“Fort knew.”
“I told him.” Before she could demand an explanation of that, he said, “No one will guess the truth if you behave as normal.”
She stared at him. “Just go home and act as if this had never happened?”
“What else? Very little did.”
“Very little? It doesn’t seem that way to me!”
He just smiled in a way that made her want to shoot him. “Mirabelle will make sure you are safe.” He bowed to her with elegance.“A bientôt, petite.”With that he returned to the company.
Portia watched him go with a sense of loss, for despite his words, he would not see her again soon. She was leaving London.
Mirabelle took Portia to her parlor. “Twenty percent to me, and three hundred to Cuthbertson. Your share of Bryght’s bid, my dear, is one hundred and eighty guineas. Hardly paltry for such light work.”
Portia thought with satisfaction that it was a great deal more, and even from the briefest acquaintance with the fat man, she knew Bryght was correct. She need feel no guilt at taking his money, though her conscience insisted that the wager had been less than honest.
Mirabelle took Portia to the bedroom. “You will want to dress.”
As soon as she was alone, Portia looked in a mirror, wondering what she would see. She saw a wild-haired stranger who had panted for Bryght Malloren. She shuddered at the memory, spat out the plumpers, tore off the mask, and unpinned the long, black wig.
There, her hair rather tightly dressed to her head, was Portia St. Claire again. Or was it? Portia St. Claire did not have such reddened lips—and the redness now was passion more than paint. She did not have such knowing, darkened eyes. She did not reek of a sultry perfume.
Portia ran to the wash basin. She scrubbed her face of paint, then stripped off the tawdry silk and adornments. As best she could she washed all trace of perfume from her skin.
Her shift still stank of it and so she left it off, and put her petticoat and stays against her skin, despite the itch they caused. She pulled on her sensible cotton stockings and her dimity gown and returned to the mirror. There at last was Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Manor, Dorset.
Still, at least, possessed of most of her virtue.
Bryght wanted to stay with Portia and see her home, but she was stretched to the breaking point. It was hardly surprising. He was feeling fragile himself. Quite apart from an uncomfortable state of arousal, he had been plunged into a depth of emotion he had not thought possible.
Had he ever thought he had been in love with Nerissa? Nothing he’d felt for her had been like this. Nerissa had been desirable for her beauty, her supposed virtue, and her eminent suitability to be a wife. His choice of her had been made on purely logical grounds.
Portia was simply necessary, and his feelings toward her had all the subtlety of a starving man’s feelings toward a roast of beef. If it hadn’t been for the voyeurs, he might not have found the strength to leave her untouched.
It was better, safer, to let Mirabelle see Portia home, and it would reinforce his disinterest in Hippolyta if he returned to his card game.
As he threaded his way through the noisy room, however, problems swirled in his head. Cuthbertson needed to be handled but any open move against the man might cause questions.
Something had to be done about Oliver Upcott.
Bridgewater would have to be notified that Bryght’s ability to support him further was lessened.
Plague take it, but it was a mess, so why was he finding it hard not to grin like a perfect fool?
He casually took his place at the card table, aware of intrigued looks from his friends. Nothing was said, however. Prestonly glowered at him, and though Bryght smiled back, his feelings about the man were similar. Perhaps he could take Prestonly for the rest of Portia’s five thousand pound debt.
That would be satisfying.
But at the end of a few hands, Bryght had actually lost a little. He called a halt and ordered wine, taking the opportunity to rise from the table and move a few steps away.
Could he trust Mirabelle to take care of Portia properly? She surely knew the perils of crossing a Malloren….
Andover joined him. “What was all that about?”
Bryght sipped the port. “A wager.”
“Indeed?” said Andover skeptically. “Of your own making. It’s not like you to take a man like Prestonly seriously.”
