Chapter 12
Portia awoke in her bed, fully dressed and with no clear notion of how she arrived there. She struggled from under the covers feeling rumpled and poorly rested, aware of strange dreams flickering at the edge of her mind.
After such an experience she would have expected nightmares. All she could remember, however, were dreams of heated passion, and a strange one of a man carrying her gently and pressing a kiss to her brow.
She rather thought she had dreamed of Fort. She smiled. It was a sweet dream, but no more than a dream. She was no wife for the Earl of Walgrave especially after her adventure in the brothel. Damn Bryght Malloren for telling Fort who she was. Why would he do such a thing?
With a sigh, Portia went out in search of Oliver, hoping he had good news. There was no sign of him, but then she noticed a letter propped on the table.
Dearest Portia,
You are deep asleep so I will not wake you.
Things are well on the way to being solved. Fort ripped me apart as I deserved, but he has agreed to the mortgage. He has insisted, however, that I take a commission in the army.
Portia stared at the letter in disbelief. After all the work she and her mother had done to dissuade…! How could Fort do such a thing?
And that is not entirely true, Oliver continued.
Fort has long known I want the life, and now says it would be best. That boredom would lead me back into trouble.
I think he may be right. I’m not needed at Overstead, for you take care of the place better than I.
Perhaps I’ll make my fortune through war and return home covered in loot and glory.
Anyway, I’m off to Overstead to reassure Mama and Pru and talk to the colonel of the 5th.
By the time I’m back, Fort says the mortgage will be arranged.
He seemed to want you to stay here to discuss this business with him.
I didn’t argue since I want to make speed and you know more of the estate’s affairs than I.
He’s promised to keep an eye on your welfare.
Your loving, contrite brother, Oliver.
Stay here? Portia stared at the scribbled letter in disbelief. How on earth could Oliver think she could stay here?
Then she realized she had said little about the events at Mirabelle’s.
Certainly she had given her brother no inkling of the effect Bryght Malloren had on her, or of a dangerous wager.
Oliver thought Bryght had merely bought her out of there and sent her home, and clearly Fort had not enlightened him.
In fact, Portia recognized Fort’s hand in this. Fort could persuade Oliver of almost anything, and knowing Portia would not approve of Oliver buying a commission, he’d neatly made sure she couldn’t interfere.
Devil take the wretch. She paced the room angrily. He had no right to send Oliver into such danger.
She halted, recalling all the recent disasters and dangers. What other solution was there? Oliver was bored, and showed little interest in the land. He’d been mad to join the army since boyhood.
She sighed. Perhaps it was for the best, though it would cast their mother into the vapors.
Then it dawned on her at last that Overstead was safe.
Overstead was safe!
A smile broke on her face, and tears escaped. Tears of joy. Thank God, thank God, the worst was over and Overstead was safe. A few more days and she could return home. She would continue her improvements and pay off the debt. Oliver would love the army and cover himself with glory.
The battle was won.
It was as if a leaden, clinging blanket slid from her and she could stand straight and breathe freely for the first time in weeks.
Still smiling, she became aware of discomfort from her tightly dressed hair and began to remove the pins. It was a relief to let it down and work her fingers through it. She rubbed at her tender scalp, and finger-combed the hair loose around her shoulders.
Then she realized she was still in yesterday’s crumpled clothes and began to change. As she unlaced her stays, however, she saw she wore no shift and began to remember.
She pushed the memories away. That was over. She didn’t need to think of Mirabelle’s. She didn’t need to think of Bryght. She would stay quietly in her rooms until Oliver returned, and need never see Bryght Malloren again.
As she took off her creased petticoat, however, she wished she could remember going to bed last night. It was strange that she would go to bed in her clothes, no matter how tired.
She tried to think back. Oliver had gone out, and she had sat up to await him…. She couldn’t remember anything more until she woke up this morning. She must have put herself to bed in her sleep.
How peculiar.
Then, as she hung up her dimity gown, she saw her shoes placed neatly by the bed.
She had put herself to bed in an extraordinarily orderly manner, for she had the bad habit of stepping out of her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the room. This summoned a bewildered laugh. How strange to be tidier asleep than awake.
