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

by Jason

  Portia shivered. “You knew.”

  “It was the name.”

  “Fort knew.”

  “I told him.” Before she could demand an explanation of that, he said, “No one will guess the truth if you behave as normal.”

  She stared at him. “Just go home and act as if this had never happened?”

  “What else? Very little did.”

  “Very little! It doesn’t seem that way to me!”

  He just smiled in a way that made her want to shoot him. “Mirabelle will make sure you are safe.” He bowed to her with elegance. “A bientot, petite.” With that he returned to the company.

  Portia watched him go with a sense of loss, for despite his words, he would not see her again soon. She was leaving London.

  Mirabelle took Portia to her parlor. “Twenty percent to me, and three hundred to Cuthbertson. Your share of Bryght’s bid, my dear, is one hundred and eighty guineas. Hardly paltry for such light work.”

  Portia thought with satisfaction that it was a great deal more, and even from the briefest acquaintance with the fat man, she knew Bryght was correct. She need feel no guilt at taking his money, though her conscience insisted that the wager had been less than honest.

  Mirabelle took Portia to the bedroom. “You will want to dress.”

  As soon as she was alone, Portia looked in a mirror, wondering what she would see. She saw a wild-haired stranger who had panted for Bryght Malloren. She shuddered at the memory, spat out the plumpers, tore off the mask, and unpinned the long, black wig.

  There, her hair rather tightly dressed to her head, was Portia St. Claire again. Or was it? Portia St. Claire did not have such reddened lips—and the redness now was passion more than paint. She did not have such knowing, darkened eyes. She did not reek of a sultry perfume.

  Portia ran to the wash basin. She scrubbed her face of paint, then stripped off the tawdry silk and adornments. As best she could she washed all trace of perfume from her skin.

  Her shift still stank of it and so she left it off, and put her petticoat and stays against her skin, despite the itch they caused. She pulled on her sensible cotton stockings and her dimity gown and returned to the mirror. There at last was Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Manor, Dorset.

  Still, at least, possessed of most of her virtue.

  * * *

  Bryght wanted to stay with Portia and see her home, but she was stretched to the breaking point. It was hardly surprising. He was feeling fragile himself. Quite apart from an uncomfortable state of arousal, he had been plunged into a depth of emotion he had not thought possible.

  Had he ever thought he had been in love with Nerissa? Nothing he’d felt for her had been like this. Nerissa had been desirable for her beauty, her supposed virtue, and her eminent suitability to be a wife. His choice of her had been made on purely logical grounds.

  Portia was simply necessary, and his feelings toward her had all the subtlety of a starving man’s feelings toward a roast of beef. If it hadn’t been for the voyeurs, he might not have found the strength to leave her untouched.

  It was better, safer, to let Mirabelle see Portia home, and it would reinforce his disinterest in Hippolyta if he returned to his card game.

  As he threaded his way through the noisy room, however, problems swirled in his head. Cuthbertson needed to be handled but any open move against the man might cause questions.

  Something had to be done about Oliver Upcott.

  Bridgewater would have to be notified that Bryght’s ability to support him further was lessened.

  Plague take it, but it was a mess, so why was he finding it hard not to grin like a perfect fool?

  He casually took his place at the card table, aware of intrigued looks from his friends. Nothing was said, however. Prestonly glowered at him, and though Bryght smiled back, his feelings about the man were similar. Perhaps he could take Prestonly for the rest of Portia’s five thousand pound debt.

  That would be satisfying.

  But at the end of a few hands, Bryght had actually lost a little. He called a halt and ordered wine, taking the opportunity to rise from the table and move a few steps away.

  Could he trust Mirabelle to take care of Portia properly? She surely knew the perils of crossing a Malloren. . . .

  Andover joined him. “What was all that about?”

  Bryght sipped the port. “A wager.”

  “Indeed?” said Andover skeptically. “Of your own making. It’s not like you to take a man like Prestonly seriously.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Andover, too, sipped his wine and mischief glimmered in his eyes. “I think of a hopeless gamester, a sister, and one of Cuthbertson’s debtors. . . .”

