She lifted the bar and set it aside, opened the door, and was outside in the chill dark. She hesitated a moment, aware that this might be the end of all chance of happiness.
But any chance had been lost hours ago, perhaps days ago when Bryght arranged for her brother’s abduction.
There was an icy damp that threatened rain, and Portia pulled her hood up. This time she went away from the square toward the mews, made a circuitous route to a nearby street, and set off for Fort’s house.
She was almost becoming accustomed to roaming London in the gloom, she thought wryly. In fact there could be some to relief in being set upon by thieves and put out of her misery.
She reached Abingdon Street without hazard, however, and had to consider her next problem—whether to try the front door again, or a back entrance. She shrugged and marched up to rap on the door.
It was the same footman, and his jaw dropped.
“Tell Lord Walgrave I am here.” Would the servant know that Miss Portia St. Claire had married Bryght Malloren today? Was that why he looked so astonished?
No, he was just dumbstruck at her boldness, but when she stepped forward, he let her in. He wore a sneer that said he knew she’d be out on her ear in a moment, but he allowed her into the house and led her to a tiny, bleak reception room. It was definitely the place to put unwanted visitors of the lower orders, but she was in, which meant Fort was at home.
The footman left, but in moments was back, looking rather resentful, to lead her to another room.
This was a handsome study, and Fort was there.
As soon as the door closed, he said, “What in Hades are you doing here?” He was simply astonished.
“I want to go with you to Overstead.”
He gaped. It was the only word for it. “But this is your wedding night!”
Portia’s face was hot. “What’s that to do with anything? Bryght refuses to take me there. He says we are to go north. He won’t change his mind, so I am resolved to go alone.”
“But…but what have you done to him?”
Portia frowned at him. “Done?”
“Have you drugged him? You haven’t shot him, have you?”
At his alarmed tone, Portia bit her lip to stifle a giggle that would be part tears. “Of course not. I made it clear that I did not wish…. He is far too much of a gentleman…” Tears threatened, to become a reality. “I have retired for the night.”
“’Struth.” Fort was looking at her as if she were a loaded weapon. “And you want me to take you to Dorset, a three-day journey?”
Portia eyed him with disgust. “Why do I have the feeling I’m lucky not to be bundled back to Malloren House on the instant?”
“Because you are,” he snapped. “Damn lucky. We’re not children anymore. What do you think Bryght’s going to do if he discovers you’ve been here?”
Portia hadn’t really thought of that. “He’d never think there was anything untoward….” She wasn’t sure what Bryght might think, but she held on to her resolve. “Fort, I need to get to Overstead. I must. But if I go on the stage, I’m afraid Bryght will overtake me before I get there.”
“He’ll overtake you sooner or later,” he said grimly, “and there’ll be hell to pay. By the sounds of it, you could go back now and he might never know.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Portia lied, chin high. “I have to know the truth about Oliver.”
Fort considered her a moment. “Very well, if you have to know the truth, we had best go to Rothgar Abbey not Overstead.”
“The Abbey?”
“That’s where he’s been taken if he’s been taken anywhere.”
Portia considered, and realized that was true. “And you’ll accompany me there?”
“I wouldn’t let you go alone.” He suddenly smiled, and looked like the Fort of old. “I’ve always suspected my fate is to be killed by a Malloren, so why fight it? And I, too, want to know what they’ve done with Oliver. I have little sympathy for the fool, but outright murder I can’t accept.”
“Nor can I,” she said quietly, thinking bleakly of the long years ahead without Bryght. “If we’re to do it, let’s go.”
