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

by Jason

  If Bridgewater failed, however, as a shareholder Bryght would fail too. Even if that did not occur, he’d sunk so much money into the canal that his income now was the modest one from the estate plus a little from other investments. It would be adequate, but would not cover the purchase of an estate like Candleford.

  Yet that vision had the power of truth.

  He shrugged, returned to the parlor, and extinguished the candle. Then he left, closing doors softly behind him. He had no way to re-latch Portia’s door, or to lock the door onto the street. He could only pray that his beloved would stay safe for the remainder of the night.

  On his return to Malloren House, Bryght found no sign of his brother and was glad of it. He ignored tiredness and settled to constructing meticulous plans for his Amazon’s welfare. Mirabelle would not talk, nor would Cuthbertson once Bryght dealt with him.

  That left two entwined problems—Portia’s scurvy brother, and her home. He would find out who had won the estate. With luck it would be a gentleman willing to extend the period of grace; more likely it was another such as Cuthbertson. In either case, Bryght would need plump pigeons in order to gather the money to pay the debt.

  Before redeeming the estate, however, something had to be done to prevent Oliver Upcott from losing it again.

  Bryght formulated a plan and considered how many people were needed to carry it out. The Malloren properties— particularly the London mansion and the Abbey—were heavily staffed with footmen, maids, grounds-staff, and grooms. This was not just because the Mallorens insisted upon good service, but because the service required could sometimes be out-of-the-ordinary.

  As soon as the sun was up, Bryght summoned some of these excess servants and sent them out, eyes and ears open, to attend to certain tasks. Most were to operate in London, but two went to Dorset to act in the matter of Sir Oliver Upcott.

  Next, Bryght sent a note to his brother-in-law, the Earl of Walgrave.

  In the matter of business recently discussed between us, it would appear that the property is not well-secured. It would oblige me if you could find new storage until the full acquisition can be arranged.

  Bryght knew that using Fort carried risks, for he’d rather harm a Malloren than help one, but if Portia was under the aegis of the Earl of Walgrave the gossips would hesitate to speculate. Bryght suspected Fort would play along, pushing his plan to force Bryght to marry a woman without status or fortune to recommend her. Bryght would be delighted and amused to watch Fort striving to bring about the match, thinking he was tying a millstone around a Malloren’s neck.

  It occurred to Bryght that another source of protection for Portia was the Trelyns. It was not one Bryght favored. He’d introduced Portia to Nerissa in an attempt to get her out of his life. Now he was committed to her, he had no desire for his beloved to be entangled with people who wished him ill.

  “Behold, thou art fair my beloved, yea pleasant. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters . . .”

  With a laugh, Bryght sank his head in his hands. He was a wretched case indeed when he was driven to quoting the Bible!

  Twelve

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  Portia awoke in her bed, fully dressed and with no clear notion of how she arrived there. She struggled from under the covers feeling rumpled and poorly rested, aware of strange dreams flickering at the edge of her mind.

  After such an experience she would have expected nightmares. All she could remember, however, were dreams of heated passion, and a strange one of a man carrying her gently and pressing a kiss to her brow.

  She rather thought she had dreamed of Fort. She smiled. It was a sweet dream, but no more than a dream. She was no wife for the Earl of Walgrave especially after her adventure in the brothel. Damn Bryght Malloren for telling Fort who she was. Why would he do such a thing?

  With a sigh, Portia went out in search of Oliver, hoping he had good news. There was no sign of him, but then she noticed a letter propped on the table.

  Dearest Portia,

  You are deep asleep so I will not wake you.

  Things are well on the way to being solved. Fort ripped me apart as I deserved, but he has agreed to the mortgage. He has insisted, however, that I take a commission in the army.

  Portia stared at the letter in disbelief. After all the work she and her mother had done to dissuade . . . ! How could Fort do such a thing?

  And that is not entirely true, Oliver continued. Fort has long known I want the life, and now says it would be best. That boredom would lead me back into trouble. I think he may be right. I’m not needed at Over stead, for you take care of the place better than I. Perhaps I’ll make my fortune through war and return home covered in loot and glory.

