“Oh?” Lady O was fly enough to know a distraction when she heard one, but curiosity, as Portia knew, was her besetting sin. “What?”

“I was just strolling in the shrubbery…”

She recounted as accurately as she could the exchange she’d overheard. When she finished, she studied Lady O’s face. Quite how she managed it, Portia didn’t know, but the old lady succeeded in conveying supreme disgust while her expression remained otherwise inscrutable.

“Do you think Kitty’s really pregnant? Or was she making it up to hurt Winifred?”

Lady O snorted. “Is she stupid enough, immature enough, for that?”

Portia didn’t answer. She watched Lady O closely, glimpsed the possibilities being weighed behind her black eyes. “I’ve thought back-she hasn’t been down to breakfast since we’ve been here. I didn’t think anything of it before, but given her liking for male company and the fact the gentlemen gather in the breakfast parlor every morning, perhaps that, too, is a sign?”

Lady O humphed. “How did Kitty sound?”

“Kitty?” Portia replayed the exchange in her mind. “The second time she spoke, she was like a nasty child. But now you ask, the first time, she sounded a touch hysterical.”

Lady O grimaced. “That doesn’t sound promising.” Thumping her cane on the floor, she heaved herself out of the chair.

Portia rose and went to take her arm. “So what do you think?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say the foolish gel really is increasing, but regardless of the truth of who the father is, she’s unfortunately witless enough to use the question in her mad games.” Lady O halted while Portia opened the door. Gripping Portia’s arm again, she met her gaze. “Mark my words, that gel will come to a bad end.”

She could hardly nod; she inclined her head a fraction, then steered Lady O to the stairs.

Cranborne Chase, with its towering oaks and beeches, provided a welcome respite both from the weather and the constraint that had gripped the party.

“If circumstances had been otherwise, I’m sure Lady Calvin would leave.” On Simon’s arm, Portia strolled beneath an avenue of beeches.

“She can’t. Ambrose is here on business, so to speak. He’s been busy sounding out Lord Glossup and Mr. Buckstead as well as Mr. Archer-”

“And Lady Calvin will always do right by her son. That’s what I mean.”

They were far enough from the rest of the party, all ambling in the cooler air beneath the thickly leaved trees, to speak frankly. As a group, dispersed in a handful of carriages, they’d spent the late morning driving slowly down the winding lanes threading through the ancient forest, before turning aside into a tiny hamlet that boasted an excellent inn for a prearranged meal. The inn was just down the lane up which they’d wandered, directed by the innkeeper to a small dell from which numerous walks radiated, a gentle landscape for a postprandial stroll.

Lord Netherfield and Lady O had declined the delights of the forest and remained at the inn; all the others were stretching their legs prior to piling into the carriages once more.

Halting, Portia swung about and looked back down the slope. They had chosen to walk up the steepest path; none of the others had followed. Everyone was still in view, spread out here and there below.

Locating Kitty, flanked by Lady Glossup and Mrs. Archer, she grimaced. “I don’t think what they’re trying to do with Kitty will serve.”

Simon glanced down at the trio. “Sequestering her?”

“There’s not much she can do about it here, but I’ll wager she’ll be even worse when we get back to the Hall.”

Simon humphed. After a moment, he asked, “What’s the matter?”

She glanced up, realized he’d been watching her face. She’d been watching Kitty, studying her sulky expression, her disaffected state. Trying to reconcile that with how she herself would feel if she’d learned she was carrying a child. She smiled briefly, shook her head, turned away from Kitty. “Nothing. Just woolgathering.”

His eyes remained on her face; before he could press, she gripped his arm. “Come on-let’s go up to that rise.”

He acquiesced and they did, discovering an abbreviated view into a deeper, less accessible dell, where a family of deer grazed undisturbed.

A call summoned them back to the others and thence back to the inn. A slight altercation ensued over who would sit where for the return journey; everyone ignored Kitty’s demands to go in James’s curricle. Lucy and Annabelle squeezed onto the seat beside James and they left, following Desmond, who had Winifred beside him; Simon, with Portia alongside and Charlie hanging on behind, followed, leaving the rest to the heavier coaches.

The curricles reached the Hall well in advance of the rest of the party. They drove straight to the stables. The gentlemen handed the ladies down; Winifred, rather pale, excused herself and walked quickly toward the house. The gentlemen became engrossed in a discussion of horseflesh. Portia would have joined them, but Lucy and Annabelle were clearly looking to her for a lead.

