by Jason
Portia shivered and clutched her cloak around her more tightly.
She thought of going to Dresden Street, but it was a considerable distance, and she had no real reason to believe that Oliver was there. It was too soon to expect his return from Dorset.
Also, it was one of the first places the Trelyns would look. This was another. She hastily left the street, hood well pulled up.
There really was only one place in London she could go for help, and even there she had been refused admittance last time she had approached.
She turned and hurried toward Marlborough Square.
There were flambeaux beside the door here, too, and the night porter was in his niche. Portia hesitated in some shadows nearby. She suspected that going into Malloren House would be like crossing the Rubicon. But she must. She could not let men kill and be killed in such a wicked plot without lifting a finger to stop it.
Her experience at Ware House had made her cautious, however. The main thing here was to get inside. Presumably Bryght or his brother would either be home or come home at some point, and she could not stay on the streets all night.
Holding her dark cloak around her, Portia slipped through the shadows and down the gap between Malloren House and its neighbor. It was wide, wide enough for a cart to pass, and she suspected it might be used for deliveries.
There was a gate, a pretty ornamental wrought iron gate, but a barrier for all that, and about ten feet high. Beyond, she could make out the lane which appeared to go all the way back to the mews and the road that served it. In the wall of the house she saw shadows that must surely be doors.
She tried the gate, but it was locked. It was also very sturdy, though, and gave no rattle.
Portia shrugged. She’d climbed down; now she would climb up. She took off her cloak and slung it over the top of the gate. She hitched her skirts up as best she could without pins, tucking them into the waist and bodice and leaving only her knee-length shift to guard her modesty. Then, giving thanks for a misspent youth of climbing trees, gates, and walls, she clambered up and over the gate.
The ornate iron made it quite an easy climb, but the muscles for this sort of thing had grown weak over her years as a proper lady. She was panting by the time she straddled the top.
She paused for a moment, sitting there half naked, her hair beginning to escape down her back, and wondered what on earth her mother would think to see her now.
Pray heaven Hannah never learned the details of her daughter’s London exploits! Portia pushed down her cloak, hooked her leg over and made short work of climbing down the other side. She was inside the Malloren enclave.
She was therefore relatively safe, and could huddle here until she knew Bryght was home.
But for all she knew, he was home now, and the night was promising to be a bitter one. She rejected a cowardly impulse to delay, pulled on her cloak and went to investigate the first door. She gingerly lowered the latch and pushed. Nothing. She pushed harder, but had to accept that this door was locked.
She went on to the next door. It, too, was firmly locked.
Why had she thought it would be otherwise? That gate was mainly ornamental as she had proved, and a nobleman’s house was not open for anyone who cared to enter.
There was only one more door before the corner. Portia tried it without much hope, and almost fell in when the door opened. Thank heavens it was well-maintained and made no noise.
The shadowy outside light showed her nothing, but the blast of cold air might give her away. Portia hastily closed the door and stood in the dark, trying to sense where she was.
There were general smells from kitchens and stores, but nothing in particular. She put out her hand and touched a wall to her right. A few steps to the left found another one. She suspected she was in a corridor, possibly one with storerooms opening off it.
This was of no interest to her, however, and she groped her way forward, seeking a way to the rest of the house. She bumped into a barrier, and her fingers told her it was a door.
It might open straight into the servant’s hall or kitchen.
She pressed her ear to it, and did hear sounds, but distant ones.
She took a deep breath for courage, and opened the door.
Light.
Not bright, for it spilled from a nearby doorway, but blessed after the darkness. And the door opened into another corridor.
There were voices in the nearby room, chattering of friends and flirtation. Delicious smells of cooking meat and spices crept out to make Portia’s stomach rumble. She had eaten little today and despite her small size, she did have a healthy appetite.
Well, once she contacted a member of the family, perhaps they would feed her.
To her left, Portia saw stairs going up, and she slipped silently toward them.
It occurred to her that the penalty for invasion of private property was probably hanging or transportation. It would not come to that, of course, but if a servant caught her she might be hauled off to jail before the Mallorens knew anything of it. Presumably they would correct matters as soon as they heard, but to end up in Newgate would be the final, degrading limit to her London adventures.
The stairs were wide enough, but being servants’ stairs, the treads were plain wood. Her shoes were noisy on them, so she slipped them off.
She paused at the first door, but it must surely open into the main floor where there would be public rooms and such facilities as the dining room and library. The chances were high that servants would be busy there, perhaps even stationed there. She carried on up to the next floor.
At the next door she paused, surprisingly reluctant to go through it, for there was nothing about the plain wood to tell her what was on the other side. If she went through this door, she might walk straight into a servant or a Malloren.
The latter, she reminded herself, was exactly what she wanted, and yet she felt so guilty at this housebreaking that she hardly had the nerve.
Housebreaking!
Portia sagged for a moment against the wall. Her life kept turning in circles. This had all started with housebreaking. What would the next spiral bring?
