Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (39 page)

"I wish to leave today, Lord Trelyn."

"That would be unwise, Cousin Portia. After all, Lord Arcenbryght may come to his senses and agree to the wedding. It would be unfortunate if you were not here."

Trying a subtle move, Portia decided to take Lord Trelyn up on his promise that she could leave the house with a suitable escort. The suitable escort proved unavailable.

After battling this strange lack of servants, Portia put on her cloak and attempted to leave the house alone. Two footmen forced her back into her room and locked the door.

She pounded on it and shouted, but no one came to her aid. How could she expect them to? She stopped from weariness, and because she feared Lord Trelyn might seriously try to put her into an insane asylum.

Now she was trying to make sense of all this.

The plan to make her Bryght Malloren's ball and chain had fallen through. It was possible that Nerissa might carry through her spiteful revenge and try to kill Oliver, but Portia staying or going had little to do with that.

Portia paced her luxurious prison knowing there was something afoot, and that she was being kept in ignorance.

Had Oliver returned? Yes, that could be it.

If so, she must escape and warn him of his danger.

She assessed her prison.

The door between the two rooms wasn't locked, but the doors to the corridor were. The keys were not in the locks, so any plan dependent upon them was hopeless. She supposed someone would come—either a servant with food, or the Trelyns to gloat—but Portia was not of a build to overcome them by strength alone.

She turned her attention to the windows.

The windows in both rooms were large and opened smoothly. They looked out onto the back garden so that an escape would not be easily witnessed, but they were nearly twenty feet off the ground. How could she escape this way?

Knotted sheets?

Portia had been a tomboy in her youth and thought she could make the climb given a rope. She was dubious, however, about anyone creating a sturdy rope out of sheets and silk coverlets.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the turning of the lock, and she hastily closed the window.

Nerissa came in, gently reproachful. "Portia, my dear cousin, the servants say you are behaving most strangely."

"It is not strange to want to leave the house."

"But where would you wish to go, alone?"

"Nerissa, enough of this. If I am free to leave, let me leave."

"We are merely seeking to keep you safe—"

"Spare me. Tell me the real reason for this imprisonment."

Nerissa cocked her head then sat. Portia's nerves tightened. Her cousin looked so very pleased with herself.

"You cannot leave just yet, Portia, because you are prostrate with shock and injuries."

"What?"

"After the vicious way Bryght Malloren treated you, the way he almost raped you... or perhaps he did. The stories are
so
confused...."

"Nerissa! You
cannot—"

Her cousin's eyes shone with satisfaction. "Oh, but I can! The whole town is abuzz with it. And, of course, now that he has refused to marry you the matter looks even worse."

Portia shook her head. "No, you cannot. This is wicked. He will be ruined."

Nerissa laughed. "Ruined? A Malloren ruined by the ravishing of a creature like you? Lud! No, with any luck, he will be dead."

Portia's breath caught. "What?"

"I sought merely to sully his name, but it works out better than I'd thought. Your neighbor, Lord Walgrave, has challenged him. They meet tomorrow."

"They must not!"

"Ah, but they must."

"But what if
Fort
dies? He is entirely innocent!"

"Fort Ware? He hasn't been innocent since the day he was breeched. If he dies, it will still serve. Bryght's name will be tarnished forever. Don't you wish you could witness the event? See the blood flow, watch the dying grimace...?"

"Nerissa, you are truly wicked. I will tell the world everything."

"Will you? Including that you were Hippolyta?"

"Yes."

"What good would it do, when Bryght is dead?"

"Revenge," said Portia coldly.

Nerissa just smiled. "Ah, at last you see. Revenge is sweet. And at last I see. You poor fool. You don't hate him. You love him." She rose to her feet. "In that case, it is rather pleasant to make you the means of his destruction. Heather tells me Lord Walgrave has been working hard with his sword, learning clever ways to kill and maim."

With that she left and Portia stared at the door with loathing.

Never. She would never give Nerissa the victory in this. She flung open the window again and eyed the sheets. Then she saw the silver cords that held back the curtains and were draped and knotted all over the bed-hangings. They were not very thick but there was plenty of them.

Portia took her scissors out of her needlework case and began to unpick the stitches that held the cord in its ornamental position. Soon she had a substantial pile of it on the carpet. But was it strong enough to support even such a light creature as herself?

She pulled at it, and it seemed sturdy.

With a shrug, she knotted one end securely around the leg of an armoire near one window. Then she pulled on it with all her might. The armoire did not move and the rope gave no appearance of weakening.

Her heart was pounding with nervousness, and her hands were dangerously slippery, but she would go through with this. She would put an end to being a victim, a thing to be moved to everyone else's pleasure, and she would never be part of Nerissa's evil revenge. To help with the climb, she tied a half dozen knots in the cord, hoping her feet could find purchase on the silky stuff.

She looked out of the window again. The garden was deserted, and indeed, who would be out there for pleasure on such a chilly day?

What else need be done?

She was wearing light hoops under her dress and they would have to go. Having done that, her skirts hung rather long. She pinned them up so that her calves were free like a working woman's. Not proper, but propriety was the furthest thing from her mind.

Portia found her spirits lightening. Matters were still difficult, but it was being powerless and a prisoner that had worn her down.

On with it.

She threw out her cloak, shoes, and muff, then sent the free end of the rope after. It fell to within feet of the ground.

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.