Nerissa suddenly spoke to the viscount. “Bryght Malloren came up to us and was speaking of Amazons. Did you not say that was the key, Heather?”
Portia looked between them sharply, alarm sounding.
Lord Heatherington smiled. “Hippolyta. I thought so.”
Portia’s knees went weak, and she collapsed in a chair.
“Don’t worry,” said Lord Heatherington quite kindly. “We mean you no harm. It merely suits us to have you on our side.”
“Your side?” But she knew.
“To not have you tattling to Trelyn every time we meet.”
Portia looked at Nerissa. “What have you done to get rid of your husband, Cousin? Sent him a false note?”
It was Lord Heatherington who answered. “Not at all. We are opportunists, Miss St. Claire, and Lord Trelyn is a very busy man. Matters will doubtless be even easier now you are our supporter.”
“I am no supporter of adultery, my lord.”
“Then you are Hippolyta, virgin queen of the brothel, bought by Bryght Malloren in a business that is the talk of the clubs.”
Portia was terrified, but tried not to show it. “What purpose would there be in revealing that?”
“None,” he said. “But it is our weapon.”
Before Portia could respond to this, Nerissa said, “We’re wasting time. Portia, you have no choice but to dance to our tune. Go and wait in the next room—”
“Nerissa, youcan’t.”
“Or,” said Lord Heatherington, “the world will learn all.”
Portia leapt to her feet. “This iswicked!”
“Save your moralizing,” snapped Nerissa, and rose to her feet with remarkable energy. She walked over and opened the adjoining door. “How appropriate. It’s the library. You can study your Bible. Stay here, and give warning if anyone should come.”
Portia wanted to be a holy martyr, but she knew it would do no good. This pair would destroy her reputation, then find some other way of meeting. She walked into the library and Nerissa closed the door behind her with a firm click.
Portia turned to look at it, and was deeply grateful that it was solid. She wanted to know nothing of what went on in there. She turned back to the library which was hardly worthy of the name. There was only one wall of glass-doored bookcases. A large library table held two lecterns, but there was little evidence of study here. A sofa and two easy chairs were probably better used than the books.
The room was lit only by a low fire and one candle, but the dimness suited Portia’s despondent thoughts. London did have pleasures to offer—music and fascinating people—but she wanted no more of its danger and wickedness. If only Oliver had taken her back to Dorset.
She heard the click of the door, and spun around. If it was Lord Trelyn would she give the alarm or let him catch his wife?
It was Bryght. He glanced around the room. “I thought you were with Nerissa. You shouldn’t be wandering alone.”
“It is none of your business, my lord. Please leave me in peace.”
Instead, he closed the door. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing!”
“Just haunting the library, are we? Checking different Bibles?”
It took Portia a moment to follow his train of thought. That silly wager. “My lord, desist. You sought to fool me and you failed. If you had the honor of a newt, you would leave me be.”
He laughed. “Toads, snakes, and nownewts?What pray do you know of the honor of newts? They may have a strong code of ethics.”
“Then what, pray, wouldyouknow of newts?”
