She tried to think back. Oliver had gone out, and she had sat up to await him…. She couldn’t remember anything more until she woke up this morning. She must have put herself to bed in her sleep.
How peculiar.
Then, as she hung up her dimity gown, she saw her shoes placed neatly by the bed.
She had put herself to bed in an extraordinarily orderly manner, for she had the bad habit of stepping out of her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the room. This summoned a bewildered laugh. How strange to be tidier asleep than awake.
She wanted a bath, but that was not possible so she poured cold water into the basin and began a thorough wash. When she washed her face, however, she found a quantity of paint on the towel and scrubbed until every last trace was removed. If only she could scrub away all memory of the previous night as easily.
She doubted she would ever forget the desire Bryght Malloren had stirred in her.
She was fastening a fresh gown when there was a knock on the door. She rose to answer it then hesitated, thinking of Cuthbertson. But no. That must be over.
She swung it open ready to take on whatever trouble awaited, but it was only the landlady’s boy, Simon, come with some coals to make up her fire. He had also brought her breakfast of bread and butter and small beer.
It seemed bizarre to Portia that these daily routines were going ahead as if nothing had changed.
In a sense, nothing had.
Yet it felt as if everything were different.
The first touches of warmth from the fire were welcome, and Portia thanked the young man then sat to nibble the bread.
Every time she let herself think, however, her wayward mind turned straight to Bryght Malloren. She was going to run mad here alone for a week with nothing to do.
Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Portia went warily to open it, but it was merely Mrs. Pinney in a belligerent mood.
“Miss St. Claire,” she said, tiny mouth pinched into a little bud. “Where is your brother? If, indeed, brother he is.”
Portia was taken aback by this unexpected attack. “Half-brother,” she said. “He has had to leave for a few days, though I wonder how you know.”
“I know because he was seen to leave, sneaking away like a thief in the night!”
Portia stiffened. “Our rent is paid well in advance, Mrs. Pinney. If my brother wishes to leave, he is free to do so.”
The woman backed away a little, her mouth softening in surprise at this attack. “Surely, miss. But he left the door unlocked again. We could all have been murdered in our beds!”
Portia’s outrage lessened. “I’m sorry….”
“And gentlemen!” continued Mrs. Pinney, mouth pursing again. “My good neighbor across the street says you were brought home late at night by gentlemen, and that anothergentlemanleft here at nearly dawn! What do you say to that, then?”
“It’s nonsense.” Portia saw that her firm denial had impressed the woman, and added, “I was escorted home by the servants of…of a friend. My brother left to catch the early coach. There was nobody else here. Your neighbor must have been mistaken.”
“Um, perhaps,” muttered the woman, eyes shifting. “She did speak of a monstrous creature, which seems unlikely.”
“A creature?” Portia wondered if she were still asleep and dreaming.
“A huge black hound,” the woman whispered, “that crept after the Prince of Darkness like a foul specter.”
“Really, Mrs. Pinney…” But the words stirred a memory for Portia. Then it struck her that when she had first seen Bryght Malloren she had thought of the Prince of Darkness, of Lucifer himself. And Bryght had a large dog.
Could he havebeenhere.
Beeninhere?
Mrs. Pinney was shaking her head. “Yes, it is as you think, Miss St. Claire. Gin. So sad. But,” she added, with a return to her former belligerence, “there will be no more neglecting of the locks, or out you go! And your brother had best be back soon. I don’t hold with young women living alone, particularly those who like to be abroad at night!”
Portia bit back another protest. “Sir Oliver has gone to Dorset, Mrs. Pinney. He will be back within the week.”
