by Jason
“It certainly would, but you would not have time for extra duties, Oliver. If we do get a mortgage on the estate, all our efforts will have to go into paying it off.”
He waved a careless hand. “Oh Portia, you know I’m no good at that kind of thing. But anyway, these posts don’t actually involve work. One hires someone else to do the job at a fraction of the income.”
She stared at him. “But that’s dishonest! The person doing the work should get the reward.”
He shrugged. “That’s the way of the world.”
In Portia’s opinion, the way of the world was wicked.
But she had another problem teasing at her mind. All the time she had been in Nerissa’s circle something had tickled her memory. It was an elusive reference, but it was as if she knew Nerissa from elsewhere, and yet she was sure they had never met, not even as children.
Suddenly it came to her.
Nerissa’s perfume.
Nerissa’s perfume was very like the one on that letter in Maidenhead.
Surely not.
She glanced at Bryght Malloren, who was kissing the hand of Mrs. Findlayson, widow of a tea merchant, and then at the gold and white Queen of Society, who had a taste for heavy rose perfume. . . .
She shook her head. Assuredly not. Neither of them could be Desiree.
She turned to Oliver, and realized that during her abstraction he had arranged to meet some friends in Watkin’s Coffee House. Her instinct was to protest, but she could hardly keep him tied to her skirts, much though she wished to.
She feared, however, that good fortune was not turning Oliver’s thoughts in the right direction. Quite the contrary.
With a pile of guineas available, and the entree to the highest circles, he was already full of unrealistic plans.
All the way home he talked of rich sinecures and grand entertainments. He had not only put his debt out of mind, but clearly thought he was on the way to wealth and glory. Portia was so distressed by it that she was glad to wave him on his way. When he had gone, however, she discovered he had taken an extra twenty guineas to go with the fifty she had given him last night.
Seventy guineas! It was a respectable annual income. It was not even safe to be carrying such an amount, and what on earth could he want with so much?
She feared she knew.
He came home late that night, crestfallen and with empty pockets.
Portia leaped up from the chair in which she had been fretting. “Oliver! How could you! You stole that money.”
“How can I steal what is mine?” he blustered, but without conviction.
Portia bit her lip. It was true that it was his money but he simply couldn’t be allowed to throw away seventy guineas a day. And, of course, it had gone on gaming.
“Yes, yes, I played,” he admitted, collapsing onto the faded sofa. “And deeper than I meant to. I thought perhaps I could win enough to redeem the estate, then there would be no debt to tie us all. After last night, and our grand success today, I thought my luck had changed. . . .” He looked up despondently. “I won’t be so foolish again, I promise, my dear.”
He sounded sincere.
“I suppose it was Bryght Malloren,” Portia said bitterly. How could she have mellowed toward the man? He was setting up Oliver like the hawk he was, intent on taking every last penny.
Oliver’s eyes widened with surprise. “Malloren? No, I told you I don’t move in those circles. It was a man called Cuthbertson who won most of it. Not a bad sort of fellow. You can’t blame him—the luck was just against me. And seventy guineas is nothing. In fact, if I’d had more, I could probably have turned the tide.”
Portia just looked at him, a sick feeling in her stomach. In every other respect Oliver was a good and rational man, but in this one matter, he was mad.
She kept her voice calm as she said, “I hope you mean that, Oliver—that you won’t play again. What little money we have won’t last if you spend it like that.” She remembered Bryght Malloren talking of responsibilities, and added, “And you have to think of the whole family.”
Oliver flushed. “I know, I know. I was doing it for the family. If we’re to have any kind of life at all, we need money.”
“Fort will lend you the money, Oliver. We will be able to pay it back if we live simply and work hard.”
“It’ll be demmed dull for everyone.”
“No one will mind if we have Overstead back.”
He looked up. “You might not—you love the country and harvests and lambing and such—but Pru won’t much like having to turn her dresses and miss the local balls.”
He’d brought in their sister, but Portia knew he spoke for himself. He had no interest in country life or economy. “If we’re careful perhaps we’ll be able to afford some entertainments.” She was offering the sop to him as much as to the absent Prudence.
“Going to parties won’t do her much good without a dowry.”
Portia wanted to snap that he should have thought of such matters before throwing everything away, but she said, “Pru’s pretty enough to marry well without. And if she complains, we’ll remind her that the alternative is Manchester. She’ll learn to count her blessings.”
She hoped he was getting the message, too.
Perhaps he was, for he grimaced wryly. “Aye, that’ll certainly cool her. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that when I strolled past the Ware mansion on the way to Watkin’s it looked as if they were readying for an arrival. What’s the odds that Fort will be in Town soon?”
A weight seemed to slide off Portia’s shoulders. “Oh, I do hope so.”
She was convinced that Bryght Malloren had offered one truth. The only way to avoid total ruin was to get Oliver away from London—back in Dorset and drowning in hard work.
