The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(114)
The boy was ridiculously charming, and Portia smiled despite her anxiety. “Thank you. We do appreciate your help.”
The boy tipped the brim of his cap then backed away. Charles quickly closed the carriage door, and a minute later they were off again.
Portia stared across the carriage at her great-aunt with a dose of newfound respect. “Who is Nightshade?”
The lady’s expression was vague as she replied, “No one knows, ma petite cherie.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never meets his clients face-to-face.” The old lady gestured toward the window. “There is a strict process to getting in touch with the man. We are fortunate your kiss is so highly regarded,” she added with a sly glance.
Portia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Among young boys maybe. “Can this Nightshade be trusted?”
“He would not have gained the reputation he has if he were untrustworthy or incompetent. They say his insistence on remaining anonymous allows him to move through any environment undetected; that he is capable of infiltrating even the most elite social groups.”
Portia leaned forward, captivated by the idea such a man existed. “How do you know of him?”
“Word gets around when there is someone willing to do what others cannot. Or will not.” Angelique paused and looked down at the ring on her left hand. “A few years ago, I hired him to help me with a certain personal matter. If anyone can find Lily, it is Nightshade.”
Portia fell silent, hoping her great-aunt was right.
After several minutes, the carriage reached the area the boy had mentioned. It was a more residential neighborhood, and both sides of the street were lined with brick row houses two stories high with narrow fronts and identical entrances. Portia peered through the window, straining to locate the broken streetlamp that would mark the correct house.
There. The moment she saw it, the carriage pulled to the side of the street. Charles must have seen it as well.
Portia took her great-aunt’s arm in silence as they made their way up the walk to the dark front door. She swept her gaze in all directions, trying to pierce the night surrounding them, alert for any threat. The shadows were deep in front of the house, and no number marked the address. Two small windows bracketed the door, but no light shone from them. Portia tipped her head to look at the windows on the upper level. All was dark.
Blast. What if no one was home?
Angelique lifted the tarnished brass knocker and issued a loud, echoing announcement of their presence.
Silence followed. And then a soft noise.
The door opened unexpectedly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a petite man in his later years with a smallish head and iron-gray hair worn back in an old-fashioned queue. Despite the man’s diminutive height, he somehow managed to look down at them along the length of a hawklike nose.
“Wot?”
His one word, uttered with none of the graces assigned to even a poorly trained butler, threw Portia off. She stiffened in affront, then prepared to respond to the discourteous greeting with a bit of insolence herself.
Angelique saved her the trouble as she pushed through the door, past the little man who was helpless to stop her, and into the hall, saying as she went, “We have a matter of vital importance that requires Nightshade’s immediate attention.” She swung around to cast the little man a narrow-eyed look. “Where shall we wait?”
“Don’t know who yer talking ’bout.”
“Yes, you do. Now fetch your master, or I will seek him out myself.”
Portia was infinitely impressed. Who knew the woman who barely remembered to put on her shoes before leaving the house could display such an air of unquestionable command?
The little man pinched his face into a sour expression as he glanced toward the door then back to Angelique as though debating the benefits of tossing them both back onto the street. He cast a critical gaze over their appearances, seeming to take mental note of the quality of their clothing. Then he snorted and turned to amble into the shadows at the back of the hall.
Angelique released a pent-up breath, her previous arrogance falling away like a discarded cloak. She turned to Portia. “Come. Let us find somewhere comfortable to wait.”
The front hall was dark and narrow. Stairs rose up along the left side, and three doors opened to the right. The hall itself contained nothing but a small table set near the door. Portia wandered toward the first door to peek into the room beyond.
It was a small parlor.
“This way,” she said as she strode into the room.
The room was also quite dark. Only the faint glow of distant city lights filtered through the window, but it was enough to see the outline of the furniture and a small candelabrum set on a table near the sofa. Angelique took a seat in an armchair while Portia went directly to the cold fireplace, looking for something to light the candles.
It felt good to finally have something to do even if it was as mundane a task as lighting candles. It kept her thoughts from flying in all sorts of wild directions. Once the candles were lit, she found herself unable to sit still. Though she tried several times to take a seat, she inevitably jumped to her feet again in a matter of moments as fretful energy continued to rush unheeded through her body.
Rather than perpetrating a pointless battle against the urge to move, she took to pacing the tiny room.
Two