The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(124)

Six


Portia couldn’t believe it.

Lily had been sold. Like a horse at auction.

She stared at the man named Turner, who was also Nightshade, currently Mr. Black. She didn’t say a word. Just stared.

He had come into the small parlor less than five minutes ago. The candles Portia had lit earlier had all burned low, casting the room into an eerie darkness. Portia had been pacing to the rhythm of her great-aunt’s snores, her arms locked across her chest to keep from wringing her hands.

And then he had appeared in the doorway. Silent and alone.

Portia had stopped in her tracks, waiting for him to explain why her sister was not with him.

His explanation had been succinct.

Hale had taken Lily to a brothel, where it would seem she had been auctioned off to the highest bidder. A gentleman, assumedly.

Portia heard the words. She understood them. She just couldn’t believe it.

She stared at the man, scrutinizing his unwavering gaze, looking for falsehood, waiting for him to take back what he had just said.

After a moment, he scowled. Heavily.

“Miss Chadwick. You’ve received a blow. I imagine you are at a loss.”

“I am not at a loss,” Portia disputed in a tone nearing shrill. The release of her voice also released her feet from where they had been rooted to the floor, and she resumed her pacing. But now, her steps were reckless, and her hands gestured wildly. “I am bloody furious. How in hell can such a thing happen? Sold. Like…like livestock! It is disgraceful. Disgusting.”

She stopped at the top of her path, near the fireplace, and whirled around to pin the investigator with a sharp glare. “What sort of gentleman would participate in such behavior? Where would he take her? Damn it, Turner, if she is harmed by this man, I will have his head.” The boiling fury inside her forced her back into movement, and her long, whipping strides brought her back across the room toward the doorway. “How do you intend to get her back?”

She stopped right in front of him. Her chest heaved, her gaze was hard and direct, and her jaw ached with how fiercely she clenched her teeth. She realized her stance was aggressive and unladylike and rude and any number of other things Emma would chastise her for.

She didn’t give a damn.

He looked down at her with a narrowed gaze. His eyes, an indiscernible color in the unreliable light, met hers without reticence.

He did not answer her right away. Considering the amount of anger and fear building within her, his lack of immediate response should have sent Portia into another temperamental outburst. Oddly, it had the opposite effect.

She was suddenly struck by his overpowering calm. Despite her tirade—which would have had Lily blushing furiously and scowling in disapproval over the inappropriate language—he appeared unruffled. Completely in command.

Portia admired his coolness. She had never managed to cultivate such a level of self-possession.

She took a long breath, hoping to ease the tight constriction that had wrapped around her torso. “What will you do?” she asked again, thankful that her tone was much more reasonable this time.

He continued to eye her for a moment longer, as if assessing her state of mind and the likelihood of another outburst.

“I will change and return to the brothel to obtain more specific information.”

He stopped and frowned. His lips firmed, drawing Portia’s attention to his mouth.

Such a masculine mouth, all hard angles and unforgiving lines. For a brief moment, the subtle but deep sensuality inherent in its shape stole Portia’s breath.

She looked back to his eyes, obscured beneath the weight of his brow. He was clearly warring with himself over how much to tell her.

He cleared his throat.

“You will return to Mayfair and await my report.”

Portia was about to argue, but he stopped her with a hard look.

She shut her mouth but gave him a fierce glare to let him know she did not appreciate being silenced.

“If your sister should try to get a message to you, where would she send it?”

Portia imagined the helplessness of waiting at home for news. The last two hours had been bad enough while she paced the parlor. But at least here she felt as though she were involved in something, doing something. At home, she would be debilitated.

And then there was Emma.

Portia would have to explain Lily’s disappearance to their older sister, and it would all become so much more real somehow. She closed her eyes as the burn of tears threatened.

“Miss Chadwick…”

“You are right,” she interrupted, forcefully willing away the fear and heartache. She glanced over her shoulder at where her aunt still slept, oblivious to Turner’s return. “We will go. You do what you have to do and send us word as soon as you know anything. Anything at all,” she insisted, turning back to meet his gaze. “Do you know the address?”

He gave a nod.

They stared at each other for another breath or two, then he turned away to disappear into the darkness of the hall.

Portia stood there for a moment, listening to the subtle creak of the stairs as he went up to change his disguise. Something about the return of the silence—the odd, echoing pressure indicating a lack of distraction—slipped beneath the wall of anger and terror that had built over the last hours.

A sob caught in her throat.