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.
The shadowy outside light showed her nothing, but the blast of cold air might give her away. Portia hastily closed the door and stood in the dark, trying to sense where she was.
There were general smells from kitchens and stores, but nothing in particular. She put out her hand and touched a wall to her right. A few steps to the left found another one. She suspected she was in a corridor, possibly one with storerooms opening off it.
This was of no interest to her, however, and she groped her way forward, seeking a way to the rest of the house. She bumped into a barrier, and her fingers told her it was a door.
It might open straight into the servant’s hall or kitchen.
She pressed her ear to it, and did hear sounds, but distant ones.
She took a deep breath for courage, and opened the door.
Light.
Not bright, for it spilled from a nearby doorway, but blessed after the darkness. And the door opened into another corridor.
There were voices in the nearby room, chattering of friends and flirtation. Delicious smells of cooking meat and spices crept out to make Portia’s stomach rumble. She had eaten little today and despite her small size, she did have a healthy appetite.
Once she contacted a member of the family, perhaps they would feed her.
