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Eleanor and Portia climbed to the nursery but did not find Henry. That boy never seemed to be where he should.
“You do not seem concerned that Henry isn’t here,” Portia said, wandering around the room and looking at several old toys.
“Oh, we will know soon enough where he is—when Octavius roars.”
Portia giggled, and Eleanor felt as if she might float. Having Portia—someone she could confide in—appear in London was a boon she’d never dreamed of. Although, she shouldn’t be quite so surprised, for Portia had done something this rash once before with her visit to Mayne Castle. And she couldn’t quite fault Octavius for his anger. Portia’s unauthorized and unchaperoned travels could ruin her. But enough had been said about that already.
Eleanor threw her arms around her sister-in-law. “I am so glad you are here. In the past few days I’ve had to keep thoughts like that to myself and I am exhausted from the effort.”
Portia laid her head on Eleanor’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have been happier to see your face. Thank you for championing me. You are extraordinarily brave to stand up to my brother.” The young woman sighed. “I have come to the conclusion he just isn’t a nice person.”
So many of his actions and words supported his sister’s assessment. And yet, Eleanor remembered how he had come to dinner after she rang a peal over his head. How he had rescued the Robsons’ son and then downplayed the event. How he had apologized with no prompting whatsoever. Octavius was more complex than simply “not nice.”
Eleanor also felt nothing like brave.
She kissed Portia’s head and stepped back. “He does seem oblivious to his horrid behavior. I could be generous and attribute that to the absence of your parents in his life, but then you have grown up under the same circumstances and you are a sweet girl.”
Portia’s eyes darkened to a stormy blue. “I wouldn’t have had to grow up without my mother if Lex wasn’t such an...an uncaring beast.”
Their mother was dead. Surely Octavius couldn’t be blamed for that. Eleanor laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “You may fault your brother for many things, but you cannot—”
“I can so! I most certainly do blame him for not letting me live with my mother.” Portia jerked her arm back and mulishly folded both arms beneath her chest. “What kind of person keeps a little girl from her only living parent?”
“Your mother—” Your mother is alive? Eleanor rocked back on her heels. How had she not known the dowager countess still lived?
Because she and Octavius never discussed anything intimate. She knew nothing about his family except what she’d learned from Portia’s letters, and that hadn’t been much because even Portia didn’t mention her mother. Until now. Since Lady Lexden had never been spoken of by either sibling, Eleanor had assumed she had died.
She cleared her throat and tried to be reasonable in the face of confusion. “Is your mother unwell? Perhaps she was not capable of caring for a child.”
“How would I know? He won’t even let me correspond with her.” Fat tears welled up in Portia’s eyes and dribbled down her cheeks. “He’s cut me off from everyone—my mother, you, Henry, Mr. Semple. He hates me.”
The last came out on a choking sob that tugged at Eleanor’s heart. She put her arm around Portia and drew her over to the sofa in the corner. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Why did you never mention your mother to me?”
Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, the girl sniffed into the linen square. “I liked that our correspondence was cheerful and full of the good things in our lives. When you came to visit, I was so ecstatic to see you and Henry that I put aside my troubles. Besides, what would have been the use? Though I admire your courage in standing up to him, you are just as powerless as I to change his mind about anything.”
Eleanor had always thought she was, but recent events gave her a new perspective. She reached out and smoothed back a lock of Portia’s chestnut hair. “Do you know where your mother lives?”
The girl shrugged. “She is in Edinburgh, but it does not matter. Lex would confine me to a dungeon if I attempted to write her.”
There was a dungeon at Mayne Castle, but even Eleanor couldn’t imagine her ogre of a husband resorting to such medieval practices. She dredged up a smile. “A convent, more like.”
Portia stared at the handkerchief in her hands, unmoved by the jest, and her forlornness twisted Eleanor’s heart. The girl’s original guardian, appointed by her father, was an elderly and distant cousin who settled her in Somerset with himself and his sister as companions; even Eleanor had been able to see during her brief visit that they were not very nurturing. Upon Octavius reaching his majority, he’d been appointed his sister’s new guardian, but he’d changed nothing. The elderly female cousin continued as Portia’s companion, and a governess was hired at the appropriate age. All in all, Portia’s childhood had been isolated and lacking in affection. So, the question remained, why had her mother had no say in her daughter’s upbringing?