Enough of this. She turned the knob and opened the door.
She stepped into luxury.
She should have expected it, but coming from the dark plain stairway it was startling to walk into warm light, gleaming oak paneling, and fine furniture and art. Beneath her feet was a luxurious carpet runner from Persia, and figured red velvet draped a nearby window.
It was as fine as Lord Trelyn’s house, but a great deal warmer in tone.
What now?
Portia listened, but could hear nothing but the tick of clocks. The corridor had doors opening off one side and turned into other corridors at either end. Should she just enter the first room and wait there?
For what?
She berated herself for arrant cowardice.
Should she check each room?
But the chance of encountering a servant was great and she did not want to do that without finding a Malloren first. On the other hand, if someone walked around one of the corners there was nowhere for her to hide. . . .
Portia put aside her useless fears and walked forward, listening at each door.
Silence.
It was as if the house were deserted. What was she going to do if the Mallorens were out all night, too?
She halted at the corner. The end wall here had four magnificent windows for it was the head of the stairway. A peep showed her wide stairs coiling down toward the hall, where a footman crossed.
Where was he going? To answer a summons from a Malloren? She wasn’t sure enough of that to go down and announce her presence. She turned back to avoid crossing the open space at the top of the stairs, and checked each door in the other corridor.
She was halfway down, ear pressed to a panel trying to decide if the noises she heard were made by a person, and if so whom, when a voice said, “May I perhaps help you?”
Portia spun
around.
She was face-to-face with the Marquess of Rothgar in quiet dark blue magnificence. His brows rose. “Miss St. Claire. What a delightful surprise.”
Nineteen
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Portia could feel her face turn red. It was such an extraordinary situation in which to find herself. “I... I need to speak to Bryght, my lord.”
“Do you? Did he refuse to see you?”
Portia went redder. “No. I ... I didn’t try the front door.”
He smiled. “How enterprising! I am charmed.” He reached past her to open the door she had been checking. “Please, come in where we can be more comfortable.”
He ushered her in before she could collect her wits, but Portia froze when she saw she was in his bedroom.
He looked at her rather quizzically. “I have no designs on your virtue. My private rooms are downstairs. Up here I have only this room and my dressing room.”
Portia stayed where she was, close to the door. “I came to see Lord Bryght.”
“Why? And, why in this manner? Forgive me for mentioning it, but your involvement with my brother has caused him some difficulty.”
“My involvement with him!” gasped Portia. “He has turned my life upside down!”
“Has he indeed? Then perhaps you are well rid of him. So what is your purpose here?”
Portia realized with a shiver that despite his courteous manner, the marquess was not best pleased with her. It was hardly surprising when she was the cause of a duel. “It isn’t my fault,” she said. “I only just found out about the duel and—”
“What duel?”
Portia took a step backward. “The one between Lord Bryght and the Earl of Walgrave. It is all a mistake though, or rather—”
“It most certainly is,” he said icily. “What is the cause?”
Portia swallowed. Logic told her this man would not really harm her, but her nerves were carrying another message. “Me,” she whispered.
He raised a brow. “The earl has an interest in you, too? What a remarkable woman you appear to be.”
Portia was red again, but this time with mortification. “I know I am no beauty, my lord. The earl regards me as a sister.”
“And he feels his sister has need of defense? What have you been telling him?”
“Nothing! I have not been able to speak to him. The Trelyns have kept me prisoner and spread the most malicious lies!”
“Ah,” he said softly. “Do I detect the touch of the beauteous Nerissa?”
“She seems to hate Bryght. She wants him dead.”
“Then she should have chosen an opponent other than Walgrave.”
“I don’t think she chose him,” Portia admitted. “I think Fort chose himself. He’s somewhat hot-headed.”
“My dear Miss St. Claire, you appear to be two of a kind.” But the icy disdain had thawed. “Come, tell me what tales have been racing around Town. I have been engaged.”
Portia relaxed enough to move a little closer to the fire.
She flinched, however, when a pale shape there stirred. Then she saw it was a dog.
“That is Boudicca.” The dog waved a lazy tail. “Well, Miss St. Claire? The whole tale, please. I will not have this kind of debacle in my family.”
“Dueling is not so uncommon, I gather,” she said, trying to match his tone.
“It is within the family. Are you not aware that Lord Walgrave is our brother-in-law?”
Portia shook her head. “I had forgotten. He does not seem to feel warmly about you.”
“That has nothing to do with it. The cause of the duel, Miss St. Claire. The brothel?”
It was snapped at her like an accusation, and Portia’s gaze flew to his. “How did you know . . . ?”
“Bryght told me. Miss St. Claire, may we get to the issue?”
“Yes. . . . No, not the brothel . . .” Portia gathered herself. “Someone has spread stories about the Willoughbys‘. False stories, but close enough, I gather, that even Lady Willoughby is not denying them. . . .”
“And the stories say?”
