Chapter 14 #2
Nerissa waved a beringed hand. “Everyone who is anyone! Well no. Perhaps not. The Willoughbys’ affair will be extremely proper, with music of the highest order. That means,” she said with a rueful smile, “that the more lively members of London Society will disport themselves elsewhere.”
Portia relaxed a little. She should have realized that Lord Trelyn would not attend a wild affair. And Bryght Malloren would surely not waste an evening on proper behavior and excellent music.
That being the case, Portia determined to enjoy herself. Tonight would be her first grand London entertainment, and probably also one of her last. In years to come she would have one brilliant night to remember.
Or two, she thought wistfully, thinking of brilliance of an entirely different order.
Soon they were in a carriage in a queue of carriages and sedan-chairs waiting to disgorge their glittering occupants at the door to the Debenham mansion.
As this house was on the next street to the Trelyn’s house, the carriage seemed absurd to Portia, but Nerissa assured her that it was unthinkable to attend these affairs on foot.
Portia looked out of the window at the queue ahead, and the queue behind. “Goodness. The whole world must be trying to get in.”
“Only the elite,” said Lord Trelyn, and Portia could tell he enjoyed counting himself of that number.
She suspected he even enjoyed the people lining the streets to watch the carriages go past. Some of the gawkers seemed to recognize Nerissa for they called out her name.
She inclined her head just a fraction in gracious acknowledgement and the famous Trelyn diamonds shot fire. The Queen of Society indeed.
Was this why Nerissa had married Lord Trelyn?
Portia decided it was mean-spirited to be dissecting her hosts’ intimate affairs, and put it out of her mind. Instead, she pressed to one side to look down the queue. “People seem to be leaving as enthusiastically as they are entering. I fear the event must be a disappointment.”
“You dear ninny!” laughed Nerissa. “It would be the worst of bad taste to stay long, for then how would other people get in? Everyone is on his way elsewhere, as we are. We will just greet our hosts and move through the rooms, commenting to our friends what a terrible crush it is.”
“And then what?”
“And then we will leave. It is just that extracting ourselves will take even longer than getting in.” She gave a twinkling smile. “It is all quite ridiculous, but one must.”
Why? Portia wanted to ask, but she knew the answer. It was the way of the world.
It proved to be just as Nerissa said. They arrived at the double-fronted house to find every window lit, with the blinds drawn back.
They joined a queue of gorgeously dressed men and women waiting to mount the central staircase to greet their hosts.
Portia’s eyes began to hurt from the glare of gold lace and jewelry.
The heat from bodies and candles was appalling. She saw a few women and one man faint and be carried away, and prayed she would not similarly disgrace herself.
Eventually they had the opportunity to greet Lord and Lady Debenham and move into the rooms. No question here of sitting to talk, for all the furniture had been removed.
Despite the crush, Nerissa was in her element, greeting and being greeted by all. She charted a course through the crowded rooms like the expert captain of a vessel—always heading forward, but tacking from one group to another. Portia and Lord Trelyn floated behind like bum-boats.
Portia was introduced to so many people her head was swimming. Lord Trelyn stood by his wife like someone showing off a prize possession. Or guarding one.
Then a tall man in black velvet and rubies approached and made a bow. Nerissa extended her hand and the man’s lips passed the correct distance over it, but the sudden coolness could be felt.
“Lord Rothgar,” said Nerissa, and Portia snapped to attention.
There was not a great resemblance between the marquess and his brother except in height and aura. Lord Rothgar’s hair was powdered, but she fancied it was pure black underneath. His features could be called handsome, but they would make no one think of an angel, not even a devilish one.
Upon introduction, he bowed over Portia’s hand with exquisite grace. “Another St. Claire. London is blessed.”
She dropped a curtsy. “I cannot compare to Lady Trelyn in beauty, my lord.”
“One such beauty is enough for any world, Miss St. Claire. Perhaps you should seek instead to rival her in virtue.”
He contrived to make it seem an insult. Apparently all Mallorens were alike in that at least.