  Bryght flicked him a glance. “Think no more.”

  Andover blinked. “My dear, my mind is a perfect blank. But a thought does intrude, alas. How are you going to guard against the next time?”

  Bryght tapped a finger against his glass. “That had occurred to me.” He shrugged and returned to the table. “Let us resume, gentlemen.”

  Bryght put all thoughts of Portia St. Claire out of his mind, intent on milking Prestonly of a fortune. But then he lost five more hands. He was forced to acknowledge that he couldn’t keep his mind on the play at all. Hell, he and Andover had lost the hundreds they’d won earlier and were now down another three hundred.

  He threw down his cards. “I’m for home, gentlemen. Do you want my place, Barclay?”

  “The night’s still young, my lord,” said Sir William in surprise.

  “You owe me a chance to make up my losses, my lord,” said Mr. Prestonly, fingering his winnings.

  Bryght rose. “I’ll gladly play you another night, Mr. Prestonly.” As Bryght passed Andover’s seat, his friend murmured, “For home, or Dresden Street?”

  Bryght stopped. “You, my friend, are going to become a dead bore.”

  Barclay overheard, and interjected with surprise, “With the emphasis on dead? What’s up?”

  Bryght laughed. “I am not in the habit of killing my friends.”

  “Then do you wish a friend’s company?” Andover asked.

  “No, I really am for home.”

  Bryght meant it. He was tempted to go and see if Portia was safe, but she wouldn’t want such an intrusion now. He could wait until tomorrow.

  Back at Malloren House, however, Bryght’s mind was still active, circling around financial arrangements. Prestonly had given him a draft on his bank and it should go into the safe. He decided he’d send Mirabelle and Cuthbertson their cut now.

  He was aware that this was illogical and even dangerous, but he wanted this affair over with as soon as possible.

  He arranged for a suitably heavy escort for the money, then took a corridor that led to the back of the house. It led, in fact, to the suite of offices from which the business of the marquisate was carried out. Most people were unaware that this business was Bryght’s major occupation and delight.

  When Bryght had finished his schooling and returned from his Grand Tour, he had plunged merrily into the social life of London—in particular into the gaming that went on everywhere. He enjoyed the challenge, particularly of games of skill, and was good at it. For a young man on a modest allowance, the winnings had come in useful, too.

  Rothgar had been surprisingly tolerant, perhaps because Bryght generally won. Bryght amused himself sometimes trying to imagine what would have happened if he’d gone to Rothgar one day burdened with a massive gaming debt.

  It was not, in fact, a particularly amusing thought.

  But after some months, when the thrill was beginning to pall, Rothgar had started to introduce Bryght to a more interesting kind of speculation.

  Investments.

  And Bryght had fallen in love. He master-minded the Malloren financial affairs from a sense of responsibility, but he would have done it for the sheer excitement. Shipping, cartage, goods from the Orient and Africa, new ventures in
England and the Americas.... It was the best high-stakes game in the world and England was at the heart of it. Through Bryght’s skillful management, the Mallorens were at the heart of it, too, bringing vast profits and substantial power.

  Led by Zeno, and shielding the candle from the draft, Bryght entered the outer office where four tidy desks awaited the clerks who labored here during the day. Most people would be surprised at just how businesslike the Mallorens were about their affairs. Ten men worked in these offices by day—clerks, accountants, and a lawyer—but at night the place was deserted.

  Not tonight, though. Bryght realized at last how strange it was the Zeno had preceded him instead of keeping his usual place at his heel. Of course he had. The phlegmatic animal had been longing to be in these rooms for hours.

  For when Bryght entered the inner sanctum a branch of candles already illuminated his desk and the man working there. He was in shirt-sleeves, but the lace at throat and wrists was of the finest quality. His dark hair was tied neatly back in a bag-wig and he wore a large ruby signet on his right hand.

