Page 3 of At His Lady’s Command

“Just so there are no misunderstandings, my lady, do you wish me to stay your hand, or gather extra pepper?”

Ack. Why did he have to be so…appealing? When he said things like that in a tone so grave and a face so expressionless that people didn’t even realize he’d made a jest…it made her tingle. For she understood, he knew that she understood, and it almost became a private moment between the two of them. Rather like the kind the other Society members shared with their lovers…

Portia gritted her teeth. No. She needed to stop such foolish thoughts. Denham had never so much as twitched a finger inappropriately in her direction, so he clearly felt no secret lust for her. Not to mention Halstead would have violent palpitations if he suspected anything. Unlike their father, her younger brother was a stuffy prude who had very fixed ideas on women, and didn’t approve of her living in Guildford on her own. So far he’d had the decency to respect Papa’s wishes on the matter, but he controlled the purse strings and could change his mind at any time. Halstead already disliked her being patron of an orphanage, and only tolerated her other fundraising efforts because the projects were championed by some very prominent leaders in the ton; nothing meant more to him and his wife Kitty than further elevating their social standing.

“Best stay my hand,” said Portia eventually. “Although I shall add the caveat that my decision could change at any moment depending on how ghastly the three of them decide to be at supper.”

“Duly noted. Dare I ask…has pepper on dessert been an effective weapon in the past?”

Her cheeks heated. Even with Papa’s will, her brother had needed a little…persuasion to lease her townhouse. Less enlightened observers might have called her methods gutter tactics. “It might well be, I haven’t tried it. But I can confirm that pepper sprinkled in breeches garners results. As does a deceased mouse in a carriage, and a cane smeared with treacle.”

Denham nodded gravely, but his dark eyes gleamed. “A warrior fights with whatever they have to hand. Those who are innovative and unpredictable are harder to defeat.”

“So says the captain,” she replied in confusion. Surely that hadn’t been a compliment? Men didn’t admire her daring. They handled their cocks at the thought of spending her enormous dowry.

“Yes. Captain. If I had shown more innovation and unpredictability, perhaps I might have been promoted higher. Alas, I much preferred taking orders from salty types than becoming one. Still do.”

Even in the bedchamber?

The tantalizing thought refused to be shaken free. Obviously it was time for another visit to the extremely discreet, high-end London establishment where ladies could purchase sexual services for a few hours. Wearing a demi-mask and hair covering was a small annoyance in the pursuit of pleasure, and it had been far too long since she’d indulged. Younger men were best; they had no qualms about her taking the lead.

“Well,” she said eventually, as the silence stretched between them, not comfortable but oddly tense. “We are coming up to the estate gates. Prepare yourself for battle, Denham.”

“As always, my lady.”

* * *

Would this supper ever end?

Randall politely refused a footman’s offer to refill his wine glass, and moved food around his plate so it looked as though he had eaten. Meals at Lady Portia’s townhouse were splendid, fresh ingredients expertly prepared in simple yet tasty ways. Lord Halstead’s chef loved cream and spices, and drowned nearly everything in heavy sauces. After twenty-five years in the army he thought he had a cast-iron stomach, but the damned sauces always kept him awake and thoroughly miserable for the rest of the night.

Far worse than the food was the marquess’s self-adoration, his smugness at having two sons and now a third child on the way, complaints about the lower classes, the soup temperature, how he must return to London because parliament was back in session and the House would fall to rack and ruin without him. Halstead’s mother and wife weren’t an improvement, though. The dowager was the coldest woman he’d ever met, and Kitty the current marchioness had two topics of conversation—agreeing with her husband, and detailed stories of the nursery.

“Pepper, Lady Portia?” Randall said loudly, holding up the carved silver pot.

She rewarded him with a small grin. Bloody hell, he loved those. Her smiles were perfunctory aristocratic lip curves, but her grins revealed the lines at her eyes and either side of her mouth, the mature and wickedly daring woman who enjoyed defying society.

“Very kind,” she replied, nodding graciously. “I—”

“Dear me, Portia,” said the dowager. “Ladies do not consume pepper. Your manners have clearly eroded living away from the family.”

Randall cleared his throat, before the older woman could set off down that track. “Perhaps, my lord, you might like to hear my report on Lady Portia’s activities in the past month?”

“Naturally,” grumbled Halstead. “Tis the only reason I permit you to dine with us rather than the servants, after all.”

Somehow, he managed not to scowl. The former marquess had seen Randall’s role as one solely of protection, and had treated him cordially and with respect for his skills. This young upstart just wanted another damned spy alongside Marie, the maid employed for Lady Portia. Alas, he remained a gross disappointment at that task.

“Of course,” Randall said slowly. “Lady Portia continues to be a shining example for others with her charitable works, and was commended by both Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey for her sterling contribution to the most recent hospital fundraiser.”

“Emily Castlereagh hosts wonderful parties,” said Kitty. “It is unfortunate she has neglected her duty to present the viscount with an heir, though. I will never understand why he remains so devoted to her in the face of such failure.”

“Castlereagh’s a fool,” said her husband. “Don’t care what they say. Anyone could have done the business in Vienna.”

Randall took a calming breath. It really did help to imagine the marquess screeching at pepper in his breeches or a dead rodent in his carriage. “Lady Portia also hosted a few afternoon teas, the attendees included her closest friends and members of Guildford society. She has gone to church, and visited London to petition several lords regarding further provisions in their parishes for the poor. In her leisure time, she went to the theater, the museum, and Hatchards’ bookstore, and lastly oversaw the schoolroom refurbishment at the orphanage she is patron of.”

“Thank you, Denham,” said Lady Portia. “A most detailed account of my whereabouts for the past month. Although you did neglect to specify my wardrobe choices, which is regrettable. I received several compliments on my new pelisse, one gentleman informed me I was a magnificent partridge, although he may have been referring to my dowry.”

At her lighthearted comment, her brother, stepmother, and sister-in-law exchanged meaningful glances, and the back of Randall’s neck prickled. What now?