The next day, trying not to be obvious about it, Portia guarded her room and the money. Oliver tried various sneaky ways to avoid her vigilance, and then faced her.
“Two guineas? You expect me to go out with a mere two guineas in my pocket?”
“You are going out to see if Fort is in Town yet. Why do you even need two?”
“It’s a pittance! You will make me appear a pauper!”
Portia’s patience snapped. “You are a pauper!”
“I’m only a pauper because you are sitting on my money like a miser with a hoard.”
“I am sitting on it because you have no sense in these matters!”
“I have more sense than you.”
“Then how did you throw everything away at cards?”
“Plague take you, Portia. That isn’t fair. I was cheated!”
She planted her hands on her hips. “The more fool you. And the more fool you for playing still.”
“Need I remind you that I won two hundred guineas, and from Bryght Malloren, no less?”
“And lost seventy of it last night.”
“I was just unlucky!”
“And always will be!”
After a moment of glaring violence, he slammed out of the room leaving Portia badly shaken. She’d never fought with Oliver before because he wasn’t of an argumentative nature. He certainly wasn’t of a violent disposition, but now she was afraid of him. She feared he was, in truth, mad when it came to gaming.
How was she to avoid disaster?
Her hands were shaking as she took out the small pouch of gold and counted out the rent for three months. She considered carefully, then included money for coals, for bread and ale, and for one meal a day each from the chop house. She took it down to their landlady.
“Why, Miss St. Claire,” said the thin woman, sliding the purse into her pocket, “how pleasant it will be to have two such respectable people in my house for so long.”
“I may not stay, Mrs. Pinney. I will soon be needed at home.”
“Well, you may be sure I will take excellent care of your brother for you. Such a fine young man. There is just one thing . . .”
“Yes?” asked Portia, wondering what new blow was about to
fall.
“I think Sir Oliver is a little neglectful about the locks, Miss St. Claire. I rose this morning to find the door unlocked. We could all have been murdered in our beds!”
Portia relaxed with relief. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Pinney. In the country . . .”
“This is not the country. Please ask Sir Oliver to be more careful.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you.”
Portia escaped back to her room, feeling some relief to have matters settled.
She knew she could not stay in London for it was poisoning her, but she wasn’t at all sure she could persuade Oliver to leave. If Fort had no help to offer then she would return to Overstead and organize the move to Manchester.
She told herself firmly that even Manchester was a better place than this, and that with courage and hard work a good life could be made anywhere.
She would try to persuade Oliver to go with her. If he would not go, however, she could leave knowing that he would have a roof over his head and a meal a day for a few months.
That left only thirty guineas in the purse, however, and she feared Oliver would notice the lack. She did not want him to even suspect that she had hidden part of the money and so she took out some of the coins from behind the fireplace.
Some of them were jammed and a couple had slipped in too far, and so she had to use a knife to work them free. As she did so, she could not help thinking of Lord Bryght.
Her hands paused in their work. She had been awake half the night puzzling over him, and when she slept he had been in her dreams. He was as alien to her as a hawk in a chicken coop, and just as dangerous, and yet she could not banish him from her mind. She could recall his flickering, subtle smile, the graceful movements of his elegant hands, and the soft magic of his beautiful voice. . . .
She jabbed a coin fiercely with her knife, but instead of loosening it, she pushed it farther back and out of reach.
Damnation!
She rested her head in her hands, fighting tears. Not only was she facing abject poverty, against all reason she was obsessed by a high-born rake of a gamester! No doubt every woman he met fell in love with him and he found it vastly amusing. He probably expected her to be so overwhelmed by the honor of his attentions that she would fall willingly into an illicit affair.
Well, she certainly would not act the fool with a man she hardly knew, especially when most of what she knew about him was bad. He was a rake, and if he had any honorable intentions toward a lady, it was toward a walking fortune called Mrs. Findlayson. Worse still, he was an unrepentant gamester, the one thing above all she detested. And he thought the mere idea of fidelity and evenings by the fire amusing.
What, then, did she see in him?
Sex.
Her cheeks heated at the thought, but it was true. She was twenty-five years old and knew enough of such matters to understand that naked lust could strike the most sensible person. She would like to deny it, but the fact was that she was attracted to Bryght Malloren in a strictly physical way.
But powerfully.
Her body reacted to his body, and in her dreams last night . . .
She hastily returned to prying out some more coins.
If Oliver was mad about gaming, she was running mad in another direction. Her whole family was clearly unbalanced.
But it. wasn’t just lust, she thought wistfully. He could be charming and had a clever tongue. She did admire a man with an agile mind and a sense of humor. Were he of a station closer to hers and not a gamester . . .
“Devil take you,” she muttered to a particularly uncooperative coin, though the words were intended for another target. “You’re a man, no more, no less. And not the sort of man for me.”
She counted up their money, both the coins still hidden and those in the pouch, and found they had just over a hundred guineas left. It was a great deal of money, but not if Oliver lost seventy a day!
