Chapter Six
Chapter
SIX
Her charges had remained in the drawing room all afternoon thanks to the rain that had poured constantly.
They were now safely ensconced in their bedchambers to rest before they changed for dinner.
Why the pair of them needed to lie down when they hadn’t moved a muscle all afternoon was beyond Portia, but such were the quirks of the idle aristocracy.
With all the invitations sorted and ready for the Duke of Dimples’s approval and with nothing else to do, she tidied up her marvelous new office before she headed up to her own room to change at six on the dot.
Eager, now that her working day here was done, to get to the newspaper ready to get stuck into something she was excited to do rather than something she was forced to do to pay the bills.
The first edition of Equitas that she would have a direct hand in would go to print on Sunday.
It was usually a weekly publication, but thanks to her predecessor’s reckless run-in with the law that had forced the paper to move offices, they had to skip the last few editions.
Rather than be angry at that, William had been circumspect.
The gap allowed them to pause, reflect, regroup, and put a fresh spin on things.
“Change, like circumstances,” he had said over one of their copious cups of tea, “should always be embraced because it always provides new opportunities.”
One of those changes was going to be her own unique slant on the opinion piece that, in her humble opinion, had become rather stale and repetitive of late.
She wanted it to be more relevant and reasoned than the-world-is-unfair-and-that-is-a-travesty stance it had taken in the last six months.
Although she didn’t criticize that uninspiring slant too much to William, because she knew he had been doing all the work while his former assistant editor had been absent without leave and causing trouble.
But being the brilliant and insightful man that he was, he had wholeheartedly agreed that the column needed an overhaul.
Except so far, the perfect first subject for her debut column had eluded her.
Determined to find it tonight, she undressed out of her sensible, buttoned-up chaperone’s gown to don a more comfortable garment to spend the next few hours writing meaningful words in. She was about to head out when she heard laughter coming from the garden below.
Laughter that sounded a great deal like it belonged to Lady Emilia.
Curious, Portia wandered to the window and saw, to her horror, both young ladies dressed for an outing and running up the path toward the back gate giggling like two naughty little girls.
As if they knew she would be watching, both paused to briefly glance back at the house before they hurried out of the gate to the mews.
They were, of course, escaping as an act of rebellion and to test Portia’s mettle.
How thoroughly childish of the pair of them to do that now that her paid hours were finished, and how typically thoughtless of them to do such a petulant thing to a servant!
Did they not realize that their selfish actions wouldn’t only affect the duke?
Or did they not care that their petty behavior could lose Portia her job?
No. Of course they didn’t.
Lady Abigail and Lady Emilia had always received everything on a plate and had never had to worry about things like money, food, or a roof over their silly, spoiled heads.
Instead, all they cared about was not getting their own way.
It gave her some sympathy for the duke if this was how the pair always carried on.
Some, but not much.
If his spoiled sisters expected her to chase them, then they all had another thing coming. They were his responsibility after six o’clock and that was written in her contract. Stipulated in black-and-white and signed by both parties.
Except she also knew that that the duke wasn’t in. He had left the house for a meeting at four and she had no clue when he was due to return.
But that wasn’t her problem. She was only paid to pander to those two idiots between the hours of eight and six and it was ten minutes after that!
Not her problem.
Very definitely not her problem.
Except that it felt very much like it was, seeing this was her first day and, whichever way she looked at it, she had already lost her charges.
With a groan, Portia dashed out of her bedchamber and hurried out to the garden. By the time she reached the mews, there was no sign of the girls, but as the only place to head that was of any interest was down the hill toward the fun of the town, that is precisely where she headed.
Now that the rain had finally stopped, the wet streets were busy.
All the crowds and carriages made it difficult to spot two young ladies among them, so Portia had no choice but to dodge the puddles while she weaved in and out of all the pedestrians filling the Circus until she broke free of the melee on Cay Street.
