by Jason
“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 are 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 had 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 would not be 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. Portia had 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.
In view of that fact, it would have been prudent to wear her heavy cloak, but Portia decided to have done with prudence for one day, and put on her short blue silk pelerine. Oliver had bought it for her last Christmas, before his father’s death, before their current disasters.
Now, when she fastened it at her neck he smiled proudly. “I chose that blue well, didn’t I, Portia? It matches your eyes and lights up your hair.” He winked. “You’ll catch all the men’s eyes today.”
Portia glanced in the small mirror. She dismissed the second part of his statement, but she had to admit that the cloak did suit her well. The color did its best for her blue eyes and red hair. It was a shame about the freckles, but she had long since realized that no treatment was going to remove them.
She had tried. She was not vain, but the freckles worked with her small stature and short nose to make her look absurdly young. Perhaps other women wanted to appear younger than they were, but having resigned herself to maturity, Portia wanted all of it.
She remembered someone saying, “By your looks and your behavior, I thought you younger . . .”
Then she remembered who it had been.
“What are you frowning at?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, just follies,” she replied and smiled. She fixed a neat flat hat at a jaunty angle on top of her curls, and decided that with the addition of a large fur muff Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Hall, Dorset, was as fine as possible.
Oliver was equally elegant in a suit of mulberry velvet, and shoes with a high heel. He did not destroy the effect with a cloak, but he too carried a fashionable muff. With his best powdered wig, he looked a true Town exquisite.
She linked arms with him and gave him a jaunty smile. “Let us venture forth, my dear, and slay London with our magnificence!”
As they strolled toward the more fashionable part of town, Portia deliberately put aside her cares. She simply enjoyed the fresh air and the interesting sights. She was pleased to see that Oliver was not trying to spend money on every gew-gaw they passed, but then he did stop in fron
t of a milliner’s. “You don’t have a mask with you, do you?”
“Of course not. At this season, there’s hardly a need to shield my face from hot sun or dust.”
“But it’s all the go to carry one. You really should.” He was already entering the doorway, and Portia grabbed his coat.
“Oliver! I do not need a mask!”
He smiled at her. “Yes, you do. I just remembered that there’s a parade of the foot guards in St. James’s Park I’ll go odds all the world will be there. You’ll enjoy it—the king will be there, even—but you should carry a mask.”
“The king . . . ? But why a mask?”
“Why anything? It’s the fashion!”
Portia muttered about fashion, but she allowed herself to be drawn into the store where she chose a very plain, white, full-face mask on a stick. Oliver tried to persuade her to more ornate ones, but she refused all extravagance.
As they left the shop, she said, “I can’t think what to do with it.”
“Just let it dangle from your wrist by the ribbon. And now—on to St. James’s Park, where all the world awaits!”
It was as he said, and all the world—the Polite World, the Court—seemed to be in the park. The flowers were long gone, and most of the trees were bare, but the gorgeous clothes, the furs, and the jewels served to compensate for nature’s lost adornments.
Portia had no great interest in the rich and splendid, but faced by this fairy tale assembly, she could not help but be fascinated. Everyone seemed dressed too finely for a park— the men powdered, and the women in their richest gowns and cloaks. She remarked on this to Oliver.
“That’s because the king and queen will be here. This is almost like a Court.”
Portia chuckled. “I never thought to be at Court. I must pay attention. I’m sure Prudence will be fascinated to hear about our monarchs.”
“Truth to tell,” murmured Oliver, “they’re an ordinary enough couple, and the queen is positively fusby faced.”
“Shush!” she said in mock alarm, and they both laughed.
Portia had a splinter of awareness that this was like the old times when she and Oliver had teased and joked, and that such times were gone. She blocked that thought. For this brief hour she would be happy.
The neat columns of soldiers marched and turned to their officers’ commands. Oliver took a genuine interest in it, but he was one of the few to do so. Portia could tell that the lords and ladies were present to see and be seen, not to watch military exercises. She thought their maneuvers as fascinating as the soldiers‘. Some were fixed points, whilst others flitted from group to group like iridescent insects dipping nectar from a midsummer bank of flowers.
Among the fixed points Portia noted two clusters centered around women. One was a lively dark-haired woman surrounded by a bevy of flirtatious men; the other was a beautiful blonde dressed in white, whose circle was more sober and mixed.
She poked Oliver to get his attention. “Who are those ladies?”
He looked where she discreetly pointed. “Ah, the rival queens! Rose White and Rose Red, some wags name them. The brunette is Mrs. Findlayson, a very wealthy widow. Her fortune comes from trade, but in view of its size most are willing to overlook that flaw. I wish to heaven she’d smile on me,” he said with a grin, “for that would solve our problems nicely. But they say she is determined to marry into the aristocracy.”
“And the blonde?”
“The beautiful Lady Trelyn. Society’s darling. She is safely married. That’s her husband hovering over her so devotedly.”
Portia considered the man. He was of medium height and build. With a pale face, gray hair-powder, and dull gray suit he looked almost ghostly in the vivid throng. “Such devotion is very touching.”
“Oh, he’s certainly devoted. Nerissa Trelyn brought only a small portion to her marriage, they say, and Trelyn is both rich and powerful. He could have married a great deal higher.”
“Do people think of nothing but money and station in marriage?”