If Eleanor wanted an answer, why not go to the source?
“I’ll write to your mother.”
“You will?” Portia’s eyes shone brightly beneath the tears.
“Yes.” Just saying the word convinced Eleanor she was doing the right thing. She could handle Octavius’s approbation. She would do so willingly in order to possibly reunite a mother and her child. “Yes, I’ll establish a correspondence with her to see what her situation is. What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid. After our father died, my mother disappeared and Lex went off to Harrow. I was sent to Somerset.” Portia swiped her handkerchief across her nose and sniffled. “I was very young, so I don’t remember much. Just that my father, my mother and Lex were all gone. I asked about my mother—of course I did—but the answers were usually vague. I thought for certain once Lex turned twenty-one and became my guardian he would let me visit her. But he just ignored my pleas and pretends she doesn’t even exist.”
Very mysterious. Of course, while Eleanor was surprised that Lady Lexden hadn’t raised her daughter, there were a number of possible explanations. Lady Lexden could indeed be ill or otherwise unable to care for her child, and perhaps everyone had been afraid to tell Portia. Or possibly, in a fit of vindictiveness, the previous earl had arranged the guardianship and trust to exclude his wife. Like father, like son? Though, Eleanor must own that Octavius had never followed through on his threat to remove Henry from her care.
Yet.
The third possibility that came to her mind was the worst: Perhaps Lady Lexden hadn’t wanted to raise her daughter. So, yes, it was best that Eleanor contact her. Once she knew the dowager and her situation, she could work out a plan to reunite Portia with her mother if such was possible.
She leaned over and hugged Portia. “I will do what I can for you, sweet girl, but please know that what I discover about your mother may not be to your liking. It may not be possible for you to see her, for a number of reasons.”
“Lex won’t approve,” Portia muttered into Eleanor’s shoulder, but Eleanor leaned back and winked at her.
“Since he doesn’t approve of anything I do, I’m not likely to disappoint him. Do not worry, he doesn’t frighten me.”
He didn’t, she realized. He upset her, he frustrated her, he worried and befuddled her, but he did not frighten her. She would, necessarily, need to be secretive in her letter-postings, but she could manage that with the help of a footman.
Portia smiled, and it was like dawn broke across her face. “Thank you.” She stood up and looked around. “Where is that little rascal? Oh!” She rushed to the other corner of the room and grabbed a cloth doll from a shelf. “I remember this. It used to be mine.”
The young woman traced a finger around the doll’s face, wearing a lost-in-the-past smile, and Eleanor studied the doll and her young sister-in-law from afar. Portia was such a small girl and yet she had spirit—when she wasn’t browbeaten by Octavius, of course. While her admiration for Mr. Semple had been evident in her letters to Eleanor, her willingness to risk her brother’s wrath by coming to London signaled her love and devotion.
Eleanor bit her lip, dashing away a flash of jealousy. Not everyone could be swept up in a grand romance, and if anyone deserved to be, it was Portia, this young girl essentially banished to live by herself. Eleanor would do all she could to help, not only because Portia deserved to be happy but because Octavius was, as in so many things, wrong about his sister and Mr. Semple. Her husband could know nothing of love.
“I cannot believe I forgot this doll when I moved away,” Portia remarked. “I used to never let her out of my sight.”
“You used to live here?” Henry asked from the doorway.
Portia spun around and sank down, opening her arms. “Yes, I did, dear boy.”
Henry hesitated for only a second, then flew into Portia’s embrace and Eleanor blinked away tears. Her two favorite people, the people she considered her true family, were reuniting again.
“I haven’t seen you since you were a wee little boy,” Portia said, swinging Henry around in her arms. “I am not surprised at how big you are, though, for you write very fine letters indeed.”
