“That is not true?”
“Isn’t it?” He faced her. “Wasn’t a title all your heart truly wanted in a husband, then? I would have thought love or even a little affection ranked higher on your list than the cold alliance you’ve chosen. Personally, I’d choose love over money and power any day.”
Portia stared at him in astonishment. “You’ve never said that before to me. Do you truly believe it?”
“I do.” He looked away. “It is possible to be happy when you have very little to live on.”
An odd tension filled Portia. She’d no idea Wade held such strong opinions on marriage, or love for that matter. He never really spoke about his own plans for the future. She’d just assumed he’d be like all the rest. He needed money, but he claimed he wouldn’t marry to get it.
Mother returned at that moment, and Lord Wade was pressed to join them in a way he couldn’t seem to refuse. Mother claimed his arm as they left the shop together, and she dragged him along on their excursion.
They went next to a bookshop, and Lavinia disappeared between the first set of bookshelves with a happy squeal.
Lord Wade laughed. “When your family sits down to choose what sort of husband would do for Lavinia, make sure an interest in books is high on the list of essentials.”
“There is no list but I’m sure Lavinia will make sure her husband reads.”
Lord Wade moved to a shelf and tugged down a slim volume. He inspected it, read the introduction…and then she noticed his fingers drift over the pencil-marked corner, where the price was written down. Wade put the book back on the shelf with obvious reluctance and moved farther along the row.
He glanced her way as she followed him.
“What were you and the duke talking about last night?”
“Christmas at his estate.”
Portia picked up a book at random, feeling upset that she couldn’t be there with him. She didn’t want a new set of acquaintances when she married, just because she’d married Montrose. She liked the friends she already had, including Wade. “Did you return the painting?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He turned and a look of annoyance appeared on his face. “It’s complicated.”
“Oh, and do you think I’m too dim-witted to understand?”
“Oh, I know you’re as smart as they come, probably smarter than I.” He nodded. “You’re in the middle of this, and you should hear it all from me anyway. I trust you not to repeat it.”
“I would never betray you,” she promised.
He beckoned her farther down the row of books, away from where her mother and sister were browsing the shelves.
“The item I took, the carved stick, it belonged to Montrose, though I didn’t know it until the moment I handed it over. Once I found out, I refused Windermere’s money and managed to make a bargain to get it back. Then I tossed it into the flames. Windermere must have fished it out again after I left and completed the wager the next night.”
“Windermere betrayed you,” Portia said slowly, and then grew furious on Lord Wade’s behalf. “What does Windermere have to do with the painting you wanted?”
“The portrait was done of his wife, long before they were ever married. Lady Windermere was very keen to get it back, and we struck a bargain…or so I’d thought. I’ve no idea why your uncle had it, and I will deliver it, eventually.”
“You should make the Windermeres squirm first,” she announced. “Montrose came to my father, and to me, too, and demanded to know if anyone had been to Uncle Oliver’s house.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing about you, of course,” she promised. She had not liked the way Montrose had questioned her about the house or its contents. “It was an innocent mistake we made.”
“Truly, it was.” He pulled a face. “He’s not likely to forget it, though. I know I should have told you all the particulars sooner but, well…because you are going to marry the duke, I thought it best to keep you in the dark. It is easier to deny something when you’ve no knowledge of it.”
“I had figured it out before I saw you at the King dinner.” Portia shivered. “Why would he have had such a thing made?”
“It is not unusual for lovers to use such implements to heighten their pleasure. For Montrose, though, it’s… No, never mind that now.”
Indeed, Portia did not want to know about Montrose right now. She was already doubting her decision to marry him every other day, it seemed. They turned into another aisle where Lavinia was feverishly searching the shelves, and the subject was dropped until they were more or less alone again.
“There is another reason why I’ve held on to the painting in my possession,” he admitted.
She looked at him quickly. Portia had thought that one day she, too, might like to pose upon a long chaise and wear almost nothing. “Admiration?”
“Montrose has been to your house and may have seen it. If he recognized Lady Windermere in the painting, he could want to use it to extract revenge. If I return it to you, he’ll own it eventually. I might be angry with Windermere, but I won’t be a party to Lady Windermere’s humiliation if I can help it.”
She smiled at Lord Wade, admiring his resolve. “Even though they have betrayed you, you would still protect them?”
He nodded. “Her mostly.”
Portia turned away, unable to stop grinning. There was much to like about Lord Wade, now she had finally put her prejudices aside about the reasons he was always around. “Did you find another wager to complete in the betting book at White’s Club?”
“No, and I won’t need to look for one, either,” he admitted.
She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“I’ve finally had a stroke of good fortune, and will be coming into some money soon.”
“Don’t tell me you sold the lease on the Hanover Square townhouse at last.”
“No,” he promised, his expression quizzical.
She winced. “Was I not supposed to know about that?”
“I assumed you didn’t.”
“People talk.”
He shrugged. “I have taken on a commission that should stop further gossip on the subject of my situation in the near future, thankfully.”
