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Portia glanced at him over her shoulder as she reached the door. “Of course I will worry. I cannot help it.” She pinned him with a look. “I’m trusting you, Marcus. Do you understand just how much I am relying on you?”
He gave her a deep bow, and spoiled it by grinning. “Until we meet again, Lady Ellerslie.”
She opened the door and slipped through, closing it softly behind her.
Marcus barely
gave her scruples another thought. He was already considering the arrangements he had to make for their next meeting. It had to be soon. He was too impatient to wait, and there seemed no reason to do so.
When he thought enough time had elapsed since Portia departed, he followed, quickly losing himself in the crowd.
Arnold watched as Marcus Worthorne weaved his way through the thronging guests in the direction of the door. The arrogance of the man! It was only luck that had caused Arnold to pick up the note Portia had dropped at the opera and read it. Then, tonight, he’d noted her odd behavior when she’d greeted Mr. Marcus Worthorne. Arnold knew that if he hadn’t put those two facts together he would have been as ignorant as the rest of the onlookers here tonight, although he prided himself on his sharp wits. He had learned over the years to keep a close watch on those who might be of help to him when it came to his secret ambitions. And his pretty stepmama-in-law was currently at the top of his list.
It was amusing that Portia had always seemed beyond reproach when it came to matters of propriety, something that Lara found difficult to swallow. If Portia had been a foul-mouthed slut, then Lara might have found her more palatable. How did one fight perfection? And Lara, as he well knew, was far from perfect herself.
He had taken his wife to the Campaign Room on purpose, to see if he could catch Portia and her beau, but they had slipped into the anteroom. He’d thought about flinging open the door and exposing them in flagrante delicto, but on reflection decided it was probably best to leave them be. Lara would only make a terrible fuss, and Portia would be tarnished, possibly beyond repair.
Such a scene was better saved for another time, when it could be used to his advantage.
Arnold stood in the shadows and observed Portia playing the grand dame as if she was born to it. For someone of such lowly breeding—a parson’s daughter, egad!—she certainly had a way with her. One smile and the crustiest old soldier fell instantly in love with her. And she had captured the crustiest and oldest soldier of all and married him. Arnold had to admire her, even as he despised her.
His own family came from a long line of Englishmen whose blood was far bluer than that of the minor German aristocracy who now ruled Britain. The Gillinghams went back to the Normans and beyond—they were true Britons. They belonged. It was time the people of Britain were brought to understand just how wrong it was that their country was being destroyed by a never ending influx of foreigners. One had only to walk through the East End to see the seething mass of people who had no right to be here, no right at all.
It was not that he disliked other races. Not at all. They were perfectly fine as long as they stayed in their own countries. But England was for the English, and had to be kept that way.
The English race must remain pure. It was something his father had often said and written about, and when his father died, Arnold had taken up the challenge to make his dream a reality.
And his time was coming, he could feel it. Not long now until he had his chance to show the monarchy, the Parliament, and the people the error of their ways.
Chapter 10
Portia hurried along the platform at Waterloo Station, while Hettie came grumbling up the rear. Waterloo had only been open for a year or two and still wore the gloss of the new. Steam was rising from the stationary train, and passengers burdened with luggage, some with children in tow, hurried to find their seats, while uniformed porters wheeled baggage trolleys and looked officious. Their own porter, striding a few paces ahead, was leading them to the private first class carriage that Marcus had reserved.
She had read his letter of instructions until she knew every word by heart. Board the 9:09 train at Waterloo Station. Disembark at Little Tunley at 10:17. The train will stop for you only, and I will be waiting.
“Why didn’t you wear your veil?” Hettie tightened her grip on the picnic hamper as she tried to keep up. She had refused to allow the porter to take it from her, clutching it as if it were treasure. The contents of the hamper had been collected earlier from Fortnum and Mason’s, one of London’s famous food specialists, because Portia didn’t want questions being asked in her own kitchen as to why she was taking a picnic hamper on a visit to an old school friend.
“Everyone knows I am going on a train journey, Hettie. There is nothing wrong with that. I do not need to wear a disguise.”
“A place like this…the whole world and his dog are here…you never know who you might run into…” Hettie panted.
“That’s the whole point. If I act like I have something to hide, then everyone will assume I do,” Portia said. “But if I am going on a train journey for the whole world and his dog to see, then how can I be guilty of anything morally unacceptable?” She smiled as a group of elderly ladies turned to stare and whisper her name. “And nobody knows where I am going. I’ve told my mother and Deed that I am going to visit my friend, but our ticket says Southampton, and it will be assumed by anyone who sees us that I am traveling from there to the Isle of Wight, to Victoria’s residence, Osborne House, when actually we are disembarking before that at—”
“He has rehearsed you well! But I still do not like this, lieben,” Hettie said darkly. “You are risking so much for so little. What is he, after all? A nobody, a nothing.”
“Surely one day, even with a nobody and a nothing, is not too much to ask? A single day, when I give up so much of my life for the sake of others?” She sounded as if she was pleading with Hettie for understanding, but Portia knew it was really her own conscience she was attempting to pacify.
“This man…” Hettie puffed, not to be sidetracked. “You do not even know him. He could be anybody.”
“I thought he was ‘nobody.’”
Hettie humphed, or perhaps she had just run out of breath.
Portia was glad. She did not want to think negative thoughts. Now that she had her heart set on this special outing, she did not want anything to spoil it. No doubts, no what-ifs, no dire predictions. This was her day, and she meant to make the most of every minute of it.
The porter had reached their carriage and Portia climbed the three steps, holding her skirts up and negotiating the narrow doorway. Daringly, she had left off two of her petticoats today, and the dress itself was new; gray and white striped, with gathered flounces on the skirt and full, bell-shaped sleeves. She had also lately purchased a round wide-brimmed hat made of straw, and this seemed the perfect occasion to wear it. Besides, her tiny and elaborate parasol of black silk with red trim was far too small to keep the sun from her pale skin.
Or at least that was the excuse she used when Hettie cast her a look that seemed to Portia’s raw conscience to scream “frivolous.”