Portia swallowed, for though she was not at fault in this, he might not believe it. “That Bryght attempted to seduce me,” she whispered, “and when I refused, he tried to rape me.”
She looked up at him, and what she saw there made her shiver.
“I see. Presumably you were discovered not just disheveled from your fun, but distressed, half-clothed, bruised . . . ?”
Portia nodded. “I wanted to go out so that everyone could see that I was well, but they locked me in.”
He was standing by a chair and a finger tapped on the back. “It appears to me that you should be at Walgrave’s House with this story.”
“I tried! They would not let me in. That’s why I broke in here. And because I was afraid to be out in the dark....”
“How did you get in? As the householder, I am curious.”
Portia wondered how he would take her unladylike exploits. “I climbed the gate into the lane, and found an unlocked door.”
He suddenly smiled. “I delight in resourceful women. You are correct. You should discuss this with Bryght.” He went to open the door.
Portia wanted to hold him back. “You cannot deal with this, my lord?”
“Of course I can, but if I do not take you to my brother, I fear we would have another duel in the family. Come. Of what are you afraid?”
Bryght. Herself. That she would end up tying a man in a marriage he did not want.
Surely not a fate worse than death, however.
She let the marquess guide her back to the part of the house she had first explored. After a brief tap, he opened a door to reveal Bryght in shirtsleeves at a desk piled with papers.
“Is that your last will and testament?” Rothgar asked caustically.
Bryght rose and stared at Portia. Then he looked at his brother. “You have been unavailable.”
“True. You cannot duel with Fort.”
“Tell him that.”
“I intend to. There is apparently no cause, but I think you and Miss St. Claire have matters to discuss.”
Portia was aware of Bryght staring at her, though she had her eyes fixed on the fire.
“Miss St. Claire!”
At the marquess’s sharp tone, she looked up at him. “Yes, my lord?”
“Your gowns are presumably at the Trelyns.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He looked at Bryght. “I’ll take Zeno.”
At a word from Bryght the dog rose and went to the marquess’s side.
“Talk to each other,” Rothgar said, and then left.
At a click Portia whirled to the door.
“He’s locked it,” Bryght confirmed. “He’s not best pleased with us, I fear. We had better do as we are told and talk to each other.”
Portia turned. He was coming toward her, smiling. “Don’t!” she exclaimed, backing away.
He stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Don’t touch me!” She meant it as much as a warning as a protest, for she knew she was vulnerable to his slightest touch and she did not want to entangle them any more than they already were. She saw him take it as outright rejection.
With distant courtesy, he asked, “Do you have any objection to sitting by the fire where it is warm? May I pour you some wine? I’m afraid I have no food here.”
Portia stared at him. “Of course I don’t want wine. The marquess has locked us in, time is flying, and in the morning there will be a duel. We must do something!”
“I doubt there will be a duel, Portia. Relax a little and talk to me. Do you realize how little we have actually talked?”
Portia was fixed against the door as if glued there. “Of course I do. That’s why this whole thing is so absurd. No one marries a person they have met only a handful of times!”
“But such very interesting meetings.” He poured the wine and came over to offer her a glass.
After a moment, Po
rtia took it and drank, hoping to steady her nerves. She was trapped here with Bryght, but at least it was a study not a bedroom. The only furniture was two upholstered chairs by the fire, some small tables, a desk, and many bookshelves. The shelves were not filled with elegant leatherbound philosophers, however, but with ledgers, bundles of papers, and almanacs.
It seemed businesslike and that was a safe thing to focus on rather than his casual attire, his smile, and his overwhelming presence. How could her wretched body be shivering with excitement just to be in a room with this man?
Seeking a commonplace topic of conversation, she walked over to the desk. “What were you doing here?”
“Putting my affairs in order.”
Her hand flinched in the act of touching a paper. “This doesn’t look like a will.”
“No. It’s actually details of some investigations to do with guano.” At her questioning look, he said, “Bird droppings.”
Portia turned away sharply. “There’s no need to make fun of me, my lord. I apologize for my vulgar curiosity.”
“I am not making fun.” He was behind her then, taking her cloak. She turned, but it was gone and in truth it had been too hot for this room.
“Portia,” he said gently, “we do need to talk. Come sit by the fire. I promise, I have no evil intentions.”
She allowed herself to be placed in a chair by the fire and sipped the wine. The lightest touch of his hand on her arm had been like fire, but she must remember that he did not want to marry her. He had withdrawn his offer, even at danger to his life.
“Perhaps I should apologize,” she said. “Your brother implied that I am the cause of your troubles, my lord, and he is right.” She looked up seriously. “That’s why I had to do something. Neither you nor Fort are to blame for this. It would not be fair for you to fight.”
He had taken the opposite chair and lounged there, far too beautiful in the firelight for her composure. “You are not blameless. But your brother takes the greater share. And if Fort and I fight, it will be little to do with you. The quarrel goes deeper than that.”