Chapter Nineteen

It had been Ivo who'd been camping in the old falling-down cottage. Ivo, who was very much alive. Ivo who had come back for her.

Portia screamed when she saw his face and he'd grabbed her with rough, cold hands, clamping the bent fingers of his damaged hand over her mouth.

"Sh, mia cara!" He was not much bigger than Portia, but he was wiry and strong and held her in an unbreakable grasp while uttering a string of placating endearments in Italian—not something he'd done for many years. When he felt the struggle go out of her body he loosened his grip. "I'll remove my hand from your mouth if you will promise not to scream."

Portia nodded and he took away his hand, still keeping an iron grip on her wrist. She stared, shocked by how haggard and gaunt he looked.

"The ship you were on—it went down with you and your w-wife on it—I read it in the paper." Portia spoke Italian, the only language adequate to express her anger, loathing, and shock.

His sensual lips twisted in a way that used to make her heart throb faster a long, long time ago. His eyes were the color of brandy, warm and intoxicating. But Portia knew they masked a man who thought of only one thing: Ivo Stefani.

"You look well, Portia. Very well for a grieving widow." Her stomach lurched as his smile twisted into something unpleasant. "You did not grieve for me, did you? It made you happy that I was not just pretend dead, but real dead? You simply moved on, eh?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Imagine my surprise when I showed up in London and found my school closed and our house empty."

"Your school? The only thing you ever gave to the school was your name—and debt."

Ivo squeezed her wrist until she cried out.

"What a harpy you are, Portia, always on about the same thing." He yanked her close, his eyes dark with fury. "Mrs. Sneed did not turn a hair when I showed up on her doorstep. That is when I knew you never told the newspapermen either the tale of my hero's death in the War or my unfortunate demise at sea. Even when you thought I was dead you didn't mind keeping me alive to use my name and status." He made a clucking sound as he pushed her down onto a pile of mossy stones that must have once been part of the wall. Portia tucked her feet beneath her skirt and buried her hands in her cloak. Ivo sat beside her, his hand like an iron manacle around her wrist.

"It took some work to get your address from Mrs. Sneed without looking like a fool. I told her I was just back from a family emergency and had lost my baggage in a shipping debacle. Ha!" He slapped his thigh, clearly amused by his own cleverness. The suit of clothing he wore had once been one of his better ones. Now the cuffs were ragged and shiny patches showed the coat had been cleaned and pressed to within an inch of its life. His cravat was yellowed and knotted carelessly. And his once beautiful boots—boots he'd commissioned from the great Hoby himself—were a scuffed, battered disaster.

"What happened, Ivo?" Portia prepared herself for the web of lies he would no doubt spin. Ivo could not tell the truth even if it would help his cause. She'd learned long ago, and to her detriment, that he lied for the pure joy of manipulating his listener.

"I might ask you the same thing, cara." He reached out to take her chin and she jerked out of his reach. He laughed. "I hear you are married to a very rich man." His pupils shrank and she noticed the deep grooves beside his mouth and nose. He looked older than he'd done a mere eighteen months ago but he was still a very handsome man. Portia hated him. She wished—God have mercy on her soul—that he really was dead at the bottom of the ocean. The only things he'd ever given her were pain, humiliation, and a miscarriage.

"What business is it of yours, Ivo, we were never even married. You are less than nothing to me. Where is your wife?" Rage made her body shake. But beneath her rage was fear. Why had he come back?

He laid his right hand over his breast and cast his eyes skyward. "Alas, poor Consuela! She really did perish this time."

Portia gave a rude snort. "I suppose you were the only survivor out of an entire ship?"

Ivo smirked, pleased to illicit emotion from her, no matter what it was. "Not just me, gattina. When we saw which way the wind was blowing, pardon my inexcusable pun, another gentleman and I took one of the two lifeboats. My darling Consuela refused to get into such a small craft. I tried coaxing her but she was adamant. She could not swim, you see, and believed that staying on a larger ship that was headed for calamity would somehow save her." He shrugged, demonstrating the same depth of emotion for his wife that he'd felt for Portia.

"We had a few nasty moments, my companion and I, but we were fortunate in that we had ample supplies and encountered propitious currents. We did not have very much remaining to us by the time we made landfall but it was enough that we could bring our few possessions ashore and convince a local fisherman to give us shelter." He stopped and gave her a look of disbelief. "I must tell you, my love, that you and I were fortunate to have left Rome when we did. The Corsican made a bloody mess of the entire Continent. Banditti run rampant and it is worth a man's life to travel anywhere. Unfortunately, it was worth my companion's life. I'm afraid he did not make it to Grenoble—the home of his lovely widow." Ivo's smile made Portia's flesh crawl. When had he become this man? Was it the loss of his hand or had he always been unscrupulous and his beautiful gift had merely masked it?

