She pressed her hands to her head, fighting to remember something of last night after she had drifted off to sleep.
Nothing. There was nothing, except that dream of a tall man carrying her, and kissing her brow. Fort. She had dreamed of Fort. But Portia suspected that when Bryght Malloren took off his shoes, he put them neatly side by side beneath the bed.
She shivered at the thought, but held onto sanity. Clearly nothing terrible had happened. Whatever Bryght had been up to—if his presence wasn’t all a construct of gin and fear—nothing too terrible had happened.
But she couldn’t stay here. She’d never sleep in peace again. She needed refuge, and surely Nerissa Trelyn would offer it.
Two men trotted up the street between the poles of a sedan chair, and put it down so Portia could enter. In moments, she was swaying on her way to Trelyn House.
Chapter 13
The Trelyn mansion boasted a massive pillared portico and was separated from the street by a railed courtyard. Portia suffered some qualms for it seemed the height of presumption to ask to live in such an imposing residence. The chairmen trotted up to the gate in the railings without hesitation, however, and the gatekeeper let them in without so much as asking Portia’s business. Her nervousness abated a little. For all its grandeur, this wasn’t a royal palace. The men carried her across the neatly swept flagstones and up the wide steps to the massive double doors.
There they lowered the chair and opened the door so she could alight. There was a box here, rather like a sentry box, and a man in it, guarding the portal.
Portia, keeper of the door…
Portia shivered. She must keep Bryght Malloren out of her mind.
This doorkeeper did demand her name and business, but upon hearing it immediately passed her on to a footman inside the house. Portia hesitated long enough to pay her chairmen then entered Trelyn House.
She paused, arrested by the grandeur of the tiled circular entrance hall lined with niches each containing a classical statue. Before her, a pale marble staircase curved gracefully up between white iron banisters, bathed with cold light from a circular window high above. It was perfection but it was hardly welcoming. One nearby anteroom appeared to be full of marble statues of writhing serpents with people in their toils.
In fact, this was more like a classic temple than a home, and it was both silent and very cold. Portia was rapidly losing her nerve at the idea of throwing herself on Nerissa’s charity.
She gave the footman her name, quite expecting to be told that Nerissa was not at home. Instead she was taken to a small but perfect reception room. She supposed the name St. Claire must command some respect here.
The reception room had a fire in the grate and the air was not cold, but the effect of the decor was still cool. The walls were covered in silver-gray paper painted with tiny bluebirds. Pale blue silk brocade curtains hung at the narrow window, and the four white chairs were covered in blue and gray striped silk.
Portia did not sit, but paced anxiously. If Nerissa refused her she wasn’t sure what to do next. Mrs. Pinney would have to allow her to stay since the rent was paid, but she wouldn’t feel safe. What if Bryght Malloren returned?
She reminded herself that she was under the protection of the Earl of Walgrave, hard though it was to think of Fort by that mighty title.
The footman returned. Instead of showing Portia the door into sunlight he led her up the pristine stairs, along an elegant, pale-carpeted corridor, to milady’s intimate boudoir.
This room was in complete contrast to the rest of the house. It was an ornate confection of silk draperies and hand-painted wallpaper in shades of pink and cream, all over-heated by a huge fire. Portia didn’t have time to take it in, for she was immediately engulfed in a perfumed embrace.
“My dearest cousin! I have been scolding myself for not appointing a sooner meeting, and here you are, hours before expected.”
Despite this effusive greeting, Portia gained an impression of guardedness from Nerissa. It was not surprising, but did not augur well. She took the seat indicated on a chaise, and was poured chocolate from a silver pot by Nerissa’s own plump, pale hands.
Her hostess was as lushly beautiful as her boudoir. Her shimmering golden hair hung in waves down her back. Her loose undress gown was of cream silk embroidered with roses, and trimmed with deep borders of the finest lace. It rested at the very edge of her shoulders and dipped to expose the swell of her full breasts.
“Now tell me, Portia, why are you calling so early?”
Portia realized with a start that itwasabnormally early to pay a social call. There was no point in dissembling. “I am in a predicament.”
“I guessed it. You must tell me, dearest cousin. I will help if I can.” But again, the expression in Nerissa’s big brown eyes was at odds with her warm tone. Portia feared that Nerissa would not care to have anyone else’s troubles thrust upon her.
“My brother has been called away…” she started.
“And left you here alone?” asked Nerissa in astonishment.
“Yes. It was a matter of some urgency.”
“Even so, he should not have left you unprotected. What will you do now?”
It clearly was not leaping to Nerissa’s mind that she invite Portia to visit her.
