She did not know why she denied her presence at The Sinner’s Palace. She had taken an unmarked carriage and proceeded with the greatest of care, terror that her brother would discover where she had gone and what she had done leaving her on edge for the entirety of the trip. And she had been certain, so certain, that no one save her coachman and groom had known where she had been. But if Granville suspected she was being dishonest, then he had discovered where she had truly gone.
The reason for his early, unannounced call made itself brutally apparent to her in the same moment that her brother picked up her inkwell and hurled it against the wall. It shattered against the paper-hangings she had chosen, creating a terrible splatter, marring the flocked pattern forever.
“Do not deceive me, Portia,” Granville warned.
How did he know? Who had told him? She did not believe it of her coachman or her groom; if she had not trusted them implicitly, she never would have ventured to the East End in search of Avery.
“Those paper-hangings were dear,” she said instead of giving her brother the answers he wanted. Where her daring emerged from, she could not say. Portia knew from experience that goading her brother was never wise. And yet, she could not seem to help herself. “I paid for them with my widow’s portion.”
And a pittance it was, her widow’s portion. Granville had persuaded Blakewell to leave the bulk of his considerable fortune in the hands of her son’s guardian, who had also been appointed trustee. Yes, her brother had been sure to yoke her to him, to assert his power over her, for as long as possible. She could only pray that when Edwin reached fourteen, they could bring the matter to the Chancery and her son could request Portia be named as guardian in her brother’s stead. However, that was seven long and painful years away, and there was no guarantee such an appeal would succeed.
“The paper hangings are hideous,” Granville spat. “But let the mark upon them be a reminder to you of the stain upon your character for the sins you have committed. Sins which, it is apparent, you would revisit.”
He was speaking of the past. But he could not have any notion of what she had done in the gaming hell’s private office with Wolf. She did not believe he had spies within The Sinner’s Palace. No one there had even been told her name. He was making an assumption based upon her presence there. And the spy had to be someone within her household.
She ought to have guessed that her brother would have someone below stairs who would report back to him since Blakewell’s death. A year had passed, and she had never given him cause for concern. But the first time she had ventured to the East End, and he knew.
“I have done nothing wrong,” she denied again, a last attempt.
But there was no hope for it. If she were to reveal what she had done, what she had allowed—nay, what she had craved—Granville would not hesitate to keep her from her son. She would be powerless to fight him. And she could not bear to lose Edwin. Her sweet lad was her very heart.
“Can you truly say you believe it appropriate for a lady to visit a gaming hell in the rookeries?” he snapped.
“I went there looking for Avery,” she confessed on a rush, for it was true.
Their half brother was the reason she had gone to The Sinner’s Palace. However, she had not found him within. And Avery had not been the reason she had remained for far too long, lingering in sinful temptations.
Granville flinched as if she had struck him. “Avery.”
“Our brother,” she reminded him quietly.
“He is no brother of mine.”
Avery had been more of a brother to her than Granville had ever been. Although his mother had been their father’s mistress and he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, for a charmed few years when Portia had been a girl, she had grown to know and love the brother far closer in age to her. Until he had been torn away from the bosom of their family.
But Portia had not forgotten him. Nor had she ceased searching for him.
“You can deny him all you like Granville, but it will not change the past,” she said, trying and failing to conquer her own rising frustration.
Raising her voice to her brother had never ended particularly well for Portia. It led to consequences far worse than an inkwell being hurled at her paper-hangings.
He stalked toward her, closing the distance, looming over her own not-inconsiderable height, his fists clenched at his sides. “You dare to speak to me with such impudence? You, who nearly ruined our family? You, who has the morals of a Seven Dials doxy? You may wear the airs of a proper widowed countess, but make no mistake, everyone remembers the shameless manner in which you conducted yourself in your Season.”
His insult did not hurt, because she had heard it before. Many times. His hatred for her was apparent; it had been well before she had ruined herself, but Blakewell’s death and Granville’s resulting supremacy in her life had left him emboldened. He rained insults and threats upon her with increasing frequency, along with violence.
His fury was dangerous. She had to mollify it. She had intended to explain, but speaking of Avery to him had been a mistake. Better than admitting what she had done in that office. But a mistake, nonetheless.
“Forgive me,” she said then, trying to calm the rage rising within him. “I should never have been so bold. It was wrong of me.”
Apologies.
Her life had been a series of them. Repenting for her sins. Making amends. Marrying a man who would accept her child as his own. Bending to her brother’s power and whims. Living a life above reproach. Keeping her reputation spotless. Making certain she was no longer Lady Scandal, as the gossips had once dubbed her.
But Portia was tired of asking forgiveness for old transgressions. For living each moment of the present as if she were still mired in the past. And yet, she had no choice.
She bowed her head in feigned humility.
The action proved a mistake, for instead of placating Granville as it sometimes had during previous interviews, the action appeared to further infuriate him. Her only warning was a low growl of rage. She flinched, trying to escape, but it was too late. His palm connected with her face in such stinging force she bit her cheek, the tang of her own blood filling her mouth. Her eyes instantly welled with burning tears she refused to shed.
“You will not bring more shame upon this family,” he said, his voice low and yet carrying the punishing menace of a whip.
When Granville was truly angered, he was quiet. And that was when he was at his most dangerous and destructive.
She closed her eyes, keeping her head bent, gaze trained on the carpets, her cheek aching. “Of course not. I am sorry.”
Yet another apology.
The blow would cause a mark she would need to cover, she knew. Portia preferred the clever application of Pear’s Almond Bloom to hiding herself in her chamber. By now, she had become adept at blending it into her skin to cover the damage. Besides, Edwin was of an age where he wondered where his mother had gone, and as her son grew older with each passing year, she found herself less inclined to spend time away from him, knowing too soon he would be sent away from her. Granville had already demanded he go to Eton, and as had been the precedent for nearly all her life, Portia would have no choice in the matter.
“Do you think I take joy in being stern with you?” her brother demanded.
Yes.