"I remained with the grateful widow until her officious brother arrived from Paris and made my position untenable. I'd begun to miss you in any case, my pretty Portia." He squeezed her, his hand like a vise. "It breaks my heart to learn you do not feel the same."

Portia didn't bother trying to pull away. That was what he wanted, a struggle. He'd always become violent when thwarted.

"What do you want, Ivo?"

"I want my wife back. But what did I learn? That you were spreading those white thighs for some other man. That you were already carrying some other man's brat, and a freak of a man by all I've heard." He laughed and grabbed her hand before it could make contact with his face. "I'll hit you back, gattina, and I'll do it twice as hard."

She wrenched her arm away. "What do you want?"

His features twisted into an expression that was half rage and half something else—jealousy? Portia found that difficult to credit. It was more likely pique that she'd not wasted away after he left her, brokenhearted.

"What would your wealthy freak say if he knew you were already married and that your long-lost husband had returned?" He pushed a finger against her midriff and she flinched back. "And the child in your belly is legally mine?"

Fear clamped around her chest until she could barely breathe. She could not show Ivo how terrified she was, it would be the end of her. She pulled from his grasp and sneered at him.

"You forget we were never legally married, Ivo."

"And how will you prove that, my dove? We held ourselves out to the world as blissfully married for almost a decade. It just so happens I have our wedding lines to prove it."

That made her laugh. "Our wedding lines just so happened to survive a shipwreck?"

His smug, ugly smile chilled her. "Oh, darling." He laughed, and it actually sounded genuine. "You don't think I planned to stay away from London forever, did you? I only humored Consuela to get her out of England. One way or another, I was coming back so I tucked away money and valuables in my bank in London." He grinned. "Too bad you did not declare me dead, eh? Perhaps then the bank officials would have sought out my unfortunate widow?"

Portia's head throbbed with such rage she could not speak.

"In that bank box I put money, your mother's lovely jewelry, and a few important documents. I'm afraid I had to sell the jewelry, and I've run low on the money, but I still have my documents. So, what will your new husband believe when he sees our marriage lines, eh? I'll bet you were too ashamed to tell him about Consuela, weren't you?" He laughed at whatever he saw on her face. "And now it is too late to disclose the truth without it sounding suspiciously self-serving."

A strange humming noise filled her head. His lips kept moving but Portia could no longer hear his words. She would kill him before she let him claim her child and ruin her life. She would kill him.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.

"Are you listening to me, you mad bitch? I will not put up with one of your crazy rages, do you hear me?" He slapped her so hard her head snapped back and the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth. And then he shook her. "I tolerated you for a bloody decade—you will give me recompense, or I will claim what is in your belly for my own."

Her head pounded from the blow, the vicious shaking, and her own rage. They locked eyes, the air around them thick with violence and a fine, cool mist as the rain struck the feeble roof above them with increasing frequency and force.

He squeezed her shoulders until they ached. "Do what I tell you or pay the price."

Portia's stomach churned and her anger slowly drained away until she felt cold and dead inside. "What will it take to make you go away and never, ever come back?"

He grinned and the avarice in his eyes sickened her. "I believe two thousand pounds would set me up quite nicely. Perhaps I will go back home and buy a small villa. Two decades of turmoil has played havoc with the value of land and has created many new opportunities."

"Two thousand pounds?" Just saying the amount made her dizzy. "Are you mad, Ivo? Where do you expect me to get that?"

The smile slid from his face. "Use that whore's body, Portia, I'm sure you'll find a way."

The rain pounded overhead and the spray soaked them. Portia didn't know how long they'd sat locked in silent argument when a voice floated toward them from the direction of the path.

"Stefani!"

Ivo leapt to his feet and grabbed her arm, yanking her up. "You must get out of here. I cannot be seen talking to you. Go!" He shoved her so hard she stumbled, landing on her knees beside the broken stone wall.

"What is wrong with you?" She shot him a look of pure hatred as she struggled to her feet.

"Go!" he hissed, murder in his eyes.

"With the greatest of pleasure." She began picking her way over a pile of rubble and heading toward the corner of the cottage.

Ivo grabbed her arm and almost yanked it from the socket. "Not that way, stupida, you will walk right into him! There is a road in that direction." He gestured vaguely toward the other side of the woods. "You will return to me with the money in a week or—"

"Ten days," she grated out. "I cannot possibly do it in less." It was unlikely she could get so much money even in ten years. But she needed as much time to think as she could get.

