Page 4 of At His Lady’s Command

“About that…” said Halstead.

“You have a personal family matter to discuss,” said Randall swiftly. “I’ll step out for a moment.”

“No. This concerns you, Captain.”

Lady Portia stilled, a little color leaving her cheeks. “Halstead?”

The marquess sat back in his chair. “I have decided—”

“Resolutely decided,” said the dowager.

“Yes, quite. I have resolutely decided that the expense of the Guildford townhouse, servants, and overly generous allowance is too great a burden. So I have cancelled the lease. You will return to reside under my roof by the end of the month, sister.”

“What?” gasped Lady Portia. “You know that was not Papa’s wish!”

“Father is dead,” said Halstead coldly. “I am the marquess. My wishes shall be your command. And I say you must return to us until you marry. It is an embarrassment you haven’t yet wed and done your duty. A stain on the family name.”

“Such a stain,” added Kitty. “Our year of mourning is nearly over, Portia. You should embrace this chance at happiness.”

“I am happy,” snapped Lady Portia, her face now parchment pale. “Deliriously so. In my own home, enjoying the company of friends, and attending to my charitable causes.”

Halstead shook his head. “Nonsense. A lady cannot be happy on her own. This is for your own good. Women are frail creatures who lack the wit of men, and require a husband’s guidance. Father indulged you to your detriment, I shall remedy that. And as you’ll be under my protection, a bodyguard will no longer be required.”

“No!”

Lady Portia’s sharp cry echoed in the large dining room, her chair thudding onto the floor as she leaped to her feet. How Randall managed to stifle his own feral growl, he couldn’t say. Halstead thought to separate them, and his reason was complete horseshit. He could easily afford the Guildford townhouse lease and a few servants. No, this was about controlling his older sister. Forcing her to conform to his notion of a lady.

“My lord,” said Randall, as he valiantly resisted the urge to embed his fork in the marquess’s forehead. “Perhaps—”

“The opinion of a servant is not required,” said the dowager, dabbing her chin with her linen napkin.

Lady Portia glared at her. “Don’t you dare speak to Denham like that. He was a captain in His Majesty’s army.”

Her brother slapped his hand on the dining table, causing several dishes to rattle. “Sister. Your tone is most unbecoming for a lady. Mother is correct, your manners have declined living away from us, although it is fair to say they weren’t perfect to start. Your own mother failed you, allowing your head to be filled with subjects best left for boys when she should have taught you decorum. Now I wonder what the children at that demmed orphanage are learning. I may recommend closure to the parish clerks.”

“That would be best,” said the dowager. “Then Portia could concentrate on doing her duty and starting her own family.”

A faint hiss sounded and Randall glanced furtively at Lady Portia. Did Halstead and his mother know how close to death they were, taking away her townhouse and then threatening her orphanage? And that he would in no way impede her efforts if she took the silver pepper pot and proceeded to disembowel them with it?

Kitty tsked. “Halstead, your cheeks are flushed. Why don’t you retire to your library? Portia may go and think on her appalling behavior. It will be my great pleasure to instruct her on ladylike qualities when she comes to live with us. We’ll attend soirees and musicales. Host a ball and invite all the eligible peers in London. All will be as it should be.”

Lady Portia just looked ill. Very, very ill. She needed privacy to regroup, think of a new strategy and tactics, something he had every faith she could do. They still had two weeks until the end of the month, after all.

Randall rose to his feet. “My lady, shall we take our leave?”

Her flashing green gaze swept around the table. “Indeed. Stepmother. Halstead. Kitty. Until next we meet.”

His lips twitched. Only Pistol Portia could make a farewell sound deadly.

She might have lost this battle, but the war would be another matter entirely.

* * *

The three of them—Halstead, Kitty, and her stepmother— could officially go straight to the bowels of purgatory.

Portia took several deep breaths, but her vision blurred with angry tears ready to fall at any moment. If they spilled down her cheeks before she and Denham reached the relative privacy of the carriage, she would be mortified.

The day she’d always dreaded had come.