“Not at all,” her sister agreed. “But at the moment, it seemed preferable to weeping over what is beyond our control. Now, was Georgiana awaiting us in the music room?”
“Yes,” Lydia brightened once more, her frustration temporarily banished as only one of impatient spirits can manage. “Did you know there is a shorter way through the portrait gallery? Georgiana says that she never goes that way in the summer when so many visitors are about, but at this time of the year… Lizzy, did you forget something?”
Elizabeth had stopped short, her blood turned to ice. “Oh… you go on ahead, Lydia. I shall… that is, I will go round by the library and the blue parlour. I believe Mrs Reynolds should be there at this time of day, and I had—”
“Do that later, Lizzy. It is only that dull Mrs Annesley keeping Georgiana company, and she was reading letters when I left.” Lydia caught her sister’s hand and verily dragged her, leaving Elizabeth helpless to object.
Elizabeth’s heart surged into her throat. Not the portrait gallery! She could not face him, not with those expressive, life-like eyes gazing down at her. She could almost curse the artist’s talent, but one day—some far-distant day, if his image ever faded from her memory, she knew that she would greedily revere the perfection of the rendering. If only the flush of his skin was real, the light in his smile bestowed once more upon her!
He was looking down on her again, the curl she remembered so well falling defiantly over his forehead, his form looking so hearty and robust. She almost expected his hand to reach for her, for his smile to waver uncertainly as he asked her to dance a reel.
“Hewasa handsome fellow,” Lydia observed beside her.
“What?” Elizabeth jerked. Had she really stopped their little procession to gape at the portrait?
Lydia stuck her lip out as she gazed appraisingly upward. “A pity he never wore regimentals, for that would have made him nearly perfect.”
Elizabeth returned her eyes to his. “No,” she answered softly. “He was perfect just as he was.”
Porto, Portugal
Noronhawasstillpacinghis study like a caged tiger. Foolish girl! Every risk he had taken, every sacrifice, every leverage employed to ensure her station and keep her safe, and she had dashed all of it—all of it! —in one heedless night. Reckless, headstrong—
He whirled when a firm knock sounded at his study door. “What is it!?” he demanded.
The door opened slowly to reveal a glowering British officer. His peaked hat was tucked formally under his arm, and his shoulders glittered with gold braids and epaulets—marks of status Noronha well understood. The man’s badges of distinction and his sudden appearance in his home were singular enough, but Noronha swallowed hard when he recognised the face.
“Major—er, forgive me, Colonel Fitzwilliam! I had not anticipated the pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all yours, I assure you,” growled the younger man. Fitzwilliam slapped the door closed behind himself and advanced, as though the house and the study belonged to him rather than the reverse.
Noronha fell back, smoothing the front of his waistcoat and attempting to restore his dignity. “To what do I owe this visit by an old friend?”
The colonel’s brows rose. “Old friend, is it? I seem to recall being formally dis-invited from your home, dating over three years ago and extending henceforth. I have chosen to overlook your previous inhospitality, depending rather upon your good sense and the precarious situation in which you now find yourself.”
“You must know, of course, that the past was all a misunderstanding,” Noronha protested. “We always valued your friendship in your official capacity, and I am still indebted to you for the service you rendered Rodrigo on the field. I am afraid I came to believe at the time that your designs were of a more… personal nature. Well! I beg you would forgive me, for no harm came of it, after all.”
“No harm!” thundered the incensed officer. “I have just seen your daughter. Do you mean to tell me the bruises on her face are of no consequence? Did you always intend to sell her off to secure your position with Vasconcelos?”
“Now, hold a moment, Fitzwilliam! Do not be so hasty in your conclusions! Amália has not yet learned her place. I admit to some displeasure at her circumstances, but she brought it all upon herself!”
Fitzwilliam’s temper snapped. In one instant, he had cuffed the older man about the forearm and yanked him off his feet, so that Noronha fairly dangled from his grip and was left to kick and writhe helplessly beneath him. “Iwould have taken care of her!” he hissed. “She would never have come to harm, had you not interfered! And now look what your pains have bought you—your daughter is trapped with an abusive man, and your son’s very life is endangered!”
Noronha paled and ceased his struggling. His hands draped to the floor to catch himself, and with a contemptuous scowl, Fitzwilliam released him. “Ruy in danger? Why do you say that?”
“Was he, or was he not, ordered to the front lines by Vasconcelos as soon as my cousin’s release had been effected? Did you pause to wonder which officers are in Vasconcelos’ pocket and what measures they might employ to exact revenge?”
Noronha staggered to his feet, rubbing his arm self-consciously. He heaved a weary sigh and looked away, unable to meet the young colonel’s eyes.
“You knew of it!” Fitzwilliam accused. “You were a party to my cousin’s abduction! How long before you planned to have him murdered in truth? What was the price, Noronha?”
Noronha had wandered to his desk, wagging his head as if by willing himself not to hear, he could shake off the stinging truth of the colonel’s words. “It was not for myself,” he was muttering. “No, not for me!”
“Then for whom? Amália? Need I remind you how delighted she was with your efforts toward her?”
“You do not understand!” cried Noronha, spinning about. “Vasconcelos—Miguel—he always wanted her! I thought she would do well enough with him, but I was prepared to allow her to refuse him—and then things grew worse with the war. I had to make promises! I did not dare risk his displeasure, and I thought at least there, she would be secure. You remember how it was, Bonaparte was at our very doorstep! We pushed him back, thanks to Wellington, but Porto was nearly ruined. It is difficult, yes, to rebuild with little money.”
“So, you took a favour from Vasconcelos! How cheaply did you sell your daughter’s heart and my cousin’s life?”
