by Jason
“Name your seconds.”
Shock froze Bryght for a moment. “Barclay and Andover,” he said levelly. “But I would be interested to know why I am going to kill you.”
Fort smiled coldly. “It will not be so easy, I assure you. The cause? Let us say I do not care for your management of your Brazilian affairs.”
Amazonian affairs, in other words. Hippolyta. What the devil . . . ? “I was unaware that you had such a passionate interest in that part of the world, Walgrave.”
“I have interest in fair play, Malloren. I hear you have made commitments there and failed to honor them. Where and when?”
“My lord,” Andover protested. “It is the duty of the seconds to attempt a reconciliation. How can we do that if we do not know the cause?”
“But we do,” said Bryght flatly. “Lord Walgrave wants to ravage South America himself.”
Fort’s hands formed fists and he took a step forward, but one of his friends grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “Lord Andover,” the man said hurriedly, “may we meet in your rooms in the morning?”
“Aye.”
Andover and Bryght watched as Fort’s friends persuaded him into the club.
“He always was a hothead,” said Andover. “It must be some mistake. . . .”
“Certainly it must, since I am pure as the driven snow.”
“Bryght. . . ?”
Bryght snapped out of his trancelike state. “Andover, would you oblige me by lingering a little? Try to find out what the devil’s going on. I’m for home to tell Rothgar that there’s likely to be a death in the family.”
“You can best him. . . .”
“You forget. He’s my brother-in-law.” With that, Fort strode off into the dark.
Rothgar, however, was not at home. Boudicca and Zeno were uninformative and Bryght would not descend to questioning the staff. It was highly unlikely that they would have anything to tell him anyway.
Bryght could guess. It was possible that Rothgar was at some entertainment, but there were few enough events at this time of year, and even fewer enthralling enough to hold the marquess into the dead hours of the morning.
He could be with friends.
He was probably with Sappho.
To call Sappho Rothgar’s mistress was like calling Bryght Rothgar’s employee. They appeared to have an intimate sexual friendship that was, paradoxically, largely intellectual.
Sappho—who never went by any other name—was of such mixed blood that no one could ever specify her race. Her mother, she said, had been a pale-skinned Tunisian, and her father a Russian sailor with Mongol blood. She was six foot tall with coffee-colored skin, wide cheekbones, fine features, slanted eyes, and heavy straight black hair that fell to her knees.
She was a poet of considerable skill in three languages, and she made no secret of the fact that she was a lover of women. Rothgar was the only man she was known to be intimate with, if intimate they were.
Bryght occasionally whiled away idle moments wondering about that relationship. Rothgar had various sexual arrangements, but Sappho was the only woman with whom he ever spent the night.
This was not, however, an idle moment.
This was a damnable hour.
Bryght went up to his suite attended by both Zeno and Boudicca, and stripped off without wakening his valet. He prowled the room naked, wondering what the devil had happened. Clearly Fort had learned he had withdrawn his offer to Portia. After having goaded Bryght into vowing to marry her, he was annoyed.
But it was unlike even Fort to go off half-cocked like this. He must know there was danger of harming Portia’s reputation, and even of drawing attention to the brothel and Hippolyta.
Bryght detected Nerissa’s spiteful hand, and fingered the book of sermons which contained that letter. If he died in this affair, he’d damned well make sure that letter was sent to Trelyn.
The main question was, why was Fort in such a rage? The affair at Lady Willoughby’s had not been nearly the scandal they had all pretended. An embarrassment, yes, but it had been collusion between Bryght and the Trelyns that had painted it a desperate situation.
To trap Portia.
Had Portia complained to Fort that she’d been jilted?
The idea was ridiculous.
Bryght sensed a plot, and needed a rational talk with Fort. When the earl became hot-headed, however, it took him time to cool, and time they might not have.
Bryght flung himself down on his bed to seek sleep. He’d need his wits tomorrow.
