“Cousin Portia!” exclaimed Lord Trelyn. “You speak too boldly.”
Portia controlled her unfortunate temper. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” She deliberately looked up at Bryght and dared him to protest his virtue.
He bowed instead. “My dear Trelyn, perhaps you should have waited and wed the cousin. You seem to be in agreement on all matters.”
With that he was gone, leaving a seething atmosphere behind him. After an eloquent silence, Lord Trelyn extended his arm to his wife. “I think you would like to listen to Madame Honorette play on the harp, my dear.”
It was after they left the crimson saloon where the harpist had entertained them for a half hour, that the party divided.
Lord Trelyn received a note on a silver salver. He read it in frowning silence. “Something has arisen at St. James, my dear. I must attend to it. I will be gone less than an hour.”
“Oh, poor Tea-cup,” said Nerissa, laying a hand on his sleeve, and causing Lord Trelyn to cast a rather embarrassed look at Portia. “Surely it can wait until tomorrow.”
“Now, now, Sugar Plum,” he murmured, “you know my duty must always come first.”
“But what are we to do?”
“You will be quite safe here and there is excellent music to enjoy. I will take the carriage and be back in no time.”
After a few more playful protests, Nerissa let her husband leave. “Do not marry a political man, Portia,” she said with a plaintive sigh that almost convinced Portia she was bereft. “Come, let us stroll about.”
The next few minutes reminded Portia of their time at the Debenhams’ rout, with Nerissa steering skillfully through the rooms as if afraid she might miss something. Portia greeted people absentmindedly and kept a weather eye open for Mallorens ahead.
But it was not a Malloren they encountered. It was Lord Heatherington.
He bowed. “Lady Trelyn, and the lovely Miss St. Claire. How delightful. May I escort you to the choral recital?”
He held out a hand to each and they began to move with the flow of people toward the ballroom where the recital was to take place.
But then Nerissa stopped. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I cannot bear the thought of more singing. Portia, do you wish to go?”
“Not particularly. Do you have a headache, Cousin? Perhaps Lord Heatherington could find you something to drink.”
“Or perhaps I can escort you both to the refreshments, ladies.”
This was agreed on, and they went toward the back of the house, moving against the flow of people.
“The choral recital is very popular,” Portia remarked.
Lord Heatherington looked down at her. “The choir of Westminster Abbey, Miss St. Claire. Are you sure you don’t wish to hear them? I promise to take excellent care of Lady Trelyn.”
“No, thank you, my lord. I think I have a little of the headache, too.”
In fact, Portia would have liked to hear the famous choir, but she was afraid to be alone. She was sure Bryght would somehow discover that fact and harass her.
They reached the refreshment room at last, but Nerissa halted in the doorway. “Oh dear. Fish. The smell of fish quite turns my stomach these days. Perhaps if I could just sit in a quiet room…”
“But of course,” said Heatherington, all concern. “I’m sure there must be one down here.”
Within moments they were in a small room further down the corridor and away from the soiree. Portia helped Nerissa to a chaise. “Lord Heatherington, perhaps you could find some water.”
“Oh, no,” Nerissa protested. “I just need a moment’s rest away from the smell of fish.”
The atmosphere in the room suddenly reminded Portia of her discomfort with these two earlier in the day. Her suspicions must be absurd, but even so, she resolved not to leave them alone.
Lord Heatherington took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers. “You have an unfortunate brother, Miss St. Claire.”
Portia knew the remark was more than idle conversation. “He is unlucky,” she admitted watchfully.