She stood on a water trough to get a better view all the way down the steep street and, while she saw countless similar straw bonnets to the two those brats were wearing, there was still no sign of either Abigail or Emilia beneath them.
Now what?
She could admit defeat, head back to the house, and raise the alarm, but she didn’t fancy her chances of keeping this job if she did. Or she could try to find them. In a sprawling city filled with people and copious streets, squares, and narrow lanes to hide in.
Where the devil would two spoiled young blue bloods intent on rebellion head?
Think Portia. Think!
The tearooms and the shops were all either closed or closing at this time of the evening, so the ladies were unlikely to head to the High Street or the surrounding environs—unless they wanted to waste this reckless break for freedom on gazing aimlessly at the merchants’ window displays.
That really was the most pathetic act of rebellion imaginable.
They also weren’t dressed appropriately for a night of dancing or cards at the Assembly Rooms. The rules of etiquette had always been strictly upheld there and even the sisters of a duke would struggle to gain entry without proper evening dress and a respectable chaperone.
That severely limited the girls’ options. With the exception of the taverns, the bulk of Bath was shutting down for the night, and it wasn’t as if two gently bred young debutantes would venture into a public house alone.
Or would they?
All of a sudden, Portia realized that those silly, spoiled girls were so furious at their overbearing brother that she wouldn’t put it past them. Visiting somewhere forbidden, like a common taproom, was precisely the sort of thing that would make the controlling duke explode.
The only problem was that there were at least twenty raucous local taverns that the ladies could visit, and it would take Portia hours to search them all. Hours that she did not have if she hoped to rectify this problem before anyone realized that they were missing.
She had a better chance of finding a needle in a haystack.
Despondent, she jumped off the water trough and, because she had been too distracted by the problem at hand, straight into a deep puddle. Water leaked under the tops of her half boots and immediately soaked her feet.
Marvelous.
This evening just kept getting better and better
She was stamping on the pavement to force as much of the liquid out of her shoes as she could when a group of soldiers sauntered past. No doubt off to the Saracen’s Head in the center of town because that was where the off-duty militia men always headed when they were here.
In a flash, Portia had an epiphany.
If the duke believed that Lady Emilia lost all sense around a redcoat, then what better way for the sisters to punish him than to expressly seek the soldiers out?
Acting purely on instinct and in the absence of a better plan, Portia decided to dash to the Saracen’s Head.
Something easier said than done with her sopping feet slipping inside her shoes.
To irritate her further, when she arrived, the inn was teeming with soldiers.
So many red-coated young officers that they spilled out of the tavern’s doors and took over a huge swath of the pavement.
Not caring that she was a woman alone, because she pitied whichever fool dared to attempt anything untoward in her current foul mood, she pushed her way past the dense group of revelers outside and headed into the bar.
The scene inside was every bit the duke’s worst nightmare as groups of the militia, all in varying states of inebriation, sang bawdy songs, told bawdy tales, or cheered each other on as they played questionable drinking games.
As she scanned the crowd, a lieutenant swayed toward her. “Has anyone ever told you that you are the most beautiful creature in the world?”
“Has anyone ever told you that death is final?” She elbowed past him, but he followed her out the door.
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Because I swear that I have just been shot through the heart by Cupid’s arrow.” Beer sloshed out of his tankard and onto her skirts as he clutched at his chest as if smitten.
Portia rolled her eyes at that tired old line and tried to march away, but he flung himself in front of her.
“Marry me, fair maiden.” He dropped to one knee.
Something that did not go well for him because he was so deep in his cups that he immediately lost his balance and tumbled forward, sending the rest of the beer in his glass all over the pale bodice of her dress.
“Oh for goodness—” As she flicked as much of the liquid off her front as she could, Portia left and caught a glimpse of a straw bonnet poking out from behind one of the buttresses of St. Michael’s church next door. It darted back in again straightaway, almost as if it had realized it had been seen.