While the man arranged matters, Bryght dressed and ran through options. He had seriously misjudged matters.
There had to be more to it than willfulness. Portia would never act this way in a simple fight as to whether they went north or west. He remembered now a desperation in her manner when she’d asked that they go to Overstead.
Why?
He traced back her behavior after the wedding.
She’d not been radiant, but she had been resigned.
Then she’d found out about Barclay and been furious, but there’d been no talk of going to Overstead.
That had come…after she’d spoken to Fort.
Overstead was in his area, and it was possible news from there would travel.
Bryght got out of the house without a hitch—such as running into Rothgar—and dropped off the maid nearby with a reminder that she was to keep this matter to herself. Then he directed the coach to Ware House.
A footman opened the door, clearly ready to send away anyone who called at such an early hour. He was immediately quelled by rank.
“I wish to see my brother-in-law,” said Bryght crisply, walking into the house.
“He is not at home, milord.”
“At this hour?” Again he made a swift analysis. “Gads,” he said lightly, “has he left already?”
The man’s eyes flickered revealingly.
“Were there three women with him—or four?”
The footman’s eyes almost popped. “But one, milord!”
“How moderate, though on a long journey into Dorset, a full coach would be inconvenient.” He gave the man a knowing wink and a coin.
The footman almost sniggered as he pocketed the coin. “Not Dorset, milord. Surrey.”
Bryght flicked him another coin and left.
The Abbey! And Portia alone in a coach for hours with Fort Ware, the man she seemed to prefer. Fort clearly was not devoted to Portia, but it might suit him to seduce a Malloren bride.
“I’ll kill him,” Bryght muttered as the coach sped out of town. “Family connection or no.”
His urgency couldn’t bear sitting. On the edge of London, Bryght got rid of the coach and its servants, telling them to stay in a quiet inn for a few days. He hired a fast riding horse and set off for the Abbey at a gallop.
Portia stared at the imposing entrance of Rothgar Abbey with dismay. “We should have tried to slip in quietly rather than announcing our arrival.”
Fort’s look of astonishment reminded her of his stiff-rumped father. “Be damned to that.” His groom was already rapping on the door and Fort led Portia to it.
It opened almost exactly as they arrived there, making Portia wonder if there was a skill to it—both servants and lord trained with military precision.
Clearly a night of anxiety and no sleep was not good for her sanity.
They were soon inside, and Portia began to fret about what excuse they should make.
But Fort merely said, “We are here to see Sir Oliver Upcott.”
The footman was well-trained and did not so much as blink before directing them to a reception room and saying, “I will enquire, milord.”
An admirably noncommittal answer. Portia thought that his very woodenness had been revealing, however.