  The Marquess of Rothgar looked up and surveyed his brother. “Trouble?”

  Another soft woof announced a paler shape uncurling from a spot by Rothgar’s feet. Zeno loped over to entwine himself comfortably with his mate, Boudicca.

  Bryght could not imagine how he had missed Zeno’s enthusiasm for this meeting. He was growing positively muddle-headed, and now he had a problem. Bryght would have given a great deal not to have Rothgar involved in this, but there was no avoiding it now.

  “Just a debt to be paid.” He went to a safe and unlocked it to take out a bag of money. He counted out four hundred and twenty guineas and put them into two separate pouches. It was, unfortunately, a startlingly large amount of money.

  “Saints preserve us,” said Rothgar mildly. “Do you mean you are losing?”

  “No, actually, I won.” Bryght told Zeno to stay, spun on his heel and went to give the pouches to the servants along with directions.

  He paused then, tempted to go upstairs. He was in no fit state to handle his brother, but delaying a discussion with Rothgar would just increase the marquess’s curiosity.

  Though Bryght was the second son, six years separated them. It was not a great age difference now they were men, but it encompassed more than years.

  Bryght’s early years had been idyllic, but Rothgar’s had been marred by his mother’s madness and her murder of her second child. Years later, the death of Bryght’s parents had brought grief into an otherwise carefree boyhood, but it had been even worse for Rothgar. At nineteen, he had become responsible not only for the marquisate but for five young siblings.

  Rothgar had his own reasons for being strongly protective of his family, and Bryght his own reasons for resisting it. Since they were close in age, the paternalism had never been as strong between them, but it was there. Bryght knew that Rothgar let nothing to do with his family escape his notice.

  At times it was a damnable nuisance.

  There was no choice, however. He headed back to the offices.

  Eleven

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  Portia returned to her rooms in a coach with two of Mirabelle’s hefty servants in attendance. They were disconcertingly proper, and even came in with her in case Mick was still there.

  There was only Oliver, tied, gagged, and bound.

  The men would have untied him, but Portia sent them away, wanting to get rid everything to do with tonight’s events. Then she ran to get a knife and free her brother. As soon as his mouth was free he choked out, “Portia, my God! I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s all right.” She sawed at the rope around his wrists. “It’s all right. Nothing terrible happened.”

  He rubbed the rope marks. “But Cuthbertson?”

  She was freeing his feet. “Has been paid.” She decided impulsively not to tell him the whole. “Bryght Malloren saved me. He bought me.”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “And nothing happened?”

  She smiled through tears. “Nothing happened.”

  He hugged her close. “Oh, thank God! I’ve been desperate. I was imagining. . . . Portia, I swear, I swear, I will not play again!”

  She pushed back to look at him. “I’ve heard that before, I think.”

  He was sober and serious. “This time I mean it. I’ve come to my senses. It’s not that I love gaming so much any more. But I kept thinking I could find an easy solution to my problem, have everything back just as it was. But I Can’t. I’ve made a mess, and we’ll all have to live with it, but I won’t make it worse again.”

  Portia kissed him, for at last he did seem resolute. “Then perhaps tonight was worth it. And, Oliver, Fort is here. He . . .” she went hot, “. . . he was there. At Mirabelle’s.”

  “Does he know?” His voice wavered a bit.

  Portia grimaced. “I think so. He tried to buy me, too, presumably with the same intent as Bryght.”

  Oliver sank his head in his hands. “He’ll flay me. . . .” But then he stood and stretched his stiffened limbs. “Oh well, another bullet to bite. I deserve it. I think it would be best if I go now.”

  “Go to Fort? It’s midnight.”

  “Early hours in town, love, and I’d rather get it over with. I doubt I can sleep after all this. If he’s not in yet, I’ll wait until he comes home. I want this settled so we can get you safe back to Overstead.”

  She shared that wish. “I’m sure Fort will give you the loan, and then we’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”

  She suddenly remembered the twelve hundred guineas. She couldn’t see how to tell Oliver about it without revealing more about tonight than she wished. Well, surely Fort would give Oliver the whole loan, and then later she’d explain the money somehow and pay off part of the debt.

