Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (14 page)

He was leaving. "Oliver, what about Fort? Is he here?"

He paused. "Any day, they said. But now we won't need to grovel to the mighty Earl of Walgrave, or live a life of squalor slaving to pay off an enormous debt." He paused and suddenly smiled, looking a little like Oliver again. "Trust me, Portia. For once, just trust me. I know what I'm doing."

With that he left and Portia sat down with a thump. Was it possible that he knew what he was doing—that he would come home rich? She'd love to trust him, but she didn't. He was going to come home with empty pockets. Thank heavens that she'd paid for their keep and still had some coins behind the fireplace. At least they had their coach fare home.

She laughed without humor. If Oliver had any head for figures he could reckon up their recent expenses and know she had squirreled away almost fifty guineas. But he hadn't a head for figures. She had to wonder how anyone thought to gain through gambling who couldn't keep track of such minor matters as that.

There must be games that required no skill at all.

But how could someone as cursed with ill-luck as Oliver expect to gain through games of chance?

She shook her head. She would never understand gamesters. A vision of another gamester came into her mind to puzzle her. It was impossible to imagine Bryght Malloren avid-eyed over the turn of a card, throwing good money after bad with insane optimism.

She almost wished she could go to a hell and witness it. Surely that would cure her forever.

"Get out of my head!" she muttered fiercely and made herself think of Oliver.

Was there anything she could do? If she'd been quicker-witted she could have followed him, but what good would that have done? She could not have pursued him into a club or hell. And if she managed that, she could not stop him from playing.

Was she supposed to drag him out by the collar, like an unruly lad?

Portia sighed and rubbed her head. She wished to heaven she could, but Oliver was a man now. Oh, he was still her baby brother but he was beyond her control.

Let the matter play out.

But what if it ended with a pistol to the head like her father?

"I can do nothing to stop it," Portia muttered fiercely and made herself settle once more to writing letters.

She did not attempt a letter to her mother, knowing she would soon be home. Instead, she wrote farewell letters to her friends in Dorset, explaining the sad course of events.

She would not send them until all hope was gone, but they were ready, like winding cloths laid ready near a deathbed.

Having completed that unpleasant task, Portia found she could not just sit and wait for the end. She needed fresh air and exercise and so she walked as far as a nearby bakery to buy some bread. She even indulged in a currant bun, for if Oliver could take so much money out to game with, she could surely pay a penny for a bun. She delayed going home and wandered the streets, distracting her mind with the variety of busy people.

In the end she had to return to her empty rooms to wait. Though it meant using an extra candle, Portia stayed up late, hoping Oliver would come home. She did not feel she would be able to sleep not knowing where he was or what he was doing. By midnight, however, she could not keep her eyes open.

As she climbed into bed, she tried to convince herself that he would have come home if he'd lost all the money, and that he must therefore be winning.

She couldn't believe it. Disaster was hovering like a thundercloud.

Despite her gnawing anxiety, Portia did eventually fall asleep, and when she awoke it was morning. Her first thoughts were panic-stricken and she rushed out, seeking signs of disaster. Snuffling snores from Oliver's room told her that at least he was in his bedroom and alive.

There was no indication of whether he had been lucky or not. There was certainly no pile of gold on the table. She rather thought that if he'd been hugely successful he would have woken her with the news.

A small win, though. Was that too much to hope for?

Even a small loss would be a relief.

Portia was very tempted wake her brother and demand an accounting, but what was the point? Whatever had happened had happened.

The hours dragged by. Portia tried to settle to needlework or reading, but failed at both. She paced the room restlessly, feeling she must be wearing a hole in the thin faded carpet.

What were they going to do if he had lost all the money?

What if he'd lost more, much more?

Again the image came to her of Oliver raising a loaded pistol to his head....

"No," she said out loud and another faint snore reassured her.

Fort. Fort was their only hope. Not only might he lend them the money, but he might be able to persuade Oliver to give up his madness and return to Dorset. Needing to act, Portia swung on her heavy cloak and went in search of the new Earl of Walgrave.

As she approached the grand house, her heart lifted. A baggage-laden coach was just leaving the door, presumably to go to the mews to unload. Someone had arrived. She ran lightly up the steps and used the shining brass knocker.

Portia knew it was unusual for a woman to call upon a man unescorted, but she hoped to carry it off with a grand air. When the door opened, she informed the footman that Miss St. Claire was here to see the earl.

His expression was not welcoming. "The earl is not at home, ma'am."

Portia stood firm. "I just saw a coach arrive."

"That was his lordship's servants and baggage, ma'am."

He began to close the door, and Portia said quickly, "So he is expected?"

"Yes, ma'am." Then the door was firmly closed.

Portia turned away, deflated but still hopeful. Fort would surely be here today or tomorrow. Despite her prickling concerns, nothing too terrible could happen between today and tomorrow. After all, Oliver already owed five thousand guineas. Any extra sums he had thrown away last night were just raindrops in a barrelful.

Portia didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She didn't want to go back to their depressing rooms to listen to Oliver snuffle and snore, so she walked around this handsome area of London.

These were wide, well-ordered streets with houses varying from grand to simply elegant. Generally the pavements were flagged with stone, and sturdy metal posts bordered them, offering some protection to pedestrians from the carts and carriages which rolled past. The people she passed were ladies and gentlemen or their servants and children. The gin-alleys and whores could be from another world.

