“Did that anger him?”

“At first, but then he seemed to realize that his men had made an understandable mistake. I’d borrowed Olivia’s cloak and they were told to take the girl in blue.”

Cato had learned about the borrowed cloak from Olivia. So far their stories were consistent. “How exactly were you treated?”

With humor; with lust; with passion? Or just simply teased and manipulated by the Granvilles’ bitterest enemy? She answered Cato levelly, “I was kept in an apple loft for the most part. I tried to escape by stealing a sledge and going down the river, but his sentries picked me up.” She met his gaze.

Cato frowned. “And how did you escape in the end?”

“Some men went out on an expedition, and I managed to mingle with them, and then when we were well outside Decatur village I slipped away.” The knowledge that that had been her intention and it could have worked gave conviction to her words.

Portia realized that she’d made no conscious decision not to help Cato in his war with Rufus Decatur, but there’d been no decision to make. She wasn’t going to give him anything useful.

Cato stroked his chin, beginning to feel a flash of optimistic relief. So far he couldn’t fault her. His gaze fell on a dispatch that had reached him that morning. “While you were there, did you hear anything of an attack on a party of Lord Leven’s men just outside Yetholm?”

“Lord Rothbury and some men were absent from the village when I escaped,” she responded carefully. “I didn’t hear anything about their plans while I was in the apple loft.” Which was undeniably true. “Has there been such an attack, my lord?” she inquired.

“Apparently,” Cato said with a dismissive gesture, as if it were not important. He rose and began to pace the small room. “Did you discover what ransom Decatur was demanding for Olivia’s safe return?”

“No.” Portia lied directly for the first time. She saw in her mind’s eye Rufus’s face, a rictus of pain and fury, looking down on his house. She heard his voice, harsh, savage, describing what had been done by Granvilles to his father and his home… telling her what he had hoped to gain by abducting Olivia. How could she talk about that horror with Cato when she couldn’t bear to remember it?

Cato glanced sharply at her and knew immediately that she was lying. It was in her eyes, in the tension of her mouth. And why would she lie if she had nothing to hide?

He stopped before the fire and stood resting one foot on the fender, his arm along the mantelpiece as he regarded her carefully. “Decatur knew the color of Olivia’s cloak. That bespeaks an intimacy with our life here that’s hard to credit. And I’m wondering how he would know to look for her on the moat. How would he know you were in the habit of skating together?”

“I don’t know,” Portia said.

“I’m wondering if perhaps there’s a spy in our midst,” he said in a musing tone, his eyes resting on her face.

Portia felt as if she were treading on stepping stones across a racing torrent. All she could think of was Rufus eating Cato’s meat in the outer bailey, eavesdropping on his enemy’s conversations, watching her skate with Olivia on the moat. Risking his neck in a deadly game that only amused him. His eyes had been laughing the whole time… it had been the first time he’d kissed her…

Her eyes dropped to her hands knotted in her lap. “I suppose it’s possible, my lord.”

Cato smiled suddenly and said, “Well, there’s no need for you to concern yourself anymore. I’m only glad that you’re back, safe and well. And Olivia, I know, is delighted. She has need of a companion. You may go to her now.”

When she’d curtsied and left, Cato resumed his pacing. The smile had vanished the minute the door closed behind her. He was certain now that Portia was hiding something.

She hadn’t been able to meet his eye. But if she was a spy in his camp, maybe he could turn her to his own use. So long as she didn’t suspect his suspicions, she could be fed information. Disinformation that would draw Rufus Decatur into the trap that would bring his downfall.

And what in the devil’s name had Brian been playing at with Diana that afternoon? They had certainly not been selecting embroidery silks. The sooner he got rid of Brian Morse, the easier he would be.

Had he known it, unexpected forces were at work to rid Castle Granville of Brian Morse. Brian fell into bed much the worse for Cato’s fine cognac and was soon snoring. The nest of red-spotted spiders greeted the expanse of bare flesh disturbing their peace with vicious indignation. They scuttled over him, insinuating themselves into the nooks and crannies where the flesh was at its most moist and succulent. Brian tossed and turned, drawing up his knees, plagued in his drunken dreams with pinpricks of discomfort.

He awoke when the servant assigned to him opened the shutters and the bedcurtains. “There’s ‘ot water for shavin’, sir. An‘ the boot boy cleaned all your boots.”

Brian sat up, blinking at the harsh light. His head was throbbing. He pushed a hand beneath the covers to scratch his thigh and then his groin. Something brushed against his fingers and he threw off the bedclothes. The squiggling red-spotted creatures exposed to the light were like some nightmare of delirium tremens. An involuntary screech emerged from his lips.

The servant stared in astonishment. “Where’d they come from? Them’s spiders, them is.”

“I know it, you fool!” Brian leaped to the floor. “Kill ‘em.” He examined his legs. Great red welts showed up against the flesh. He turned his thigh out and saw the line of them creeping up into the dark pubic nest. He shuddered with revulsion as the servant began to thrash at the spiders with the poker.

“Can’t think where they come from, sir,” the servant declared, chasing a particularly succulent specimen scuttling to safety into the rumpled bedclothes. “You must’ve brought ‘em in wi’ you.”

“Fool! Of course I didn’t.” Brian began to scratch and as he scratched the itch grew worse, the welts grew larger, and seemed to spread. “Bring me a bath… hot water… scalding water!” he bellowed and the servant fled.

In the corridor, the man bumped into Lady Olivia and Mistress Worth. They were strolling casually along the passage, arm in arm. “Good morning, Peter. Is something the matter with Mr. Morse?” Olivia inquired.

“Oh, Lord love us, Lady Olivia. But fair crazed, ‘e is.” Peter was grinning. “Shouldn’t laugh, I know, but Lord, it was funny. ’E’s got spiders in ‘is bed. An’ they’ve bit ‘im all over. Wants scaldin’ water now. Fair scratchin‘ ’isself to death, ‘e is.” And Peter went off chuckling.

“Oh, Portia, you’re so clever!”

Portia’s smile was smug. “It’s quite a nice little trick, isn’t it?”

“And I have another one,” Olivia said, her dark eyes alight with excitement.

“Oh?” Portia stopped in the corridor, intrigued. “You’re going to play your own trick on the toad! Well done.”

“Yes, I am.” Olivia flourished a small twist of paper, her face flushed at her own inventive daring. “I paid a visit to the stillroom this morning. I thought I might give him a little surprise in his morning ale.”

“What?”

“Wait and see.”

Portia chuckled, delighted at the idea of Olivia’s taking matters into her own hands. It was the best way to banish spectral fears.

Olivia could barely contain her excitement. When Brian appeared in the dining parlor, she tried not to look at him too openly, but it was very hard to keep secret her laughter and the delicious thrill of anticipation.

Brian responded to Diana’s greeting and apologized for being so late at the breakfast table and barely glanced at Olivia when she murmured a stammered “Good morning.” He shot Portia a look of pure venom. She responded with a demure half curtsy.

Olivia watched him closely, and every time he wriggled, every time he moved a hand down below the level of the table and she could guess he was scratching between his thighs, she had to stifle her laughter. His expression grew increasingly pained as the dulling effects of the hot bath faded and the full raging itch returned.