She met his eyes. “Surely everyone should aspire to virtue, my lord.”
His lips twitched in a dismissive smile. “What an extraordinary notion.” With a bow to Lord Trelyn, he moved on.
Portia hissed in annoyance and would very much have liked to continue the debate.
Nerissa gave a nervous laugh and fanned herself rather rapidly. “So you are willing to take on Rothgar, too! I confess, you are bolder than I. The marquess disturbs me.”
“He cannot hurt you, my dear,” said Lord Trelyn, but he gave Portia a curious look. She feared she would have to endure another inquisition later.
Nerissa smiled at her husband. “Of course he cannot hurt me, Trelyn. He would not dare. He is so strange, though, and they do say his mother was mad.”
“Mad?” Portia asked in surprise.
“’Tis said she killed her child—a younger one than the marquess, of course—and then herself. There is bad blood in the Mallorens.”
“If it is that bad blood you refer to,” said Lord Trelyn, “then only Rothgar has it. The others of the brood had a different mother—a charming woman. I remember her slightly.”
“How fair you are, Trelyn,” said Nerissa rather sourly. “You must admit that they are all wild.”
“That, I admit, my love. Alas, there is another of that wild brood here tonight.”
Portia followed his gaze and saw Bryght in full dress of russet velvet and powder. Her heart began to pound and she had to suppress a desire to edge away, to try to melt back into the crowd.
She reminded herself that he could not in honor approach her.
Portia glanced at Nerissa’s husband and was reassured by the intense dislike in his expression. She wondered why Lord Trelyn felt so strongly, though. He was looking at Bryght as if he were a rival….
Portia suppressed her lewd imaginings. First Lord Heatherington, now Lord Bryght. There were doubtless a host of reasons for Lord Trelyn to dislike the Mallorens.
She kept a wary eye on Lord Bryght, though, and thus saw him heading towards her. Suddenly hot, she fanned herself vigorously, still watching him over the fan.
He did not approach them directly, for he had to stop and greet a number of people, including that Mrs. Findlayson, whose grip on his arm at one point seemed almost clawlike.
If Portia needed more evidence of his wickedness, there it was.
The whole world knew he was wooing Mrs. Findlayson and her fortune.
He had absolutely no business flirting with another woman, making wagers with her, overwhelming her senses on a brothel bed, and pursuing her thereafter.
He could not approach her.
He could not!
He did.
When he finally bowed before them, Portia was almost breathless.
“You look somewhat heated, Miss St. Claire.” He neatly appropriated her fan to ply it for her. “Perhaps you are not accustomed to such crowds.”
Portia wanted to cut him for breaking their pact, but did not dare do that here. “That is true, my lord.”
“Or have you been reading your Bible?”
Portia froze, staring into his eyes. They seemed more gold than green now, but they were the eyes that had watched her from inches away as he kissed her, stroked her….
“I read it daily, my lord,” she said icily.
He fanned her, undisturbed. “Perhaps I should send you a new one, then—if Lady Trelyn will permit.”
Nerissa laughed rather nervously. “A Bible, my lord? That would be a novel gift from you. Have you turned to religion?”
“Religion can be surprisingly rewarding, Lady Trelyn.” With that shot, he let Portia’s fan ripple shut and replaced it in her numb hands.
As they watched him stroll away, Lord Trelyn asked, “What was that about?”
“Nothing of importance, my lord,” said Portia quickly. But truly, she was feeling dizzy. Was it the heat, or his confidence? He seemed so sure of himself.
She told herself that bluff was part of a gamester’s stock-in-trade.
Nerissa studied Portia. “Lord Bryght is correct, though, Cousin. The heat does not agree with you. Your cheeks are clashing with your hair.” She charted a straight course for the stairs, saying, “You were generally admired, however. Your delicate build does serve to make you look younger than your years, and you are graceful in movement and manner.”
“Thank you,” said Portia, feeling rather like a schoolroom miss being told that her French exercise had passed muster.
