Beverley,_Jo_-_[Malloren_02]_-_Tempting_Fortune_(V1.0)_[html]

by Jason

  “I express an interest in improving my acquaintance with the lady, and she immediately assumes that I wish to set her up as my mistress!”

  Zeno shifted so his big brown eyes looked straight at Bryght. “Of course I didn’t,” said Bryght. “The thought never crossed my mind!”

  He was brought to a halt, however, and forced to review recent comments about mates and winning hearts. “I cannot even consider an honorable offer, and if I did she would doubtless still faint with horror. She approached a liaison with me with all the enthusiasm of someone wading the Shoreditch!”

  Zeno closed his eyes and snuffled.

  “Be fair, my friend. I cannot possibly consider marrying a penniless woman, never mind one whose brother is like to be a money-drain. She would expect me to constantly tow him out of River Tick. I simply cannot afford it.”

  “What of Bridgewater?” he demanded of the dog. “I have promised to support his endeavor.”

  Zeno shifted so Bryght’s hand would work on another part of his neck.

  “The woman is not even a beauty. She’s far too thin, and she is rather long in the tooth.”

  Bryght put down his glass on a tambor table by his elbow and picked up a tortoiseshell snuff box. He took a pinch and inhaled it, hoping the stuff would clear his brain enough to drive Portia St. Claire out.

  It didn’t work.

  What was it about her?

  The way she moved, perhaps. It was so light and graceful that other women appeared clumsy by comparison. Even Nerissa.

  The way she spoke directly to a point and was not afraid to make her meaning clear. The fluttering, arch uncertainties of fashionable ladies were beginning to grate on him.

  The way her clear blue eyes twinkled when she was amused.

  The way she tilted her chin when she was angry. The way she fought against the odds. He grinned.

  The way she tried to shoot an intruder.

  That was where it had first started, this madness. He didn’t know another woman who, alone in a house, would have come down to face a housebreaker with a pistol, let alone fire it.

  Other women had more sense, he told himself. Portia lacked all reasonable discretion. The thought of what could have happened to her in Maidenhead if he’d truly been a villain was enough to make his hair stand on end. And London was far worse. He didn’t dare consider the things that could happen to such a woman in London with only Oliver Upcott for guide and protector.

  Why on earth was he interested in a woman who seemed to create trouble as easily as cats create kittens?

  Because she had fire in her, and when she smiled, she glowed.

  Was she really Nerissa’s cousin? He supposed so, but they were very different.

  He could only be grateful for that.

  Even though Nerissa St. Claire had chosen Trelyn over himself, Bryght had continued to think warmly of her. He didn’t despise anyone for bowing to their family’s wishes. In fact, Nerissa’s acceptance of her duty to her family had gilded her other virtues.

  His eyes had been opened in Maidenhead, when he’d read that letter and recognized her distinctive writing and perfume. Shock had turned him mad for a moment, and the name St. Claire had inflamed him further. As a consequence, he had behaved abominably.

  It had not taken many minutes in the cool night air that night for him to realize his error. Nerissa did not even know that her letter was missing so Portia St. Claire could not be her tool. She had to be an innocent, her presence in the house a damnable coincidence.

  And he had been brutal to her.

  He winced. No wonder she was inclined to think the worst of him now.

  It had been an excellent lesson, however, on the depths to which a wanton woman could drag a man, and one he had heeded. He had thought his heart and temper well guarded now.

  After all, since Maidenhead he’d had his illusions about Nerissa thoroughly shattered. Bryght had even received recent hints that he could have regular enjoyment of Nerissa’s charms if he groveled enough.

  When whores were free.

  Of course, groveling meant giving up that letter, her very explicit letter to her principal lover. If that came into her husband’s hands it would open his eyes.

  Bryght grinned and savored more snuff. That’s what was behind everything now. Nerissa would do almost anything to get that letter. Bryght was holding it to make sure she did not tamper with his family. He was deriving considerable pleasure from watching her try to get her hands on it.

