The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,27
edge, she’d be the first to send the notice to The Times then drink a glass of champagne in private.
Something flickered behind his eyes and his diplomat’s mask tightened over his knife-edged features. Could he be angry she hadn’t immediately sought to placate him?
Surely not, given she was no longer married to him and therefore no longer owed him any duty.
Cynthia swept around her husband and linked arms with Portia to protectively flank her. Even her hat’s feathers seemed to bristle like a bull terrier.
“Sir Graham, Lady Oates.” St. Arles gave them the same curt recognition he’d give street signs, as if they were necessary but not interesting.
Hot words protesting discourtesy to her friends surged forward but Portia forced them back, into the familiar cavern of useless remonstrances behind her gritted teeth. St. Arles loved only his country and his land; everyone and everything else was judged in terms of their usefulness.
“My lord.” Sir Graham’s voice was even less friendly than the other man’s, for all that he was an Army captain facing down an earl well-connected enough to crush him. “We were on our way inside when you caught us. Is there ought we can do for you before we depart?”
“I’ll have a word with Mrs. Vanneck.” He’d have shown more consideration if he’d been ordering lunch at his club, the bastard. “She must postpone her trip to India.”
“Quite unnecessary, St. Arles,” Portia returned, determined not to argue with him again. She was free and he had no claim upon her whatsoever. “Our lawyers have already said everything necessary.”
“She has already booked passage with us for India and on to Australia,” Cynthia added.
“After which, I’ll return to San Francisco and my family. Good day, sir.” Portia started to walk past the earl.
“You might want to hear the latest news from Mrs. Russell,” St. Arles suggested and polished a fingernail with his thumb.
The housekeeper at St. Arles Court? Why would he carry a message from her? He never troubled himself with the servants except to make their lives miserable.
“And Winfield? Or young Maisie and Jenkins, I believe he’s called?” He shot a speculative glance at her then returned his attention to his always important manicure.
The butler, housemaid, and under-groom? A chill, which had nothing to do with the spring breeze, or the verandah’s shade, crept into Portia’s fingers.
She tried to kick her recalcitrant brain into action.
What would Gareth look for in this situation?
St. Arles had just named the ringleaders of her supporters during the divorce. How much did he know or suspect?
Now that she was gone, they lacked a protector—unless That Woman had changed her stripes and become someone capable of considering others more than herself.
Portia sniffed privately, remembering maids weeping after being slapped by the over-bred, ill-mannered breeding machine.
No, she had to hear out the two-legged male rat. Her duty to her friends demanded nothing less.
“Yes, of course, I would.” She started to move away from Cynthia and Sir Graham.
“Surely you can’t mean to take her very far,” Cynthia exclaimed. “We’re promised to have tea together in a few minutes.”
Actually in a few hours. What was she thinking of?
“Why don’t you join us and share all the latest gossip from home?” Cynthia burbled, in the style most men expected from a blond of her looks but her friends rarely encountered.
St. Arles frowned, his disgust almost tangible.
Portia’s lips curled, despite the ice fighting for possession of her skin under the brazen desert sky. The Fifth Earl only talked to women if he hoped to bed them or tease a state secret from them.
“No, I’m afraid I cannot stay that long,” he refused curtly. “A few minutes should see us done.”
“In that case, you and I can walk in the Ezbekieh Gardens on the hotel’s other side, ahead of Sir Graham and Lady Oates,” Portia said sweetly. She’d be safer roped and tied by Apaches than alone again with him. But everything Gareth had taught her about duty in the face of danger insisted she needed to learn what the brute wanted.
St. Arles opened his mouth to object then measured the intensity of their growing audience, spilling in waves across the hotel terrace. His gaze swung back to his former wife’s rigid determination and her friends’ wariness.
His jaw clenched. “I’d be delighted to escort you,” he gritted out.
“Thank you,” Portia returned with less enthusiasm and took care not to touch him. Sir Graham and Cynthia followed at a distance, close enough to see but not to hear.