by Jason
“The family’s investment in the canal is moderate.”
“Your personal investment is not. You’ve become a shareholder. You’re liable for any and all debts.”
Bryght stiffened. How the devil had Rothgar discovered that? “That is my concern.”
“In this family, nothing is entirely a personal concern.” Rothgar leaned back. “I wonder why you would take such a risk.”
“Profit?” asked Bryght lightly.
“Are you trying to do better for yourself than for the family?”
Bryght felt an absurd flash of guilt for perhaps deep within him there was a desire to out-do Rothgar. He didn’t know. “I’m more cautious with the funds of others. It would be madness for you to become a shareholder, but you could increase your loans to Bridgewater. He’d welcome it.”
“I’m sure he would.” Rothgar contemplated Bryght for a moment, but then abruptly switched topic. “How are the cotton manufactories in Manchester progressing? Are they obtaining adequate supplies from India and the Americas?”
So Bryght found himself in a damnably unwelcome inquisition of the financial affairs of the House of Malloren, of the nation, and even of the world. Not that there was anything wrong with his knowledge of those affairs, but he was not in the mood to concentrate.
Had it been wise to trust Mirabelle to see Portia safely home? Would Portia have taken care not to be seen leaving such a place of ill-repute? What would her brother have done and said when she returned? What had she told him . . . ?
“Bryght, do you have concerns about the Northumberland property?”
Bryght realized he’d allowed his thoughts to distract him entirely and failed to answer a question. “No, of course not. The new drainage system is Brand’s concern not mine, but the reported yields last year were up to expectations. There’s a good chance that coal will be found there, too. It’s a sound investment.”
Rothgar moved on to some foreign dealings and Bryght forced himself to pay attention. He could plead tiredness, but as he had always been a night-owl Rothgar would be bound to find that peculiar. Rothgar himself seemed to have an inhuman ability to do without sleep entirely at times.
The clocks were striking three when the marquess closed the final ledger. “And your personal affairs?”
“What?” asked Bryght, who felt squeezed dry, and could only think his brother meant Portia.
“You had plans not long ago to buy Candleford Park.”
“Oh. No longer.”
“You were, as I remember, quite keen.”
“Put down the scalpel, Bey. You know damn well that estate was intended for Nerissa.”
The marquess studied him with dark, hooded eyes. “And you are no longer interested?”
“Certainly not for Nerissa.” Bryght was startled, however, by a clear vision of Portia at Candleford.
He had always seen Candleford as a bower for Nerissa. It was an old, lush estate with ancient spreading trees and a solid house of mellow bricks. He had envisioned Nerissa there, sun-dappled under a tree, just being peacefully beautiful, surrounded in time by peacefully beautiful children.
Now, thinking of the estate, he saw Portia racing across the lawns, fiery hair flying loose of its pins, chasing a laughing scampish child with the same burnished hair. . . .
“I hear talk of a Mrs. Findlayson,” said Rothgar.
Bryght was genuinely startled. Jenny Findlayson was far from his thoughts. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Bey.”
“But it is so informative. There will be some other lady one day, and you will want a home for her.”
Unspoken between them was the fact that, because of his mother’s madness, the marquess had ceded the duty of continuing the line to Bryght.
“As you have doubtless discovered,” said Bryght coolly, “at the moment my funds are tied up in Bridgewater’s affairs. I doubt Candleford will stay on the market long.”
“We could buy it for the family and you could take it over when convenient. It’s a fine place, and well situated.”
“Perhaps.” But Bryght did not want his home at Rothgar’s hands. He received a handsome share of the family’s profits for his labors, but did not want charity. He realized this damnable inquisition could have waited until tomorrow. It had been designed to wear him down so he would reveal more than he intended, and it might have worked.
He rose to his feet. “Keep your fingers out of my personal affairs, Bey.” With that short comment, he left the room.
He only realized a moment later that he had shut the door on Zeno. There was no complaint. Ah well, moral duty could only take any male so far.
Beowulf Malloren, Marquess of Rothgar, leant back thoughtfully in his chair and two dogs sat up to rest their heads on his knees. He played absently with their ears as he considered matters. “Not Nerissa, then,” he said to them. “But I didn’t expect that after recent events. And not the Findlayson, thank God. But some other woman. Any suggestions, Zeno?”
Zeno had his eyes contentedly closed.
“Such admirable discretion. A problem, whoever she is, for he’s guarding the matter from me.”
The marquess’s siblings had a lamentable tendency to think he would interfere between them and their attachments. Well, perhaps he would if he thought them unadvisable. At least part of his purpose in coming to Town was to look into the matter of the rich widow who was throwing out lures to Bryght.
Last year, Bryght’s attachment to Nerissa St. Claire had been a problem, especially as the young woman had made clear advances to Rothgar behind Bryght’s back. It was surprising how a clever man could be a fool over a woman.
Rothgar had always handled Bryght with a great deal of care, understanding many of the forces that shaped him. They had an amicable relationship but it was shadowed. It was shadowed mainly by Bryght’s mother, which would have distressed her.
