gone now!’ A harsh, broken sound erupted from her chest. ‘You owe me!’
‘I’m sorry for what happened to you.’ Portia firmed her voice. This woman had to be made to understand, finally, here and now. ‘Truly I am. But your misfortunes came about due to your own actions. They’ve nothing, nothing to do with me.’ She glared at her. ‘Do you see me endlessly blaming you for the loss of my husband? Let us not speak of who owes whom! We’ve both paid enough. It’s over.’
‘It’s not over for you, is it, you spiteful, prideful bitch?’ Moira’s voice rose to a screech. ‘You’ve got a future, haven’t you? You can find another poor, unsuspecting sod to marry you. Look at me! No man will touch me! What am I supposed to do?’
Suddenly Mateo’s form filled the doorway. Hair tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep, he scowled at Portia. ‘Damnation,’ he grumbled. ‘What’s
going on here?’
Cold despair washed over her. Mute, Portia watched Moira take in his loose linen shirt, tight breeches and bare feet.
‘Is this him? The next one?’ the other woman spat. ‘Don’t be taken in by her.’ She pointed a spiteful finger. ‘Her heart is cold, but the rest of her is worse. If you’ve a wish for a warm bedmate, then keep looking.’
Portia clenched her shaking hands and raised her chin.
‘Portia? Who is this little shrew?’
Mateo came further awake and quickly recognised the danger of his position. The only tom in a cat fight? Not a good place to be. He rubbed the last bit of sleep from his eyes and began to tally the butcher’s bill.
One down, it would seem. Miss Tofton slumped against the wall next to a tray-covered table, her hand in front of her eyes. The remaining two combatants still faced off. Portia—looking rumpled but lovely with colour flaring high in her cheeks—shot daggers at someone who appeared to be a serving girl—one whose pretty face had been marred some time in the recent past.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Portia’s opponent, ‘but you appear to be upsetting Lady Portia. This, you understand, is a sacred duty that has apparently fallen to me. I can’t have you interfering.’ He raised a hand and beckoned. ‘Come, then. I’m sure you understand. I’m afraid you’ll have to go.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had my due,’ came the snarled reply.
Clearly the serving girl was unhinged. Or didn’t know when she was bested. Or both. ‘Portia?’ He turned to the only reasonable-looking person in the room. ‘Who is this…person?’
Her chin high and her eyes blazing, she answered. ‘She’s the woman who killed my husband.’
The servant girl gasped and reared back. Her face went bright red, and then deathly pale. Mateo knew just how she felt.
‘No!’ she gasped. ‘That’s not true. It was your fault, you cold bitch! If you’d been any kind of wife, he’d never have chased after me! And if you’d given him the money he needed, we never would have made that bet, never been in that street…’ She broke down, sobbing, and threw herself against Mateo’s chest.
Other guests were beginning to gather in the hallway behind him. Mateo tried to put the girl away, but she pounded at him with her fists. ‘Just look at what she did to me!’ she cried.
‘Please, miss. I mean, ah, madam? Pull yourself together.’
Instead she collapsed in a heap at his feet. Mateo reached down to lift her up. She fought him. He dropped her and she attacked his legs, clawing and scratching in time with her sharp, sawing breaths. ‘Not my fault,’ she moaned repeatedly.
Portia turned away. Mateo was desperate for help. He turned to her companion. ‘Miss Tofton,’ he pleaded.
The girl clutched his ankles and sobbed harder. ‘Miss Tofton, please!’
Portia’s companion took pity on him. Her face shifted, a mask that wavered between anger and pity as she knelt down, captured the girl’s hands and pulled her in close.
Mateo heaved a grateful sigh. Carefully he eased away and went to shoo the audience away from the door and back to their rooms. When he returned, Miss Tofton was assisting the girl to her feet. The fight had gone out of her. She leaned into the older woman, her face turned away.
‘I’ll just take her downstairs,’ Miss Tofton said quietly.
Portia still faced the fire, her back to them all. She did not respond.
‘Will you need help?’ Mateo asked quietly.
The older woman shook her head. The girl’s sobs had quieted now. The rasping catch of her breath faded as Miss Tofton steered her into the hall and towards the stairs.
Quiet settled over the room. Mateo waited.
And waited. Portia neither moved nor spoke.
‘Portia,’ he began.
‘Just go, Mateo.’
‘But I—’
‘Please, go. I cannot take any more tonight.’
At a loss, Mateo fell back on the tried and true. He summoned a smile. ‘Come now, Portia! Don’t fret. You’re the clear winner in this skirmish.’
That got her moving. She rounded on him, eyes wide and clearly aghast. He winced. It was not the effect he’d been hoping for.
‘Winner?’ She’d gone from aghast to incredulous. Not a far trip, and not one that favoured him in any way. ‘Is that what you see here? A battle won?’ She whirled again and began to pace, as if she could not contain her outrage. ‘I cannot decide if it is because you are a man, or if you merely possess your own particular brand of obtuseness.’ She threw him a scorching look. ‘Would that I were a man, then, to see things in black and white.’ She snorted. ‘Most of us, and women most of all, know that life is lived in all the grey areas in between.’
