This was not, however, an idle moment.
This was a damnable hour.
Bryght went up to his suite attended by both Zeno and Boudicca, and stripped off without wakening his valet. He prowled the room naked, wondering what the devil had happened. Clearly Fort had learned he had withdrawn his offer to Portia. After having goaded Bryght into vowing to marry her, he was annoyed.
But it was unlike even Fort to go off half-cocked like this. He must know there was danger of harming Portia’s reputation, and even of drawing attention to the brothel and Hippolyta.
Bryght detected Nerissa’s spiteful hand, and fingered the book of sermons which contained that letter. If he died in this affair, he’d damned well make sure that letter was sent to Trelyn.
The main question was, why was Fort in such a rage? The affair at Lady Willoughby’s had not been nearly the scandal they had all pretended. An embarrassment, yes, but it had been collusion between Bryght and the Trelyns that had painted it a desperate situation.
To trap Portia.
HadPortiacomplained to Fort that she’d been jilted?
The idea was ridiculous.
Bryght sensed a plot, and needed a rational talk with Fort. When the earl became hot-headed, however, it took him time to cool, and time they might not have.
Bryght flung himself down on his bed to seek sleep. He’d need his wits tomorrow.
Rothgar didn’t appear for breakfast the next morning, but Andover did. When the footman who had let him in disappeared, he said, “You’re not going to like it.”
“You surprise me,” said Bryght who was breakfasting on coffee alone.
“Walgrave is maintaining that it is a personal matter to do with South American trade. No one believes it any more than they’d believe it if he’d taken your hat and stamped on it, saying it offended him.”
“So what do people believe?”
Andover toyed with a bread roll. “That you raped, or as good as raped, Portia St. Claire at Lady Willoughby’s.”
“What?”
Andover grimaced. “It’s all whispers and innuendo—to preserve the lady’s reputation, they say—but the message is clear. You tried to prove your skill on another virgin, but this one wanted no part of it. You insisted. You were interrupted by Lady Willoughby and Lord and Lady Trelyn, all seeking Miss St. Claire. The lady was disheveled, distressed, and her gown was half ripped off her.”
“’Struth.”
“Lady Trelyn is denying the whole thing, with enough fervor to convince the doubting that every word is true. It is known that a wedding was planned, but that the groom has since declined to be present. The lady is prostrate with shock and shame, or possibly recovering from her injuries. Walgrave is apparently a close neighbor of Miss St. Claire’s and as good as a brother to her….”
“Dare I show my face out of doors?”
“It’s not as bad as that, Bryght. It’s all rumor, and no one knows the truth. If Miss St. Claire were to appear, composed and uninjured, most of it would die. The Trelyns claim she is suffering from a mild head cold, but again, the manner of their protests…. Fort calling you out does rather add color to it.”
“Damn fool. Then I suppose the only thing is formeto appear composed and uninjured.”
“Speaking of injury, Barclay and I met with Walgrave’s men….”
“Has he come to his senses?”
“Perhaps.” Andover frowned. “It’s damned strange, Bryght. He admits privately that the cause is Miss St. Claire, and says he will retract his challenge if you marry her. Perhaps he believes the stories.”
Bryght looked at his friend. “It sounds as if you are beginning to believe them.”
Andover colored slightly. “Of course not. But why would Walgrave be so serious about pushing the marriage?”
“He obviously regards the lady as a galling cross for me to bear.” Bryght poured himself more coffee.
“So?” Andover prompted. “If he is willing to drop the matter if the marriage goes ahead, why not appease him? Do you not wish to marry her?”
