Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (8 page)

'Struth, he was going to turn maudlin!

Well, if he wanted company, he'd go odds there was one person still awake.

Bryght climbed the sweeping stairs, shielding the candle flame from the draft of his movement, and followed by the click of Zeno's claws on the steps. He headed for the room where his guest was doubtless poring over papers to do with his canal.

As Bryght had expected, he found Francis Egerton, Duke of Bridgewater, hunched over a desk. But he was working on accounts, not diagrams.

"Is the news good or bad?" Bryght asked as Zeno flopped lazily in front of the fire.

The duke looked up with a quick, almost shy smile. "Both. There's money for three months, I estimate, barring disasters."

"Such as the canal bursting its banks again."

"Exactly," said the duke with a grimace. "Brindley really does think the trees we're planting along the banks will help."

"And bring profit, too, in time. Genius, Francis."

"Brindley's, not mine."

"You're too modest."

Bridgewater shrugged. He was a slender young man, five years Bryght's junior and an awkward blend of naiveté and shrewdness. As a youth he'd been thought both frail and stupid, but he was proving to be neither. There were many who now thought him mad, but Bryght knew they'd be proved wrong, too.

If the money held out.

Bryght poured brandy for them both. "I won a thousand or so tonight you can have. Less a couple of hundred."

"You lost?" asked Bridgewater with mild surprise.

"On purpose."

"How strange."

"I felt inclined to do a kindly act."

Bridgewater glanced at the window. "And it's not even full moon."

"Christian charity seems amazingly out of favor these days," commented Bryght dryly. "Consider it an investment, then. That'll be more to your mercenary heart."

Bridgewater grinned unrepentantly. "An investment in what, though? Is there profit in it?"

"Only spiritual." Bryght deflected this line of talk. "Do you still intend to return north tomorrow?"

Bridgewater threw down his pen and stretched. "Yes. I've done all I can to push the bill through. I wish to hell Parliament had no say in private enterprise. It would make my life easier."

"What problems are the committee raising now? I'll grant that approving an aqueduct did demand an act of faith since the ill-educated dolts seemed unaware that Roman examples still exist. But it's straight for the sea now, isn't it?"

The duke grimaced. "With a canal, nothing is ever straight except the cut. They're a huddle of nervous fools. If no one ever takes a risk, there'll be no progress."

"Having the aqueduct fail before their eyes doubtless made them cautious," Bryght pointed out.

"A minor flaw, and soon corrected. There's been no problem since."

"Except a couple of expensive floods..."

"Whose side are you on? In a new venture there are bound to be problems!"

"Pax," said Bryght with a grin. "I'm teasing you, Francis. But you must admit that for people more cautious than we, it does seem a mad scheme. You ought to have heard Andover on the subject."

"Is it caution, or greed? Behind some of those Doubting Thomases there are people who stand to lose a great deal of money when the canal is working. Brooke practically had an apoplexy speaking against my Bill."

"Be fair, Francis. Brooke isn't thinking of profits. He doesn't care for you cutting a bloody great pathway across his part of the country. Just be grateful you're not trying to do it near Rothgar Abbey or you'd have my brother against you."

"There has to be change if there's to be progress. These conservative old squires will ruin England."

"I do hope you're not thinking of Rothgar as a conservative old squire."

Bridgewater burst out laughing. "Perish the thought! And I certainly wouldn't care to be up against him." He sobered. "As it is, most of the opposition are venal. Their doubts disappear at the sign of gold. I've given elegant gifts and even naked coin to people I'd rather kick in the ballocks. Gads, but I'd rather see the money going toward construction."

"It's all construction of one sort or another."

"Building fortunes for the greedy? There's honest money to be made everywhere these days, but lazy people here in London look only to bribery and gaming."

Bryght toasted him ironically. "Thank you."

"Lord, not you, Bryght. I know you've no great taste for hells anymore."

"And nobody ever offers me a bribe except the beauties hoping for an introduction to Rothgar."

"You could make a fortune that way," Bridgewater remarked with a grin.

"I'm afraid what they offer is not hard currency."

"No. Something very soft. Pity."

"You're turning into a veritable money-grubber, Francis."

"I simply do what I must to reach my goal."

"That goal being profit." Bryght wandered restlessly over to the fire. "Just how virtuous is it to lend money and profit thereby, when others do the sweaty work?"

"We pay a fair wage and they're glad of it. Without those willing to provide capital, there would be no work for the laborers and nothing would ever be achieved."

"True enough." Bryght shook off his unusual qualms and returned to the desk to top up their glasses. "So, if you think you've greased enough palms to get your Bill, why not stay a few days and wallow in delicious vice?"

"London bores me, and I want to see how the work progresses."

"You're in danger of becoming a devilishly dull dog, you know. The Deadly Duke."

"Better than 'the Poor Duke,' which is the label I grew up with." He sipped from his brandy. "I'm going to be the richest duke in England, Bryght. What drives you?"

"To be the richest commoner?" Bryght offered lightly.

"There are easier ways to make money."

"At the tables? I lack the ice to strip men of their all."

"On 'Change. I know you enjoy investment more than the tables."

"Ah. But having sunk my funds into your enterprise, I have nothing to venture. I get my speculative pleasures these days with Rothgar's money."

The duke frowned. "I'm sorry. It must gall you to be dependent on him."

"Francis—"

But the duke overrode him. "I seem to have dragged you into a pit, Bryght. I know you invested in me on a whim when... well, it was a whim. I'll buy you out as soon as it's possible. It could be soon. Now the aqueduct is working, I actually have people approaching me about loans."