Gabrielle, Marchioness of Rothgar, had been a charming, generous, warm-hearted woman who had brought joy and laughter to a house shadowed by murder and madness. All the world, including her children, had adored her, but perhaps Bryght—her oldest child—had been closest to her heart.
Rothgar had appreciated his stepmother’s qualities, though he knew he had never treated her with the warmth she wanted. Perhaps, even when too young to understand, he had been responding to her own ambivalent feelings.
He was a child, and Gabrielle reached out to all children, especially sad ones. But he was also the quiet moody son of the madwoman who had murdered a newborn and caused such grief to her husband, and he carried that woman’s blood.
Gabrielle had treated her stepson with as much love and care as her own children, but she had never concealed the fact that she did not think his blood should be passed on. She had raised Bryght to provide the next generation of Mallorens.
That was perfectly reasonable, but it had gone further.
She had wished her stepson dead.
It had only been the once, as far as anyone knew. Rothgar—Lord Grafton then—had been brought home to the Abbey deathly ill of a fever picked up during a rash adventure on the seamy side of London. Gabrielle, his father, and Bryght had been by his bed, and he had known he was dying.
Gabrielle said, “Perhaps it is for the best.”
His father said, “No,” but without great conviction.
Bryght exclaimed, “No! I don’t want Bey to die. Don’t wish him dead.” He had flung himself on the bed as if to protect his older brother from harm.
Perhaps it was duty, but Rothgar thought it was guilt over that death-wish that had driven his stepmother to drag him back from death by will alone. She had nursed him, but more importantly she had berated him, refusing to allow him to slip away. At times he had wanted to beg her to let him go, but he was too weak even for that.
By the time he was strong enough to speak, she was ill herself, for she caught his illness. No one was able to drag her back from death, though the marquess tried. Then he, too, succumbed. Rothgar had risen from hi
s sickbed responsible for his parents’ deaths, and responsible for holding his family together.
He had never let anyone know that he had been aware of that crucial conversation.
However, he suspected that Bryght carried a little of his mother’s guilt, for though he hadn’t wished his brother dead at that moment, he must have wished later that Rothgar had died rather than his parents. Certainly Gabrielle’s clear desire that Bryght marry and produce a future marquess now had the power of a sacred duty.
Rothgar approved, for he knew Bryght was well-suited to marry. He liked women and children, and was generally patient and willing to compromise. There had always been a danger, however, that in his desire to fulfill his mother’s dreams to the letter, he would choose with his head rather than his heart.
At least the Findlayson seemed safely out of the running, and Nerissa was both married and unmasked.
But the new, mysterious candidate for Bryght’s hand was a powerful one.
For as they had gone through the ledgers of accounts and investments, Rothgar had deliberately made several mistakes, and Bryght—sharp-brained Bryght to whom figures and facts were life-blood—had not even noticed.
Rothgar extinguished the candles thoughtfully and left the offices. Despite Bryght’s warning, he would have to investigate matters.
When they entered the hall Zeno gave a woof that was much sharper than usual, particularly for night-time when he knew he was not allowed to make noise other than to sound an alarm.
Rothgar looked around, but there was nothing amiss.
The dog loped over to the front door and waited there.
Rothgar followed. “He’s gone out, has he?” He opened the door and looked at the chilly rain. “Are you sure?”
Zeno gave what seemed suspiciously like a sigh and slid out into the chilly dark.
Rothgar closed the heavy door thoughtfully. He’d give a great deal if Zeno could submit a written report tomorrow.
Bryght was on his way to Dresden Street.
He had intended to go to bed. In fact, he was exhausted which was unusual for him, but even as he climbed the stairs, thoughts of Portia had jangled in his mind and he had known he could not sleep until he was sure of her safety. He had gone to his room to get a heavy cloak and to put on boots, and had then returned downstairs and left the house.
The streets were mostly quiet at this dead hour, for there was an icy rain and even the skulking predators had burrowed into their hovels. A stinking night-soil cart rattled by, hauling off excrement to dump into the river. Once Bryght passed a watchman, patrolling with his bell and lantern. The man peered at him suspiciously, clearly wondering why any honest body would be out in such weather at such a time.
Bryght ignored him, but was perfectly aware that he was acting the lovesick fool. If Rothgar found out he’d die laughing, or clap him in an asylum. Even under Nerissa’s thrall Bryght had not behaved like this.
But his feelings for Nerissa had not been like this.
There was only the slightest click of claws to warn him before Zeno appeared dark, wet, and silent at his side.
“Damnation,” said Bryght. “I suppose you announced to all that I had gone out again.”
Zeno just snuffled, head down against the rain.
“If you don’t care for the weather, you could have stayed at home with your lovely mate. But I suppose she’s not in heat yet. It must be convenient to have times when you are not pulled toward her.”
The dog ignored him.
“A taste of the fruit can be fatal, though,” Bryght mused. “Having experienced Portia’s passion, I am addicted as madly, as insanely, as an opium eater. Will it kill me, do you think?”
Bryght laughed and abandoned the unproductive conversation, abandoned, too, unproductive speculation about the state of his heart. He was bewitched by something that could neither be explained nor controlled and he was happy to surrender.
