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By the time Portia came downstairs the air was filled with a spicy, delicious scent. Some foreign dish, she suspected, after having met Minnie Duval. Minnie would be the last person to dine on plain roast beef and potatoes.
Marcus had been partially correct; she had made Minnie’s acquaintance before. But it was at a formal function at St. James’s Palace, not Buckingham Palace. Lord Ellerslie had still been alive then, and Minnie was attending with a group of Indian aristocrats and their wives. Minnie and Lord Ellerslie had spoken together but did not get on at all. India was a vast country and wracked by tribal wars, and Lord Ellerslie wanted to march in and force everyone to obey British law, while Minnie favored understanding the ways of the people and getting them to cooperate. Portia herself had barely spoken two words to Minnie, but she remembered her, and remembered her husband’s scathing diatribe on her in the carriage on the way home. She hadn’t been brave enough to disagree with him, though she wanted to. Minnie was small and well past middle age but was the most vibrant person Portia had ever met.
Recalling the Indian women in their beautiful and exotic saris, Portia looked down at herself. At the time, she had admired them and marveled over their strangeness, but never expected to wear something similar herself. She wondered what Lord Ellerslie would have thought.
The costume was actually very light and comfortable, apart from a disconcerting sensation of being half naked, even when she knew she was well-covered. No horsehair petticoats, no corsets, no flounces and buttons and hooks and gathers. The silk cloth, a beautiful shade of green with myriad colors around the borders, covered a narrow petticoat that tied at her waist, and a tight short-sleeve chemise that ended below her breasts. The green silk had been wound around her waist over the top of the petticoat, then tucked and twitched and pleated to fit. The remainder was drawn up under her arms and over the chemise to form a bodice, before a final swath of the cloth was wrapped over her left shoulder and allowed to hang down her back.
It was rather like a Roman toga, only far more beautiful.
Minnie’s maid had fastened her hair up in an elegant knot, and she wore slippers. No stockings or gloves or stays. No wonder she felt underdressed.
“Lady Ellerslie!” Minnie said, spotting her hovering in the doorway. “You look very fetching, I must say.” She straightened her turban and climbed down off an enormous thronelike chair with a canopy over the top, coming over to inspect her. “Beautiful,” she pronounced. “Don’t you think so, Marcus?”
“Deliciously so.”
Portia gave a feeble smile, carefully avoiding looking at Marcus. “Thank you, Miss Duval.”
“Minnie, please, I prefer Minnie.”
Minnie…I am very grateful—”
“Oh pish. I would do the same for any creature in distress. I once saved a mule in Bengal, and I can tell you it was no easy matter to persuade the owner that I meant to have my way. Of course once I had it, I had to find somewhere—”
“Minnie,” her nephew murmured, exasperated.
“Marcus tells me you won’t be able to catch the train back to London…tonight. You’ll have to stay.”
“Have I really missed the train?” Portia said anxiously, turning to Marcus.
He nodded. He was gazing at her with that lazy, sensual look that made her want to wriggle about.
“Oh.” Portia closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the consequences of Lady Ellerslie going missing and no one able to reach her. She would have to tell more lies. Surely, on top of all of her other recent sins, this would see her damned?
Minnie was making impatient gestures at Marcus.
He cleared his throat, seeming to understand what his aunt was signaling to him. “You’re not to worry,” he said to Portia. “No one here will breathe a word, and we can always think up a plausible story if it becomes necessary.”
“An outbreak of malaria,” Minnie suggested.
“Perhaps not malaria,” Marcus replied calmly, with barely a twitch of his lips. “Do we have malaria in England?”
“Cholera, then.”
“Very good. We can use that.”
Portia looked from one to the other, wondering if she’d strayed into a madhouse. She decided a change of subject was in order. “What is that delicious aroma?”
Minnie beamed. “Madras curry, my dear. I developed a taste for it when I was there in ’twenty-one. Have you ever tasted curry?”
“I believe I did have a spoonful once. It was a little hot.”
“One needs a proper appreciation of Indian cooking to enjoy it. The hotter the better. Come along, Portia. I will see there is plenty of water on the table to quench any internal fires.” Minnie trotted toward the door.
Marcus stepped in beside Portia, very close. “I like your sari,” he murmured. “It looks much better on you than it does on my aunt.”
“I feel underdressed.”
“If you wore it at Buckingham Palace you might start a new fashion.”
