“A Frenchman. He spoke so warmly of the delights of the Paris clubs that I am tempted to try them myself.”
“Why don’t you then?”
“Alas, I have commitments at the moment. You, however, are free to travel.”
Cuthbertson’s eyes narrowed. “I have no desire to travel.”
“I think if you consider the advantages and alternatives, you will find it a most enticing prospect.”
With that, Bryght turned and walked away, wondering if he would hear rushing feet and have to turn and fight for his life. The street was not entirely deserted, however, and no attack occurred.
He headed back for Malloren House, thinking that sponging off Rothgar—his course of last resort—was beginning to look damned attractive.
Portia sat in her bedroom in Trelyn House, contemplating the shapes and shadows in the leaping fire. The past twenty-four hours had been enough to turn anyone’s wits, but she was beginning to feel almost calm.
The marquess’s announcement that his brother was withdrawing his offer of marriage had been like an explosion. Lord Trelyn had been livid with rage. Nerissa had pretended to faint with horror, but was clearly furious.
Portia had not been able to suppress glee at these reactions, but mainly she was worried to death about the consequences.
“It is my brother’s considered opinion,” said the marquess calmly despite the outrage, “and it is an opinion I share, that his behavior was not extreme enough to make a hasty marriage necessary. Such a marriage might cast some shadow on the reputation of Miss St. Claire. He hopes to woo her in a more normal fashion.”
“He will never darken my door again!” declared Lord Trelyn, almost quivering with fury.
“As I am sure Miss St. Claire will wish to rejoin her family in Dorset, you will not be put to that inconvenience, Lord Trelyn.”
“We will not pay to send her there,” snapped Nerissa.
“You have my money!” Portia declared.
The marquess looked at the Trelyns with such amazement that they both reddened with guilt.
“It is in safekeeping, you silly creature,” snapped Lord Trelyn. “Are you accusing me of being a thief?”
Portia smiled sweetly. “No, Cousin, of course not. I am simply pointing out that I have the means to return home tomorrow.”
“Then go,” snapped Nerissa. “We arrange a most advantageous marriage for you, and you treat us as villains! I hope you are miserable in muddy, boring Dorset.”
“Lady Trelyn,” said her husband sharply, “you are forgetting Christian charity. And you are forgetting where the blame lies. In my opinion, Lord Arcenbryght has behaved in a most deplorable manner, and I will not forget it. In the meantime, Cousin Portia must need your loving care not your cruelty.”
Cousin Portia wanted no such thing, but she allowed herself to be taken off by a superficially chastened Nerissa. She expected more attacks as soon as they were out of Lord Trelyn’s earshot, but once in Nerissa’s rooms her dresser handed her a note. “From the mantua maker, milady.”
Nerissa almost jumped. She read the note warily, her lips tightening. “Another delay. Such people are so tiresome these days.” She tossed it on the fire and Portia watched it burn. Why would a mantua-maker’s note bring new flags of anger to Nerissa’s cheeks?
But Nerissa turned to her with a smile. “Dearest, forgive me? I was so furious about the way that wretch treated you.”
Portia guessed that Nerissa’s fury was because she would not now get her letter back, but she played along. “It is what one would expect of a Malloren.”
“Indeed it is. The wretch. The lizard! Word must get out so that he may be shunned as he deserves!”
“No! Please, Nerissa. You will ruin me in the process!”
Nerissa sat with an angry flounce. “But he must be made to suffer.”
“I prefer to forget it and return home.”
“You are a poor little mouse, aren’t you? I will put my mind to avenging you….”
“No,please.”
