by Jason
Portia twitched awake at a crash in the other bedroom. It was followed by a familiar curse. Thank heavens. Oliver was home! Then she registered that it was the dead of night. Where had he been till such an hour?
Gaming?
No, it couldn’t be.
She slipped out of bed, shivering at the icy chill, and wrapped the thin coverlet around herself. When she peeped into the next room the dim moonlight just allowed her to make out Oliver sitting on his bed, rubbing his shin.
“Oliver? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Don’t fuss, Portia. Just crashed into the corner of the plaguey bed.” She heard the slur of drink in his voice with relief. If brandy was the worst of it, that was not too bad.
He stood and his voice brightened. “Tell you what, Portia. I had the greatest luck tonight!”
“You met someone who would help you raise the money?”
He chuckled. “You could say that. And I won over two hundred guineas from him!”
It was like a blast of icy wind. “Won?”
“Plague take it, Portia. I tell you I won and you sound as if I’d been condemned to hang!”
She gripped her hands tight on the coverlet. “But you promised you wouldn’t play, Oliver.”
“I won’t. Or not much,” he blustered. “I’ve told you, a man has to play a bit, Portia, or he’ll look demmed fishy. I was with some friends—Twinby has an uncle who’s trustee of a bank. Might be a loan there. Couldn’t not go with him, could I? And it turned out excellently. See!” He began pulling money out of his pockets and heaping it on the table. Some coins rolled off to spin on the floor.
Portia flung herself after them before they disappeared into some chink in the floorboards. She scrambled to her feet, found the tinderbox, and made a light for the candle. The growing flame reflected merrily off a heap of gold coins.
“See,” said Oliver proudly. “Isn’t that a pretty sight!”
She couldn’t deny it. “Yes. Oh, yes. I don’t think it’s wise of you to have played, Oliver, but this will be a help. If the worst comes about, this money will allow us to get by for a long time.”
“Such dull stuff! With all this, we’ll be able to enjoy London!”
“Oliver!”
His smile was brilliant. “Don’t turn Puritan on me, Portia. Look at it!” He sank his hands in the pile of gold. “I left the house with only thirty guineas, and I come home with all this!”
Portia swallowed. If he’d left with thirty guineas he’d taken nearly all their small stock of money. He had said he needed a few, and she’d agreed. It had never occurred to her that he would translate a few into thirty.
“You could have lost the thirty,” she pointed out, forcing herself to speak mildly.
“But I didn’t. My luck’s changed!”
Oh lord. It was like the first smell of putrefaction. The shock of losing so badly had made him swear off gaming, but now he’d had this taste of success, could she stop the rot? Portia’s hands shook as she gathered the money into a towel. She had to admit that it made a remarkably heavy bundle.
“Don’t I get any of that at all?” he asked plaintively.
“How much do you want?”
“Fifty perhaps. A man has to have money in his pocket.”
Portia wanted to remind him that he was deep in debt. No matter how many coins in his pocket, they were not truly his. But she could see there was no point now. She counted out the fifty. “We must keep the rest safe for necessities, Oliver.”
“Of course we must.” He grinned and flicked one of the golden coins. “After all, there’ll be more where this came from.”
“Oliver!” Portia protested, seeking the words to turn him from this course.
He shook his head, almost glowing with new hope. “Perhaps we won’t need a loan from anyone. People win thousands at the tables every night! Now my luck’s changed, we can get Overstead back the way it was lost.”
Portia started to argue, but he ignored her and began to struggle out of his clothes. She returned to her own bedroom clutching the bundle of coins. So much gold should be a comfort, but she felt only despair.
She had truly thought that Oliver had learned that gaming was the road to ruin, but this success had changed everything.
Perhaps that was the purpose of it.
For all she knew he had fallen into the hands of a rascal who would tease him on with small winnings until he became over confident and lost all. It was a well-known trap for the unwary, and they called the practitioners of the art “hawks.” An appropriately predatory name.
She thumped the bundle down on a chair. Why could Oliver not see what was happening?
On the other hand, what was there left to lose? Clearly Oliver was making such a good pretense of prosperity that the new hawk was not aware that his prey had already lost all.
She wished she could announce it in broadsheets all over London!
Previously Portia had not hidden any of their money, but now she knew she must. She didn’t feel comfortable about it, for it was Oliver’s, but she wasn’t sure she could trust him not to gamble away every last coin.
Oh, but it was a form of madness she dealt with here.
She studied the room with despair. Her simple iron bed and plain armoire offered no cunning place of concealment.
Then she looked at the fireplace.
