by Jason
“So, mignon,” he whispered inches from her lips, “why not just allow me my wicked way?”
Portia admitted at last that she was completely outmatched. He was a lord, a rake, and a large, ruthless man intent on his purpose. She ducked away from him and he let her go, flashing her an all-too-knowing grin.
May the ten curses of Egypt fall on his head!
She gathered what remained of her dignity and gestured disdainfully at the empty hearth and plain wooden surround.
“Proceed, my lord. I cannot wait to see you produce paper out of thin air. Are you perhaps a magician?”
“Perhaps I am.” He went forward and instead of looking in the empty grate or up the sooty chimney, he inspected the place where the wood joined the plaster wall. Portia could not resist going closer to see what he was doing.
He was prying at the space between the wood and the wall, but he suddenly cursed and sucked a finger.
“Oh, dear,” she said with spurious sympathy. “Have you torn a nail, my lord?” The look he sent her made her resolve to control her saucy tongue. “Is there truly something behind there, my lord?” she asked more moderately.
“Yes, Mistress Curiosity, there truly is.” He dug in his pocket for his pen-knife and used it to work at the problem. “So, you are guests, are you? I would have thought the earl a better host. There seems to be a marked lack of servants, furniture, and heat.”
“The other rooms are normally furnished.”
“And the heat and servants? Ah, I forgot. The servants are out with your ten hefty brothers.”
“Exactly. And I prefer cool temperatures. They are healthier.” She crossed her arms, wished for her shawls, and tried not to shiver.
“You must forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say, Hippolyta. I doubt it’s any concern of mine, however. In fact, if you want to pilfer Walgrave’s property, you have my blessing.”
Portia felt as if her hair must be standing on end with fury. “How dare you suggest . . .”
But he wasn’t paying attention. “Ah,” he said, and began to slide a folded paper free. He wiggled it carefully out with the tip of the knife until he could grip it, then stood to hold it teasingly before her. “Abracadabra!”
The taunt was the final straw. Portia twitched it out of his loose hold and ran. She was snared by the back of her gown, dragged hard against his body, and the paper was plucked from her hand. “Very foolish,” he said.
Portia knew it, for now there was no humor in his voice at all. He had one arm unbreakably around her and the folded paper was in front of her face. It was heavily scented with Otto of Roses and she turned her head away from the smell.
“Do you not care for the perfume?” It was said lightly, but nothing could persuade her that he was in a good humor.
“It is a little cloying, my lord.”
“A lady of virtue and discretion, would you say?”
“Hardly.”
“But this letter could be to a friend, discussing the latest gowns.”
“Is it?”
“I fear not.” His tone was almost contemplative.
His arm was a prison as secure as iron bars, but Portia was relaxing. Again, she sensed no direct threat in him, and in fact found this strange embrace almost comforting. It was hard being small, female, and responsible for everything. What would it be like to have a strong man at one’s command?
Such foolishness. What point in trusting men when they could lose the very roof over one’s head with foolish investments, or on the turn of a card? As her father had done, men shot himself. As her half-brother had done, landing them in this predicament. She pushed against his hold. “Let me go, my lord. You have what you came for, and I cannot stop you from taking it.”
“I’m glad you realize that at last.” He relaxed his arm and she pushed free and turned to face him.
She saw she was right. The light humor that had marked him throughout their encounter was shadowed now by something else, and the way he was looking at the papers in his hand was disquieting. Surprisingly, she felt a kind of tenderness, a desire to comfort one who suffered.
Suffered?
“Are those not the papers you came for?” she asked.
His gaze flicked up to hers. “Do you think there is a collection of perfumed love-letters behind the fireplace? What an entrancing thought! I suppose I should check this. ...” He made no move to do so, however, but turned the papers contemplatively in his long fingers. “It would be a shame to leave with merely a laundry list pushed back there to seal a gap, wouldn’t it?”
Portia folded her arms primly. “That, my lord, is no laundry list.”
“Recognize the type, do you? Tut, tut, Hippolyta. Yes, I do indeed expect it to be a searing love letter, and one that is part of an illicit, rather than a holy love.” He was speaking lightly, but he was not composed of light. He was dark and coiled dangerously tight. Even though she did not feel he posed any direct threat to her, Portia shivered.
They stood there, frozen in the silvered silence for what seemed an age, but then he unfolded the paper and angled it into the moonlight.
She saw his face change.
He could not be otherwise than pale in the moonlight, but now his features tightened as if he read bad news. Portia put aside antagonism and went forward to place a gentle hand on his sleeve. “My lord, what is it?”
He seized her by the front of her gown. “Time for your secrets, Hippolyta. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m the earl’s guest!” Her voice came out as a squeak, finally strangled by pure terror.
He pressed her back, back until she was flat against the wall. “No servants. No lights. A pistol, and an unholy interest in these papers. Try again.”
“There’s a candle in my bedroom!”
“And the pistol?” he queried in caustic disbelief.
“I heard someone break in!”
“And immediately came down to confront the burglar? What well-bred lady would behave that way?” But the terrifying surge of rage was leashed. “Your name, Hippolyta.”
She would give anything to be free of him. “Portia St. Claire.”
It did not help. He stared at her, new passion blossoming behind his eyes. “St. Claire?” he repeated quietly like a curse. “No wonder you are so anxious to get hold of this letter.” His sudden smile was as pleasant as a rank sewer. “What, I wonder, are you willing to trade for it?”
