Page 23 of At His Lady’s Command

“We are very grateful for your kindness and hospitality,” said Randall, bowing.

“Anytime, Captain. Now, I shall fetch your maid, and you can be on your way back to prison.”

Portia’s shoulders slumped as Madeline hurried away. “I don’t want to go.”

“Neither do I.”

But they didn’t dare say another word, not with Marie’s imminent return. When her maid arrived in a flurry of skirts and cake crumbs, they did indeed trudge out the front door and down the steps like condemned men marching to Newgate. At least it was still cool and overcast outside, and hadn’t started raining.

“Denham, you filthy bastard! Abducting my sister!”

Horrified at the barked insult, Portia turned to see her brother advancing on them, his fists clenched, with eight footmen in support. “Halstead! How dare you—”

“Whore.”

Randall snarled, and she just managed to halt a murder in Manchester Square by placing a restraining hand on her lover’s arm.

“Not in public, Halstead,” Portia hissed. “At Butler House. We’ll see you there.”

Her brother glared at her. “I think not. You’ll come with me. Denham may go straight to hell.”

“I beg your pardon?” Randall bit out.

Halstead smiled cruelly. “You’re dismissed. Without pay or reference. And you, my dear sister, have a wedding to prepare for. If you decline my selection in a husband, I will have your orphanage closed tomorrow and commit you to Bedlam, until you are more amiable. We have been far too soft, I see that now.”

Ice slithered down her spine. Another revolting power that men held—locking away troublesome women as ‘mad’. “No. I won’t…”

Halstead motioned to his footmen, and two grabbed her arms. When she landed a solid kick to her brother’s shin, he ordered the footmen to take her to his carriage. Randall leaped forward, obviously intending to snatch her back, and the remaining six footmen attacked him.

“Portia!” he roared, as he deflected punch after punch. “Portia!”

“Randall!” she screamed, struggling violently against her captors. But they shoved her into the carriage, and when at last Randall fell and the footmen left him in a bleeding, crumpled heap, she could only pound on the window in despair as the carriage sped away.

Halstead had won. Again.

Chapter 6

Randall had sworn never again to do a deal with the devil, because the cost was too high.

Yet for a chance of heaven with Portia, he would slay any beast, complete any quest, travel to the ends of the earth…or put his pride in his pocket along with decades of sorrow and hurt, anger and loathing, and ask his father for help. Because she was worth it, and more. The way she’d held him, raged for him, shown that at his most broken she wouldn’t forsake or belittle but comfort and bolster…there would never be another woman for him. Not ever.

Gritting his teeth, he approached the imposing St. James’s Square townhouse and rapped on the polished brass knocker. Shortly afterward the door opened to reveal an immaculately dressed, silver-haired butler, who momentarily lost his composure and gaped.

Randall winced. He did look a fright, despite the Dares’ best efforts to clean him up. A swollen eye, cut and bruised face, and torn jacket was never the ideal way to present oneself at a duke’s door. “Er…good afternoon. I am—”

“Captain Denham,” said the butler, bowing low. “Please do come in, sir. You are most welcome.”

Startled, he followed the older man into the vast and ridiculously lavish entrance hall. “What is your name? And how do you know who I am?”

“I am Keith, sir. Because of His Grace’s portraits. May I offer tea or something stronger? Do you require a physician? A constable?”

Randall frowned. Portraits? “Tea would be welcome. Thank you.”

“At once, sir. If you would wait in the library while I inform His Grace? He…he will be so delighted to see you.”

That remained to be seen, but Randall followed the butler across the entrance hall and down a painting-lined hallway to the ducal library. It fitted Fairfield’s persona, with dark paneled wood, leather-bound books, burgundy walls, and thick Aubusson rugs on the floor. Elegantly intimidating, expensive and heartless.

Yet…perhaps not entirely. For behind an oversized oak desk piled high with papers, were the portraits Keith had been referring to.