Inwardly sighing, resigning herself to a quiet hour indoors, she led them back to the house.

They were waiting in the morning room when the coaches finally lumbered up. Lucy and Annabelle, both dutifully embroidering, raised their heads and looked toward the front hall.

Portia could hear the raised voices even before people entered the hall. Suppressing a grimace, she rose.

The two girls glanced at her. Kitty’s voice reached them, shrill and sharp; their eyes widened.

“Stay here,” Portia told them. “There’s no need for you to go out. I’ll tell your mamas you’re here.”

They both bent grateful looks on her; with a reassuring smile, she headed for the door. In the hall, she paid no attention to anyone else, but mentioned their daughters’ whereabouts to Mrs. Buckstead and Lady Hammond, then went straight to Lady O’s side.

Lady O nodded in curt thanks and gripped her arm; the strength of her clawlike grip was a good indication of her temper, of how aggravated that was. Lord Netherfield, until then holding by Lady O’s side, nodded his approval, cast one censorious look at his granddaughter-in-law and headed for the library.

Portia helped Lady O up the stairs and to her room. Once the door was closed, she braced herself for a diatribe; Lady O was nothing if not outspoken.

But this time, Lady O seemed too tired; Portia, concerned, helped her quickly onto her bed.

As she straightened, Lady O caught her eye. Answered the question in her mind. “Yes, it was bad. Worse than I’d anticipated.”

Portia looked into her old eyes. “What did she say?”

Lady O humphed. “That’s just it-it wasn’t so much what she did say, as what she didn’t.”

After a long moment of staring across the room, Lady O closed her eyes and sighed. “Leave me, child, I’m tired.”

Portia turned to the door.

Lady O continued, “And there’s something very wrong going on.”

Portia headed downstairs via the less-frequented stairs in the west wing. She didn’t want to meet any of the others; she needed some time on her own.

A cloud had descended on Glossup Hall, both literally and figuratively. A storm was blowing up; the sun had disappeared behind leaden clouds, and the air had grown oppressive.

The atmosphere in the house was even heavier. Brooding, tending toward dark. She was hardly a sensitive soul, yet she felt it. The effect on the Hammond girls, even on Lady Hammond, even on Mrs. Buckstead, was apparent.

Two more days-people would remain until then, as originally planned; leaving earlier would smack of an insult to Lady Glossup, one she had done nothing to deserve. Yet none of the guests would linger. She and Lady O had planned to return to London.

She wondered where Simon intended to go.

Reaching the ground floor, she heard the clink of billiard balls. She glanced down the west wing corridor; through the open door of the billiard room she could hear the low murmur of masculine voices, Simon’s among them.

She went on, through the garden hall and out onto the lawns.

Looking up, she considered the clouds. Despite the closeness, there was no sign of any storm activity yet-no lightning, no thunder, no scent of rain. Just the heavy stillness.

Grimacing, she headed for the shrubbery. Surely the safest place in which to avoid overhearing any further revelations. Lightning, after all, did not strike twice in the same place.

Passing under the green archway, she strolled into the hedged walk; she’d reached the same spot as in her earlier foray when the old saw that theory frequently did not predict practice was proven.

“You witless child! Of course the babe’s Henry’s. You cannot be so foolish as to suggest anything else.”

Mrs. Archer, one step away from hysteria.

“It’s not me who’s foolish.” Kitty’s voice lashed. “And I won’t have it, I tell you! But you needn’t worry. I know who the father is. It’s simply a matter of persuading him to see things my way, then all will be well.”

Silence greeted that, then Mrs. Archer-Portia could almost hear her dragging in a deep breath-asked, her voice quavering, “Your way. Things always have to be your way. But what way is that?”

Portia wanted to turn and leave, but she understood precisely what Mrs. Archer was asking, what she feared. The matter lay too close to Portia’s heart not to know…

“I told you before.” Kitty’s voice strengthened. “I want excitement. I want thrills! I won’t simply sit by and have a baby-swell up and grow ugly-”

“You’re a fool!” Mrs. Archer sounded distraught. “You married Henry-you wanted to-”

“Only because you told me I would be a lady and have everything I want-”

“But not this! Not like this. You can’t-”