It had a simple wooden surround much like the one in Maidenhead. When she inspected it, it too had a gap all around between the wood and the wall. A test showed that a guinea would just fit into that gap and not be able to fall farther.
She began to methodically slide the coins in there all the way around, hoping no glint of gold would reveal their situation. That only took care of half the money, but Portia felt better knowing that some of the coins should be safe.
She huddled back into her still-warm bed. They had three weeks left before the New Year, before the evil Barclay claimed Overstead—beautiful Overstead with its fertile fields and glorious gardens. The fields were partly her work, for she had chivvied her stepfather into introducing some of the new methods of agriculture. The gardens were her mother’s work, and it would break Hannah’s heart to give them to a stranger.
Three weeks left, stuck here in dirty, expensive, wicked London, and it was all her fault. She should have agreed with Oliver and gone home. Having landed them in such a pickle, however, she must keep Oliver away from his vice until Fort came to London.
And what of the rest of his life? taunted a little voice.
Portia ignored it. It was boredom that drove Oliver to the tables. If they could just raise the loan to save Overstead, Oliver would be too hard at work trying to pay it off to be gallivanting to London and falling into evil ways. All she had to do was manage the next few weeks.
But he’s gaming again, and he thinks it’s the way to solve everything.
If I keep the money I have safe, he can only lose the fifty guineas, and that’s fifty we didn’t have this morning.
He can run up debts. He didn’t have Overstead in his pocket when he lost it, did he? Men sign IOUs— vowels, they call them. Good as gold, they are. What are you going to do if someone turns up with a handful of vowels? Pay up, or see Oliver dragged off to the Fleet?
Presumably in the Fleet he won’t be able to lose any more!
Portia was immediately ashamed of that spurt of anger. Of course she didn’t want to see Oliver in debtor’s prison.
Tomorrow, when he wasn’t swayed by brandy and excitement, he would surely see that at best, tonight’s win had been a fluke.
Four
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Bryght separated from Andover near Bond Street, and let his friend take the hack. He had no particular inclination to find a link-boy even, for the weak moonlight was enough to show his way to nearby Marlborough Square. He knew danger lurked in every shadow, but the only precaution he took was to toss back his cloak and make sure the hilt of his sword was clear. The scavengers of London w
ere generally on the prowl for easier prey.
Marlborough Square was perhaps the finest square in London, with grand houses surrounding a lovely railed garden which even boasted a duck pond. Malloren House stood in the center of one side of the‘ square, set back from the road, and fronted by a paved courtyard. A narrow lane ran down each side, setting it off from lesser houses nearby, but blocked by ornate wrought iron gates. At the back there was a large garden.
As Bryght climbed the shallow stairs to the pillared portico, the night-doorman seated in an alcove leapt to his feet to open one of the heavy double doors.
Bryght recalled a conversation with Portia St. Claire about knocking on doors. He had said he never knocked on doors that lacked servants to open them. The truth was that he rarely had to even exert himself as far as knocking....
Why did that woman keep popping into his head? It would be foolishness to become embroiled in the affairs of the petty gentry who had to knock at doors, and even— heaven forbid!—answer them, too.
Bryght suppressed a grin as he nodded to the elderly man and passed into the gloomy hall. It would not do to be seen grinning at nothing, or the word would soon be around that he had rolled home drunk. He drank. He did not become seriously drunk, which was yet another reason for his success at gaming.
There was a very soft woof and a dark form heaved to its feet by the table holding the candles. Bryght went over to greet Zeno. The Persian Gazelle Hound’s head almost reached Bryght’s waist, which made it easy to rub his long, silky ears.
This was as well, for neither Bryght nor the dog were inclined to lose their dignity in the relationship. Bryght was not about to crouch down and talk nonsense, and Zeno would never dream of leaping up or employing any of the other fawning tricks common to his species. His greatest sign of devotion was to be at Bryght’s side whenever he could.
Bryght’s brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, had received a pair of the dogs as a gift. He had intended to keep them both at Rothgar Abbey, but as soon as the male dog had seen Bryght he had firmly attached himself to him. Even as a six-month pup there had been no bouncing enthusiasm, just a resigned recognition of fate. Which is why Bryght had named him Zeno after the founder of the Stoical movement.
He rubbed the dog behind the ears, and Zeno pressed just a little closer—the only sign of approval Bryght was likely to get.
Bryght turned away to light a candle at the night-light. He was the only one of the family in residence at the moment and his standing orders were for the staff to retire early unless he gave other instructions. The house was silent apart from the ticking of clocks and he had to admit that it was pleasant to have Zeno to greet him when he returned to his cavernous home.
‘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, though. 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 any more.”
“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 the workers a shilling a day or more. It’s 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.”