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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.

At one point he jumped up from the table as if stung, and when Diana looked at him in surprise, he flushed to the roots of his prematurely thinning hair, coughed, and went to the sideboard, lifting the lids of chafing dishes as if inspecting the contents, but all the while he was rubbing his thighs together desperately, shifting from foot to foot.

Olivia glanced at Portia, her eyes glowing with laughter, then casually she leaned over Brian’s ale tankard to reach for the salt cellar. As she did so, her closed hand opened over the lip of the tankard, then she sat back in her chair once again and buttered her bread.

Oh, wicked girl, Portia thought to herself with a barely subdued chuckle. She had no idea what Olivia had put in Brian’s ale, but guessed it was a choice doctoring.

Brian returned to the table, offered a casual remark to Diana about the weather, and sat down.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Morse?” Diana was genuinely concerned.

“Yes, indeed, Lady Granville.” He laughed, but it was a hollow and unconvincing sound. “In such delightful company, a man couldn’t have a care in the world.” He took up his tankard and drained the contents in one.

Portia was aware of Olivia’s utter stillness as Brian drank. Only when he set the tankard down empty did she resume her breakfast.

Cato entered the parlor a few minutes later. He greeted his family and helped himself to veal collops from the sideboard. He’d been up for hours and brought the cold morning on his skin and the distraction of an army commander in his manner. But even he was astonished when Brian suddenly leaped to his feet and ran from the room.

“Good heavens, what ails the man?”

“I d-don’t think Mr. Morse is too well, sir,” Olivia said with apparent concern. “He seems in p-pain.”

Portia choked on a crumb.

“He was well enough yesterday,” Cato observed.

“Perhaps I should go to him.” Diana rose from the table.

“Oh, I shouldn’t do that,” Olivia muttered in a voice that only Portia heard.

“I beg your pardon, Olivia?” Cato looked inquiringly.

“N-nothing of significance, sir.”

Diana reached the door just as it opened again and a very pale Brian reappeared. “Forgive me,” he murmured, resuming his seat.

“Are you quite well, sir?” Portia asked in a voice to rival the music of the spheres.

Brian opened his mouth to reply, then he pushed back his chair with such violence that it toppled to the floor. A groan escaped him as he ran from the room.

Cato was beginning to look alarmed. “Perhaps you should send the physician to him, Diana.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do so right away.” Diana hurried from the parlor.

Portia said, “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Granville, I believe I’m wanted in the nursery to help Janet with the babies.”

Olivia jumped to her feet and excused herself in Portia’s wake, leaving her father alone at the breakfast table.

“What did you put in his ale?” Portia demanded in a laughing whisper, dragging Olivia into a window embrasure in the corridor.

“A mighty dose of senna,” Olivia told her with a whoop of laughter. “He’ll b-be purging on his close-stool all day.”

“Oh, clever girl,” Portia said with approval. “Brilliant.”

Olivia glowed with pleasure.

“I imagine he’ll be leaving very soon,” Portia said. “People rarely like to stay in places where they’ve made fools of themselves… or where they’ve been made fools of,” she added thoughtfully. “I’d better go and be pleasant to Janet.”

She went off with a little wave, and Olivia slipped a hand up to the locket at her neck. She opened it and took out the ring of braided tricolored hair. Friendship was a most powerful force. It could even shatter demons.