She tried to press back into the solid plaster of the wall, away from his malice. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“No? But it is very damaging. Do you want proof?” Restraining her with one hand, he flicked open the letter. “It is addressed to Hercules from Desiree. See what she writes. ‘I think of your mighty rod in my satin pocket and Weak Tea thinks I moan for him. When we met last week at the theatre, I was wearing your handkerchief between my legs—’ ”
She tore at his restraining hand. “Stop it!”
He stopped. “I think Desiree would expect you to try harder to get this back from me, Portia St. Claire.”
“I know no Desiree!”
“Come, come. We know it’s not her real name.”
“Real or not, I do not know her!” She struggled against his grip. “Let me go. Please!” Portia hated the plea in her voice, but she would grovel to get away. She was choking from fear, and her heart was racing fit to burst. She had never before encountered someone so filled with violent anger. “Just take your letter and go,” she whispered.
With his back to the long windows, his face was shadowed. “You are willing to let me leave with it without a fight?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Then why did you try to steal it?”
When she did not answer, he shook her. “Why?”
“Just to thwart you!” she gasped.
He abruptly released her. “I’m amazed you’ve survived to your current advanced age, Miss St. Claire.”
Portia sidled away from the madman. “I am onl
y twenty-five.”
“I took you for younger, both by your looks and your behavior.” The razor’s edge of danger had gone, though, and he seemed largely bemused. “Tell Desiree when you report to her that Bryght Malloren has her letter, and will contact her about payment.”
She straightened her spine and glared at him. “I tell you, I know no Desiree! You are mad, my lord!”
He just raised a brow and turned to leave, swooping to gather up his cloak as he passed. Portia offered no further protests, but just prayed earnestly that nothing would interfere with his departure.
Something did.
Her young brother Oliver walked in, candle in hand. The wavering golden light was shocking after the time of silver and shadow. “Portia? What are you doing in here in the dark?” He stopped. “Who are you, sir?”
“A housebreaker,” said Bryght Malloren curtly. He glanced back at Portia. “Your other hefty brothers and the three servants?”
“Just leave, my lord,” Portia replied. Oliver was only half a foot taller than she and no match for this Malloren man.
Oliver, however, did not seem aware of his danger. “Housebreaker?” he queried. “My lord? Servants? What the devil’s going on? I’ll have an explanation of you, sir!” His free hand reached for his sword.
“Oh, ‘struth.” And Bryght Malloren plucked the candle from Oliver’s hand and knocked him unconscious.
Portia cried out and ran forward. She stopped when the intruder turned on her, his features now demonic in the flaring candlelight.
“When the bantam cock comes round, tell him who I am. As a Malloren I could crush him like a cockroach. As a swordsman, I suspect I could kill him with one hand tied behind my back. And my conscience wouldn’t trouble me much over killing a St. Claire.”
Her hands became fists. “Get out of here, you arrogant bully!”
He made no move to go, but looked her over coldly. “You improve with lighting, Hippolyta, but you need to learn discretion. Do you really want another battle with me?”
“I wish I still had a pistol. This time I would not hesitate. Get out!”
He moved toward her, then halted. “Amazon tears,” he said softly. “Now there’s a weapon to defeat any man.” With an ironic inclination of his head he turned and swept out of the room.
Portia had not been aware until then that she was crying.
Tears of rage, she assured herself, scrubbing the evidence from her cheeks. By heaven, but she meant what she said. If she still had a loaded pistol she would shoot the bully now.
She glanced at her brother, who was stirring, then ran out to the landing to make sure the intruder really did leave. She reached there as the door slammed behind him.
“And good riddance,” she muttered. Pray heaven she never set eyes on the man again.
Two
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She heard a groan and ran back to Oliver, who was carefully feeling his jaw. “Plague take it. Who was that? And what on earth were you doing entertaining a man here?”
“Entertaining? The devil broke in!”
Oliver scrambled shakily to his feet and straightened his powdered wig. “Broke in? Why? There’s nothing of value here. Not for a man like that, at least.” Then he reached for his sword again. “By gad, but I’ll have satisfaction of him if I can but find out who he is.”
“Lord Arcenbryght Malloren is the name he gave.”
Oliver’s hand dropped from his sword, and he stared at her as if she’d announced the plague was in Maidenhead. “A Malloren!”
“You know him?”
“A Malloren? Of course not.” He was looking around dazedly, still feeling the effects of that cruel blow.
Portia took his arm and steered him toward the stairs. “He merely came to retrieve a letter that had been left here. Why don’t we go down to the kitchen? It’s warm there, and I think there’s some coffee left on the hob.”
When they were on the stairs and he seemed in better order, she said, “Tell me about the Mallorens.”
“Rothgar,” he stated, as if it were explanation in itself.
“What is Rothgar?”
But they were in the hall now and crumbs of plaster crunched under their feet. Oliver picked up the fallen pistol and looked at the scarred ceiling. “Why the devil was he firing a pistol in here?”
“It was me,” said Portia soothingly, steering him on. “I was startled. Unfortunately I didn’t hit him.”
Oliver looked back at the ceiling. “Unless he was flying, Portia, you never came close.”
Portia decided not to enlighten Oliver about the exact circumstances. Though younger than she, he took his position as head of the family seriously. She suspected, however, that if he faced up to Bryght Malloren the results would be disastrous.
There was little danger of it. When he collapsed down at the kitchen table, Oliver sank his head in his hands. “Bryght Malloren. Devil take it. The last thing we need is to be on the wrong side of the Mallorens.”
“Who are they?”
Oliver looked up. “The Mallorens? They’re one of the great families. Rich and powerful, with connections that run through society like dry rot through timber.”
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 his home. If he did not 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 vic
e. 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, Portia, 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.