  Anyway, I’m off to Overstead to reassure Mama and Pru and talk to the colonel of the 5th. By the time I’m back, Fort says the mortgage will be arranged. He seemed to want you to stay here to discuss this business with him. I didn‘t argue since I want to make speed and you know more of the estate s affairs than I. He’s promised to keep an eye on your welfare.

  Your loving, contrite brother, Oliver.

  Stay here! Portia stared at the scribbled letter in disbelief. How on earth could Oliver think she could stay here?

  Then she realized she had said little about the events at Mirabelle’s. Certainly she had given her brother no inkling of the effect Bryght Malloren had on her, or of a dangerous wager. Oliver thought Bryght had merely bought her out of there and sent her home, and clearly Fort had not enlightened him.

  In fact, Portia recognized Fort’s hand in this. Fort could persuade Oliver of almost anything, and knowing Portia would not approve of Oliver buying a commission, he’d neatly made sure she could not interfere.

  Devil take the wretch. She paced the room angrily. He had no right to send Oliver into such danger!

  She stopped suddenly, however, recalling all the recent disasters and dangers. What other solution was there? Oliver was bored, and showed little interest in the land. He’d been mad to join the army since boyhood.

  She sighed. Perhaps it was for the best, though it would cast their mother into the vapors.

  Then it dawned on her at last that Overstead was safe.

  Overstead was safe!

  A smile broke on her face, and tears escaped. Tears of joy. Thank God, thank God, the worst was over and Overstead was safe! A few more days and she could return home. She would continue her improvements and pay off the debt. Doubtless Oliver would love the army and cover himself with glory.

  The battle was won!

  It was as if a leaden, clinging blanket slid from Portia and she could stand straight and breathe freely for the first time in weeks.

  Still smiling, she became aware of discomfort from her tightly dressed hair and began to remove the pins. It was a relief to let it down and work her fingers through it. She rubbed at her tender scalp, and finger-combed the hair loose around her shoulders.

  Then she realized she was still in yesterday’s crumpled clothes and began to change. As she unlaced her stays, however, she saw she wore no shift and began to remember.

  She pushed the memories away. That was over. She didn’t need to think of Mirabelle’s. She didn’t need to think of Bryght. She would stay quietly in her rooms until Oliver returned, and need never see Bryght Malloren again.

  As she took off her creased petticoat, however, she wished she could remember going to bed last night. It was strange that she would go to bed in her clothes, no matter how tired.

  She tried to think back. Oliver had gone out, and she had sat up to await him. . . . She couldn’t remember anything more until she woke up this morning. She must have put herself to bed in her sleep.

  How peculiar.

  Then, as she hung up her dimity gown, she saw her shoes placed neatly by the bed.

  She had put herself to bed in an extraordinarily orderly manner, for she had the bad habit of stepping out of her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the room.
This summoned a bewildered laugh. How strange to be tidier asleep than awake.

  She wanted a bath, but that was not possible so she poured cold water into the basin and began a thorough wash. When she washed her face, however, she found a quantity of paint on the towel and scrubbed until every last trace was removed. If only she could scrub away all memory of the previous night as easily.

  She doubted she would ever forget the desire Bryght Malloren had stirred in her.

  She was fastening a fresh gown when there was a knock on the door. She rose to answer it then hesitated, thinking of Cuthbertson. But no. That must be over.

  She swung it open ready to take on whatever trouble awaited, but it was only the landlady’s boy, Simon, come with some coals to make up her fire. He had also brought her breakfast of bread and butter and small beer.

  It seemed bizarre to Portia that these daily routines were going ahead as if nothing had changed.

  In a sense, nothing had.

  Yet it felt as if everything were different.

  The first touches of warmth from the fire were welcome, and Portia thanked the young man then sat to nibble the bread.

  Every time she let herself think, however, her wayward mind turned straight to Bryght Malloren. She was going to run mad here alone for a week with nothing to do.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Portia went warily to open it, but it was merely Mrs. Pinney in a belligerent mood.

  “Miss St. Claire,” she said, tiny mouth pinched into a little bud. “Where is your brother? If, indeed, brother he is.”

  Portia was taken aback by this unexpected attack. “Half-brother,” she said. “He has had to leave for a few days, though I wonder how you know.”

  “I know because he was seen to leave, sneaking away like a thief in the night!”