Oliver shrugged. “Why not marry as well as possible? Perhaps I should consider that route myself. Or you,” he said with a smile. “Looking as fine as you do today, perhaps you can save us all through a brilliant marriage.”
Portia laughed. “Don’t be absurd, dearest.”
“No, I’m serious. You are looking your best, Portia, and there is something fetching about you, you know. Men like you.”
Portia shook her head with a smile. “Then perhaps liking has nothing to do with marriage, for my fetching qualities have not fetched me a grand husband.”
“I can’t think why not.”
She gave him a look. “Perhaps my indifferent looks, small portion, and humble origins play a part?”
Oliver, ever the optimist, was not to be dissuaded. “I don’t think Nerissa Trelyn came from a station much higher than ours, and she married high indeed.”
Portia knew Oliver meant well, but his partiality was embarrassing and she was glad there was no one by to hear it. She looked at Nerissa Trelyn wryly. If one needed that degree of beauty to make a man forget a dowry, she was sunk before she sailed. The lady had pure creamy skin, full pink lips, big dark eyes, and a mass of shimmering golden hair. Add to that a lush figure, graceful movements, and an air of profound womanliness.
She was almost the antithesis of Portia.
Portia was saved from further embarrassment by the approach of a trio of Oliver’s friends. They were all light hearted gallants, dressed in the height of fashionable absurdity, which meant peacock colors, huge muffs, and high red heels on their shoes. They reminded her rather of ornamental birds.
When the first bunch fluttered on, more arrived, and so it went. As they strolled around the park it became clear that Oliver did have a great many friends. Portia was not surprised. He was charming, and great fun when not gaming.
At one point, Portia noted Oliver give an en-passant bow to a tall man in dark green silk and powder, and saw the courtesy returned. The man looked at her rather more closely than she liked, and she felt a twitch of familiarity. “Who was that?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” asked Oliver with a teasing look. “That, my dear, was your moonlit marauder.”
Five
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Portia stopped dead. “Bryght Malloren!”
“Encountered him last night,” said Oliver, still in the manner of one who is about to reveal a joke.
Portia resisted the urge to turn and stare after Lord Bryght. He had looked very different in fashionable finery. For some strange reason, the knowledge of who he was had actually speeded her heart. It could not be fear, for it was impossible for him to attack her here.
“What happened?” she asked unsteadily, forcing herself to move on. “Did you fall into an argument with him? Oliver—not a duel!”
Oliver laughed. “Of course not. In fact, my dear, I paid him back for upsetting you and for attacking me. It was from him that I won all that money.”
Portia clapped her hands. “Oh, well done!” But that flash of satisfaction immediately faded. Even as she greeted two more of Oliver’s friends—one plump, one slender—she was growing uneasy. Oliver had said that he and the Mallorens did not move in the same circles, so how had they come to play?
Was Bryght Malloren a professional gamester—a hawk? He was, after all, just a second son. She knew him to be capable of wickedness. She would not, however, have thought him a cheat. . . .
Oliver was relating his great success to his friends.
“Does Lord Arcenbryght gamble a great deal?” Portia asked.
The plump young man answered. “Bryght Malloren? Plays all the time, dear lady, and has the devil’s own luck. I tell you, Upcott, if you won from him last night you’re a walking miracle.”
Oliver’s eyes shone. “Well, I did, and at bezique. That takes some skill. If he’s lucky, perhaps the secret to beating him is to stick to games of skill.”
His friend shook h
is head. “I’ve heard of him winning at piquet, ecarte, and whist. Devilish sharp man. But then, all the Mallorens are.”
“And quick with their swords,” said the slender one, whose long neck and jerky movements reminded Portia of a nervous chicken. “I’d keep out of Lord Bryght’s way, if I were you, Upcott. Dangerous men, the Mallorens.”
“He insisted on playing with me,” said Oliver with an air. “I would have carried on, too, but he called an end to it after losing so much. If he wants his revenge, I’ll not refuse.”
Portia bit her lips to smother a protest. Bryght Malloren sounded exactly like a hawk. She glanced over to where he had paused to converse with a group of men, and promptly had some strange thoughts about birds.
Birds of a feather flock together, or so they said.
In this grand setting Oliver’s friends all appeared to be lesser species—nervous chickens, pretty finches, or pigeons who puffed up their chests and strutted about in search of crumbs. Bryght Malloren’s friends, however, were predators—strong, self-assured, and sharp of beak and claw. She could imagine their eyes to be like the eyes of the hawk when seeking its next meal.
And hawks preyed upon chickens and pigeons, especially at the gaming table.
The two young men minced off on their high-heeled shoes. Portia was hard put not to giggle at how much they did look like a chicken and a pigeon pecking their way around. She had to tell Oliver, and they ended up stifling laughter.
“But they’re good fellows,” he said. “Truly.”
“They give good advice, at least. I think you should avoid Bryght Malloren.”
He flushed. “Don’t fuss, Portia. The chances of gaming with him again are small, but if he wants his revenge I can hardly refuse. It would look as if I only played to win.”
Portia stared at him. Why on earth would anyone play to lose? Before she could frame this question, they were approached by another couple of strutting pigeons. Portia tried to put bird images out of her mind before she embarrassed herself by a fit of the giggles. The thought of hawks quickly sobered her, so that she could attend to the conversation and learn more of gaming lore.