Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (4 page)

Portia placed two cups on the table. "Then why was such a man breaking into this house?"

"They're known to do their own dirty work at times."

"Dirty work? You make them sound like criminals. Although I must say, that man acted like one."

Oliver grimaced. "People like the Mallorens can damn near do as they please."

The intruder had implied as much. Portia wished she could bring a certain Malloren before the magistrates for his crimes. She'd like to see him in chains. At the thought of him on a gibbet, however, her mind balked. No, she wouldn't want it to go quite so far as that.

She put sugar and a jug of cream on the table. "What did you mean by Rothgar?"

"The Marquess of Rothgar. He's the head of the brood."

Portia returned to the stove for the coffeepot. "I've read the name in the news-sheets. Lord Rothgar takes some interesting positions in the House."

"Doubtless ones which serves his own interests. He's a cold-hearted devil by all accounts. Bryght's a gamester."

Portia froze in the act of lifting the heavy coffeepot.

A gamester.

She had to put the pot down again for a moment.

A gamester. The bane of her existence.

The whole world seemed riddled with an insane addiction to games of chance. Before her time, her father had apparently been a gamester. After marriage he had "reformed," but instead of settling to honest labor, he had turned to investments—risky ones promising astonishing profits.

He had lost all and shot himself.

Only a toddler at the time, Portia had no memory of the event. She had heard of it often enough, however, especially when her mother wished to warn her against any kind of risk-taking.

"Don't you be like your father, Portia—always thinking you are cleverer than the others, that you will win against the odds. Accept what the Good Lord sends."

Portia had a sudden memory of that Malloren man asking if she always fought against the odds. How had he known her so quickly and so well?

It was true that she did not like to "accept what the Good Lord sends" and seemed driven to fight fate. She had often been irritated by her mother and stepfather because they were so accepting, so unwilling to take any kind of chance.

Now she saw she should have been grateful.

Oliver was a risk-taker like her. He loved rough, dangerous sports, and had wanted to join the army. Denied that by his mother's distress, he'd turned to gaming and lost his money and perhaps their home. If he didn't raise five thousand guineas within weeks, Overstead Manor would be lost forever.

Bryght Malloren was another of the same type, it would appear, and he was not a young misguided fool like Oliver. He was a mature man, steeped in the vice. Why that should so distress her, she did not know.

Portia looked sharply at her brother. Had Oliver played against Lord Bryght? Had the man not only invaded her home and assaulted her, but filched away her life and home on the roll of a die?

She found the strength to lift the coffeepot and thumped it down on the wooden table. "Do you know Lord Arcenbryght well?" she asked, meaning,
have you gambled against him?

Oliver gaped at her. "A Malloren? Far above my touch, my dear. I didn't even recognize him in that light. But everyone knows about them."

"What does everyone know?"

"That they're rich, powerful, and let nobody cross them."

Portia sat down opposite. "If they're so rich, why would one be a gamester?"

He sighed with exasperation. "I've tried to explain to you, Portia.
Everyone
plays. The king plays, the queen plays, the ministers of the Crown play. Even the bishops play. And every man who wants to call himself a man, plays."

"
But
why
? "

Ever since Oliver had returned to Overstead with the shocking news that he had lost the estate at play, Portia had been asking that question. Why would any reasonable human being risk everything on the turn of a card or the roll of a die?

Oliver poured himself some coffee. "What can I say? A man has to play or be thought a demmed strange fellow. It's a sign of courage for a start, of nerve. Not to play is to brand oneself a timid, worthless creature."

"If not to play would be unfashionable and unpopular, then that would take courage, wouldn't it?"

He shook his head. "You don't understand. It's a man's thing, I suppose, though many women play."

"I'd think their husbands would put a stop to it."

"Why, when they play, too?"

"But
why? "
Portia asked again.

"It's exciting," he said simply.

"Exciting? How can it possibly be exciting to lose money?"

"It's exciting to win," he pointed out. "Come on, Portia. It's not like you to be so stuffy. Remember the time you climbed out of your window at night to meet Fort so you could try to catch the Bollard brothers poaching? It was stupid, but I'll go odds it was exciting."

Portia didn't like having her youthful follies thrown up at her. "It was hardly the same sort of thing."

"But it is!" He leaned forward, eyes brightening. "The thrill of that adventure was the risk. The risk of breaking your neck. The risk of a whipping. The risk that the Bollard brothers would catch sight of you and kill the witnesses. It's like that at the gaming tables. It's exciting to
risk
and to survive. The greater the risk, the greater the thrill. It tests a man's mettle. It makes him come alive...." But then he realized what he was saying and sagged back in his chair. "But I am done with it. Give you my word, my dear."

Portia's hands shook slightly as she poured herself coffee.

Oliver kept promising never to play again, but sometimes she doubted him. He spoke of gaming almost like a man in love, in love with the tainted thrill of chance.

"There are surely other ways of testing your mettle."

"I suppose so." He flicked her a look. "The army, for example."

"Oliver, you know it would break mama's heart."

"Damnation, Portia, it's not surprising I took to the tables. The only thing you and mother do is let me do is put my clothes on and ride around the countryside."

"You could manage the estate."

"Dull stuff, and you're better at it than I. But I suppose life will be exciting enough now." He gave her a wry smile. "For a start, I'll have to challenge Bryght Malloren."

"No!" Portia exclaimed. "Don't be so foolish."

"He did give me a blow, Portia."

Portia had forgotten that. She'd been thinking of the man's treatment of herself. "It can't be necessary to fight him."

