The Education of Portia (25 page)

"She doesn't need protecting from physical danger, silly." Melicent said. "She needs
help to convince society of her...her innocence."

"Papa, you must be able to influence people. Whatever is being said about our school, it
is not true. You must stop them." Sabina was pretty in her earnestness.

"I have accomplished some things already, my dears." He patted Penelope's back
reassuringly, and winced.

Portia acquitted him of consciously drawing attention to his strong hands. Nevertheless
his action had that result, and they all stared at his grazed and split knuckles.

"Papa!" The girls exclaimed with one voice.

"My lord?" Portia questioned more slowly.

Stadbroke set the child on her feet and put his hands behind his back with a reflexive,
youthful gesture. "I will only say that Mr. Harold Dent is not so keen now to spread his poison,
ma'am."

"Good heavens," Portia said. She found herself at a loss to say more and felt an urgent
desire to be alone. "I shall order tea to be sent up. You are at liberty to make yourself at home in
my study here. Good day." She whisked herself out of the room before he or the girls could say
another word.

After a brief word to the porter, she sped up the stairs to the haven of her own chamber
completely forgetful of her geography class.

* * * *

Ingram wondered, as he dressed with his valet's assistance for a rout at the home of his
friend Lanark, if the
ton
would attend the event. He hoped so, for the evening had been
arranged by them all particularly for the benefit of the Mansion House School.

Portia Crossmichael would be in attendance; she had assured Lady Dorothea of it. Her
step-brother and his intended had also been invited, and everything possible had been done to
ensure an influential gathering.

Lady Dorothea had taken up his idea of Miss Crossmichael's entry into society eagerly,
so certain was she that an injustice was being done. When he had revealed Portia's family
history, the Lanarks had been confident of success knowing, as he did, that noble connections
counted for more than virtue with the
beau monde
. They were as determined as he to
right the incipient wrong, and their good opinion, they had assured him, would be broadcast to
all their acquaintance.

Stadbroke could only be glad of it. Though he could not highly esteem her--for had she
not deceived him once more?--he did believe that Portia deserved nothing of the calumny and
ignominy of her stepfather's insinuations. And Caldwell Dent was too talented an artist to allow
petty greed to tarnish his chances. Ingram told himself that it was common justice that excited
his concern, and that he would have been as busy about helping anyone of his acquaintance so
persecuted. But he could not be free of a niggling apprehension that there was more to his
interference in Miss Crossmichael's affairs.

He thanked and dismissed his valet after that worthy spread his evening cloak over his
shoulders and handed him his
chapeau-bras
. Clattering down the stairs, he spared a nod
for his footman, waved aside his butler and let himself out into the street.

Deep in thought, he set out to walk to Lanark's townhouse. He had been surprised to
learn of Portia's background, though she had told him before of her connection with Auchterader.
As he recalled, the earl was stiff-necked, opinionated and self-righteous, hardly an ideal relation.
It bothered him that he could not remember meeting Portia during her self-described disastrous
season. But he certainly had not had the energy to take note of every uncertain female during that
season; his marriage had been in disarray and his attention scattered. He sighed, remembering it,
for that had been only the beginning of his marital challenges.

The short stroll to Brook Street was not long enough to examine all the failings of his
life with his late wife, so Ingram cast off his unaccustomed introspection. The autumn air, though
too much touched by the smoke of thousands of coal fires, was refreshing. Taking a deep breath,
he focussed on the trials of the moment. He would be better occupied, he decided, in devising a
strategy for the evening ahead than dwelling on the past. He neared the Lanarks' home with a
plan taking shape.

A throng of carriages told of a good attendance in answer to the invitations sent out for
the rout. Ingram greeted various of his acquaintances as he made his way with the aristocratic
crowd to his friends' entry hall and finally to their drawing room. He spied the Mottinghams, the
Dartingtons, and Lady Jersey as he traversed the corridors. It appeared that the curious, the
skeptics and the sympathetic supporters of Mansion House, were all present.

