The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(134)

Portia could not figure out what it was about him that sparked her curiosity. But then, as she continued to study him, he swept another glance in her direction.

There was another brief moment of eye contact.

And another rush of intense awareness.

It was Turner.

She knew by the way he steadfastly refused to look her way again. And she knew by the inexplicable excitement tumbling through her like a waterfall.

“I am going to get some air,” she announced to Lily, then without awaiting a reply, she started toward the nearest doors leading out to the terrace.

She wasn’t exactly sure why she felt such a compulsion to approach him.

To prove to herself perhaps that she was as clever as he was. To have some evidence to support what she’d believed all her life: that she was meant for more than standing along the wall, waiting for an invitation to dance.

Somehow, Nightshade and his work had come to represent all she wanted for herself. She needed to be a part of it, even if it was just in knowing that although Turner was adept at fooling everyone else, she might be the exception.

He was positioned with his back to one of the open doors. He must have been dying from the heat of the heavy wool blanket covering his lap and likely needed the stiff breeze to keep from passing out.

Lest he glance her way again and suspect her approach, Portia slowed her pace. She forced herself to continue across the room at a sedate stroll, smiling at various acquaintances as she passed. Once she had slipped out onto the terrace some distance from where the white-haired gentleman sat, she kept to her casual pace along the length of the balcony, grateful there were not many other guests outside enjoying the night.

Seeing the wheeled chair through a set of doors ahead of her, she approached quietly from behind. She crept up to within a couple of feet of him before stopping in the doorframe and linking her hands in front of her in her best impression of a young lady casually claiming a bit of fresh air.

Forcing a bland expression to her face, she tried to think of something to say that would force Turner to reveal himself. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and paused in a moment of uncertainty.

The man looked quite aged, with his sloped shoulders and curved spine. His face was turned away from her, but what she could see of his skin was pale and deeply lined. His hands rested in his lap. The fingers were curled with arthritis and covered in age spots.

Could she have been wrong?

Was she so anxious for some sort of excitement that she imagined the odd sense of familiarity in this old man’s distant glance?

As she stared surreptitiously, she saw him move one of his hands, just enough for her to realize that despite their awkward positioning, they were not the hands of an old man. She narrowed her gaze. His shoulders, though hunched in an uncomfortable way, were broad. And the shape of his legs beneath the rug appeared to be anything but feeble.

It had to be him.

Excitement burgeoned in her chest.

But how to prove it?

“Lovely party,” she said casually.

“Eh?” His response was quick and in character. He angled his head in a way that implied he was hard of hearing, yet she had spoken rather softly. His immediate reaction suggested he’d heard her just fine.

And he had known she was there.

Portia stepped closer to him and leaned over his shoulder. “I said it is a lovely party,” she repeated loudly next to his ear. Taking advantage of the momentary proximity to observe him more closely, she noted a few interesting details.

First, there was a fine dusting of gray powder in an exact match to his hair on the shoulder of his coat. Also, his ear was actually quite handsomely shaped. Not that she had ever studied such a feature before, but in being forced to think about it, there had never been a man matching this one’s advanced age who did not have some sagging about the earlobe and an overabundance of hair growing from the center.

This gentleman had neither.

Lastly, she was quite certain she caught a glimpse of something resembling glue just under the corner edge of his drooping white mustache.

“If you say so,” he muttered. Then he gave a rough sort of grunting cough and turned away from her to hack revoltingly into a handkerchief he held to his face.

Portia suppressed her smile as she took a small step around to face him more directly.

He continued to avert his focus, holding the handkerchief over his mouth.

“Forgive me,” she said sweetly, “you seem terribly familiar to me. I am certain we have been introduced, but I cannot recall your name.”

She waited for his response. She could practically feel his annoyance surging through the false frailty of his body. He was likely considering what risk there might be in ignoring her completely. No doubt his mind was working through the possible ways he could be rid of her.

“Lord Seymour,” he finally replied in a wavering tone.

“Oh, my parents knew some Seymours from Suffolk,” she lied. “Would they be your family?”

“No,” he grunted. “I hail from the north.”

“I see. Distant branch, perhaps.”

He gave another grunt.

There had to be some way to slip past his guard without exposing him to anyone else.

She stood there pretending to contentedly observe the party. After a moment, she had an idea. It was a bit drastic, but she was compelled to prove to herself and to him that she was correct. Either she verified her suspicion or made a total arse of herself.