“Bryght told me. Miss St. Claire, may we get to the issue?”
“Yes…. No, not the brothel…” Portia gathered herself. “Someone has spread stories about the Willoughbys’. False stories, but close enough, I gather, that even Lady Willoughby is not denying them….”
“And the stories say?”
Portia swallowed, for though she was not at fault in this, he might not believe it. “That Bryght attempted to seduce me,” she whispered, “and when I refused, he tried to rape me.”
She looked up at him, and what she saw there made her shiver.
“I see. Presumably you were discovered not just disheveled from your fun, but distressed, half-clothed, bruised…?”
Portia nodded. “I wanted to go out so that everyone could see that I was well, but they locked me in.”
He was standing by a chair and a finger tapped on the back. “It appears to me that you should be at Walgrave’s house with this story.”
“I tried. They wouldn’t let me in. That’s why I broke in here. And because I was afraid to be out in the dark….”
“How did you get in? As the householder, I am curious.”
Portia wondered how he would take her unladylike exploits. “I climbed the gate into the lane, and found an unlocked door.”
He suddenly smiled. “I delight in resourceful women. You are correct. You should discuss this with Bryght.” He went to open the door.
Portia wanted to hold him back. “You cannot deal with this, my lord?”
“Of course I can, but if I don’t take you to my brother, I fear we would have another duel in the family. Come. Of what are you afraid?”
Bryght. Herself. That she would end up tying a man in a marriage he did not want.
Surely not a fate worse than death, however.
She let the marquess guide her back to the part of the house she had first explored. After a brief tap, he opened a door to reveal Bryght in shirtsleeves at a desk piled with papers.
“Is that your last will and testament?” Rothgar asked caustically.
Bryght rose and stared at Portia. Then he looked at his brother. “You have been unavailable.”
“True. You cannot duel with Fort.”
“Tell him that.”
“I intend to. There is apparently no cause, but I think you and Miss St. Claire have matters to discuss.”
Portia was aware of Bryght staring at her, even though she had her eyes fixed on the fire.
“Miss St. Claire!”
At the marquess’s sharp tone, she looked up at him. “Yes, my lord?”
“Your gowns are presumably at the Trelyns.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He looked at Bryght. “I’ll take Zeno.”
At a word from Bryght the dog rose and went to the marquess’s side.
“Talk to each other,” Rothgar said, and then left.
