“Is Frau Stroud in need of somewhere safe?” Hettie whispered, meeting her eyes in the glass. “Why? I don’t understand.”
Portia hesitated. But despite her strangeness of late, Hettie was still one of the few people she loved and trusted. Briefly she explained the threatening conversation she’d had with Arnol
d and Lara the night they’d found her in the scarlet dress.
“Mein Gott! I did not know. I am sorry, lieben, I did not know…”
“Why should you?” Portia sighed.
“Deed would help us, my lady,” Hettie said thoughtfully. “He does not approve of the Gillinghams. And your mother’s maid is very loyal. Once we have got her out of the house, we could take her to this safe place in Cambridge.”
“Yes, Hettie, you are right. I will speak to Deed. We must be ready. If a chance presents itself, then we must act without delay. It might be the only one we get.”
“We should have a sign, my lady. A word that will tell us both that the time to act has come.”
Portia thought for a moment. “It must be something that cannot be mistaken for anything else.” And then, “I know. Sari!” she announced with a conspiratorial smile. “I will say ‘sari’ and you will know that our plan is about to commence.”
It felt good to have a plan, to be doing something at last. She would save her mother from Arnold’s spite, and then she would set about saving herself.
Marcus was walking. He’d been to Half Moon Street, where the Thorne Detective Agency was located, and the stroll had done him good, blown away the cobwebs. He had much to think about.
In fact, he felt more invigorated than he had for weeks. Alive. He hadn’t realized how far he’d sunk into gloom until now. Although he’d refused to accept Portia’s decision, he allowed himself to lose his impetuosity. He hadn’t exactly fallen into a sulk, but was only human and wanted her to suffer for hurting him. Now he understood that he had been waiting for something to happen, some trigger to set things moving once more.
He wanted her. He needed her. He might even love her, although, never having been in love, he couldn’t be sure of it. Was that why he had asked her to marry him in that uncharacteristically clumsy manner, because he was in love with her? Well, whatever the reason for his bizarre behavior, he knew one thing. She was in need of his help and he meant to rescue her.
Martin O’Donnelly, when they spoke a moment ago, had eyed him with a wariness that made him wonder if he looked as wild as he felt. But as usual, Martin had come up with the goods.
“The Gillinghams are living with her,” he said. “It could be due to concern for her health, but I don’t think it is. Mrs. Gillingham has been heard to say some very unkind things to her stepmother.”
“I can imagine. Find out her engagements for the next few weeks, Martin. I may want to bump into her—accidentally of course.”
“The Gillinghams always accompany her, sir. You may find it difficult to get close without them overhearing.”
“I’ll worry about that.” He frowned. “Gillingham. The name seems strangely familiar to me. Was there some scandal long ago?”
Martin smiled. “It just so happens I know all about that, sir. Mr. Arnold Gillingham’s father is the one you’re thinking of. He was a scholar. Believed in the purity of the English race and that all our current problems stem from ‘contamination’ of that purity, as he put it, sir. Anyone from the Normans onward were interlopers in his eyes.” The detective’s Irish accent seemed to grow stronger, as if in protest.
“I do remember, Martin. He did something unforgivable, didn’t he?”
“He insulted the king. Called him a German something or other, and said he had no right to sit on the throne of England. He was banned from court, sent into the country. Evidently, he went completely mad. He died while trying to chase off some Italian stonemasons who were repairing the local church, insisting they were contaminating good English architecture. Arnold Gillingham is the son of this man, and according to gossip, has much the same sympathies. Word is, he will only employ servants with what he considers ‘proper’ English names, which meant he had to sack his French cook.”
“I see. No wonder I don’t like him.”
“Not many people do, sir.”
“Then the sooner I get Lady Ellerslie away from him, the better, Martin,” Marcus said with a smile. “She’ll be so grateful she might even decide to stay with me. Does that sound like a plan?”
Martin wisely did not voice the doubts that flickered in his eyes. Indeed, Marcus didn’t want to hear them. Recklessly, he was set on his course, and nothing was going to stop him.
Chapter 21
Dressing in the lavender shot silk for the grand ball at St. James’s Palace took ages, but by the time she was finished, even Hettie, who was as particular as she about these matters, nodded her approval. “You look elegant, my lady,” she said impulsively. “You look like your old self.”
Portia smiled, turning from side to side and examining her reflection in the long mirror. The dress was very wide in the skirt and relatively plain, and although the à la grecque neckline was low, it was not immodestly so. Her new slippers were a little tight but she would not be dancing, so it hardly mattered. Yes, she looked well enough, but as for her old self…
“I don’t feel like my old self, Hettie. I feel like a ghost of my old self. Something seems to be broken inside me.”
“Time is all you need,” Hettie reassured her anxiously. “Everything will settle down, in time.”