"Maybe not, especially if I never encounter him again. Which seems likely, the way things are. In fact, we had better hope you didn't anger him. We don't need the enmity of the Mallorens to add to our load."

Portia didn't comment on that. She'd opposed Lord Bryght and tried to shoot him, but he hadn't been in a rage until he'd found that letter and she'd told him her name. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed.

She pinched some sugar from the cone and stirred it thoughtfully into the dark coffee. "He seemed to recognize the name St. Claire. Can you think why?"

Oliver shook his head. "I suppose your father's family might be known to him. Your uncle is Lord Felsham after all, though he's very minor nobility."

Portia's father had been the third son of Lord Felsham. After his death, Portia's mother had married Sir Edward Upcott, and had more children, two of whom had survived—Oliver and Prudence. Pretty Prudence, who was sixteen and had hopes of a good marriage before her brother made her a pauper. Portia stopped that line of thought.

There
must
be a way to save their home and their future.

"As far as I know, Lord Felsham is a nonentity," she said. "I have an uncle who is Bishop of Nantwich, but he would be of even less interest to these Mallorens." She pulled a face. "But I suppose there could be a blood feud going on with me none the wiser. The St. Claires never approved of father marrying a stocking-maker's daughter. We have no contact with them. I suppose we could see if they are able to help now...."

"I doubt it, Portia. Lord Felsham would have to be a regular Croesus to be able to toss me five thousand guineas without caring about it."

Portia sighed. Five thousand guineas. The price of her life, and the life of her family. It was almost impossible to believe that they were in such straits.

It had started with the death of Oliver's father. Sir Edward had been an honest country squire, but too inclined to indulge in rich foods and port wine. One day he had risen from his bed complaining of indigestion, and fallen down dead.

It had been a terrible shock to the whole family, but none of them had expected the tragedy to have a such a dramatic effect on their lives. Oliver inherited the baronetcy, but being only twenty-one, he was unlikely to unsettle things soon by bringing a bride to Overstead.

However, Oliver had always been restive and unable to settle to country life. He had revived the idea of joining the army. When his family protested—Hannah and Prudence adding tears to their pleas—he had gone off to London "to see a bit of the world."

Portia remembered that they'd all been immensely relieved to have him engaged in such a safe activity. Of course, they'd imagined Oliver in picture galleries, attending Court, and meeting philosophers and writers in the coffee houses.

Instead of intellectual speculations Oliver had been drawn into less lofty ones. He had soon been spending all his time in clubs and gaming hells, both winning and losing. Then had come the disastrous night when he had staked and lost Overstead to a Major Barclay.

Major Barclay now featured in Portia's nightmares—a shallow, shifty individual, with leering eyes and a demonic grimace. And, of course, he must be a trickster and a cheat.

Being a low-minded type, the major had little interest in a small estate in Dorset. He wanted cash and had agreed to let Oliver redeem his home for five thousand guineas. Oliver had failed to persuade any bank to lend him so much on the estate, however.

Curse the major, and curse the bankers.

Portia wished she had been able to attend the meeting at the banks, but of course it was unthinkable for a woman to take part in such business, even if the woman knew more of the estate than the man.

But she had helped Sir Edward manage the estate and knew it could bear the loan.

When the banks turned him down, Oliver had been inclined to give up, talking again about joining the army. He was sure he could earn advancement and be able to support his family in modest circumstances.

Portia, however, had not been willing to surrender so easily. As a last resort, she had suggested applying for advice to their neighbor, the great Earl of Walgrave. She had hoped, of course, that he would advance Oliver the money, for he was very rich and was also Oliver's godfather. Unfortunately, the earl had not been at his estate, Walgrave Towers.

Again, Oliver had been inclined to give up and prepare to hand the estate over to Barclay. Portia had fought on. She had discovered that the earl was in Maidenhead and had virtually dragged Oliver here. It was the worst luck that they had arrived at this rented house just as the earl was on the point of leaving. He had ordered them to stay here until he had time to attend to their affairs.

It had sounded promising, but two days had passed with no news, so Oliver had gone out this evening to seek word. Surely he must have discovered something. "Did you find Lord Walgrave?" Portia asked.

He shook his head. "He seems to have left Maidenhead and taken his entourage with him. Face facts, Portia. He's turning his back, too. It's hopeless."

She reached over to grip his hand. "You can't just give up, Oliver. You still have a month to find the money."

He laughed bitterly. "Where?"

"Oh, Oliver, we have to keep trying. Perhaps we can follow the earl. Where did he go?"

"Nobody knows. For heaven's sake, Portia, we can't go chasing after him like hounds on the scent. Do you never know when you're beaten? If Lord Walgrave had been willing to help us, he would have done so."

"He was clearly busy...."

"And always will be."

"There must be
something
we can do."

He drained his cup. "If there is, you must find it then, for I'm at a loss. The only way I can see to raise the wind would be to go to the moneylenders, and the interest they'd charge would break us anyway."

"So, we go home, do we, and prepare to hand everything over to Major Barclay?"

"What choice do we have?"

Portia fixed him with a look. "We can chase after the earl like hounds on the scent."

"Portia!"

"Oliver, I will not give up until the very end. We will wait a few more days in case Lord Walgrave sends word, but if not I am going up to London to seek news of him. If you don't come, I will go on my own."

* * *

Oliver was most unhappy with the plan, and it took Portia nearly a week to get him to agree. Even as they waited in the inn yard for the London Fly to roll in, he was still arguing. "Mother is going to have fits to think of you in the wicked city with only me for escort."