The idea that he’d leave London tore at her heart. “You’ll break your aunt’s heart when you leave her behind like your brother has.”
And mine, too.
He laughed softly. “I’m not for the army, if that’s what you fear.”
She gasped in relief and grinned at him. “Then what?”
“It needs to stay a bit of a secret, actually,” he warned. “I’ve been asked to help a fellow find a wife.”
“What?”
“I’ll be paid to be a matchmaker,” he said with a laugh. “Believe me, I know how ludicrous it sounds, but he trusts my judgment for some reason, and I think I can help him.”
“And he’ll pay you what you deserve?”
He nodded. “And then some.”
Portia clutched his arm. “You’ve a good eye for people. When do you start?”
“I already have.”
Portia was so pleased for him that she couldn’t stop grinning. “Will I see you tonight at the Marks dinner?”
“No, unfortunately. I have a dinner at Lord Sullivan’s residence tonight.”
Portia narrowed her eyes on him. “You mean you’ll get drunk with your friend again.”
“It was one time,” he protested, sliding another book back onto the shelf. “I haven’t seen Sullivan for years.”
“I thought you were friends.”
“Old friends.” Lord Wade moved to the next aisle and picked up another volume. “When he married, we parted company.”
“Did you not like his wife?”
“No, I liked her very much.” An odd look came to his eye, and then he shrugged. “Too much, perhaps, at the time…and they were in love so.”
And Lord Sullivan was a higher-ranked earl.
Lord Wade turned away suddenly, and Portia followed him about the room. He certainly had an eclectic taste in books but she noticed he purchased none in the end. Her heart ached for him when she thought about his situation, and what this secret arrangement to make a match could mean for his future. He was quite clever and smart. He’d missed out on marrying once already, and that pained her, too. Yet she had no idea how he’d come to have so little money. He had never seemed an extravagant man. He was too sensible in his habits for that.
“What were your parents like?”
He seemed very surprised by her question. “My mother died when I was quite young. I’ve little recollection of her at all.”
“And your father?”
A look of disgust crossed his face. “A wastrel. He gambled, made foolish wagers, purchased expensive things we hardly needed. He was hell bent on keeping up the appearance of having it all even when the coffers were full of dust.”
There was a tight edge to his words—and Portia finally understood Lord Wade. He was embarrassed and disgusted by what had gone on before he’d taken the title.
She put her hand on his arm again and kept it there. “When did your aunt come to live with you?”
“After my father died, we decided that one household would suit us better. She’d been widowed for a while and was struggling with being alone in an empty house. She longed for family to fuss over. She mothered my younger brother a bit, managed the household, and all I had to do was pay the bills. I’ve no regrets about that decision.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best. She is a wonderful aunt to have.”
“She drinks too much when she’s lonely,” Wade complained. “Which seems to be a lot lately, as you might have noticed.”
“I didn’t notice,” Portia lied, and immediately saw that Wade did not really believe her. “I like her a great deal.”
“She likes you, too,” Wade promised.
She had, but Portia kept that thought to herself. Wade would only deny there was anything wrong between them. It all came back to her decision to marry the Duke of Montrose. The changes in her popularity had been subtle at first, but the closer the wedding date became, the wider the chasm between the life she had and the one she was headed for. People were already expecting her to behave in a different fashion.
Well, she was having none of that.
Portia turned around and marched back to the shelf where Lord Wade had admired that first book. She carried it to the shop counter and paid for it out of her pin money.
When she turned around, Wade was standing a few feet away, his expression slightly alarmed.
She held out the book to him. “Would you carry this for me?”
He nodded slowly, and by then her mother and Lavinia were ready to move along to the next shop on their trip.
Once outside, Lord Wade turned the book over in his hands. “I thought you did not read French very well.”
She affected surprise. “Is it in French?”
He scowled. “You know it is.”
“Well, I do read French a little,” she murmured as she raised her parasol over her head. “Perhaps you could read it for me first and decide if I have any chance of understanding it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Portia,” he growled. “You should not do such things. Montrose would not approve.”
All the more reason to have done the unexpected. “I trust you will provide a full report by the end of the month at the very latest, Lord Wade,” she said to end the discussion.
She would enjoy hearing Lord Wade’s account of the book, but could care less if she saw it returned to her in the end. It was a gift for her friend because he could not afford to purchase it himself yet, and because she wanted to spoil him.
Portia bit her lip as he stared at her too long, obviously debating whether to accept the present or not. He appeared about to protest, but when she linked her arm through his and pulled him along after her mother, he fell blessedly silent.
They passed the rest of the morning in each other’s company, looking on as Mother and Lavinia depleted the shops of their goods. But it felt like something had changed between them. Something significant. Something she knew she had to keep to herself for a while.
Chapter 17
An empty house was a sorry view, but not so the one in Soho Square. Julian let himself into Portia’s late uncle’s home in the early Sunday afternoon and breathed a sigh of relief that he had passed no one he knew coming here. And then sneezed because of the dust his arrival had stirred. He listened carefully to decide if he was alone or not before he took another step.