Eleanor watched the two smile and giggle, feeling as if her heart were aglow. That was a silly description, as silly as Portia “introducing” her doll to Henry, but she didn’t care. She was happy. How strange that she would end up happy here, of all places, where she had been most miserable. Of course, the feeling wouldn’t last. Octavius would send Portia away—and probably Henry too.
She pushed that thought from her mind, intent on making the most of the present, and the three of them spent the next three-quarters of an hour having a grand time. Then Eleanor and Portia left Henry and his nurse with their tea, for Mrs. Robson would be arriving soon to discuss the upcoming plans.
“I cannot believe Lex is hosting a ball,” Portia said as they descended to the drawing room to wait. “Clearly you do have some influence, Eleanor.”
Granted, Eleanor didn’t admit much right to explain her husband’s business to Portia, but since they were meeting with Mrs. Robson she should let the younger woman know what was going on. So, as they entered the drawing room, she took Portia’s hands into her own. “Octavius has plans to set up an arsenal. He needs Mr. Robson’s expertise and wants me to entertain Mrs. Robson while they work.”
“Hmph. You were right. He uses you to further his trade, and he will do the same with me.” An ugly scowl marred Portia’s face. “What do we care of this arsenal? Why do you bend to his will on this, Eleanor, when you are willing to fight for me?”
“Of course I don’t wish to, but—”
Bickley stepped into the room. “Mrs. Robson has arrived.”
Eleanor shot Portia a quick look, one she hoped would convey her position between the rock and the hard place. “Please, show her in.”
Justine sailed in, her smile bright. “Good morning.” She curtsied but did not let the action interrupt her flow of words. “I’ve had so many ideas for the ball, Eleanor. You may soon be wishing you hadn’t asked for my help.” Then her gaze fixed on Portia. “Oh, I am so sorry. I am Mrs. Robson. And who might this lovely creature be?”
A polite Englishwoman would have waited patiently to be introduced, but Eleanor found Mrs. Robson’s informal manner charming. “Portia, may I present Mrs. Robson? This is Lady Portia Mayne, the earl’s sister.”
The American woman curtsied again and smiled her motherly smile. “I am delighted to meet you.”
“And I you,” Portia said politely enough, though Eleanor thought her expression still dark from the previous conversation. “I hope you are enjoying London.”
Eleanor led them over to sit down; Portia chose the chair closest to the fireplace, while she and Justine arranged their skirts on one of the sofas.
“My visit has been wonderful so far,” Mrs. Robson said. “Your brother and Eleanor have been most gracious. I am, however, eager to plan this ball, as I miss Society’s entertainments. I want to see how our English cousins enjoy themselves.”
Portia cut a glance at Eleanor, surprised that the older woman had used Eleanor’s Christian name. Eleanor just smiled at her sister-in-law, indicating the informality was approved, and then turned back.
“I do not see why we have to wait until the ball to enjoy some entertainment. Octavius receives plenty of invitations.” Why, Eleanor didn’t know. Her husband was the most unsociable creature alive, earl or not. But, then, Society seemed perverse in its favors. “Let me send for them and we shall choose our pleasure.”
She summoned Richard the footman.
“Eleanor, are you certain Lexden will approve?” Portia asked. “He does not like you to do things without his consent.”
What on earth? Hadn’t Portia just championed Eleanor’s bravery? Why would she remark upon such a private thing so openly? Eleanor wanted to say something, anything, to alleviate the crackling silence overtaking the room, but just then Richard arrived. She spoke to the footman in a rush and gave him his instructions regarding collecting any recent social invitations.
As she turned back, Justine smiled. “Lady Portia, what kind of entertainments do you enjoy?”
A hint of danger sparked in Octavius’s sister’s blue eyes. Eleanor opened her mouth but couldn’t find her tongue fast enough.
“I am not certain I will be remaining in Town long enough to attend any affairs.” Portia let her shoulders drop. “Though I’ve barely arrived, my brother demands that I return to Somerset.”
“Oh. Goodness,” Justine said.