"Without having to be pressured? A change indeed. But I have no wish to abandon the project."

"You've put everything into it, and it's a damnable risky business."

"Francis! Risk is my delight."

The duke grimaced in exasperation. "Bryght, think. What will you do if we fail?"

"What will you do if we fail?"

"I'll still be a duke. That is worth something."

"But a poor duke once again. If we fail—which we won't—I will still be a Malloren. And unlike you, I am not in debt."

"You may end up in debt."

"Devil a bit. I'll just get it at the tables."

"If your luck holds."

"It is not just luck," Bryght pointed out.

"There's nothing but luck when it comes to the devil's bones."

"Which is why I prefer the devil's pictures. Why the gloom, Francis?"

The duke sighed. "If you suffer pangs of conscience at the tables, I suffer them, too. I don't mind risking my all, but you're the only outside shareholder. A shift of power in Parliament, a run of bad luck with the excavations, a mistake by Brindley, and we could be sunk. Even if all those things go right we may still run out of money."

"Which is why I am charming Jenny Findlayson."

Bridgewater frowned at him. "If it comes to the point, will you really marry her just to prop up my shaky dream?"

"Why not?"

"She's a Cit."

"She's a fine-looking woman without any particular vices other than a strong belief in her worth."

"Given her worth, she has reason. But..."

"But?"

The duke considered his words. "Forgive me if your feelings run deep, but having met the lady, I do not feel you would suit."

Bryght raised his brows. "'Struth! Are you trying to tell me Jenny prefers your charms to mine? A duke in the hand and all that? You're welcome to her."

Bridgewater flushed. "Not this duke. I made delicate enquiries. Why get at her money through a broker if I can tap into it direct? She thinks I'm mad and that I'd pour all her money into a failing endeavor whilst expecting her to live on a pittance in a cottage."

Bryght laughed. "I love a shrewd woman. I wonder if she'll be very distressed to find that she's dedicated her fortune to the failing endeavor by marrying me."

The duke put down his glass. "I sometimes think you believe that, Bryght. That I will fail."

Bryght cursed his flippant tongue. "I wouldn't be supporting you if I didn't have faith. But the risk is not a blemish to me." Bryght took the last mouthful of the warm and very fine brandy and let it trickle down his throat. "Achievement without risk is tedious. I have a fondness for inspired insanity, and love a high-stakes game with some point to it. Build the canal, Francis. I'll make sure you have the money."

* * *

Portia awoke the next morning in unusually low spirits. Even under the blows she had recently received, she had always buoyed herself with optimistic plans of action. Now she didn't know what to do.

She had hardly slept after Oliver had come home, and her thoughts had been as bleak as one could expect of that dead time of the night. She had told herself that Oliver had never shown sign of gaming fever before coming to London. Even so, she'd been unable to shake off the fear that he was now an incurable gamester, and that even if they obtained a loan, he would somehow lose everything again.

She had even begun to concoct strange schemes of imprisoning Oliver at Overstead so he couldn't play again.

Then she had progressed to considering what would happen if they didn't raise the loan, for now she could hardly blame anyone—even Fort—for seeing Oliver as a bad risk.

On New Year's Day they would have to leave Overstead in the hands of this horrible Major Barclay. And then what?

Their only refuge would be her mother's brother in Manchester, a prospect that pushed her further into gloom. She had visited Uncle Cranford twice and hated it. His house was handsome enough, for he seemed to be prospering. It was in the center of town, however, close to his new manufactories where banks of looms wove worsted and fustian. The house opened straight onto the busy street at the front and had only a tiny garden at the back.

She was a country woman. How could she live without fields and a garden?

All the streets close to her uncle's house were the same, with scarcely a tree or a flower, just lumbering carts bringing raw materials, spun thread, or cloth. The carts stirred up dust and left tufts of wool and cotton to float in the air.

Even if she were to plant a garden, she had to wonder if flowers would thrive in such a place.

But if they lost Overstead, their choice would be Manchester or starvation.

The hours of worrying had so worn Portia down that she could have produced tears, but now that it was a new day she set about turning her mind to optimism.

After all, she thought as she flung back the curtains to let in crisp sunlight, the money hidden behind the fireplace made them safe for a little while. They wouldn't become homeless because they could not afford rent, or starve because they could not afford food.

And Fort was expected in town any day. Even if Oliver continued to gamble, he could not get into deep trouble in a few days. When Fort did arrive, she decided, she would not depend on Oliver. She would go to him herself and put their case. They were of an age and good friends. She knew he would help in some way.

Perhaps he would call out the horrible Major Barclay and kill him. That wouldn't wipe out the debt, but it would be some kind of blow against fate.

As a result of these satisfying thoughts, when Oliver cheerfully insisted that they should go out to celebrate his winnings, Portia didn't make a sour comment. Sitting in these bleak, chilly rooms and worrying about their situation would soon turn her into a shrew. She needed fresh air, and she did want to see something of fashionable London before leaving it forever.

She entered into the spirit of the day by dressing her finest. She'd only brought a few garments with her and all her wardrobe was country wear, but the quality was excellent so she felt no need to blush for her appearance. She chose an open gown of light brown callimanco, a glossy wool, which showed her best petticoat of embroidered silk.

Since she hadn't lost all sense, she wore a heavy drugget petticoat beneath for warmth. It might be a sunny day, but it was still December.