He let out a string of curse words. "Ten days, no more." He shoved her and she almost fell again.

Portia knew the road in question but had never crossed through the woods to get to it. She glanced back and saw Ivo glaring.

"Go." he mouthed.

Beyond him the underbrush rustled as somebody approached the derelict cottage. Portia was tempted to wait and see who it was just to interfere with whatever Ivo had planned. They stood, eyes locked, and his expression turned from ugly to terrified. What was he afraid of?

Portia decided she did not want to know. She turned and ran.

She staggered blindly through the rain for perhaps a quarter of an hour before she accepted that she was lost. The sky was almost black and it was impossible to tell direction by the position of the sun. For all Portia knew she could have gone in a circle and would soon come back to Ivo and whoever it was he was meeting.

The rain began to fall in solid sheets and thunder sounded somewhere in the distance. She pulled up the collar on her drenched cloak and picked a direction. By the time she found the enormous tree she was stumbling more than walking. It was an ancient monster with a large hollow at its base. The depression was filled with weeds and bracken but it was big enough that she could wedge her body out of the rain. Portia was so tired and wet she no longer cared about rain, insects, Ivo, or anything except closing her eyes. The next time she opened them it had been to find herself cradled in Stacy's arms.

Portia wanted to cry as she looked at her husband asleep in the chair beside her bed. He'd stayed close in case she had need of him. She'd been groggy but she recalled the sick worry she'd heard in his voice as he held her. She'd also heard affection and perhaps even love, or at least the beginnings of that emotion.

Tears were sliding down her cheeks and she was clenching her jaw so tightly her head throbbed. This was a mess, a terrible mess. There was only one way out of it: she would find the money, no matter what she had to do to get it.

***

For a man who'd refused to stay in his own sickbed after he'd been shot twice Stacy had no sympathy for Portia's desire to get out of bed. He bullied and browbeat her for three full days before he allowed her to leave her bedroom. Not only that, but he refused to make love to her the entire time.

"I will sleep in your bed, Portia, but that is all we will do. The doctor says you are suffering from extreme exhaustion. You've refused his recommended treatment so now you must submit to mine." The stern expression on his face when he issued his orders made her ache for him.

Of course everything her husband did made her ache for him.

"Are you listening to me, Portia?" His cool, clipped words interrupted the fantasy that had begun to develop in her mind—yet another fantasy of Stacy without any clothing.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, Stacy. I am listening."

He was wearing his dratted glasses, hiding his thoughts from her along with his beautiful eyes. She was positive he did that to torment her.

His mouth twitched, as though he could read her thoughts. But his humor was short lived. "You will stay in your bed, eat at least three meals per day, and get a full night's sleep for three days. At the end of that time I shall reevaluate your condition and decide accordingly."

He'd said all this while looming over her, arms crossed over his broad, muscular chest, dressed in his riding clothes. Her eyes drifted from his impassive face over his elegant, snug-fitting clawhammer and lingered on the front of his buckskins. They had been tanned black, to match his coat, and fit his taut, narrow hips and powerful thighs like a glove. Looking at him made her mouth water.

"Portia?"

"Hmm?" She wrenched her eyes away from his body and looked up.

"What did you promise me?"

She fluttered her lashes and touched a hand to her brow. "I don't remember."

"Do I need to summon Doctor Gates to remind you?"

Portia sat up. "You wouldn't. You promised, Stacy."

He uncrossed his arms and began to turn.

"No, stop. You are a bully," she said when he turned back.

"Yes, but I am your bully, thanks to your promise. Now come, it won't be so bad. I will go for a ride while you take your bath. When I return I will entertain you. But first I shall make sure you eat everything on your breakfast tray." He stared down at her, the muffled tap, tap, tap of his boot against the thick rug telling her the threat was not an idle one.

And so it went. For three entire days.

It was on the second of those days that Stacy explained his aunt's absence from the house and passed along Viscount Pendleton's startling revelations.

Portia listened to his tale with her mouth hanging open. "But this is utterly fantastical, Stacy! What must your father be like to have done such a monstrous thing to his own child?"

"According to Pendleton he is an implacable man who keeps his own counsel. Even now, at almost ninety, he has no regrets."

"So why has he finally told your brother about you now?"

"Robert says he's only thawed because you are with child. The earl didn't want me, but I am my brother's heir if he does not have children. That would make a male child of ours the next in line. Otherwise the title would go to some distant relative. Apparently the earl cannot countenance such a thing." They sat in silence as they considered this new twist for their unborn child's future.

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 footman opened the door and then handed her out with a flourish.

The first thing Portia saw upon entering the Marlborough House was her husband.