Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sleep was impossible. Instead, Portia lay in the dark, her mind churning. If only she could leave—run away. But there was this wretched ball to be endured and two more days after that. She refused to give Rowena the satisfaction she so clearly desired. It was obvious the woman had invited Katherine Charring for her own twisted amusement, although how she'd known about Stacy and the woman was a mystery. Or perhaps it was mere coincidence and she was imagining things? Could she really be so paranoid?

She knew her dislike of Rowena was petty, but at least it gave her something to think about other than the agonizing knowledge that her husband was in love with another woman.

Portia bit her lip to keep from sobbing like a child. Instead, she tossed and turned, her mind an endless blur of questions with no palatable answers. Did she stay with him, knowing she was a duty to him? Knowing she would be a burden for him to bear if he wanted to know his child? Or did she leave, taking the child with her? Because she could never leave her child, she knew that.

Where would she go? Back to London? Portia knew her friends would take her in, but what would happen to their reputations—their lives—to have a divorced woman with a child living with them?

She couldn't stay, and she couldn't go.

By the time Daisy came to dress her for the evening she was far more exhausted than she'd been hours earlier. She took strength in the knowledge that she only needed to maintain a convincing fa?ade for another few days.

Daisy chatted happily as she dressed Portia's hair, thrilled beyond anything to be preparing her mistress for a ball in a castle with actual peers. Portia closed her eyes and let the sound of her maid's excited voice wash over her. A knock on the door a few moments later made Portia's entire body stiffen. Please don't let it be Stacy.

"Good evening, my dear."

She opened her eyes. Stacy looked even more godlike than usual. He wore a black coat and pantaloons and his waistcoat was ivory silk embroidered with mauve birds that matched Portia's gown perfectly.

He smiled. "Do you like it? It is Daisy's doing."

Portia's eyes became unaccountably hot and she was afraid she would begin weeping.

She swallowed convulsively. "Daisy, you truly are a wizard."

"'Twas nothing, ma'am," she murmured, her face red as she rummaged through the jewel box looking for the earrings Portia would wear.

Stacy came to stand behind Portia, facing her reflection. Of course she couldn't see his eyes. He held a black velvet box toward her.

"What is it?" Her voice was sharper than she'd intended.

The corners of his mouth turned down. "You sound so . . . fierce. Am I not allowed to give my wife a gift?"

Portia couldn't look at him, she was afraid she would collapse into a puddle of tears. Why was he doing this to her?

"You shouldn't have." Her voice broke on the last word but at least she wasn't crying.

Stacy's hand settled on her shoulder, his brow furrowing with concern. "Will you excuse us, Daisy?"

Portia watched her servant leave the room as though she was bidding farewell to her last great hope. The door closed and she turned back to the mirror.

"Are you sure everything is all right, Portia?"

"I'm sorry I was sharp. I'm afraid I have been experiencing the most exhausting swings in mood." That was true enough, at least.

"Are you sure you want to go downstairs?"

Anything was better than sitting alone in this room. She smiled. "I'm looking forward to it," she lied.

He nodded, and then turned to the box in his hand. "I commissioned this for you when I was in Barnstaple. It took the man longer than he expected. When I learned of this ball I sent him a message requesting that he make haste to finish it."

Portia took the box as though it were a live snake, her hands trembling. She lifted the lid and gasped. It was more pearls, but unlike any she'd ever seen. She glanced from the beautiful necklace to her husband's reflection. "Why, they're almost . . . black."

He smiled at her amazement and reached into the box. "Yes. Black pearls, uncommon, precious, and beautiful. Just like you, Portia." He draped the double strand around her neck and clasped it. It fit snugly. "This is called a collar." His elegant white fingers stroked the pearls, the contrast between black and white arresting. "Now you wear my collar, Portia." He bent low and nuzzled the side of her neck, his mouth hot against her skin. "You belong to me."

Portia felt as though he'd reached into her chest and crushed her heart. How could he be so cruel? Just what game was he playing?

He saw her stricken expression in the glass and frowned. "What is it, why—"

A knock on the door interrupted whatever he was going to say.