Richard the footman reappeared. Eleanor placed the handful of invitations on the low table in front of the sofa, her heart pounding. Portia was understandably angry at her brother, but that anger could lose Eleanor her son. And it would surely lose Portia any opportunity to remain in town. What had happened to the disheartened, sobbing girl of half an hour ago? Clearly, a lifetime of isolation had rendered her less mature than her years.
“You will come to the ball, dear Portia. Octavius can have no plans to send his loving sister away,” Eleanor said, praying that the warning would suffice. With trembling fingers, she spread out the fine vellum invitations. “Now, what shall we choose, ladies?” She smiled knowingly at Justine. “A musicale would be lovely. Or a rout would do.”
Portia’s lips firmed into a brief pout, but then she smiled, albeit reluctantly, and helped sort through the missives.
Eventually the three women decided on a soiree to be given in two nights’ time by one Mrs. Ardmore. Eleanor had no idea what she was getting herself into, but for the enjoyment of Portia and Justine, and toward the annoyance of Octavius, she would happily dive in. She dashed off a note to Mrs. Ardmore, accepting her invitation, and called for tea.
“What will you wear?” Justine asked before nibbling on a raisin biscuit.
Oh. Eleanor had not thought this through. “I have not taken the time to order a new wardrobe yet, so I suppose I will have to wear the same dress I wore to dinner last night.”
“As that dress is lovely, especially so on you, it makes a dashing choice.” Mrs. Robson winked. “Only I will know it’s not brand-new, and I will not whisper a word about the matter.”
“Nor will I,” Portia said. “I brought my best gown in the hopes Lex would allow me—”
“To stay,” Eleanor finished for her, fearful the young girl meant to mention Mr. Semple. If only she could get the girl alone and reiterate how important the Robsons were—to Eleanor keeping Henry, if not to Octavius’s business.
“‘Allow you to stay?’” Justine interjected. “I don’t understand.”
Ugh. Now Eleanor was adding to the coil. She could not do this.
“Lexden does not allow me to travel anywhere,” Portia whined.
Eleanor wanted to crawl into a cave. But she would rectify matters. “He doesn’t allow you to travel without a chaperone, you mean. A caution any caring brother would take.” She wanted to give her sister-in-law the fierce glare she reserved for Henry’s most trying moments, but Justine was watching and so she forced a smile. “Now, let us turn to planning our own affair. We first must settle on a date.”
The three of them proceeded to plan the ball for ten days hence. Portia kept quieter, thank heavens, though her youthful energy returned as they discussed refreshments, decorations, and music. Eleanor’s spirits began to rebound as well.
“Ladies,” Justine finally said, her eyes sparkling, “we have worked hard all morning and I think we deserve a treat.”
“Yes,” Portia agreed.
Eleanor chuckled. “You do not even know what she is proposing, dear sister.” She turned to Mrs. Robson and raised an eyebrow.
“Shopping,” that lady said with a broad smile. “We must look divine for this ball of ours, and we won’t be able to give the seamstress much time. Do you think your modiste can manage it, Eleanor?”
She didn’t have a modiste, but it would be easy enough to take the group to the one who had sold her the Duchess of Burnham’s castoff. Eleanor stood. “I’ll call for the carriage.”
“Oh, this will be grand,” Justine said, rising and shaking out her skirts. “Just like shopping with my daughters.”
And so Eleanor’s plan to suggest Portia stay behind to entertain Henry flew up the chimney. The girl had better control her tongue.
Perhaps a bribe would help.
“Portia, you must need a new gown. Even if you don’t, I insist you have one. You cannot leave London without something in the first stare of fashion.” If she paid for it out of her pin money, Octavius could not gainsay her. After all, he’d insisted the money was Eleanor’s to do with as she wished.
Portia’s sweet smile made her feel much better as the three of them headed off to Bond Street.
––––––––
WILLIAM DRUMMOND HAD no business here. Lex paused just inside the doorway of the warehouse, but only for a moment. He strode ahead, glancing across the room at the worktable where his sketches were visible. Apparently he would need those guards Collett was hiring to keep watch during the day as well.
