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 donesomethingto 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 youdare!” 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.
