Chapter 17
Unlike Lord John’s casket, Lady Portia’s coffin wasn’t closed. Whoever had done the embalming had done an exquisite job. She looked thirty years younger, and happy.
In spite of the solemnity of the occasion, I enjoyed the time I spent with Jack. We had tea at Claridge’s and rode daily in Hyde Park. Eventually he asked if I’d help him clear out some of his mother’s letters.
“Wouldn’t that be an invasion of her privacy?”
“I hardly think it matters now. And these letters are from your mother. I think she might want them back.”
“Oh?” But he wouldn’t satisfy my curiosity until we arrived back at the house in Hampstead.
“Here.” The thick packet of letters was fastened with a faded, pink satin ribbon. “I stopped reading when I realized who they were from. The servants are off tod