He arrived at the house and saw candlelight in an upper room. He had rather hoped to find the place peaceful and dark, for then he would have no excuse to intrude.
Why would there be a light so many hours after Portia should have gone to bed?
He tried the door.
He expected to find it locked, but it opened, increasing his concern. He entered the dark, narrow hallway, all senses alert for trouble. Finding none, he gave Zeno a quiet command to stay by the door and moved further into the chilly house. This reminded him a little of his visit to Maidenhead. He hadn’t sensed trouble then, and had found a great deal— Nerissa’s letter, and a dangerous Amazon.
If he’d not met Portia there, his life would still be orderly. But if he’d not met Portia there, tonight she would have been raped by Steenholt or D’Ebercall in front of twenty salivating voyeurs.
He climbed the stairs as quietly as his boots allowed. He could not hear even a trace of conversation from the upper floor, which was strange for this house was not particularly sturdily built. He could hear the scrabbling of mice, and the ticking of a clock in a downstairs room.
He came to the door that must lead into the lighted room and hesitated. It was more than likely that opening this door would change his life forever.
He shrugged and tried the knob. The door was latched from the inside. That was as it should be, but his nerves told him all was not well. He took out a pen-knife and inserted it through the crack where the door met the jamb. The latch flipped up easily. ‘Struth, but she should have more security than this.
He pushed the door carefully in case of squeaks, but it opened silently and a guttering candle showed him Portia slumped in a chair. For a heart-stopping moment he thought she was dead. Then he saw that she was asleep there in her clothes.
Where was her damned brother?
He closed the door gently, and walked over to her.
Small, light, and with a face relaxed by exhaustion, she looked like the child Mirabelle had claimed her to be, but his body was not responding to a child. Her full-skirted dress and stiff stomacher disguised her figure, but he was burningly aware of the reality he had known earlier.
He moved his eyes, and found himself studying one slender hand where it lay relaxed in her lap. Delicate but strong it matched the vision in his head of her writhing under him, tiny but ferocious.
With a shake of his head, he repelled the memory. Was he a raw youth to invade a woman with such thoughts?
But why was she alone? He doubted Cuthbertson would have harmed her brother, or that she would be quietly here if he had.
The poltroon must have run off and abandoned her.
Bryght trimmed the smoky candle, then sat in a nearby chair to think. He’d like to apply his usual cool logic to the situation, but it seemed beyond him. What he really wanted was to gather Portia into his arms and carry her through the rain-swept streets to the safety of Malloren House. It was a foolish plan, but appealing all the same.
He shook his head. Presumably his brain still existed somewhere within the mass of sensation and emotion which ruled him. It was his brain that was needed if he were to help Portia.
She could not live here alone until her brother returned. It was neither proper nor safe and there was no guarantee that Upcott would return.
Especially if Bryght found him first.
She had money now, but she still needed protection. In case there was any trace of suspicion about last night, she needed a solid aura of respectability. . . .
With relief, Bryght felt his brain click into operation like a fine chronometer, following many calculations at once—her family, her brother’s estate, Fort, Nerissa, Mirabelle, Cuthbertson. . . .
He began to see the way.
The first thing, though, was to get his weary Amazon to bed.
Soft-footed, he explored the lodgings and found her bedroom. He turned back the sheets and wished he had a warming pan for them, for the air and the bed were chilly. She would be warmer, though, beneath the covers.
Then he went back to the parlor and g
athered her into his arms smiling at how little she weighed. He half hoped she would wake, for that could prove interesting, but though she stirred, she slept on. In fact, she turned her head slightly against his coat and laid her hand on his chest in a trusting movement.
He halted to savor the moment.
He wished it were a greater distance to her bed, a longer time before he must put her down. With a wry smile at his own foolishness he moved on, but halted beside the bed. His agile brain came up with a number of plausible reasons why he should lie down with her—to warm her, to protect her. . . .
He shook his head. He wanted, with alarming intensity, to make love to her—completely, fully—and it wasn’t the lust that could sometimes take a man, but something deeper. He wanted to explore her even more than he had done, and in much better circumstances. He wanted to enter her. He wanted to be the first, the only. He wanted to mark her as his for all time.
This was madness. There was no practical or material advantage in marrying this woman.
He smiled.
So be it.
He laid her carefully in the center of the sheet and eased off her shoes. He placed them neatly beside the bed then drew up the covers and tucked them around her. Unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed her brow. She stirred and he froze, half-hoping, half-fearing that she would wake.
After a moment, however, she turned and snuggled under the blankets.
Her hair was gathered up in a tight knot and he wanted to loosen it so it spilled long around her, but he had been foolish enough for one night.
But the vision returned, the vision of Portia running across the lawns of Castleford, red hair flying, laughing as she chased a laughing, mad-cap child.
He had never seen her laugh.
He had never seen her run in the sun.
But the vision was true.
Bridgewater’s needs would have to take second place to Portia’s. In fact, Bryght might not be able to help the duke much in future, for Portia had such a deep aversion to gaming that she would nag him to death.
He could understand that, after the ruin such matters had made of her life.