Lord Francis and Lady Dora were greeting their guests at the salon's open door and their
meaningful looks advised him the evening looked to be a success. "We have a good beginning to
our campaign," Lanark said to him in an undertone. "And Lady Dartington is emphasizing her
soiree
next week, ensuring that everyone knows Miss Crossmichael will attend."

"Miss Crossmichael will be indebted to you for your efforts," Ingram said, adding his
own thanks. After bowing over his hostess' hand, he entered the brightly candle-lit chamber and
prepared to act as Miss Crossmichael's champion. As he stepped across the threshold, Portia
drew his eye. She was in the company of two or three society matrons and she seemed relaxed
and at ease.

A closer look showed a tension in her slender body, and slight shadows under her wide
eyes. The pains she had obviously taken with her appearance had yielded a good effect, he
thought critically. She looked handsome and arresting in a gown of deep rich green, with a twist
of green silk containing her abundant hair and a pearl necklace about her long, graceful neck.
Her slender height made her impossible to ignore, and the intelligence that gleamed through her
hard-won composure touched his heart.

He hardened that annoying organ. His first instinct had been to cross the chamber
directly to her side. He was chagrined, however, to discover that she did not require his
immediate assistance, but appeared to be charming and positively influencing the company
without his support. So instead he wandering from group to group, testing the temper of the
glittering gathering, putting in a word here and an idea there. He diverted murmurs of displeasure
with good humour and circumvented suggestions of gossip with politely worded facts. He
informed everyone with whom he spoke that he had three daughters in attendance at the Mansion
House Establishment and that he had no doubts of the integrity of the place. For good measure,
he talked about the portrait that Dent was undertaking for him, and his admiration for the artist's
work.

At last he saw that his friend Lanark had left his post at the door and stood with
Caldwell Dent in a nearby alcove. He threaded his way through the crowd to them and greeted
both men with casual warmth.

"I am glad to see you here," he said to Dent. "And I am indebted to you," he reaffirmed
his thanks to Lanark, "for taking up my suggestion so thoroughly."

"We cannot like injustice. And Dorothea has a strong distaste for gossip. Besides which,
as you know, she wishes our daughters to have the excellent education that Miss Crossmichael
offers, so our motives are not without self-interest." Their host invited their smiles and was the
recipient of them.

"Is Madame with you?" Ingram asked Dent, glancing about the impressive throng
flowing about the silk-hung chamber.

"She is. Her daughter was indisposed and she feared she might have to forego her
attendance but Gavrielle was quite as insistent as anyone that her mother attend. I am thankful
for it. Heloise's presence is a great support to us both."

"Well, I would have understood her decision had she remained with her daughter. After
all, I made a similar one when my girls were ill." He grinned at his companions and said with a
dis-ingenuous air, "I wonder what society would think of my sojourn at Mansion House? Perhaps
I should put my stay into the public realm and let them make of it what they would."

He watched for Lanark's quirked brow and was not disappointed. Dent looked appalled
and then recognized the jest.

"That indeed would be helpful," Lord Francis said with his dry humour. "Confuse the
issue and supply the detractors with more ammunition."

"They might see the nonsensical nature of their suspicions." Ingram echoed the
statement that Portia had made to him days earlier. "As if any sane person would conduct an
amour
in a residence full of schoolgirls, well or unwell. What can they be thinking?"
Surveying the company as they talked, he watched carefully for signs of slights or insults. He
was glad to see that Heloise Montlucon was now at Portia's side. They were conversing with an
air of ease, and were shortly accosted by a couple Ingram vaguely recognized but could not
name.

Caldwell Dent, watching his betrothed, roused to respond to Ingram's words. "They are
not thinking, and it galls me to see Portia treated so badly. She has been the mainstay of my life,
and I could never think of her in the way that is imputed."

Stadbroke caught himself, just before he said, "I could." He fell silent, startled by his
own thoughts. He could, he realized. He could imagine Portia, warm with desire, pliant with
longing, in his arms. He could envision that soft mane of hair in his hands, against his skin, and
that wide, mobile mouth hot on his.

