A Touch of Passion (24 page)

Suddenly he felt like he was suffocating. He raced to the window and flung it wide, taking large gulps of air.

He thought of all the time he’d wasted sailing home with her. He kicked himself for all the nights of not having her in his bed to kiss and hold and love …
Bloody fool. Idiot.
He could never get that time back.

“She’s not dead yet, Blackwood. Have faith. She’s strong and she’s a fighter.”

Maitland stood in the doorway. His eyes were still a bit glassy, but he was making sense.

“How much did she drink?” Grayson tensed, waiting for his reply.

“A fair amount, but not as much as Arend. She didn’t want to be too tipsy, as she was waiting for you to return.” Maitland checked Portia’s pulse. “Her heartbeat is strong. It would have been getting weaker by now if she were in real trouble.”

Grayson’s tight muscles eased slightly. “Once Arend wakes, we need to move her somewhere safe. Weston’s dead. I’m not letting our villain take another shot at her—at us.”

“God damn it. We got careless. I should have thought about poison. It’s a woman’s tool of dark deeds.”

They looked at each other.

“She was here. She came personally,” Grayson cried. “Look after Portia while I look around.” He ran down the corridor to the rooms where the married couple was supposedly lodging. With no niceties he kicked in the door. The room was empty.

Why hadn’t he followed up on his hunch? Even their driver had thought the couple, with their maid, looked suspicious. This was his fault. He sank to the floor and lowered his head to his hands. If she died … he didn’t know if he could go on. Tears fell. Portia was right—regrets hurt more than loss. Regrets about wasted moments, about missed opportunities to share his heart with her. If he got a second chance …

He rose to his feet and went downstairs to make inquiries. As he had thought, the couple had left half an hour ago.

He made his way back upstairs to find Arend slowly coming around, but Portia still lay like Sleeping Beauty, only the shallow rise and fall of her chest any indication she was still alive.

He sat next to her, willing her to live. He bent and placed a kiss on her lips. “Fight for me, beautiful,” he whispered. “I love you so much. Come back to me.”

He sat by her side talking to her for the rest of the night.

As the sun rose, Arend entered and gave him coffee to drink. “I think we should head to Dorset to Christian’s home and regroup. We will be altogether safer there, and thanks to you we have a name to trace.”

Grayson tried to make sense of his jumbled, tired thoughts. “We have more than that. The driver got a good look at the three of them. We have a description.”

Portia woke to a throbbing head and a parched throat. The effort of opening her eyes made nausea roll in her stomach.

She stilled and listened to the sounds around her. She heard soft feminine voices and the rustle of thread being pulled. Someone was doing embroidery.

The bed beneath her body was soft and warm, and she struggled to remember where she was. The last thing she remembered was the coaching inn on the road to London, but this bed was not in a coaching inn.

She’d obviously fallen ill, but she couldn’t remember. She frowned and then groaned, for even frowning hurt. She
had
been through a lot recently. Maybe her body was telling her it was time to rest.

Rest, yes. She wanted to sink back into sleep, but a sudden need for the necessary saw her force her eyes open, and she willed her stomach to stop swirling.

“Look, Serena, I think someone is finally awake.”

She saw two women rise to their feet and move to her bedside. She recognized one of them as Beatrice Hennessey, a woman who’d made her debut the same year as Portia, and like Portia she remained unmarried. What was she doing here?

“She’ll want something to drink.” A fair-haired younger woman poured something into a glass, making Portia moan at the sound. She
really
needed the necessary.

She ran her tongue over her dried lips and managed to croak out through her dry throat, “Necessary.”

With no embarrassment on their part the ladies sourced a pot and helped her so that she needn’t get out of bed. She flashed back to her illness at sixteen and remembered how much she hated being dependent on others. Dignity and pride were useless bedmates when ill.

Once the two ladies had her tidied, the fair-haired lady Portia did not recognize helped her drink a weak lukewarm tea. It tasted wonderful. “I suspect you’d like a wash and clean nightwear,” she added with a warm smile. As she turned away, Portia noticed that the young woman was with child.

Portia needed to know who the young woman was and what this place was. “Thank you. I’m sorry, but while I know Miss Beatrice, I don’t know your …” That was all Portia managed before the nausea forced her to close her mouth.