“Mr. Collett?” he questioned, stopping squarely in front of Drummond. Robson did not pause and made his way directly to the worktable.
“My lord, Mr. Drummond was waiting for you. Says ’e’s a friend.” Behind Drummond’s shoulder, Collett cast a suspicious look at the interloper.
“We are acquainted,” Lex allowed. They had been enemies from the first. Why hadn’t he challenged Drummond to a duel when the man admitted to cuckolding him? Would that have driven Drummond out of his life forever? A duel certainly would have ruined Lex’s life. He’d either be dead or hiding out on the Continent. Although, possibly not, since the family honor had already been tarnished beyond repair by his parents.
He held out Collett’s sandwich. “Your assistance is appreciated. We will resume working in thirty minutes’ time.”
The assistant superintendent took the food with a smart nod and retreated to the small office in the corner.
Drummond watched the exchange, but when Collett was out of earshot, his pleasant expression turned into a sneer. “Making the descent from peer to tradesman to servant rather rapidly, aren’t you, Lexden?”
Lex allowed the insult to pass and simply stared at Drummond. The man fell an inch or two short of his own six feet, and he probably weighed two to three stone less. As always, his black coat and matching trousers fit perfectly, but in Lex’s dusty warehouse, with dirt drifting onto his glossy Hessians like newly fallen snow, he looked like a fop who had taken a wrong turn on his way to Carlton House.
“I can think of no business that would bring you here,” Lex said. Unless the elder Drummond had sent him to talk Lex out of competing for the government’s rifle contract.
His enemy slid a gaze sideways toward Robson. “I was curious about your mysterious visitor.”
Lex ground his teeth. Why couldn’t Drummond keep his nose—and other body parts—out of what didn’t concern him? His father must indeed have asked him to gather information.
After debating internally, Lex decided there was no advantage for Drummond in meeting Robson. He said, “Nothing mysterious about him.” He turned. “Mr. Robson, would you join us please?”
Robson sauntered over, and Lex made the introductions. “Mr. Robson is the former superintendent of the Harpers Ferry Armory who has kindly agreed to assist me.”
Drummond’s lips twisted in confusion. “Harpers Ferry? I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”
“Virginia,” Robson answered, not without pride.
“You came all the way from America?” Drummond’s eyes widened, but he checked his surprise and blanked his expression. “Welcome to our country. I had no idea you Americans possessed such vast knowledge in small arms manufacturing.”
Drummond’s sarcastic tone was not lost on Robson, who smiled and replied, “It is amazing what independence will do for innovation. We’ve come quite far in the past twenty to thirty years.”
“Spoken like a true American. Independence is the be-all and end-all.” Drummond looked Robson up and down, his mouth twisted in disdain, his eyes openly hostile. “I can’t imagine why your country is risking its precious independence by clamoring for war. Ah well, we’d be more than happy to re-colonize you wayward souls.”
“Thankfully, my faith in negotiations was rewarded and war has been averted,” Robson said.
Drummond donned a nasty smirk. “Lucky indeed.” He then turned a sly eye to Lex. “How fares Lady Lexden, my lord?”
William Drummond knew how to hit the bull’s eye—though he had a lot to shoot at. Did he mean Eleanor, the woman with whom he’d had an affair? Or did he mean Lex’s mother, the woman with whom Drummond’s father had an affair? Lex’s chest constricted. He couldn’t look away from Drummond’s mocking blue eyes.
Wait. Those eyes... The way the eyelids arched high in the middle and the lashes flew up at the end. Their blue-grey color...
Oh, God.
Lex fell back a step. Drummond’s face stood out in stark relief. Those were Portia’s eyes. And Drummond’s narrow chin was identical to his sister’s.
Portia. She wasn’t his father’s daughter.
Lex’s vision contracted until all he saw were bits of red and black colliding. His stomach clenched in painful agony, souring the meal he’d just eaten. Henry wasn’t illegitimate, but Portia was. Had their father even known?