  “I’d better dress.” Oliver hugged her again. “You are the best and bravest of sisters and I will not fail you in future.”

  He went purposefully into his bedroom and Portia sat wearily, but with a degree of content. The affair had not gone as badly as it might, and it did seem to have shocked Oliver into his senses. She hoped Fort did ring a peal over him to complete the job.

  And with any luck, they could be on a coach to Dorset tomorrow. She need never see Bryght Malloren again.

  She rested her head on her hand and fought tears. They were just tears of weariness. She didn‘t want to see him again. Even if his actions tonight had been to her advantage, he was a rake and a gamester, and the only offer he’d ever made her was an insulting one.

  She sent Oliver on his way with a cheerful, confident smile and a teasing reminder to lock the outside door properly, then latched their door after him. She roamed the room restlessly for a while, mind whirling with too many disordered thoughts, then collapsed into a chair to await her brother’s return.

  She was exhausted, but totally unable to sleep. She tried to discipline her mind, but all she could think of was a man’s touch, a man’s beauty in flickering candlelight, and a kindled desire that would never come to full flame.

  Bryght returned to the office to find Rothgar had poured two glasses of port. “Am I to have an explanation of the mysterious purchase?” Rothgar asked.

  Bryght leaned with assumed carelessness against the corner of the desk and sipped the wine. “I see no need. It is not a matter that effects the family.” Not yet, at least. He supposed marrying Portia would affect the family, but not unpleasantly. . . . Unless tonight’s business became known.

  “Over four hundred?”

  “Of my own money, Bey.” And that wasn’t strictly true. Bryght had lent his ready cash to Bridgewater before the duke went north. But he’d soon have more.

  Except that it occurred to him that he was deep in debt at the moment. He’d just paid out four-twenty, thinking it was coming from Prestonly’s wager, but he’d promised Portia the whole twelve hundred. He didn’t begrudge it, but it had been strangely careless of him not to even think of it. With his losse
s at the table tonight, he was over seven hundred guineas in debt.

  Not an alarming amount, but more than he could ever remember owing.

  ‘Struth, if he won Portia St. Claire and it turned out that lucky in love did mean unlucky at cards he was in a pretty pickle. He suppressed a grin. Unless he wanted his brother to guess all, he’d best keep his wits about him.

  Rothgar said, “I am as vulnerable to curiosity as any other man, Bryght. Are you going to torment me this way?”

  Bryght couldn’t help but grin. “Yes.”

  Rothgar smiled as he shrugged. “So be it.”

  “And don’t employ your busy network to discover what I have been up to.”

  “So be it,” said Rothgar again, but Bryght cursed silently. He knew his brother would keep his word and not pry, but he also knew that he’d made yet another error. He’d told Rothgar that he had something to hide.

  Damn.

  He’d thought Nerissa had turned his heart and mind to ice, but Portia St. Claire seemed to be thawing it to slush, with all the intelligence one could expect of slush. . . .

  Rothgar spoke as if there were nothing amiss. “I have come up to Town for the discussion of the war with Spain and the financing of it. I intend to stay here for some weeks. I note here some trouble in Bridgewater’s affairs.” He indicated the ledger he had been reading when Bryght came in. “His debt load seems heavy, and there’s no certainty he’ll get the Bill. I’ve heard Brooke on the subject and he virtually has a seizure at the mere mention of canals. If the waterway is stopped at Manchester, Bridgewater will be bankrupt. Do you still have faith in that project?”

  Bryght snapped his wits into order. “Yes, of course. It’s the way of the future.”

  “It will change England forever.”

  “Gads, Bey, I never thought you of that stamp. Man must progress. People like Brooke would have us all still living in moated castles.”

  “There are times,” said the marquess contemplatively, “when it would be very comforting to live in a moated castle. Such as when the duke’s creditors come howling to the door.”