“I’m Serena. I’m married to Christian Trent, Earl of Markham.” She smiled reassuringly. “You’re at Henslowe Court, his estate in Dorset. Don’t try to talk—Beatrice will fill in all the details while I go and give the good news to the men. They have been very worried.”

Beatrice sat on the bed and took her hand while Serena quietly stepped out, closing the door behind her. However, Portia wanted to see Grayson, for she knew he would be beside himself with worry. The thought of his pain made her shiver.

“I need to see Lord Blackwood. He will be worried,” she begged, her voice stronger now that she had sipped her tea.

Beatrice patted her hand. “I thought you’d want to know what has happened first.”

“I have fallen ill, obviously. I can’t seem to recall when it happened. Since my childhood illness my lungs are not as strong as they should be.”

Beatrice lost her smile. “You have not had a lung fever. Can you not remember? You were drugged at the coaching inn. It seems the enemy struck, killing Weston and drugging you, Arend, and Maitland. Only Grayson escaped that fate by leaving to check on the drivers.”

Her heart leaped into her chest. “Are they all right?”

“Yes, the gentlemen and the drivers are all fine. The gentlemen are downstairs and will be very pleased to learn you are awake, albeit a little worse for wear.”

A sigh of relief raced through her tired body. “Thank God. Can you tell Grayson I need to talk with him?” she said again. “I bet he’s been beside himself with worry.”

Beatrice looked away. “He’s not here, Portia. He’s gone to London to start the search for Madam DePalma.” Seeing Portia’s confusion, she added, “Weston gave up the woman’s name to Grayson just before he died.” She hesitated, and a flash of pity crossed her pretty features. “He wanted to start tracing her as soon as possible. She’s still a danger to all of us. With Arend and Maitland still a bit groggy, he felt it was up to him. Hadley went with him. He’s not alone.”

A slight tremor of fear slid through Portia’s veins. Was that the real reason he had left, or was it because she had been lying ill in bed. “How badly was I affected? Did Grayson know I’d wake up and that I would be fine?”

Beatrice bit her lip. “He … we … the doctor …”

“In other words, no.”

“The doctor told us he had no idea if you’d live or die from the overdose, because no one knew how much of the brandy you’d drunk. You are smaller than the men.”

She closed her eyes, hoping to stop the tears. Grayson had run from her. There was no doubt in her mind. He couldn’t face someone else dying. What would this have done to the progress she had made, that they had made? She’d wager her cider business that his heart had closed up, as if he were trapped in a dark cave after a rockfall.

“You need to get a message to him, telling him I’m fine, as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure Serena has already penned a note and sent it.” Beatrice wiped a tear from Portia’s cheek. “Shall I help get you tidied up for company? The gentlemen will want to see that you are well.”

Portia sniffed back more tears and sighed. She nodded and decided there was nothing she could do but wait for Grayson to come to Dorset. Only then would she learn how much damage had been done.

“I’m sorry, Beatrice, but in all the confusion I haven’t asked: what are you doing here?”

Beatrice’s whole face lit up and happiness beamed from her eyes. “I’m married to Sebastian Hawkestone, Marquis of Coldhurst.” At Portia’s startled gaze she added, “And I couldn’t be happier.”

“But I heard …”

“No. Sebastian didn’t kill my brother. It was her.”

“Our villainess?”

Beatrice nodded. “When you’re feeling better I shall explain everything. For now, let’s get you presentable, as I suspect visitors will descend upon us shortly.”

Grayson was in his study, downing his second bottle of brandy. He was completely sloshed, yet he still could not rid his mind of the image of Portia lying like a fallen statue of a Greek goddess, still and pale, on the bed at Henslowe Court.

He’d tried to stay with her, but he’d felt as if he were suffocating. If she lived, he would see her again. If she died … he couldn’t begin to think what he would do if she died, save hunt down the bitch who had hurt Portia and kill her with his bare hands.

He’d headed to London, hell-bent on learning their enemy’s identity. The very first thing he did upon arriving there was to get word out that he would pay one thousand guineas to anyone who gave him information about a woman called Madam DePalma.

