“We only have coffee and small beer,” he said. “Would you like anything else?”
Just to be difficult, Portia said, “Chocolate, please.”
He rang a bell and ordered it.
Silence settled, with Portia and Brand radiating animosity, Barclay looking bewildered, and Fort almost appearing amused. Involving Fort in this had been like throwing oil on a fire, but what else could she have done? Then something clicked in her weary brain.
“Barclay!” she exclaimed staring at the man across the table, a man innocently taking a bite of toast. “You’re the wretch who stole our estate.”
He flushed. “Certainly not. I won it fair and square, Miss St. Claire.”
“Lady Arcenbryght Malloren,” corrected Brand with emphasis.
Portia ignored him. “How can it be fair to throw a family out onto the streets?”
“How can it be fair for a man to stake his family’s welfare?” the major retorted.
He was right. “But still,” Portia protested, “if no one gamed, no one would stake anything.”
The major raised his brows. “As well say, if no one waged war, no one would have to fight. Unlikely, and demmed dull.”
The servant returned with the chocolate pot, poured a cup for Portia, and then left.
“There are many people,” she said, “who enjoy such a dull existence, enjoy the simple pleasures of peace and security, of family life and honest labor.”
“Howdidyou come to marry Bryght?” murmured Fort maliciously. “Perhaps it’s not too late for an annulment.”
Vicious antagonism sparked between Brand and Fort and Portia leapt to her feet. “I must—”
“Sit down,” said Brand coldly. “I’ll bind and gag you if I have to. You’re doing nothing until Bryght gets here.”
“No!”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him kill you. Rothgar don’t care for murder in the house.”
At that, Fort snarled something, and Portia feared he would lunge across the table and throttle the Malloren. He assumed control again, however, and contented himself with silent animosity.
Portia looked wildly to Major Barclay, who might be the only sane man here. He did look uncomfortable, but she could never believe the villain in her life might help her.
So she would have to help herself. She turned to Brand. “I need to relieve myself.”
A flicker of amusement showed in his eyes, but he said, “Of course,” and rose to open the door for her. He led her through and up the wide staircase to the next floor. There he stopped to open a door. “An unused bedchamber, but I think you will find a close stool. There is no other door, so don’t think to start wandering.”
His smile said that he had seen through all her tricks.
Portia walked through and slammed the door in his face.
She did need to use it, so she found the pot. Then she checked the window just in case. With astonishment, she found the wall on this side was covered by heavy ivy. She was a good thirty feet off the ground but still, it was this or captivity, and she was well-practiced at the art. She eased up the window and checked. The vine was firm against the wall and as sturdy as a ladder.
“Ha, Brand Malloren,” she muttered as she shed her hoops. “Now we’ll see.”
She shed her hoops. Then, lacking pins, she knotted her skirts then climbed out of the window, not allowing herself to think of how high she was. If the ivy was safe, the height didn’t matter.
She worked her way down, expecting a shout from above at any moment. But she reached the ground without incident and looked up at the window with a grim smile of triumph.
It was a temporary victory, but at least she wouldn’t be sitting meekly at the breakfast table when Bryght turned up to strangle her. And it was possible that in the meantime she might find Oliver and solve the mystery once and for all.
She unknotted her skirts and ran round the corner, looking for another way into the house. How long would it be before Brand intruded to find out what was keeping her? With any luck he’d give her time, thinking she’d be sulking.
