Page 106 of The Viscount and the Vixen
“No, m’lord. I’m saying she hopped on a mail coach.”
He rushed outside for no good reason, as though he expected to see the offending vehicle on the horizon. Of course he couldn’t. He saw his coaches waiting to have horses harnessed to them, and one of his coachmen leaning against the building, speaking with a serving girl. As Locke approached him, the coachman looked guilty as hell. No doubt because he’d been caught flirting. “Did you see Lady Locksley leave this morning?”
His eyes rounded, his mouth dropped. “No, m’lord. How could she leave? The coaches are still here.”
He wasn’t going to get into it with the man. “Have you seen Cullie?”
“At breakfast. She went back to her room to await her Ladyship’s need of her.”
Damn it all to hell. Why hadn’t he noticed that his wife had packed up and left? Because her things were still there. He might be feeling rotten but he wasn’t blind. So where was she going and how was she going to make her way?
He dashed back into the tavern, up the stairs, and into the room they’d shared. Like a madman, he began tearing through her belongings.
“M’lord?”
He spun around at the sound of Cullie’s voice. She appeared horrified by his actions, was going to be even more horrified when she learned the truth of the situation. “I’m searching for Lady Locksley’s pearls. Where did you pack them?”
“She was carrying them in her reticule.”
It would be left out in the open but was nowhere to be seen. He slammed his eyes closed. She could take them to a fence, trade them for coins. Not enough to get her far, but enough to see her through for a bit. But where would she go? How would she manage? What the devil was she thinking?
And with her gone from his life, why did he suddenly feel as though he might go mad?
It was the very worst place she could come, but she had nowhere else to go. Knocking on the servants’ door, she held her breath, striving not to think about what might have gone through Locksley’s head—other than a great deal of pain considering how much he’d imbibed—when he awoke this morning to find her gone. Would he have even cared or would he have thought good riddance?
A footman opened the door, blinked at her, furrowed his brow, and she knew he was trying to place her. “I’m here to see MissSophie.”
“What is the nature of your business?”
“It’s personal.” In her reticule, she had several calling cards that Locksley had given her when they’d arrived in London in the event she made morning calls. He’d had such faith in her garnering the love and respect of Society, of being welcomed, of being accepted as his wife. Instead, she’d merely managed to ruin his life. And she’d ruin it further if she handed over a calling card and anyone discovered that Lady Locksley was very familiar with Mistress Row. “Just inform her that Portia has come to call.”
“Come in.”
Grateful for the opportunity to get beyond the sight of anyone peering out a window in a neighboring residence, she stepped over the threshold and into the small area where the butler, housekeeper, or cook usually spoke with vendors who weren’t allowed into the residence proper. She knew her place. That she had tried to step out of it marked her as a very foolish girl.
She’d arrived in London before dark, but had waited until night fell to make her way here, hoping to avoid suspicious gazes and lessen her chances of being discovered. With Locksley snuggled against her, his hand on her belly, she’d been unable to sleep, and had simply lain there considering the unfairness of her actions. Well aware of the ramifications if this child were a boy, she should have walked away, should never have married Locksley. Exhausted, frightened, and desperate did not excuse her actions, did not justify her tainting a bloodline. She simply hadn’t truly understood the pride in their lineage that the aristocracy held on to.
The rapid patter of footsteps had her straightening her spine, forcing a smile. Sophie rounded the corner in a pink silk dressing gown, her black hair flowing down her back, over her shoulders. She didn’t stop until her arms were around Portia and she was hugging her tightly. “What are you doing here?”
Portia leaned back, fought not to look so worried. “I’m in a bit of bother again.”
Sophie glanced over her shoulder. “Sheridan could arrive at any time.” She returned her gaze to Portia. “You can stay in a back bedroom, but you must remain quiet. He’s not keen on my having company.”
“I shan’t make a peep.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
Sophie showed her to a bedchamber and had a tray brought up. Portia felt like an absolute glutton as she sat in a chair before the fireplace and dug into the beef and potatoes.
“When was the last time you ate?” Sophie asked, settling into a nearby chair, watching her fondly. She was the sister Portia had never had, so different and accepting, while her true sisters had taken after their father and constantly found fault with her.
“Breakfast.”
“That can’t be good for the bairn.”
Portia laughed. “He didn’t half let me know about it.” He’d kicked several times during day. She licked her lips. “Did Beaumont bother you when he discovered me gone?”