Rothgar did not appear for breakfast the next morning, but Andover did. When the footman who had let him in disappeared, he said, “You’re not going to like it.”
“You surprise me,” said Bryght who was breakfasting on coffee alone.
“Walgrave is maintaining that it is a personal matter to do with South American trade. No one believes it any more than they’d believe it if he’d taken your hat and stamped on it, saying it offended him.”
“So what do people believe?”
Andover toyed with a bread roll. “That you raped, or as good as raped, Portia St. Claire at Lady Willoughby’s.”
“What?”
Andover grimaced. “It’s all whispers and innuendo—to preserve the lady’s reputation, they say—but the message is clear. You tried to prove your skill on another virgin, but this one wanted no part of it. You insisted. You were interrupted by Lady Willoughby and Lord and Lady Trelyn, all seeking Miss St. Claire. The lady was disheveled, distressed, and her gown was half ripped off her.”
“ ‘Struth.”
“Lady Trelyn is denying the whole thing, with enough fervor to convince the doubting that every word is true. It is known that a wedding was planned, but that the groom has since declined to be present. The lady is prostrate with shock and shame, or possibly recovering from her injuries. Walgrave is apparently a close neighbor of Miss St. Claire’s and as good as a brother to her. . . .”
“Dare I show my face out of doors?”
“It’s not as bad as that, Bryght. It’s all rumor, and no one knows the truth. If Miss St. Claire were to appear, composed and uninjured, most of it would die. The Trelyns claim she is suffering from a mild head cold, but again, the manner of their protests. . . . Fort calling you out does rather add color to it.”
“Damn fool. Then I suppose the only thing is for me to appear composed and uninjured.”
“Speaking of injury, Barclay and I met with Walgrave’s men. . . .”
“Has he come to his senses?”
“Perhaps.” Andover frowned. “It’s damned strange, Bryght. He admits privately that the cause is Miss St. Claire, and says he will retract his challenge if you marry her. Perhaps he believes the stories.”
Bryght looked at his friend. “It sounds as if you are beginning to believe them.”
Andover colored slightly. “Of course not. But why would Walgrave be so serious about pushing the marriage?”
“He obviously regards the lady as a galling cross for me to bear.” Bryght poured himself more coffee.
“So?” Andover prompted. “If he is willing to drop the matter if the marriage goes ahead, why not appease him? Do you not wish to marry her?”
“Yes, but not against her will.”
“Damnation, Bryght, this could be serious. You can pleasure any wench out of her sulks!”
A look from Bryght had Andover blanching, but the man said, “I can’t understand her. You’re a rare catch for such a woman.”
“She values herself higher than that.”
“Do you want to fight Walgrave? He’ll do his damndest to kill you and I hear rumors he’s been training hard with Angeli. Even had him down in the country to coach him.”
“Good, then he’ll offer some sort of challenge. Let us go face the lions.”
Andover tried further reasoning, but then abandoned it as useless. He did not abandon Bryght, however, but stayed by him as they strolled around the more fashionable parts of London.
&
nbsp; It was not pleasant, but it was not disastrous. No one attempted to cut Bryght, though he was the focus of curious, suggestive looks. There were a few innuendoes at which he could have taken offense, but one duel a week was sufficient, even for a Malloren.
It did still appear, however, that Bryght was going to have to fight Fort.
It only slowly dawned on Portia that she was a prisoner.
After Bryght withdrew his offer, she had demanded her money, and been put off.
Next, she sent a message to Fort. When there was no response, she began to suspect that it had gone no further than the nearest fireplace.
The next morning, she asked Lord Trelyn to arrange for the purchase of a coach ticket to Shaftesbury. He protested that no lady of his family ever traveled on the common stage, and promised to arrange her journey in his own traveling coach, and with suitable escort.
“I wish to leave today, Lord Trelyn!”