"Come in!" Portia called, beyond grateful for whomever was on the other side of the door. Frances stood in the doorway, her eyes flickering nervously from Stacy to Portia before settling on the necklace and widening.

"My goodness," she breathed.

Stacy took a step back and clasped his hands behind his back. "Good evening, Frances. You look lovely."

Portia was momentarily distracted from her misery by Stacy's kind words. But he was right, Frances did look striking in a gown of verdigris silk, an unusual shade which brought out the gold in her hair and made her blue eyes look almost turquoise. Her high cheekbones tinted at his words and she came forward, one of her hands outstretched.

"This is for you, Portia. It belonged to my mother and I would like you to have it."

Portia glanced from the small velvet covered box to Frances and could no longer hold back the tears.

"Here! What is this?" Stacy was beside her in an instant.

Portia shook her head, capable only of making gulping sounds like some sort of fish.

Frances placed the box on her dresser and held out a handkerchief before taking Portia's free hand. "It is normal for a woman in your condition to be emotional—especially with this most recent shock."

Portia gave the other woman a startled look. Did she know about Kitty Charring?

"You might not have taken physical harm from the incident with the balcony," Frances continued, stroking her hand, "but it would have been a terrible stress on you."

Portia didn't know whether to be happy or miserable that the other woman didn't know the worst of it. Oh, how she wished she had somebody to confide in. Instead, she dabbed her eyes and nodded. "Thank you, Frances. You are correct, it has been a strain."

"You don't need to do this tonight, darling. Everyone will understand if you decide to rest," Stacy said.

Especially Rowena.

Portia shook her head. She'd endured years of misery at Ivo's hands; surely she could endure a few hours of this wretched evening. She turned to Frances and smiled. "I would love to see what is in the box."

***

The huge drawing room was filled with beautifully dressed, coiffured, and bejeweled house guests when they entered a short time later. While Stacy wished Portia had taken his suggestion and stayed in bed, he could not deny he was pleased to have her beside him.

"Will you both excuse me?" Frances asked. "I promised Rowena I would speak with the new pastry chef. He is a bit . . . temperamental."

Stacy nodded and then said, "The ring was a lovely gesture, Frances."

Portia held up her right hand and the diamond ring sparkled. She smiled at his sister. "Yes, thank you. It is beautiful."

Stacy watched his sister walk away and slid his hand down Portia's back until it rested at the base of her spine. Her sharp intake of breath sent blood rushing to his groin. The mauve silk was thin and he could not resist sliding his hand lower, until it rested on the generous swell of her bottom. Her cheekbones stained a delicate rose and a flare of possessive heat churned in his gut at the way her body responded to his touch. He should have said to hell with this bloody ball and taken her to his bed. They could have made love and he could have left Kitty, Robert, and Robert's scheming wife to sort out their own problems.

But instead he'd behaved like a responsible adult and now it would be hours and hours before he could hold her, soothe her . . . be inside her delicious body. He needed to stop thinking about it before he embarrassed them both in public.

Of course he'd have to tell her about Kitty first—an unpleasant conversation—not about her connection to Robert, but certainly about their friendship. Now that he knew Portia better, he could not relish introducing her to a former lover.

Thoughts of that discussion were enough to stop the pleasurable sensation in his groin.

"Would you like something to drink, Portia?"

"Perhaps a glass of lemonade."

"I will return before you know it." He headed for the drinks table and poured a lemonade for Portia and small glass of wine for himself. He surveyed the room for Robert, whom he'd hoped to pull aside for a few moments before they all sat down to dinner. Even if they only—

"Good evening, Mr. Harrington," the viscountess's purr came from his other side and he turned. Stacy had to admit his brother's wife was a beautiful woman. Even so, he could not understand how Robert had been persuaded to marry her. She was cold, untouchable, and more than a little devious. And he was going to get to the bottom of her invitation to Kitty before this bloody visit was over.

Stacy took her proffered hand and bowed over it. "Good evening, my lady, you look lovely. Something to drink?" Her smile was odd—almost flirtatious—as though he'd just asked to put his hand up her skirt.