  To torment her, he’d even told her where it was—in a book of sermons which sat by his bed. It had turned out to be an interesting test of loyalty. Four servants had reported attempts to bribe them, and he’d dismissed one footman caught trying to obtain that letter. As far as he knew, the rest of the staff had stood true.

  This had all convinced him, however, that though Nerissa had beauty enough to cause riots, she had the soul of a whore, and the instincts of a snake. He stopped sometimes in the midst of perfectly ordinary activities and thanked God that he had not ended up married to her. He pitied poor Trelyn, who did seem to be growing suspicious that his prized possession was not completely unflawed.

  Bryght had thought, however, that his experience had taught him to guard both his heart and his temper. Which brought his thoughts back to Nerissa’s relative, Portia St. Claire.

  Perhaps his interest in Portia was simply that she was Nerissa’s opposite in looks, in temperament and—he hoped—in morals. To marry any woman for that reason, however, would be folly.

  Marry?

  He was not going to marry the likes of Portia St. Claire.

  He reached for his brandy glass. If he married at all, it would be a practical business arrangement with plenty of money attached, as it would be with Jenny Findlayson.

  His hand paused. He no longer had the slightest desire to marry Jenny Findlayson.

  A week ago the prospect had been unexciting but acceptable, and he had been sure he could be a courteous and considerate husband. Now it was different. Now it would be hell.

  He could date the change to the moment in St. James’s Park when he had gone from Portia to Jenny.

  Jenny had seemed coarse. Not in her manners—for though she came from merchant stock she had been raised a lady— but in her style. She really did seem to think that her fortune would buy him—buy whichever man she chose—like a slave.

  He sucked in a breath. As he had tauntingly offered to buy Portia. No wonder she had been devastated.

  Zeno looked up again.

  “Yes, my friend,” said Bryght. “I did make a wretched business of it, but it is for the best. She will doubtless never speak to me again, thus saving me from foolishness. Let’s hope her brother’s affairs can be sorted out and she’ll soon be safe back in the country on her five thousand pound estate.”

  The dog continued to look at him. “You think I should ensure it? Damnation, five thousand is not exactly nothing to me, you know.” He sighed. “Oh, very well. It will be a cheap price to guard against doing something a great deal worse. But it will have to be done secretly or I doubt she’ll take the money. And the funds will have to come from the tables.”

  Bryght gently dislodged Zeno’s nose and stood up. “Let us hope there are plenty of plump pigeons ready to be relieved of a feather or two.”

  Eight

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  After her devastating encounter with Lord Bryght, Portia was consumed by the desire never to set eyes on the man again. That meant she had to have matters settled and leave London as soon as possible.

  She hurried back to Fort’s house, praying that he would have arrived. Surely he could not be far behind his possessions and servants. The haughty footman was a great deal less friendly this time, and tried to shut the door in her face.

  Portia, however, was so forceful in her demand to be allowed to leave a note that he showed her to a reception room. It was a very plain reception room—not the one she and Oliver had used before—but at le
ast she was given pen and paper.

  Portia found her hands were shaking almost too much to write. She would be no man’s whore, not even for ten thousand guineas. Not even Bryght Malloren’s . . .

  She sucked in a deep breath and settled to write to Fort.

  Suspecting that the footman would read the note as soon as she left, Portia was discreet. She merely gave their direction and said that she needed to see Fort as soon as possible.

  Pray God he would come soon, and would help them. She had to escape.

  Portia gave the note to the servant, then headed directly home, blocking all thought of a certain man from her head.

  She entered their rooms to find only silence. Suddenly anxious, for it was the middle of the afternoon, she knocked on Oliver’s door.

  “Go away. I’ve the devil of a head!”

  Portia almost charged in anyway, but he couldn’t skulk there forever. “Would you like something for it, Oliver?”

  “No. No thank you, Portia.”

  Portia sighed and sat to read some Milton, but her mind kept wandering.

  It kept returning to the subject of Bryght Malloren. She tried to focus on his brutality in Maidenhead, and on his crude offer and insults today. Instead, her wanton memory threw up Bryght Malloren teasing her in the park, and comforting a grubby child.