Convinced there was silence above his head, he weaved his way through boxes and possessions littering the servants’ quarters, and then started up the staircase to reach the front hall. This area was a little clearer of debris, but he kept well away from the windows in case someone happened to look in when he looked out.
He always worried he’d be seen here, coming or going. He did not want to be mistaken for a thief or for word to reach Lord Montrose now. No one would understand how difficult it was for him to stay away from Portia Hayes, and this house. She was usually here on Sundays, after services, and he planned to wait and hope to see her again.
He moved through the cluttered first floor, glancing left and right to see what had been changed or newly uncovered. He would be very sorry when he no longer had an excuse to come here. Portia’s marriage to Montrose put an end date on their friendship, as well as these secret adventures.
He squeezed round some old tea chests stacked in the hall, wondering briefly what was inside, before he swept up the grand old staircase to the floor above. Sunlight pierced the gloom from a high window, bathing the path ahead in violet light. He turned and looked up, admiring the colors as he always did.
In many ways, he preferred this house to his own. It was a sound old building, full of nooks and crannies he longed to have leisure to explore.
He moved toward old Oliver’s bedchamber and stopped at the doorway. The room was big, but not as cluttered as all the rest. Full of heavy mahogany pieces, he’d coveted this room for himself since the first day he’d come here. It would make a fine chamber for the eventual master of the house.
At least that would not be Montrose. He’d never lower himself to spend one night in this humble abode with Portia.
There was an adjoining chamber, a mirror image of this one. Oliver Quigley had never married but the state of the adjoining chamber made it appear so to Julian. It seemed lived in, like a woman’s domain, though Portia had never mentioned the house’s history beyond Oliver owning it.
Perhaps it had been in the Quigley family for several generations.
Wade clearly heard the front door open and shut beneath him, and he rushed out to the rail. He glanced down, expecting Portia and her maid—but saw men, instead.
When they instantly began to mount the stairs, he fled back into the room adjoining Oliver’s because there was not enough time to reach the little room with the key this time, and then quietly rolled underneath the old bed, stirring up a cloud of dust.
He lay flat on his stomach, peeking out under the comforter, as whomever it was entered the adjoining bedchamber.
There was a brief moment of silence, before, “Where the hell has it gone?”
Montrose.
“I’ve no idea, your grace,” Mr. Hayes apologized. “Perhaps my wife has removed it.”
“Removed it to where?”
“I can ask her,” Mr. Hayes promised quickly.
“Do that,” Montrose bit out. “I’m late. Send word when you find the painting. I’ll come fetch it personally.”
So Montrose had noticed the painting on his last visit, and obviously recognized Esme in it. He’d clearly had plans to use it, too.
Julian hated when he was proved right by very bad people.
Heavy footsteps raced away, pounding down the staircase, moving at a fast clip.
One set only, though.
Though
his eyes watered and his nose tickled from the dust, Julian remained where he was until the front door opened and shut. Hearing nothing but silence, Julian rolled out from under the bed as silently as he could to investigate if Hayes had departed, too.
By now, Julian knew most of the spots that creaked, and he moved almost silently to the door.
He heard a noise in the adjoining room and quickly hid behind the nearest door and waited
After a time, Julian risked peeking out of the room again.
Mr. Hayes stood in the hall, looking into Uncle Oliver’s room. Portia’s father scratched his head. “I’m not going to miss this wretched place, but that painting I will. Damn woman. I hope to God she didn’t burn it. Montrose will throw a fit if she has.”
Julian smirked, very glad Montrose would never put his hands on Lady Windermere in oil. There was no telling what he might have done with it. It was safe for now, but Julian would have to let Lady Windermere know Montrose was after it as well.
Mr. Hayes poked around the upper floor a bit longer, completely unaware of Julian’s watchful presence, and then he departed, too.
Julian considered what to do. It was not imperative that he speak to Portia today. There had been nothing in particular he wanted to say to her that could not wait another day. He should, by rights, deliver Lady Windermere’s portrait back to her. He’d no desire to remain in the middle of the growing feud between Windermere and Montrose.
He dusted himself off and left via the rear door as usual and headed home to collect the wrapped portrait.
Windermere did not live all that far away from him, but he hailed a hack so he might pass through the streets unnoticed. He had the carriage stop at their door and sent a man up to see if Lady Windermere would receive him.
As he waited in another unremarkable hack, he spotted the Duke of Montrose’s crest on a carriage passing him by. Julian turned his face away to hide his identity, and then saw the man returning to his carriage. Assured she was at home and available, Julian exited the carriage with his package and rushed inside.
Lady Windermere had aged very little since the portrait must have been painted. There was a brightness to her eyes still and suppleness to her figure that few women kept so late in life. Lady Windermere eyed him warily, and then her attention dropped to his hands. “Have you finally brought it?”
Lord of Sin Page 17
