The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(133)
Excitement danced through her blood. She scanned the growing crowd intently, wondering if she would be able to identify him. It was one thing to arrive at his home and detect the evidence of a disguise when there was only one person to study.
But with a whole room of people…?
He could be anyone. That had been proven by the transformations she had witnessed so far. The man was skilled.
But Portia was clever. And determined.
She stared hard at the guests passing before her.
No. He would most likely find a stationary spot to observe from a distance, getting a better view of the room to observe Lily’s movements in greater context, as well as that of any gentleman who may seem to have an inordinate amount of interest in her sister.
That is what Portia would do, anyway.
She extended the reach of her gaze. Scanning doorways and alcoves. Looking for someone who seemed to blend in with the crowd yet remain apart from it. After a few minutes, she felt the distinctive prickle along her nerves associated with being watched. Glancing aside at her sister, she noted Lily was indeed studying her with an odd expression.
“Is there a problem?” Portia asked, wondering if Lily was finally going to admit something of the secrets she was keeping.
“I do not know,” her sister replied. “What has your thoughts so occupied?”
“Nothing. What has your thoughts so occupied?”
“Nothing,” Lily replied in a breezy tone.
Portia did not believe her for a second. But she knew pressing Lily directly for information on what was really going on inside her sister’s unfathomable mind was likely to be futile. “It feels different, somehow, don’t you think?” she asked, wondering if a more roundabout route into her sister’s thoughts might work. “I mean, now that Hale is no longer a threat, and Emma won enough to save us from the financial pit of ruin…for this Season at least.”
That morning, Emma had received the original loan document signed by their father and Mason Hale. Sent by messenger, it had been marked PAID IN FULL.
Lily did not answer. Instead, she directed her gaze to where Emma stood by Angelique in the chaperones’ corner.
Portia felt it wise to issue a warning. “I wouldn’t stare too long if I were you. You may get turned to stone like she has been.”
“Portia.” Lily gave her a look of reproach, to which Portia responded with a shrug.
“Honestly, have you ever seen a harder expression anywhere?”
Both girls openly observed Emma as she stood against the wall, stoic and unmoving. Even her gaze was frozen, fixed doggedly forward. She had not been the same since the night of Bentley’s masquerade and Lily’s abduction.
More withdrawn and taciturn than usual, it seemed Emma still expected Lily and Portia to see out the remainder of the Season, even if she was no longer being militant about it. Though they no longer stood under threat from Hale, the Chadwicks were still in debt, with the only means of rectifying their situation being marriage to noble English gentlemen.
Portia hated the marriage market. The ladylike glances and coy giggles. The gentlemen with their most times covert, but occasionally bold, assessments of the present year’s stock of debutantes. The superficiality of it all was disturbing.
She tried to keep her frustration from showing in her expression, but realized she likely failed miserably.
“At least she hasn’t been pressuring me to make nice with all the eligible bachelors tonight,” she muttered, trying to take a leaf from Lily’s book and find something positive in the situation.
“And you are bored out of your mind, aren’t you?” Lily observed.
“An understatement, I think,” Portia admitted reluctantly. “I cannot wait for this bloody Season to be over.”
If she had her way, she would never attend another event of the beau monde ever again.
Lily did not reply. Portia wished she would, even if it was to chastise her for her unpopular sentiment. Whenever she was in a wretched mood, it helped to have an outlet for her irritation, but it seemed Lily was not willing to oblige her with an argument.
With rather unfortunate timing, a merry group of gentlemen and young ladies happened to pass by just then.
Portia glared at them. How did they manage to look so bloody pleased to be there, giggling and flirting and sending coy glances at each other? Perhaps there was truly something wrong with her that she detested the frivolity in which everyone else seemed so willing to indulge.
She forced herself to glance away or risk offending someone with her dark expression. Her gaze swept past the row of terrace doors thrown open to allow fresh air into the growing stuffiness of the room, aching to escape out into the night. It was then that her attention snagged on an elderly gentleman positioned near the door.
There would have been no reason for his appearance to catch her notice if not for the fact that he was staring straight at her.
She experienced a sharp and sudden flare of awareness.
The second her eyes met his, he looked away. It was such a brief moment of eye contact, she likely would have dismissed it if something hadn’t struck her as odd about the man.
He was quite old, with white hair and a feeble posture. He sat in a wheeled chair with a heavy rug placed over his legs. His shoulders were rounded and hunched forward with age, and he stared out over the room through a thick monocle that he held to his eye with a trembling hand. He was dressed in an elegant, though slightly old-fashioned style and appeared to be absentmindedly observing the movements of the guests around him, as though he wasn’t entirely certain why he was there.