"Nothing for me, thank you." She turned from the table and swept the room as she fingered the hideous diamond choker around her neck. Her décolletage was so low he thought he could see the top of her areolae.

"That is an impressive necklace."

Her throaty chuckle held no warmth. "It belonged to the earl's first wife, a woman endowed with more money than breeding, I'm afraid."

Stacy frowned at the distasteful comment.

She smiled, as if he'd spoken out loud. "One could not say the same about your mother, of course."

"I know very little about my mother." He did not care to discuss his family, or anything else, with such a venomous person.

"You look very like her, more so than Pendleton. Your mother was a beautiful woman."

Stacy's eyebrows rose. Was she flirting with him?

Robert entered the ballroom just then, spotted Stacy, and headed in his direction. Whatever his sister-in-law was up to, Stacy could only hope Robert's arrival would put a stop to it.

"Good evening Stacy, Rowena." The look he gave his wife was markedly colder than the one he bestowed on Stacy. He poured himself a hefty brandy and pointedly ignored his wife.

Stacy glanced across to where Portia stood, wishing he were beside her right now. She was talking to a young couple who'd gone to the picnic today. The door behind Portia opened and Kitty entered. It wasn't his imagination that the conversation in the room briefly stuttered. Robert stopped in the process of drinking; the rim of the glass resting against his lower lip, as if he'd lost the strength to tip the liquid into his mouth.

Stacy couldn't help being amused by how Kitty drew every eye in the room, her beauty was like a flame. She might appear magnificent in her emerald gown—which looked as if it had been stitched to her body—but he could see she was nervous. Stacy knew she'd likely donned her garment like battle armor. The question was, just who would she have to do battle with?

Kitty glanced around the room before going to stand beside Portia, who—after a brief look of surprise—smiled and introduced her to the others beside her. Stacy was proud of his wife for the kindness she was showing Kitty. Most of the other female guests were glaring at the beautiful woman as if she were a serpent that had slithered through a crack in the door.

He shot a look at Robert. His brother had finally completed the action of drinking. In fact, his glass was empty. The viscountess was also looking at Kitty and when her eyes swiveled from the other woman to her husband Stacy inhaled sharply at the raw hatred he saw. His brother did not notice. In fact, Robert looked as though he'd forgotten everyone's existence but one. He set the glass blindly on the table and started toward Kitty like a sleepwalker.

Lady Pendleton's eyes sank into her husband's back like pale, lethal blades.

"If you'll excuse me, my lady." Stacy took long strides to reach Portia and Kitty before Robert could do anything foolish—like try to take Kitty into dinner. The gorgeous redhead might look strong, but Stacy knew she was hanging on to her sanity by a thread.

"Here you are, darling." Stacy pushed the glass into Portia's hand and turned to Kitty. "Kitty, you look smashing. Will you allow me to accompany you into dinner?"

He turned to give Portia a reassuring smile, but her face had hardened into the polite mask he recognized too well.

Blast and damn! She couldn't be jealous, could she—not after their conversation less than twenty-four hours ago? He reached for her elbow and leaned toward her but she turned away to answer the young man on her other side, pulling her arm from his grasp.

Yes, she is angry. Stacy wanted to go after her but Robert had come around Stacy and stopped in front of Kitty, looking like a man who'd been struck between the eyes with a mallet.

"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 ballroom. "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.

"Follow you where? And why did you shut it?" Portia demanded as she hurried after Rowena, who was now the only source of light.

"I doubt you want an audience for this meeting."

Portia didn't want Rowena, either. "I didn't say I wanted to go, did I?"

The other woman stopped so abruptly that Portia ran into her. "Are you saying you wish to go back? Will you give up what is yours so easily?"

"And have you confronted all your husband's mistresses?" Portia shot back.

"No, I have not—but then I am not carrying Robert's child. I heard them speaking, Mrs. Harrington, That woman will have him if you do not fight for him. You might be carrying the heir."

Ahh, now Portia understood—it always came back to status and blood lines and the future of the bloody earldom with this woman.