As if from a distance, he heard Robson’s voice.
“Lady Lexden is quite well. My wife and I had the pleasure of meeting her last week. His lordship has shown us great hospitality since our arrival.”
Robson clapped Lex on the shoulder, jolting him from his hellish reverie. Lex dragged in a breath and focused again on Drummond, who stuck his chin out, the force of which action caused a lock of black hair to fall across his forehead.
“I am glad to hear she is well. I’m quite eager to resume my acquaintance with her.”
Lex shoved his fisted hand behind his back, the temptation great to knock that supercilious smile off Drummond’s face. If Eleanor and the man took up again... Which was the lesser evil—challenging the knave to a duel, or divorcing his wife over her adultery? He felt himself slipping further into that swirling haze of rage, so instead he threw another shovel of dirt on his shock and anger, burying it deeper.
With an effort he managed, “We’ve a good amount of work to do yet today.”
It was clearly meant as a dismissal.
“It was nice to meet you,” Robson chimed in, with a big—and false?—smile.
Drummond bowed sharply, a feral smile still shaping his lips; he had scored the only hit that mattered and now was pushing his advantage. “Give my regards to Lady Lexden. No, on second thought, never mind. I’m sure I shall be seeing her soon. Good day, gentlemen.” He snatched his hat from a nearby sawhorse and swaggered off, out of the building.
Robson’s smile vanished. “You look as if you need to sit.”
Lex shook his head. “Let’s return to our work.”
At the table, he planted both palms on the smooth oak surface and hung his head, his breath rattling in his chest. He had faced many ugly truths in his lifetime. What was one more? He closed his eyes and took charge of what he could control. Breaths, even. Muscles, locked against trembling. Brain, shut off from thinking about anything but rifles.
Robson moved to the opposite side of the table and picked up a pencil. “That young man doesn’t like you.”
“Ha,” Lex said without humor. He looked up, surprised to see...was it sympathy on the older man’s tanned face?
Robson flipped his pencil end over end and tapped on the table, the rhythmic sound echoing through the empty warehouse. “May I ask what you have done to deserve his antipathy?”
Lex straightened. For St. Bartholomew’s sake, he was not an ogre. Why did everyone blame him—? He turned a fierce look on Robson and found the older man’s eyebrows quirked in that now-familiar teasing manner. Lex couldn’t smile, not where Drummond and his family were involved, but he unclenched his muscles and eased his shoulders back, glad he hadn’t said the first thing that came to mind.
He said instead, “The feeling is mutual. I would like nothing better than for him to just go away.” Far away, where the jackanapes would never realize he had a claim, as a brother by blood, on Portia’s affections. “He’s a thorn in my side, and I do believe that is all he aims for in life.”
The reverse was once again true. Once Lex crushed his family financially, Drummond wouldn’t be worth another thought. Of course, just a few days ago he had called Eleanor a thorn in his side. How fitting.
“He bears a grudge then,” Robson said. “Were you at school together? Do your families have a connection?”
Lex pulled a stool over and sat down. He and Drummond had both gone to Harrow, Lex just after his father died. Each had known exactly who the other was. After numerous fisticuffs and a final threat of being sent home, they’d settled into a quieter hatred. After going their separate ways at university, Lex had hoped to never see William Drummond again. But apparently he’d been lying in wait and struck the worst blow possible.
Enough. He couldn’t think, speak, or hear any more about the Drummonds. Robson was going too far, asking about such personal issues. Lex leaned over and plucked the pencil from the other man’s hand, bent over the paper, adding detail to his sketches, saying nothing, and not looking at the American. He could feel Robson’s gaze, though. Could imagine the worried frown and concerned eyes.
Finally the man spoke in a soft drawl. “I am sorry.”
A shiver went up Lex’s spine.
Boots shuffling on the dirt floor, the American walked a few feet away and called for Collett. Lex just stared at the paper before him, unseeing. It would be so easy to think of the man as a nosy old codger. Instead, he had the unsettling, and unfathomable, feeling that Robson actually cared.