The Education of Portia (24 page)

Harold Dent struggled to speak, to answer the questions fired at him. Ingram loosened
his grip ever so slightly.

"I tried, me lord," the older man gasped. "I tried many times over the years. Finally
could take it no more..."

"Have you proof? Servants' gossip? Teachers' suspicions? Letters? And what of
Caldwell Dent's betrothed--what does she say?" Ingram shook the man ferociously. "Tell the
truth, Dent. You have been extorting money from them over lies. They share no blood, but they
share a pure affection, as any of us with a sibling do. Nothing more. There are no servants' or
teachers' tales and Caldwell Dent's fiancée has no doubts of her gentleman's honour
because there is nothing shameful occurring and never has been."

He shook the man again. "Admit your lies."

Dent shook his head. Ingram released him disdainfully and watched as Dent clawed at
his neckcloth and straightened his waistcoat and his fustian coat.

"Tell the truth," Perrington said softly.

"I have, me lord," Dent croaked. "It's all God's truth."

Ingram fancied there was considerably less certitude now in the fellow's statement. "I'll
have the law on you for slander, if you continue with these lies," he said. Then without
hesitation, he lashed out with a right hook that Gentleman Jackson himself had deemed
punishing. Harold Dent went down, crashing and flailing, among the onlookers.

Ingram did not remain to see what injury he had inflicted but turned and, nodding to
those of his acquaintance, strode out of the Afrique Coffee-House and down St. James.

He nursed his grazed knuckles thoughtfully on his way back to Hill Street. He had
hardly noticed pain from them so intense had been the satisfaction of connecting them with the
jaw of Harold Dent. He supposed that his actions would not convince many of the
ton
of
Dent's falsity, but it was just possible he could turn the tide in favour of Miss Crossmichael.

For himself, he stoked his anger over her duplicity. He did not believe the substance of
the slander, but he could not overlook the falsifications and misrepresentations that he had
encountered from her. He could not decide if he was pleased that she was brought low, or heart
sick that she was defamed.

He strode into his house with relief and called for a bowl of water and a clean towel to
bathe his knuckles. The butler hurried off for his valet, and Ingram made his way to his study.
Affectionately he nudged the Ruffian, who lay tumbled on the hearthrug, with the toe of his
topboot. The hound muttered a greeting, but did not rise from the comfort of his place before the
fire.

While Ingram waited for his valet's attentions, he turned over the post on his desk. There
was another letter from his daughters. He broke the seal, swearing softly at the pain of his
damaged hand. Sabina had written the missive, but there was no doubt that Mel and Penny had
had a hand in the content. They again swore their devotion to their beloved schoolmistress. They
wanted to know the details of the problem facing her, they desired he solve all her difficulties,
they requested that he bring the Ruffian to defend her. They said that two of the pupils had been
withdrawn from the school; that someone said Mr. Dent had killed a man; that their portrait was
in danger of being unfinished; and that Gavrielle Montlucon had deliberately thrown ink at a girl
who had dared to question her mother's betrothal to Mr. Dent.

Unquestionably they needed him; their small world was in disarray.

He picked up another letter from his desk and read the direction, recognizing all too well
the hand that had inscribed it. He sat and, after a moment, reluctantly unfolded the crossed sheet
of paper. With displeasure, he read the missive from his parents-in-law in Lincolnshire. The
scandal had travelled quickly, and was even now bringing his mother-in-law low with her nerves
and fears. She demanded that he remove the girls from the den of iniquity in which he had placed
them. She had never understood the laxity of care, the lack of understanding which had allowed
him to place the girls in a school, especially a school so very close to London, far from all that
they knew and from their loving grandparents. The girls must be returned to Stadley Court; the
demand came from them both.

He stood suddenly, shaking off the doubts and indecisions. His daughters'
grandparents--particularly their grandmother--were one of the reasons he had brought them near London, to
Mansion House School. His mother-in-law was a damnable influence on them, and Miss Portia
Crossmichael, for all the faults of her sex, was a damned sight better inspiration for his
daughters.