She opened her mouth to demand Rowena take her back, but the scorn in the other woman's eyes was too much to bear. Portia threw up her hands. "Fine, lead on."

Rowena turned without a word.

Portia had to trot to keep up with her and she stubbed the toe of her thin satin slipper against something hard. "Will you please slow down," she called out as the light disappeared around a corner. She rested one hand against the wall and massaged her aching toe until Rowena came back.

The viscountess reached up to a wall sconce and Portia saw there were others evenly spaced down the narrow hall. She plucked out the candle and lit it. When it flared to life it bathed the space between them with twice as much light.

She came back to Portia, her pale face eerie. "Here." She handed her the candle and resumed her journey.

Portia scrambled after her down the hall but paused when they reached a second, longer, set of stairs.

"Hold carefully to the railing and watch your step," Rowena called over her shoulder.

"I thought you said they were going to the chapel?" Portia asked Rowena's retreating back. "This feels like we're headed down the side of the cliff."

"The tunnels run to Thurlstone and beyond. We must go down and then come up again in another section. They are very old—far older than the chapel itself, which is not even a hundred years old."

Portia's stomach was in knots; did she really want to find them? "Perhaps—"

"Perhaps what?" Rowena asked without pausing.

Portia stared at the other woman's back. What should she tell her? She didn't know what to think, herself.

You need to see them, don't you, Portia? You need to rub salt in the wound.

She grimaced; is that why she was following? To torment herself? Or maybe. . .

Maybe what?

Maybe Rowena is right—maybe I should fight for him.

But what of your pride, Portia?

The thought surprised her so much she stumbled, glad to be holding the railing. Was pride really the only thing standing in her way? No, surely that couldn't be true. Could it?

They reached the bottom of the stairs and continued down a narrow, windy corridor with a wood-plank door at the far end.

Rowena opened the door and paused. "Perhaps, what, Mrs. Harrington?" She gestured for Portia to take the lead.

Portia preceded her. "Perhaps we should not be doing this," she said lamely, not wishing to put her thoughts into words. "I would rather talk to my husband alone—later." That much was true, at least.

Rowena laughed, her pupils tiny black dots in the candlelight.

"This is no laughing matter to me." Portia's voice shook with suppressed anger, not all of it for the woman across from her.

Rowena laughed even harder, shaking her head as she struggled to catch her breath.

"What is wrong with you? Why would you laugh at such a thing?"

"I'm laughing because it is not your husband she wants, Portia, it is mine." She snorted at Portia's shocked face and then roughly shoved past her.

Portia hurried to catch up, a tiny spark of hope burning in her chest. "What?"

"Yes, it is Robert. He and the whore had a child together years ago, you see. The two met in Plymouth while he was staying in my father's house, if you can believe it. She was a governess somewhere—I don't recall now. But I do recall Robert met her after we were betrothed. Even before we married he was whoring." She laughed and the sound sent an uncomfortable tingling sensation down Portia's spine. Something was very wrong.

Portia stopped, and then began to back up.

Rowena spun around. The hand that wasn't holding the candle held a pistol, which she was pointing at Portia.

"Stop where you are, Mrs. Harrington."

Portia froze and the other woman advanced on her, the gun pointed at her midriff.

"You are not going back, Mrs. Harrington. Ever." Her smile was terrifying, but not as terrifying as the look in her eyes. For the first time since Portia had met the woman her face wore a genuine expression: madness.

She reached out and tapped Portia's stomach with the barrel of the gun. "You will walk or I will shoot you right now."

Portia's brain spun like a toothless gear, unable to find purchase.

Rowena gestured to the corridor ahead. "Now. Start walking."

Portia looked from the gun to the other woman's face; hatred blazed in her pale green eyes and she prodded Portia's stomach hard enough to hurt. "This is the last time I will say it. Walk."

Portia turned and took several hasty steps while holding the candle high and squinting into the darkness. She could see nothing ahead of her other than the narrow, dark tunnel.

Rowena poked her shoulder with the gun. "Faster."

Portia walked faster. "Why?" she finally asked.

Her question elicited another frightening laugh.