Having done the best she could with their financial affairs, Portia turned to other matters. She settled to writing a letter home in case they had to stay here much longer. Hannah Upcott must assume her son and daughter were still in Maidenhead, but she would expect either their return or news.
Instead of writing, however, Portia’s pen began to sketch Bryght Malloren. Portia had some artistic skill and thought she caught part of the lean elegance of his features, but she could not catch the magic.
“There is no magic,” she muttered, and put some extra lines in his lashes, trying to convey the drama of his eyes.
It didn’t work. She doubted anyone would recognize him.
Which was as well.
She crumpled the paper and threw it on the fire.
Let that exorcise him from her mind!
Seven
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Portia ate a lonely meal brought in from the chop house by the landlady’s son. When Mrs. Pinney invited her downstairs for tea, Portia went because she was bored, but found she had to deflect a series of nosy questions.
Oliver didn’t come home until midnight. He said a brusque, “Good night,” and disappeared into his room. It was nearly noon when he emerged demanding breakfast.
Portia served him the bread and butter, and made tea with a kettle on the hob, trying to judge what he had been up to the night before. In his current mood he was a stranger. Just for something to say, she passed on Mrs. Pinney’s warning about the locks.
“I suppose we should be watchful for thieves,” he said and rose from the table. “In fact, I think I should take charge of our money.”
Portia stared at him. “Why?”
“It’s hardly a task for a woman.”
“I don’t mind.”
He fixed her with an alarming look. “Portia. Give me the money.”
Portia had never been afraid of Oliver before, but she knew there was a real risk of violence now. She bit back her arguments and went to get the pouch.
He weighed it with a frown, and spilled the coins to count them. “Hell and the devil, there’s scarce sixty here! Where’s the rest?”
Portia met his eyes calmly. “I used it to pay our rent well into the future.”
“Till kingdom come, I would think! Plague take you, Portia, what’s the point of that when we’ll soon be moving somewhere better?”
“Better? Where?”
“Anywhere would be better than this place. You must have been mad to commit us to it.”
Portia controlled her own temper, knowing it would be fuel to a dangerous fire. “I thought it safer, Oliver.”
“Safer! You think I’ll lose it all, but I know better.” He scooped the coins back into the bag. “I won again last night. I turned that measly two guineas into twenty. When I come home tonight, everything will be different. You wait and see.”
He was leaving. “Oliver, what about Fort? Is he here?”
He paused. “Any day, they said. But now we won’t need to grovel to the mighty Earl of Walgrave, or live a life of squalor slaving to pay off an enormous debt.” He paused and suddenly smiled, looking a little like Oliver again. “Trust me, Portia. For once, just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
With that he left and Portia sat down with a thump. Was it possible that he knew what he was doing—that he would come home rich? She’d love to trust him, but she didn’t. He was going to come home with empty pockets. Thank heavens that she’d paid for their keep and still had some coins behind the fireplace. At least they had their coach fare home.
She laughed without humor. If Oliver had any head for figures he could reckon up their recent expenses and know she had squirrelled away almost fifty guineas. But he hadn’t a head for figures. She had to wonder how anyone thought to gain through gambling who couldn’t keep track of such minor matters as that.
There must be games that required no skill at all.
But how could someone as cursed with ill-luck as Oliver expect to gain through games of chance?
She shook her head. She would never understand gameste
rs. A vision of another gamester came into her mind to puzzle her. It was impossible to imagine Bryght Malloren avid-eyed over the turn of a card, throwing good money after bad with insane optimism.
She almost wished she could go to a hell and witness it. Surely that would cure her forever.
“Get out of my head!” she muttered fiercely and made herself think of Oliver.
Was there anything she could do? If she’d been quicker-witted she could have followed him, but what good would that have done? She could not have pursued him into a club or hell. And if she managed that, she could not stop him from playing.
Was she supposed to drag him out by the collar, like an unruly lad?
Portia sighed and rubbed her head. She wished to heaven she could, but Oliver was a man now. Oh, he was still her baby brother but he was beyond her control.
Let the matter play out.
But what if it ended with a pistol to the head like her father?
“I can do nothing to stop it,” Portia muttered fiercely and made herself settle once more to writing letters.
She did not attempt a letter to her mother, knowing she would soon be home. Instead, she wrote farewell letters to her friends in Dorset, explaining the sad course of events.
She would not send them until all hope was gone, but they were ready, like winding cloths laid ready near a deathbed.
Having completed that unpleasant task, Portia found she could not just sit and wait for the end. She needed fresh air and exercise and so she walked as far as a nearby bakery to buy some bread. She even indulged in a currant bun, for if Oliver could take so much money out to game with, she could surely pay a penny for a bun. She delayed going home and wandered the streets, distracting her mind with the variety of busy people.
In the end she had to return to her empty rooms to wait. Though it meant using an extra candle, Portia stayed up late, hoping Oliver would come home. She did not feel she would be able to sleep not knowing where he was or what he was doing. By midnight, however, she could not keep her eyes open.