“Yes, but not against her will.”
“Damnation, Bryght, this could be serious. You can pleasure any wench out of her sulks.”
A look from Bryght had Andover blanching, but the man said, “I can’t understand her. You’re a rare catch for such a woman.”
“She values herself higher than that.”
“Do youwantto fight Walgrave? He’ll do his damndest to kill you and I hear rumors he’s been training hard with Angeli. Even had him down in the country to coach him.”
“Good, then he’ll offer some sort of challenge. Let us go face the lions.”
Andover tried further reasoning, but then abandoned it as useless. He didn’t abandon Bryght, however, but stayed by him as they strolled around the more fashionable parts of London.
It was not pleasant, but it was not disastrous. No one attempted to cut Bryght, though he was the focus of curious, suggestive looks. There were a few innuendoes at which he could have taken offense, but one duel a week was sufficient, even for a Malloren.
It did still appear, however, that Bryght was going to have to fight Fort.
It only slowly dawned on Portia that she was a prisoner.
After Bryght withdrew his offer, she had demanded her money, and been put off.
Next, she sent a message to Fort. When there was no response, she began to suspect that it had gone no further than the nearest fireplace.
The next morning, she asked Lord Trelyn to arrange for the purchase of a coach ticket to Shaftesbury. He protested that no lady of his family ever traveled on the common stage, and promised to arrange her journey in his own traveling coach, and with suitable escort.
“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.