“That would be unwise, Cousin Portia. After all, Lord Arcenbryght may come to his senses and agree to the wedding. It would be unfortunate if you were not here.”
Trying a subtle move, Portia decided to take Lord Trelyn up on his promise that she could leave the house with a suitable escort. The suitable escort proved unavailable.
After battling this strange lack of servants, Portia put on her cloak and attempted to leave the house alone. Two footmen forced her back into her room and locked the door.
She pounded on it and shouted, but no one came to her aid. How could she expect them to? She stopped from weariness, and because she feared Lord Trelyn might seriously try to put her into an insane asylum.
Now she was trying to make sense of all this.
The plan to make her Bryght Malloren’s ball and chain had fallen through. It was possible that Nerissa might carry through her spiteful revenge and try to kill Oliver, but Portia staying or going had little to do with that.
Portia paced her luxurious prison knowing there was something afoot, and that she was being kept in ignorance.
Had Oliver returned? Yes, that could be it!
If so, she must escape and warn him of his danger.
She assessed her prison.
The door between the two rooms was not locked, but the doors to the corridor were. The keys were not in the locks, so any plan dependent upon them was hopeless. She supposed someone would come—either a servant with food, or the Trelyns to gloat—but Portia was not of a build to overcome them by strength alone.
She turned her attention to the windows.
The windows in both rooms were large and opened smoothly. They looked out onto the back garden so that an escape would not be easily witnessed, but they were nearly twenty feet off the ground. How could she escape this way?
Knotted sheets?
Portia had been a tomboy in her youth, and thought she could make the climb given a rope. She was dubious, however, about anyone creating a sturdy rope out of sheets and silk coverlets.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the turning of the lock, and she hastily closed the window.
Nerissa came in, gently reproachful. “Portia, my dear cousin, the servants say you are behaving most strangely.”
“It is not strange to want to leave the house.”
“But where would you wish to go, alone?”
“Nerissa, enough of this. If I am free to leave, let me leave now!”
“We are merely seeking to keep you safe—”
“Spare me. Tell me the real reason for this imprisonment.”
Nerissa cocked her head then sat. Portia’s nerves tightened. Her cousin looked so very pleased with herself.
“You cannot leave just yet, Portia, because you are prostrate with shock and injuries.”
“What?”
“After the vicious way Bryght Malloren treated you, the way he almost raped you ... or perhaps he did. The stories are .so confused. . . .”
“Nerissa! You cannot—”
Her cousin’s eyes shone with satisfaction. “Oh, but I can! The whole town is abuzz with it. And, of course, now that he has refused to marry you the matter looks even worse.”
Portia shook her head. “No, you cannot. This is wicked! He will be ruined!”
Nerissa laughed. “Ruined? A Malloren ruined by the ravishing of a creature like you? Lud! No, with any luck, he will be dead.”
Portia’s breath caught. “What?”
“I sought merely to sully his name, but it works out better than I’d thought. Your neighbor, Lord Walgrave, has challenged him. They meet tomorrow.”
“They must not!”
“Ah, but they must.”
“But what if Fort dies? He is entirely innocent!”
“Fort Ware? He hasn’t been innocent since the day he was breeched. If he dies, it will still serve. Bryght’s name will be tarnished for ever. Don’t you wish you could witness the event? See the blood flow, watch the dying grimace ... ?”
“Nerissa, you are truly wicked. I will tell the world everything! ”
“Will you? Including that you were Hippolyta?”
“Yes.”
“What good would it do, when Bryght is dead?”
“Revenge,” said Portia coldly.
Nerissa just smiled. “Ah, at last you see. Revenge is sweet. And at last I see. You poor fool. You don’t hate him. You love him.” She rose to her feet. “In that case, it is rather pleasant to make you the means of his destruction. Heather tells me Lord Walgrave has been working hard with his sword, learning clever ways to kill and maim.”
With that she left and Portia stared at the door with loathing.
