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“Oh dear,” Hettie said, but continued to undress her, finally tucking her into her bed. “I’m sure once they see it really is over they will leave you be.”
Portia closed her eyes, and after a moment the light dimmed and Hettie left her.
It really is over.
The words echoed in her head. She felt as if she had lost a part of herself. Marcus is gone forever. There was a sort of grief tearing her at insides, making her want to scream. With a cry, she turned over and pressed her face into her pillow, muffling the sounds coming from her throat. At last, exhausted, she fell into sleep.
Arnold could see that Lara was full of grim self-righteousness. He left her to enjoy it, and going to the table, poured himself a large brandy. Portia always kept the best brandy, just like her late husband, unlike the shoddy stuff Lara thought would do.
The affair with Marcus Worthorne had come to light much sooner than he would have liked, but he was confident they could keep it under wraps. At least for now. In fact it was imperative they do so, because of his own plans. He needed Portia to remain on good terms with the queen so he could use her to get close.
Poor Portia. That defiant, guilty look in her eyes. Her stubborn determination to deny all. She really was a magnificent woman. Still, he had no time to admire her. She was a tool to be used in his plot to kill the queen. Arnold did not experience emotional attachment—he did not allow himself to do so. He had given his life to his vocation, to his father’s dreams of an England for the English, and win or fail, he would never be diverted from that road.
Chapter 20
Marcus had no intention of respecting Portia’s decision. But there were th
ings he had to do, and he wanted her to suffer for a little while at least. Before he acted, he wanted her to understand just how much she wanted and needed him, and, more important, to regret turning down his proposal.
So one week went by and then two, and though he felt as if he couldn’t wait any longer, he did. He waited.
A few times he went up to Duval Hall, to oversee the repair of the window and the hiring of men to work on repairing the dikes and draining the land. Any money Uncle Roger may have had was spent before he died, but Marcus had a little of his own, left to him by his father, which he had invested quite sensibly. He wasn’t as feckless as Sebastian believed.
So he worked and he planned and he waited.
“Are you still interested in Lady Ellerslie, Marcus?”
Francesca’s bright voice brought him back from mulling over his bacon and eggs and coffee. He gave her a bleary look. Last night he had been out with some of his old comrades from the Hussars, which meant plenty of drink and dancers.
One of the dancers, he recalled, had been a sweet-faced woman with blue eyes and a rather engaging laugh…He sat up. Had he taken her to bed? Marcus grappled with his illusive memory. No, he thought, relieved. No, he hadn’t. He remembered now. He’d bored the poor girl to tears with his declarations that there was only one woman in the world for him.
“Marcus!”
He jumped.
“I was speaking to you.”
Marcus blinked. “What were you saying?”
She looked at him in despair. “I said, one of them goes everywhere with her. It’s very odd. In fact it has been remarked upon. There were some of those scandalous little broadsheets being sold on the street corners yesterday. I kept one to show you.”
She was on her feet, rummaging about in a drawer, and then handed him a dubious looking sheet of paper. His eye was caught by a rather good cartoon, although the ink had smudged.
He peered at it more closely.
A blond woman with a pained and haughty expression stood in a drawing room, while a man and a woman in police uniforms were handcuffed to either side of her. He recognized that woman’s large nose and the man’s flop of hair. It was meant to be Lara and Arnold Gillingham. And there, seated on her throne behind them, was the plump little queen, her chin resting on her hand as she gazed pensively at a portrait of the late Lord Ellerslie.
“Read it,” said Francesca impatiently.
“‘The prisoner is here to see you, Your Majesty./ Good, good, not enjoying herself too much, I trust?/No fear of that, Your Majesty.’” Marcus blinked. “What is this? Good Lord, I said something like that!”
“They go with her everywhere—the Gillinghams, I mean. Perhaps she’s ill. I thought you might know.”
“I don’t, but perhaps they do,” Marcus murmured.
Suddenly he could feel the blood begin to pound through his veins, as if his determination, in limbo for weeks now, had returned to life. He straightened in his chair, staring about him, while Francesca observed him with amused concern.
“Where’s Seb?”