He would visit Lanark, Ingram decided, and then he would go to Hornsey, and see what
he could do. But first his valet bustled in, all solicitous attention, bearing a steaming pan of
water, several cloths and a soothing preparation of his own devising. He had attended the
viscount many times after violent activity.

Ingram submitted to his ministrations, but said, "Hurry up, man. I've things to do."

"It appears that you have done quite enough, my lord," his servant replied.

Ingram could only laugh. "Not as yet, Turley, not as yet."

* * * *

When she was advised two days later, in the middle of her senior geography class that
the viscount was installed in her study, Portia was afflicted with a confusion of emotions. She
excused herself and hurried from the classroom. Delight, anxiety, and a wish for the right to cast
all her burdens on his broad shoulders assailed her as she travelled the corridors. She was
brought momentarily to a halt by the strength of the sensations.

She shook her head and continued on, pausing briefly in her bedchamber to straighten
her cap and tuck away the wayward strands of sandy hair that had escaped it. She spared herself
no more than a glance in the mirror. She did not need her reflection to tell her that if Lord
Stadbroke had found her plain previously, worry and weariness had done nothing to improve her
looks.

Gathering her courage in hand, she opened the door to her study with a gracious smile
pinned to her lips. It went unnoticed. The viscount was staring through the window at the
sleeping garden. As ever, his mere presence in the room brought an aura of style to it and an
echo of the
beau monde
in which he spent his days. He turned from the window slowly,
and he studied her from distant dark eyes with no vestige of warmth in his expression.

He nodded. "Miss Crossmichael."

"Lord Stadbroke," Portia inclined her head graciously, though she shivered with sudden
unease, her smile fading. "Please sit down."

"I prefer to stand."

"Very well." Really Melicent was very like him, The child had copied his chilling stare
to a nicety. Portia sat behind her desk, and took up a paper with no more reason than to keep her
hands busy.

"You have been keeping secrets, Miss Crossmichael."

"I must contradict you, my lord. I have been minding my own affairs, and conducting
my own business, with my brother's help."

"I am told Caldwell Dent is not your brother, but your step-brother."

"I have never made a secret of that fact. Caldwell is, to all practical intents and purposes,
my brother, though we do not share blood. Your informant, whoever he is--"

"My informant, ma'am, was Mr. Harold. Mr. Harold Dent, whom I saw here at your
school, when I was told that he was the local butcher. I met him again at the Afrique
Coffee-House a day or two ago. I take it unkindly that you lied to me, Miss Crossmichael."

Portia viewed him through the fiery mist of a mounting rage. It wanted only this, this
attack on her character and judgement, to set a seal on her humiliation and her ruin. "I kept no
secret from you, my lord, that it was your business to know. I did not confide in you because I
scarcely know you. And I had right on my side. My step-father's charges were ridiculous. Even
had I a
tendre
for any male in the vicinity, had I ever wished to indulge an
affaire de
coeur
, I should not choose to do so in an establishment overrun with thirty young ladies,
five mistresses and masters, and a large contingent of household staff. And who, after all, would
wish to indulge in a romantic liaison with me?" The words escaped her drenched in bitterness,
their single kiss possessing her memory.

His anger seemed suddenly to dissipate, and he smiled at her more warmly. "I expect
you might be surprised. There is no one for whom love is an impossibility. Remember that,
Portia."

Despite her relief that his anger was gone, she could not permit his familiarity. "I gave
you no permission to use my name, my lord. You have done so before, and I have never given
you leave."

"I did not ask for leave," he reminded her. "For I know you would not give it. Now tell
me, if you will, why Caldwell's father wishes to destroy his own son, and you, so thoroughly.
Perhaps I may be of some assistance." His cold reticence had warmed to something approaching
kindness.

"There is no mystery about it. It is a simple greed, a vice well known to many. When we
were his children--one by blood, one by marriage--we did not feel his benevolence as we
deserved; now we are successful adults he feels we owe him for our prosperity.