  He couldn’t be all bad. . . .

  She was jerked out of her maudlin musings by a knock on the door. Thank heavens. It must be a message from Fort!

  She swung the door open to find two strange men there, neither of whom had the look of servants. One was tall and swarthy, the other shorter and wearing an ornate powdered Cadogan wig. They had the appearance of gentlemen except that their clothes were grubby and their eyes were not gentle at all. On instinct alone, Portia began to close the door, but the taller one put out a hand and blocked it.

  “We’ve come to see Sir Oliver Upcott.” The accent was that of a well-bred man, but it didn’t reassure her.

  “He is not at home.”

  “No? You surprise me.”

  “Why, pray?”

  The man smiled, showing crooked stained teeth. “You had much better let us in, Miss Upcott.”

  Portia did not move. “My name is not Miss Upcott.”

  The man’s pale eyes sharpened. “You his doxy?”

  Portia flushed with anger. “No, sir. I am his half-sister.” She tried again to shut the door. “You will have to come back later.”

  He grinned and pushed the other way. Portia could not hold out against his strength, and in a moment the bullies were in.

  “How dare you!” she protested, but it was hollow. If she truly believed they had no business here she would be screaming the house down.

  Disaster had finally arrived.

  The dark man simply said, “Fetch your brother.”

  Portia moved toward Oliver’s room, but the door opened and he came out in his nightshirt. “What’s the commotion . . . ?” Then he saw the intruders and turned pasty as uncooked dough. “Cuthbertson.”

  Cuthbertson smiled and bowed. “Sir Oliver, my dear friend.” He walked toward Oliver, his companion strolling after like a well-trained dog. Despite the fine suit and powdered wig, Portia was sure the second man had no pretentions to gentility at all. To confirm her opinion, he leered at Portia in a way that made her want to empty a chamber pot over him.

  She knew that the worst had happened. Oliver had lost more than he had started with. How much? If she paid the debt, would they be left penniless without even coach fare away from here?

  Oliver was trying for his normal manner. “Good day to you, sirs. But you are here at an awkward time. I’m only just out of my bed.”

  “So we see, Sir Oliver. Please, take time to dress if you wish.”

  Oliver’s eyes flickered uncertainly between the three people. “Not at all. Our business will not take long.”

  “Excellent. You have the money, then?”

  “No,” said Oliver, quite boldly. “I’ll have to send to the country for it.”

  “To the country, Sir Oliver? Where in the country?”

  “Zounds, man. What is this? A gentleman has time to pay!”

  “Convince us you have a chance of paying, Sir Oliver, and we’ll gladly give you time.”

  “Chance? Why, what is a mere three hundred?”

  “More than you have, or so I hear.”

  Portia swayed on her feet. Three hundred? Three hundred!

  “My estate . . .” said Oliver.

  “Was lost to Major Barclay months ago.”

  Oliver swallowed. “I still have funds.”

  “Excellent,” said Cuthbertson genially. “Then pay us and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “I ... I don’t keep my money here.”

  The man in the Cadogan wig had been looking around the room as if seeking something of value, but now he turned back to Oliver. “Then we’ll stay here while we wait for it to arrive, Sir Oliver.” His accent was not that of a well-bred man.

  “Stay here?” Oliver asked, his voice squeaking.

  Cuthbertson spoke again. “Forgive us for being so distrustful, Sir Oliver, but not everyone is as honorable as you. It has been known for a man to take ship, or to join the army in order to escape his creditors. Some even go knocking on the doors of the Fleet, desperate to get in.”

  Portia’s heart began to pound and her mouth turned paper-dry. What were these men threatening if debtor’s prison was a sweet alternative?

  Oliver collapsed down on a chair. “I can’t pay,” he whispered.

  Cuthbertson relaxed almost into bonhomie. “Now that’s a shame, Sir Oliver. You really shouldn’t play where you can’t pay, should you?”

  “I’ll find it somehow, but you’ll have to give me time!”