She folded her arms and glared at him. ‘And in a horrible, dirty grey area such as this, there are no winners.’ She turned away again. ‘We are all losers.’
‘Perhaps I might see better if I knew what I was looking at,’ he said quietly. ‘I think it’s time you told me just what this was all about.’
Silence again.
He was not going to be put off. ‘Clearly it involves J.T. I may be a clown, Portia, but I’m not stupid. I know there’s something I haven’t been told, something about his death that everyone else seems to know.’
‘It’s no secret,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s a sordid tale that made every paper and a hundred broadsheets across the kingdom. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it in Philadelphia.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’d rather not.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t think I can.’
He let out an explosive breath. ‘Of course you can.’ He crossed the room, stood between her and the obviously fascinating fire in the grate. Tenderly he cupped her face in his hands. ‘I’m beginning to believe you can do anything, Portia Tofton.’ He let his hands drift down, over her shoulders, down her arms. He grabbed up her hands. ‘Come. We’re going to talk, but not here.’
She was distracted enough not to object. ‘Where, then?’
He stood in the hall, her hand warm in his. His palms itched, tingling from that brief touch, eager for more. Looking about, he considered his options. His gaze slid past his own door, and kept on sliding. The lower part of his anatomy stirred, pointing in that direction. No.
‘Aha!’ He pulled her down the darkened hallway, to the stairs. Faint light drifted up from below, along with the sound of masculine merriment from the public rooms. He swept an extravagant hand, indicating the top step. ‘Your seat, my lady.’ He raised a brow. ‘As long as you promise to behave. I recall what happened the last time we were in a stairwell alone together.’
‘Nothing happened!’ She was blushing, he knew it. He wished he could see it clearly.
‘Only because we were interrupted. You were going to kiss me, though.’
‘Is that how you recall it?’ She settled down on the top step and glanced archly up at him. ‘Strangely enough, I remember that you were on the verge of kissing me.’
He dropped down next to her, leaned in close. ‘Oh, that’s right, cara—I was going to kiss you. Damned thoroughly, too.’ He retreated, rested back on his elbows in a completely non-threatening pose. ‘But I promise—no kissing tonight.’
Dio, was that a look of disappointment on her face? Suddenly he was grateful for the dim light. It was better if he didn’t know.
Footsteps sounded below. Slow and methodical, they climbed steadily upwards. ‘At least we’ll know if we’re to be interrupted,’ he whispered. They slid over towards the wall, leaving a path open.
Miss Tofton wearily rounded the turning below. She stopped, surprised to see them there.
‘How is she?’ Mateo asked softly.
‘Sleeping.’ Portia’s companion gave a wan smile. ‘I told you, you never know when you might need a little laudanum.’
Portia let loose a great sigh.
‘The landlord sends his apologies. I explained, and he understands the situation, but still a
sks if we could leave early, before she awakes.’
Mateo nodded.
‘Shall we head back to our room?’ Miss Tofton asked Portia pointedly.
‘I’ll have Portia back to you in a little while,’ Mateo answered for her.
A silent communication passed between the two women. Miss Tofton sighed. ‘Comesoon. You need your rest.’ She climbed past them. ‘Goodnight, Mr Cardea.’
‘Goodnight.’
After a moment the door closed behind her and they were left in the comforting darkness. Portia had tensed up again beside him; he could feel her unease radiating through the small space that separated them.
He kept silent.
And at last she relented, slumping against the wall beside her. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘At the beginning?’
‘No,’ she said definitely. ‘There’s too much hurt between now and the beginning. I’ll just stick with the end.’
He nodded. Her head turned, tilted questioningly.
‘I’m nodding,’ he said.
She laughed, but it turned into a sigh.
‘She was his bit of muslin?’ he prompted.
‘Yes, she was his mistress, obviously. Not his first—he made sure I was fully aware of that—but without a doubt she was his most notorious. They were together quite a while—I wondered if they didn’t have real feelings for each other.’
His fists clenched. A sound of protest slipped out. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
‘It was quiet enough at first, and I was preoccupied with Stenbrooke, and with my father’s health. But then the rumours and scandals began. I found out later it was because she wasn’t content just to be his mistress, she wished to be famous, acclaimed, sought after.’
‘Ah, but don’t we all?’ he murmured.
‘No, we don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Some of us just wish to be left alone.’
And if that wasn’t a telling statement, then Mateo had never heard one.
‘At first he appeased her by getting up to mischief with her,’ she continued. ‘He dressed her up like a man and tried to sneak her into his club, but they were both tossed out before they’d barely made it past the door. He bought her a gleaming white high-perched phaeton with blue trim and a matched white team to pull it—and she had their manes and tails dyed blue, as well. He gave her lessons and she drove it all over town, always with a little blue-grey greyhound beside her on the bench.’