Scattered among the houses were shops filled with goods likely to appeal to the wealthy. Portia peered through small panes of glass at items from around the country and the world, wishing she could take some back to her family. Pru would love that lacy ribbon and it would only cost a shilling a yard.

She squashed the temptation. She was as bad as Oliver, wanting to spend money they did not have.

Retracing her steps to Dresden Street, she suddenly realized she had lost her way. She was not alarmed for she was equipped with Sayer's Map Of London, and she paused to study it. Ah yes, if she went through Marlborough Square she should be back on course, and she would like to see the famous square. It was supposed to be the finest in town.

It was. Bordered by handsome houses of many types, the square included a railed park containing handsome trees, flower beds, and even a duck pond. Even at this bleak time of year it was lovely. In spring and summer it must be delightful.

Portia heard laughter and saw some children and their nurse feeding the ducks.

London had many faces, she mused. Squalid in one aspect, vicious in another, it could also be gracious, and even charming.

She went over to the railings to enjoy the antics of the four young children. One young lad caught sight of her and waved shyly. Portia waved back. The nurse was watchful, but did not interfere and so Portia paused to wistfully enjoy the little ones.

There had been suitors for her hand, but none she had been willing to accept. Her mother thought her unreasonable, but Portia needed to feel absolute trust in a man before she would give her life into his keeping. She had expected Hannah to understand this after her disastrous first marriage, but Portia's mother seemed to think that any man was better than none.

If Portia had accepted one of the offers, however, she might have had children of her own. Now her chances were gone, for she was past her prime and without any kind of dowry.

She had been resigned to her spinster state for years, but she had hoped to be aunt to Oliver's children. She had thought to live on at Overstead, working to make the estate prosper, enjoying nieces and nephews. Her mother expected to be there to enjoy her gardens and her grandchildren....

One of the children looked up and Portia thought the child had noticed her distress. But the girl looked beyond Portia and shouted, "Zeno!"

Portia turned and found herself looking at Bryght Malloren across the width of the street. It took a moment for her to notice the large dog at his side, dark silky coat shining in the sunlight. The dog was still as a statue except for a lazily waving tail, but its bright eyes were fixed on the children.

The children were coming at a run.

The smiling nurse opened the gate, and they spilled out. The children ignored the man and lunged at the dog. It dodged. Portia gasped, thinking it must turn on the innocent tormentors, but she soon saw that this was a familiar game of tag.

The dog weaved and danced, and the children chased after.

"You like children?"

Portia swung back and found Bryght Malloren had crossed to her side.

"Of course I like children." Her heart was pounding and she was sure her cheeks had turned brick red.

"There's no of course about it. Little monsters, every one."

"Your dog does not seem to feel so."

"He considers these exercises a noble sacrifice in the cause of educating the young." His tone was perfectly serious, but there was a devastating twinkle in his eyes.

Portia could not help but smile back. "He looks to me to be having a wonderful time, my lord."

"Hush! He thinks he has us all fooled."

Portia's smile widened. He echoed it, and she wished he had not done that. It seemed so genuine, as if he, too, were delighted by this chance encounter.

It was all facade, she told herself sternly, but his expression was so warm that it could melt the coolest common sense into soggy idiocy.

He was dressed plainly today in a dark jacket, brown leather breeches, and black boots. His dark hair was simply tied back and a trifle wind-blown. He carried a tricorn and crop so he must just have returned from riding.

Unlike his satin and powder of the park, there was nothing about these everyday clothes designed to attract or impress. The effect, however, was even more perilous. Such simple clothes made him seem more ordinary, more the sort of man Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset, could be expected to know.

To like.

To love, even.

Good heavens, no. Never that!

"You live here, my lord?" This was to remind herself that no one who lived in Marlborough Square was ordinary.

"Yes, over there." He gestured to the most magnificent house on this side of the square. "Don't be too impressed, though. It belongs to my brother."

"The Marquess of Rothgar?" High aristocracy, Portia. Remember that.

He raised a brow. "Have you been studying my family tree, Miss St. Claire?"

Portia turned away to watch the play—and to hide her reddening cheeks. "Certainly not, my lord. All the world knows such things."

He must have moved closer, for his deep voice came from just behind her. "What else does all the world know?"

Portia swallowed, but kept her voice brisk. "Begging for compliments, my lord?"

He laughed, and moved round into her line of sight so she had to look up at him or be pointedly impolite.

Oh dear. If Bryght Malloren was handsome solemn, he was devastating when lit by laughter. He had placed himself so that they were too close, intimately close....

"I doubt," he said softly, "that much the world has to say about my family could be construed as complimentary."

"They say you are rich."

"But what do they say of how we make our money?"

"They say
you
intend to marry it."

The words were out before she could stop them. Portia wished a convenient hole in the ground would open up for her.

"Don't be uncomfortable," he said. "It's true. What choice do we poor second sons have?" But he took her hand and his thumb rubbed gently against the back of it. They were both gloved, but that did not seem to lessen the power of his touch.

"Hard work?" she queried, far more breathily than she wished.

"Heaven forbid." He pulled slightly on her hand, pulled her toward him.

He wouldn't! Not here, where people could be watching from any of a hundred windows.

"And they say you make it at the tables," she snapped. This was as much to remind herself as to accuse him.
He's a gamester, Portia. The sort of man you most despise.