"His charges of immorality are lies. I will not close my school because there is no
impropriety here. In fact, my step-brother is affianced to Mme. Montlucon." To her dismay,
Portia felt tears well in her eyes. She stared down at her desk at the
chatelaine
which lay
there, willing the salted drops not to fall. "I was able, with a small legacy which could not be
subverted by my stepfather, to buy this establishment. It is my life; even if I was an immoral and
dishonest person, I would not jeopardize it."

Despite her best efforts, a tear splashed onto her history notes; she watched with a cold
detachment as the ink spread and spoiled the page.

She felt rather than saw him move. She found him beside her, and was drawn up, into
his arms. Her cheek pressed--as in her wildest dreams--against a satisfyingly broad and
supportive shoulder.

Unlike her dreams, she did not take advantage of his comfort. She allowed herself no
more tears and only a moment's respite in his embrace. With a startled horror, and a sickening
clarity, she realized that she loved him. Not with an inexperienced infatuation or an immature
fascination, but with a womanly depth that embraced his daughters, his faults, his past and his
future. And there was no complication that she welcomed less in her life at that moment.

With rigid control, she schooled her voice, and after a moment met his dark gaze. "I
thank you for your concern, and I regret that my problems have impinged upon your life. I can
assure you that your daughters are safe--in every way--here, but that if you feel it necessary to
remove them, I will understand."

There was something of both pity and respect in his face. "My girls will stay, Miss
Crossmichael. You have been, I think, the object of a contemptible design. I understand Mr.
Harold Dent has left London."

His slight smile coaxed an answering glimmer from her, but Portia could find no
comfort in his words. If Dent had disappeared it would only be to wreak more havoc. A cold
chill crept up her spine. Surely he would not return to The Three Compasses, the inn in Hornsey.
She should tell Stadbroke of Melicent's incursion into covert observation. She opened her mouth
to do so, but was interrupted.

"I have an idea that it would be politic for you, and possibly your step-brother and his
betrothed to be seen in London," the viscount said. "You have nothing to hide, therefore you
need not hide. I urge you to attend at Lady Dartington's
salon
this month without fail,
and I shall see what I can procure in the nature of invitations for you."

"I cannot!" Portia panicked. "Students have already been withdrawn, Lord Stadbroke. I
confess I cannot face the cuts direct, the sneers..."

"You must. And I can tell you there is a deal of sympathy abroad for you."

"It will not last. I know the
ton
too well, my lord."

"You said you had had a season. When?"

His directness and her abasement of spirit conspired to reveal her past again. Before she
considered concealment, she said, "Eleven years ago I was a poor relation. I experienced all the
embarrassment of that position and all the humiliation of possessing no attraction for the
opposite sex."

The viscount's face was unreadable. "Did we meet? My wife and I were not often in
London then."

She wondered if he was calculating years and dates. There was no point in adding more
lies to her sins. "You and Lady Stadbroke were enjoying that season. I was introduced to you
both. In fact, I envied you with all my heart. She was so lovely, and you looked so happy."

He seemed to remember then, but his memories appeared to give him no pleasure.
"Appearances can so deceive. I was concerned over leaving Sabina--little more than an infant--in
Lincolnshire, and Eunice was furious for she had just been told she was
enceinte
again."
He gestured rather impatiently. "I do not recall our meeting; I'm sorry."

"Oh, enough of that; it is of no consequence," Portia said. "I do not wish you to take the
trouble as to secure my re-entry to society, my lord. In fact, I expected your anger, but not your
consideration."

"Have I been so very difficult then, Portia?" He seemed still to be recollecting the
past.

Yes
, she thought, but gave no voice to the word. "Unpredictable and
understandably protective of your daughters, I should have rather said, my lord." A knock
sounded and she forced herself to walk calmly to the door.

The three Perrington sisters tumbled in as she opened it. She watched them swarm over
their parent in delight.

"Mith, Papa will know what to do." Penny assured her from a perch in her father's arms.
"Did you bring Ruff, Papa? He would protect Mith Crossmichael."