This afternoon he’d struck gold. Today a woman named Gina, the madam of one of the gentlemen’s clubs the Libertine Scholars often frequented, had asked for a meeting. She had worked under Madam DePalma as her maid, she said, when the woman ran a brothel. To his surprise, Grayson learned that DePalma’s house had catered to sodomites—men wanting sex with men.

That put them at a disadvantage. The Libertine Scholars knew the brothels of London very well, but not those catering to men who liked sex with other men. It had never been something that any of them had wanted to try. Women were their partners of choice. He didn’t care what other men got up to, as long as no one got hurt. They didn’t have anyone in that sphere who owed them favors or whom they could seduce for information.

Gina told him that no one had known where DePalma came from. One day she’d bought the house and set up her underground brothel. Then, several years later, DePalma disappeared one night and never returned. Many thought one of her rivals had slit her throat and thrown her in the Thames.

So, a dead end.

Only DePalma wasn’t dead.

Why had she suddenly left, and where had she gone?

Lost in dreams of finding her and exacting vengeance, he was startled by the door slamming open. Hadley strode to his side, and gave him a look when he caught sight of the brandy bottles.

“Portia has woken up, no worse for her ordeal. She is asking where you are.”

Grayson closed his eyes and thanked God. For the first time in six days his muscles eased.

“Did you hear me?”

Grayson nodded.

“Then you should ride for Dorset. I can follow up the leads we have found here.”

He barked a harsh laugh. “What leads? We are no further ahead. DePalma’s a ghost.”

“We haven’t even really begun our search. We were looking in the wrong place. Now that we know what sort of world she lived within, we can direct our search elsewhere.”

“Sodomites don’t generally advertise their identities, especially if they are in the upper echelons of society. Who is going to be brave enough to come forward and provide information?”

Hadley plopped onto the chair next to him and held out his glass. Grayson obliged. “Ten years ago a rent boy would have been aged anywhere from twelve years old through to twenty. I’m sure there are plenty of them still alive and looking for a big payment. If we splash money around, someone is bound to come calling.”

“Something tells me De Palma didn’t disappear in a manner that left a trail. She would not be stupid enough to share where she was going with one of her rent boys.”

Hadley raised his glass in mock salute. “True, but I’d wager one of her employees kept an ear to the ground, listening and learning, hoping for a payout of some sort in the future. We all know knowledge is power.”

Grayson had to agree with Hadley’s summation. “So, know any rent boys?” he asked with a smile.

“Not my fancy, I’m afraid. I suggest we have a night out and visit with the other side for a change.”

“No one’s going to believe two of the Libertine Scholars have decided to switch sides.”

Hadley laughed. “Probably not. The only one they might consider is Arend.”

“Society suspects him of many things, but using rent boys?”

“He’s more believable than you or I. Besides, society would love to suspect he plays on both sides. We could accompany him using the cover that he’s introducing us to even more forms of pleasure. Everyone knows our thirst for knowledge and our quest for pleasure.” Hadley twirled his glass, deep in thought. “If we send for Arend, he can bring Portia. People are beginning to talk about why there has been no announcement of your betrothal.”

There had been no announcement because Grayson had been afraid she would die. He so much wanted her to live, but in the past his prayers had seldom been answered. This time God had taken pity on him, but nonetheless his heart had retreated into its fortress and the drawbridge had been closed. The pain of thinking he’d lost her…. He’d marry her, but his heart would stay impenetrable. She would make him an excellent wife, and she’d be a tremendous mother to his children. He would fulfill Robert’s wish that he look after her, and their families would be joined forever. He only hoped that would be enough for Portia.
Ah, you know it won’t be enough for her
, a voice within him said. True, but that was all he had left.

“It’s too dangerous to bring her to town,” Grayson protested.

“Rubbish,” Hadley scoffed. “We can protect her just as well here in this townhouse. There would be men with her all the time.”

He shook his head. “No. She’s safer with Christian and Maitland in Dorset, with the other women. We can announce our engagement without her being in London. It may also make our enemy believe we have left town again.” He sat up straight. “We could send decoys, men who look like us, to Dorset. We can stay here hidden until Arend arrives.”