  “But time’s so tricky, isn’t it? Keeping an eye on you for all that time. And the money should be mine for all that time.”

  “You heartless devil,” Oliver snarled.

  “Tut, tut. If you’d won, you’d have pocketed my money and whistled, wouldn’t you? Now you have to pay.”

  “I can’t, I tell you! Do your damndest!”

  The two men flashed an almost amused look, and Cadogan Wig moved forward to stand close to Oliver. “Well, Sir Oliver, you want us to do our damndest, hey?” He pulled out a wickedly sharp knife. “Shall we take it as fingers, eyes ... or balls?”

  Oliver’s eyes bulged and after a moment of frozen horror, Portia started forward. “Stop this! You cannot possibly do such a thing, so stop this foolery!”

  Cadogan Wig quite calmly grasped Oliver by the hair and placed the needle-sharp blade by the corner of his right eye. “I assure you, miss, I do it all the time. You’ll be astonished at how easy an eye pops out.”

  A chill of horror trickled from Portia’s scalp to her feet. She believed him.

  “Oh God,” gasped Oliver. “Please don’t. Please . . .”

  Cuthbertson smiled. “I do believe these dear people are ready to see reason, Mick.”

  Mick nodded, but didn’t move his hand or knife. Oliver appeared frozen with terror.

  Cuthbertson turned to Portia. “My dear lady, please sit down. You look a trifle pale.”

  Portia sat with a thump. This good humor was no reassurance because she knew there was no way they could pay the debt. If she gave them all the money in the house and then sold every last item they had here it would not amount to three hundred guineas.

  Cuthbertson sat in a seat opposite, flicking the skirts of his purple coat as he settled. “Now, let me explain this to you, dear lady. Your brother played. No one forced him to. No one even inveigled him to. In fact, he was quite desperate to play. He lost. If I had lost, I would have paid him. It is only fair, therefore, that he should pay me. Yes?”

  Portia sat frozen. In a sense he was right, but if ever she’d seen a man who cheated at games of chance, this was one.

  He sighed. “We will take your assent as read. Sending him to debtor’s prison,
however, will do me no good, especially as gaming debts are not legally collectible.”

  “Well then!” she exclaimed.

  “Well then, we have to collect in other ways, don’t we?”

  “In eyes? What good would that do you?”

  He showed his ugly teeth. “It would provide an hour or so’s entertainment.”

  Oliver gurgled with terror and Portia tasted bile. “What then?” she choked out. “What in God’s name do you want? ”

  “Three hundred guineas. There is something in this room worth that amount.”

  “Then take it and begone!”

  He laughed, and Mick sniggered. “I fear it is not that simple. If sold, it would be worth the money.”

  “Then take it and sell it!”

  “That was exactly my intent, if you are agreeable.”

  Portia closed her eyes. “Just take it and go.”

  “The valuable item, my dear, is a little bit of skin between your legs.”

  Portia opened her eyes slowly, hearing Oliver squawk a protest. So dulled were her wits by terror that it took a moment to register. “No.”

  “No?” the man queried. Then he laughed. “Do you think I want it? No piece of kitty is worth that much to me. But there are those who think a virgin a treat.”

  “Dear lord . . .”

  “I know a woman who will auction your treasure off to raise the money to pay your brother’s debt. By past results you may even make a little profit, for I will not take one penny more than I am owed.”

  “You can’t. . . .”

  “Or it’s fingers, eyes, and balls, sweetheart.”

  Pounds of flesh. Portia had an interest in the play, The Merchant of Venice, since she was named for its heroine. She had never expected to be acting it out.

  But here it was not a question of going into court and cleverly outwitting Shylock. Here her role was sacrifice— she was to give up her chastity to save Oliver from torture.

  She looked numbly at her brother, frozen in Mick’s grip. “Don’t do it, Portia. Don’t.” But he was waxen with terror.

  A piece of skin or major parts of Oliver’s body.

  She stared at Cuthbertson. “You want me to sell myself into prostitution?”