Soon they were at the outer doors. The Trelyn carriage rolled up and they entered to go on to the Willoughby soiree.
A few minutes later, Bryght strolled down the stairs arms linked with Andover.
“Where now?” asked Andover lazily. “I have no idea why we are being so fine and sociable tonight, my friend. These affairs are demmed dull.”
“Lady Willoughby’s soiree, of course.”
Andover stopped to look at his friend. “Screeching sopranos and fervent harpists? My dear, I begin to doubt you.”
Bryght smiled. “How foolish.”
“Ah so. What then is the attraction at the Willoughbys’?”
“Merely that I am willing to hazard that the Trelyn party has gone on there.”
“With your luck at wagers, I take it as a certainty.”
“Knowledge, not luck. Which is why I generally win. At this time of year there are few entertainments that Lord Trelyn would think worthy of his presence. They have either gone to Lady Willoughby’s or home. My money is on the Willoughbys’.”
“How much?” asked Andover with a faint spark of interest.
They had reached the entrance hall, and servants brought their cloaks. “My dear Andover,” said Bryght, “do you really wish to part with more of your wealth?”
“I wish to part you from some of yours. I say they are not at the Willoughbys’.”
Bryght sighed. “A hundred only. I’m feeling compassionate.”
As they passed out of the double doors and into the night air, Andover said, “Care to hazard a pony, then, that you can speak to Nerissa without her husband by her side?”
Bryght laughed. “The secret of my success is never betting against a certainty. The man would have to be dead to permit it. I am his bête noire. Heaven alone knows why.”
“The fact that you have rutted with his wife?”
“So has half London before he grew suspicious. I could almost pity him.” They summoned a waiting link boy and headed a few streets away to the Willoughbys’ house.
“Not Nerissa, then,” said Andover. “Jenny Findlayson? You seemed rather cool toward her.”
“I begin to think we would not suit.”
“Thank the lord for that. Who then is your current amorous interest? Anyway, I thought you were chasing after Upcott’s sister.”
“Chase? Is that in my nature?”
“It’s not in your nature to attend these events, nor to buy virgins.”
Bryght met his friend’s eyes ruefully. Andover had made no previous remark about the strange event. “Touché.”
“So, do I get an explanation?”
“Novel wagers amuse me.”
“It is not a matter for discussion?” Andover hazarded.
“How perspicacious you are.”
“Don’t bite my head off. If you must become the talk of the clubs, it’s not my fault. The general opinion gives you the accolade for finesse.”
“Could it be otherwise?”
After a few moments, Andover said, “So? What has become of the fair of Dresden Street?”
“Her brother has left London and she is safe in the bosom of her family.”
“Speedy work, even for you.”
“I had little to do with it.”
They turned the corner into the street where the Willoughbys had their house. “So,” Andover mused, “we are now interested in Nerissa’s cousin, Miss St. Claire. She seems unlikely to create scandals, but I see no wager in it. What is to prevent you from speaking with her?”
“My conscience. You heard her. I am not to intrude upon her in any way unless I can prove I did not lie.”
Andover laughed. “I’d forgotten that. She seems to have taken you in dislike.”
“She labors under misapprehensions.”
“Does she? Can you not prove you spoke the truth?”
“Of a certainty, but it amuses me to choose when and where to claim my forfeit.”
Andover glanced at Bryght. “What’s the attraction there? She seems rather strait-laced. She is too forthright to be pleasing, and is rather lacking in curves.”
“Do you think so?” said Bryght with faint amusement. “Strait-laces can be loosened, and I find forthright quite attractive. For example, I have a fatal weakness for women who try to shoot me.”
Andover burst out laughing. “Fatal indeed! When did that happen, and why the devil would she do such a thing?”
“She told me to stop, and I had no mind to.”
“So you’ve already had her, have you? And her not your slave?”
“My dear Andover, you are developing a low turn of mind. Let us enter Lady Willoughby’s and see if it can be improved by screeching sopranos and fervent harpists.”