He cleared his throat and thrust away his thoughts. "Of course not. Anyone can see that
your relationship is familial; there is no consciousness in your interaction." He was very much
afraid that there would be such awareness in his own future dealings with Portia...Miss
Crossmichael.

It was sometime later that he forced himself to cross the room to her side when she
stood momentarily alone. Dent had recovered his fiancée and the company was
chattering happily, all sense of discord and disapprobation eliminated.

Discomfited by his own earlier wayward thoughts, he was conscious of awkwardness as
he greeted Miss Crossmichael. "I am happy to see you here. Has the opportunity to mingle with
the
ton
helped, do you think?" He cursed his own stilted formality.

She regarded him with those clear grey eyes that had first intrigued him. He had the
notion that she could see his discomfiture, and know his salacious thoughts. But she said merely,
"It may have. I am very grateful that you prevailed upon Lord Francis and Lady Dora to invite
my step-brother and Heloise as well as me. I rely on them so much." Her smile was
self-deprecating.

"I think you have had to rely too much upon yourself. You have many friends here, not
least our hosts."

"Lady Dora is a delightful person; I admire her greatly. I understand she has experienced
tragedy and she shows great strength of character." Portia's praise of her hostess was
transparently genuine.

Stadbroke brushed aside a desire to have her think so highly of him. Instead he voiced
his own accolade. "To win through privation and tribulation to success and satisfaction requires
an equal or superior strength of will. I think you have won over all your detractors." He forgot
his discomposure in sincerity.

"I think there are many of those who are not present here tonight. But we have made
some progress I believe, and I cannot thank you enough--"

He brushed aside her gratitude. "Do not thank me." "How are my girls this week?"

"Happy and working hard. And making elaborate plans to scotch all gossip and prevent
further withdrawals. They are wonderful children." Portia's eyes softened at the thought of the
Perrington sisters' anxiety on her behalf, and their pursuit of justice.

"They are indeed. I had come to take them for granted, you know. Their decision to
attend at your school has brought home to me how much I rely upon their presence in my
life--how much I have missed them these past two years." He was silent, thinking about the girls' visit
to the Hill Street house, how their laughter and their chatter had enlivened it, how their
companionship had made his social activities seem empty and profitless. He cleared his throat
and met her questioning regard. "You should know that my late wife's parents are themselves
importuning me to remove the girls from your... 'Decadent sphere', I believe they phrased
it."

He watched, fascinated, as a blush of colour stained her cheeks and a spark of anger lit
in her pellucid eyes. "I have never in my life had opportunity for decadence. You may assure
them of that. I should not like ever to have occasion to experience it!"

"Oh, yes, you would," he said unforgivably. He would have withdrawn the words if he
could, when a wash of revealing colour flooded her cheeks. But he found himself compounding
his transgression. "I mean you would enjoy dissipation and self-indulgence as much as the next
person...at least the sensual."

Her grey gaze grew positively wintry. "You, my lord, can have no knowledge of what I
might or might not enjoy." She turned away a little. "And to speak so when I am trying to
overcome just such salacious rumours borders on the monumentally insensitive."

"You are undoubtedly correct. But you have no high opinion of my sensitivity anyway,"
Ingram said. He remembered her warm and responsive to his kiss; it had revealed a well-hidden,
passionate nature. "And I have a little knowledge of what you enjoy," he added just loud enough
for her alone to hear.

She turned away, indignation in her every movement, to greet a lady and gentleman
whom Lord Francis was bringing to her notice.

Ingram knew she had heard him. A stiffening of her slender back told him so. It was
despicable of him to tease her, he was well aware of it. He laughed quietly, aware of a new
challenge in his life.

"My father seems to have disappeared. From all I can determine he abandoned the
Afrique after his confrontation with Lord Stadbroke. And he has not visited The Three
Compasses since the newspaper advertisement appeared." Caldwell Dent, teacup in hand,
wandered to the terrace doors of Portia's study.