The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(115)

It felt like they waited for hours in the dimly lit parlor for Nightshade’s man. Angelique sat quietly, her eyelids dropping in the semidarkness. Portia almost envied the old woman her drowsiness as her disquiet steadily grew. The longer they sat unattended, the harder it was going to be to track Lily down.

Portia wondered if perhaps the rude little butler had simply gone to bed rather than informing his master of his guests. After making her hundredth turn at the fireplace, she took off toward the door at the opposite end of the room with purposeful strides, determined to go in search of someone herself.

Just as she neared the door, however, a figure appeared in the dark frame. The man made such a sudden and silent appearance Portia was nearly startled from her skin. As it was, she was under the force of such fierce momentum, she barely managed to stop herself from colliding with the man by bracing her hand hard on the doorframe.

She looked at the newcomer sharply. Her worry and impatience coalesced into anger now that he had finally appeared.

He was a rather nondescript man in his later years, perhaps in his fifties, with light hair that was going to gray, a pale, almost sickly complexion, a beard that had grown a bit bushy, and small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed in a brown suit with matching waistcoat and stood with sloped shoulders, his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his coat.

Seemingly unconcerned with their near collision, he looked down at her from almost a foot above her with an expression that could only be classified as annoyed.

The longer she stood there staring up at him, the more annoyed he became, evidenced by the lowering of his untamed brows and the pursing of his thin mouth. And yet he was the one who had kept them waiting while her sister was dragged off to who knows where.

She pushed off from the doorframe and planted her hands on her hips.

“It is about time. Do you have any idea how long we have been waiting?”

The thick eyebrows shot up, reaching far above the top rim of his spectacles. “You have been waiting less than fifteen minutes,” he replied in an entirely unhurried tone. “Do you have any idea what time of night it is?”

“I would say it is nearing one o’clock in the morning, which should signify that our issue is of such importance it cannot wait until a more reasonable hour, which should in turn have pressed you to a more hasty response.”

The man made a sound in the back of his throat—a sort of abbreviated snort—then stared, saying nothing more. His lips pressed into such a tight line they lost all hint of color, and his eyes narrowed to a squint behind his spectacles.

“Portia, come sit. Allow the poor man into the room so we may conduct our business.”

Portia realized then that her challenging stance essentially blocked the doorway, keeping the newcomer stranded on the threshold. Executing a little snort of her own, Portia turned with a whip of her skirts and strode to where her great-aunt was pushing herself a bit straighter in the armchair. Rather than sitting—which she knew wouldn’t last long anyway—Portia took position beside the chair and waited for Nightshade’s man to step forward and take control of the situation.

Taking control was not how Portia would describe the man’s next actions.

After a slow glance at Angelique, he strolled into the room, keeping his hands in his pockets. He walked past the lit candelabra, his brows shooting upward again, as if the fact that they had lit the room was more of an affront than their untimely visit.

Portia studied him, irritated and curious.

This was the go-between for the highly skilled and ruthless Nightshade? He looked more like someone’s daft uncle or a confused schoolteacher.

“Mr. Honeycutt,” Angelique said, “we met once before, a few years ago—”

“Of course, Lady Chelmsworth,” Honeycutt interrupted without turning to face them as he wandered to the window overlooking the front street. “I recall our introduction. I assume tonight brings you here on another matter.”

Portia bristled at the impatience obvious in his tone. The man was sorely lacking in manners.

“Indeed. This is my great-niece, Miss Chadwick,” Angelique replied, waving an elegant hand toward Portia. “Her sister has been abducted tonight. Taken off the street and carried away. We need Nightshade to recover her.”

Portia watched Mr. Honeycutt carefully, expecting some sort of reaction to the news of a young lady being kidnapped in such a way. But he gave no acknowledgment at all, just continued to stare out the window with his shoulders slouched and his chin tucked to his chest.

Portia couldn’t stand any more of it.

“Mr. Honeycutt,” she began in a sharp tone, but just as she spoke, he turned around again and pinned her with a stare that stopped the rest of her words.

Something in his manner, his gaze, his sudden focus managed to suck the dissent right out of her. Somewhere deep within the ugly brown coat and sloped posture she detected a strong thread of competence. She rolled her lips in between her teeth in a way she hadn’t done since she was young and her mother had chastised her for her naughtiness…which was often.

After waiting long enough to be assured she would not be interrupting any further, Honeycutt shifted his attention back to Angelique. “Have you any idea who may have perpetrated the abduction or why?”

Angelique looked to Portia, giving her a nod.

During their drive across London, Portia had confessed to Angelique the truth about the mysterious loan and Hale’s recent threats. The Chadwicks had initially decided to keep the full nature of their dire circumstances from the lady’s knowledge rather than risk the possibility it might influence her decision to sponsor the younger sisters for the Season.