She wanted a bath, but that was not possible so she poured cold water into the basin and began a thorough wash.
When she washed her face, however, she found a quantity of paint on the towel and scrubbed until every last trace was removed.
If only she could scrub away all memory of the previous night as easily.
She doubted she would ever forget the desire Bryght Malloren had stirred in her.
She was fastening a fresh gown when there was a knock on the door. She rose to answer it then hesitated, thinking of Cuthbertson. But no. That must be over.
She swung it open ready to take on whatever trouble awaited, but it was only the landlady’s boy, Simon, come with some coals to make up her fire. He had also brought her breakfast of bread and butter and small beer.
It seemed bizarre to Portia that these daily routines were going ahead as if nothing had changed.
In a sense, nothing had.
Yet it felt as if everything were different.
The first touches of warmth from the fire were welcome, and Portia thanked the young man then sat to nibble the bread.
Every time she let herself think, however, her wayward mind turned straight to Bryght Malloren. She was going to run mad here alone for a week with nothing to do.
Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Portia went warily to open it, but it was merely Mrs. Pinney in a belligerent mood.
“Miss St. Claire,” she said, tiny mouth pinched into a little bud. “Where is your brother? If, indeed, brother he is.”
Portia was taken aback by this unexpected attack. “Half-brother,” she said. “He has had to leave for a few days, though I wonder how you know.”
“I know because he was seen to leave, sneaking away like a thief in the night!”
Portia stiffened. “Our rent is paid well in advance, Mrs. Pinney. If my brother wishes to leave, he is free to do so.”
The woman backed away a little, her mouth softening in surprise at this attack. “Surely, miss. But he left the door unlocked again. We could all have been murdered in our beds!”
Portia’s outrage lessened. “I’m sorry….”
“And gentlemen!” continued Mrs. Pinney, mouth pursing again. “My good neighbor across the street says you were brought home late at night by gentlemen, and that another gentleman left here at nearly dawn! What do you say to that, then?”
“It’s nonsense.” Portia saw that her firm denial had impressed the woman, and added, “I was escorted home by the servants of…of a friend. My brother left to catch the early coach. There was nobody else here. Your neighbor must have been mistaken.”
“Um, perhaps,” muttered the woman, eyes shifting. “She did speak of a monstrous creature, which seems unlikely.”
“A creature?” Portia wondered if she were still asleep and dreaming.
“A huge black hound,” the woman whispered, “that crept after the Prince of Darkness like a foul specter.”
“Really, Mrs. Pinney…” But the words stirred a memory for Portia. Then it struck her that when she had first seen Bryght Malloren she had thought of the Prince of Darkness, of Lucifer himself. And Bryght had a large dog.
Could he have been here.
Been in here?
Mrs. Pinney was shaking her head. “Yes, it is as you think, Miss St. Claire. Gin. So sad. But,” she added, with a return to her former belligerence, “there will be no more neglecting of the locks, or out you go! And your brother had best be back soon. I don’t hold with young women living alone, particularly those who like to be abroad at night! ”
Portia bit back another protest. “Sir Oliver has gone to Dorset, Mrs. Pinney. He will be back within the week.”
“A week! That is a great time to leave a single lady unattended.”
Portia could have delivered a lecture on the question of who had been attending whom, but merely said, “Since I have nowhere else to go, and know of no one who would come here to attend me, there is nothing to be done about it.”
“I could put you on the street,” the woman said. “This is a decent house, and I’ll not have it otherwise.”
“Nor would I,” Portia protested, “And you cannot evict me when the rent is paid.”
The woman was about to speak when her son raced up the stairs. “Ma! There’s a grand coach at the door!”
Portia’s first thought was that it was Bryght Malloren come to seize her. But when she followed the landlady into the hall to look down the stairs, she saw Fort.
He was dressed quite casually in dull blue and top boots, with his brown hair was simply tied, but it was certain this house had never seen his like.
The two powdered footmen added splendidly to his ambience.
He left the men at the door and mounted the stairs with eloquent disdain.
Mrs. Pinney and her son melted out of his way and he ignored them.
“Cousin Portia,” he said with a friendly smile and extended hands. “How wonderful to find you in London.”