"Why must you die? Why must your child die? And, most importantly, why must your husband die? Because I married the wrong brother, you idiot. Because our interfering, controlling, monster of a father-in-law threatened to expose everything unless I produced an heir. Did you not hear what he said to you tonight? You are his new broodmare."

Portia stumbled over an uneven spot in the floor and came to a fork in the tunnel.

"To the right," Rowena barked. "Our wretched father-in-law has threatened to tell everything if I do not let his disgusting son touch me. He gave me a year, and it is almost over. He will tell the truth and I will live out the rest of my life as nothing more than the wife of a cheating, worthless second son."

Rowena's words rang in Portia's ears and her head spun. "Good God!" she said, her voice a wheeze. "Stacy is the elder."

"Ah, congratulations, my dear Mrs. Harrington, indeed he is. I suppose I should call you Lady Pendleton?"

Portia had no response for that.

"For thirty-five years the secret held." Portia felt the pistol jab her in the back. "It most likely would have continued to hold but for you. It is your fault, my lady. But for you the earl would have had no weapon to use against me. But for you the freak would never have found a woman to marry him and would have continued going to whores. Without you the freak would have gone to his grave without ever siring offspring."

Her brutal words and horrible insults made Portia stiffen—but with rage rather than fear. She squared her shoulders and stopped.

Rowena pressed the gun against the back of her skull before she could turn. "Don't get any foolish notions. I can shoot you in the back as easily as in the front."

"Why should I do what you say if you are just going to shoot me? Why should I make it any easier for you?"

"Because I can let you die slowly while I shoot you through the leg, the other leg, the arm, and so on. Or I can offer you something that will give you a painless release." She spoke with a quiet, menacing certitude that turned Portia's anger to terror. "Now walk."

Portia walked.

"Trust me, dear sister, this is not my choice. I tried to do things the easy way. Both you and your husband must have been born under fortunate stars. First he escaped those inept highwaymen I hired. And then, just when I thought I might actually have to shoot you myself, your dearly departed came back to life."

Portia gasped. "You know about Ivo?"

She gave a bark of laughter. "Know about him? Good Lord! I paid the man to take you away. But what does he do? He decides to make a little more money and blackmail you."

"So you killed him?"

"Don't be stupid. Fant killed him."

"Fant?"

"Yes, the Fants have worked for my family for generations. They are very loyal—and I pay them well, of course. Unfortunately, even money can buy only so much. Fant became frightened that he would hang after killing Stefani so he came running to me to help him out of his fix. He is far more willing to do my bidding now, not that he is any more effective—as he demonstrated by shooting off your horse's ear instead of your head."

Portia was too astonished to speak.

"Imagine my irritation when you not only managed to dodge the bullet but stay in the saddle of a half-mad horse." Her bitter laughter made Portia's scalp tingle. "I suppose I will have to accept the blame for the minstrel's gallery myself. Not one of my most inspired ideas but it would have worked if not for Frances." She paused. "And so, my dear sister-in-law, I came to the conclusion that I would have to take care of matters myself. If you behave, it will be painless. I've got something that will make you drift off to sleep. After you are gone I'll let the truth about your husband's relationship with the whore be known and there won't be any doubt in people's minds why you took your life.

"Then I shall take care of your husband at my leisure. Who knows, maybe he will be so devastated by your death he will do away with himself? I've seen the way he looks at you—everyone has. Except you, it seems." Her voice brimmed with malicious amusement. "You must be an idiot to believe he was planning to run off with the whore. What did you hear in the chapel, I wonder?" She didn't wait for an answer. "As annoying as all this has been it has given me a good deal of pleasure to watch my own dear husband stew in his miserable juices. If I'd known how enjoyable it would be to watch him suffer and pant I would have thrown the two of them together years ago, instead of working so hard at keeping them apart."

A small, iron-strapped door appeared ahead in the gloom.

Rowena thrust a large key over Portia's shoulder. "Open it."

Portia fumbled with the lock before it made a dull click.

Rowena reached around her and opened the door. "So, here we are dear sister-in-law." And then she knocked the candle out of Portia's hand and shoved her into darkness.