Never. She would never give Nerissa the victory in this. She flung open the window again and eyed the sheets. Then she saw the silver cords that held back the curtains and were draped and knotted all over the bed-hangings. They were not very thick but there was plenty of them.
Portia took her scissors out of her needlework case and began to unpick the stitches that held the cord in its ornamental position. Soon she had a substantial pile of it on the carpet. But was it strong enough to support even such a light creature as herself?
She pulled at it, and it seemed sturdy.
With a shrug, she knotted one end securely around the leg of an armoire near one window. Then she pulled on it with all her might. The armoire did not move and the rope gave no appearance of weakening.
Her heart was pounding with nervousness, and her hands were dangerously slippery, but she would go through with this. She would put an end to being a victim, a thing to be moved to everyone else’s pleasure, and she would never be part of Nerissa’s evil revenge. To help with the climb, she tied a half dozen knots in the cord, hoping her feet could find purchase on the silky stuff.
She looked out of the window again. The garden was deserted, and indeed, who would be out there for pleasure on such a chilly day?
What else need be done?
She was wearing light hoops under her dress and they would have to go. Having done that, her skirts hung rather long. She pinned them up so that her calves were free like a working woman’s. Not proper, but propriety was the furthest thing from her mind.
Portia found her spirits lightening. Matters were still difficult, but it was being powerless and a prisoner that had worn her down.
On with it.
She threw out her cloak, shoes, and muff, then sent the free end of the rope after. It fell to within feet of the ground.
So far, so good. She took a towel and wrapped it around the cord where it might rub against the sill. Then she climbed on the sill and dropped her legs over while grasping the rope. She slid her feet down until she felt the first knot. Gripping tight, she let the rope take her weight.
It swayed and stretched alarmingly, but then seemed to settle. She could imagine all too clearly, however, a weak place where the silk was already shredding. . . .
Heart thundering, Portia began to work her way down as quickly as possible. The silk was hard to grip and she had made the knots a bit too far
apart. She slithered at one point and felt her hands burn. She was sure the rope was stretching more and more. . . .
How high did one have to be for a fall to kill or maim... ?
She scrambled and slid down the last few yards.
As soon as her feet touched solid ground, Portia collapsed against the wall to let her heart settle. She was too old for this sort of thing!
She looked up, amazed at how high the window appeared.
But she’d done it!
At last she had done something to change fate.
Quickly, unsteadily, she slipped on her shoes, gathered her cloak and muff, and darted through the garden toward the back gate. Near there, behind some bushes, she let down her skirt, put on her cloak and muff, and pulled the hood up over her head.
Then she unlatched the gate and slipped out into the mews lane.
Into freedom.
Perhaps into danger.
But it was afternoon and still daylight—though a daylight dimmed by sullen clouds—so she did not feel much afraid except of pursuit. She hurried to mingle with the passersby.
There was a street market nearby and among those crowds she soon felt very safe. Her mind steadied and she set about her purpose. She must get to Fort and stop the duel.
She no longer had her map, but she could remember some of the principal streets. She made only a few mistakes before arriving in Abingdon Street at Ware House.
Yet again she was turning up disheveled and unescorted. She prayed that the door would not be answered by the same footman.
It was. He looked at her in outrage and began to close the door.
“Don’t you dare!” said Portia with such force that he stopped, mouth agape. “I wish to see the earl, and the earl will wish to see me. Let me in!”
“There’s no point in letting you in because he’s not here.”
“I’ll wait—”
But the door closed with a firm click. Portia could have screamed, and was very tempted to sneak round and try to enter the house anyway. But she suspected that the servant had told the truth and Fort was not in the house. He might not return all night. She had no idea what rituals men went through on the night before they were going to try and kill someone.
On this short day of the year, dark was settling fast. Servants at nearby houses were lighting the flambeaux by the doors—to welcome their masters home, and to provide a little security on the dark streets. A chill wind was rising and there was even a hint of icy rain in the air.