Chapter 18 #3
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 didn’t 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.
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.
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 wouldn’t 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.
And 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.”