  Portia stiffened. “Our rent is paid well in advance, Mrs. Pinney. If my brother wishes to leave, he is free to do so.”

  The woman backed away a little, her mouth softening in surprise at this attack. “Surely, miss. But he left the door unlocked again. We could all have been murdered in our beds!”

  Portia’s outrage lessened. “I’m sorry. . . .”

  “And gentlemen!” continued Mrs. Pinney, mouth pursing again. “My good neighbor across the street says you were brought home late at night by gentlemen, and that a strange gentleman left here at nearly dawn! What do you say to that, then?”

  “It is nonsense!” Portia saw that her firm denial had impressed the woman, and added, “I was escorted home by the servants of ... of a friend. My brother left to catch the early coach. There was nobody else here. Your neighbor must have been mistaken.”

  “Um, perhaps,” muttered the woman, eyes shifting. “She did speak of a monstrous creature, which seems unlikely.”

  “A creature?” Portia wondered if she were still asleep and dreaming.

  “A huge black hound,” the woman whispered, “that crept after the Prince of Darkness like a foul specter.”

  “Really, Mrs. Pinney!” But the words stirred a memory for Portia. Then it struck her that when she had first seen Bryght Malloren she had thought of the Prince of Darkness, of Lucifer himself. And Bryght had a large dog. Could he have been here. Been in here?

  Mrs. Pinney flushed under Portia’s exclamation, and nodded. “Yes, it is as you think, Miss St. Claire. Gin. So sad.... But,” she added, with a return to her former belligerence, “there will be no more neglecting of the locks, or out you go! And your brother had best be back soon. I don’t hold with young women living alone, particularly those who like to be abroad at night!”

  Portia bit back another protest. “Sir Oliver has gone to Dorset, Mrs. Pinney. He will be back within the week.”

  “A week!” declared Mrs. Pinney. “That is a great time to leave a single lady unattended.”

  Portia could have delivered a lecture on the question of who had been attending whom, but merely said, “Since I have nowhere else to go, and know of no one who would come here to attend me, there is nothing to be done about it.”

  “I could put you on the street,” the woman said. “This is a decent house, and I’ll not have it otherwise!”

  “Nor would I!” Portia protested, “And you cannot evict me when the rent is paid.”

  The woman was about to speak when her son raced up the stairs. “Ma! There’s a grand coach at the door!”

  Portia’s first thought was that it was Bryght Malloren come to seize her. But when she followed the landlady into the hall to look down the stairs, she saw Fort.

  He was dressed quite casually in dull blue and top boots, and his brown hair was simply tied, but it was certain this house had never seen his like. The two powdered footmen added splendidly to his ambience. He left the men at the door and mounted the stairs with eloquent disdain. Mrs. Pinney and her son melted out of his way and he ignored them.

  “Cousin Portia,” he said with a friendly smile and extended hands. “How wonderful to find you in London!”

  When she put her hands in his, he carried them to his lips and kissed each. “You look a little tired, which is hardly surprising given this dismal place. We must see what we can do.”

  He shut the door on the gawking Pinneys and released her hands. Portia remembered then that Fort had been at Mirabelle’s, had bid on her, diced for her, and according to Bryght, would not have been able to get her completely free.

  She had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

  He was as tall as Bryght and a little heavier in build. He made the small room shrink even further, but he was Fort with whom she’d run wild in Dorset years ago and his slanted smile was familiar. “I thought you’d given up madcap adventures, Portia.”

  “I thought so too. Oh, Fort, thank you for helping us!”

  “It was nothing,” he said and eyed her warily. “I rather thought you’d ring a peal over me about the military.”

  “I might have done, but I see now it may be for the best. But I do hope Oliver doesn’t see much action.”

  “Portia, don’t be foolish. The only way to keep him out of trouble is to keep him in the thick of things. It’s a damned shame the war’s about over. You have almost mothered him to disaster.”

  “Are you going to put it all at my door, then? That seems unfair.”

  “Not all of it. Your mother and pouting Pru have done their part. Let him go.”

  She pulled a face. “It seems I have no choice. At least I am able to manage Overstead while he is gone. I assure you you will be repaid in full in not too many years.”

  “It is nothing,” he said again, and Portia found it rather irritating. It was doubtless true that five thousand guineas was nothing to the Earl of Walgrave. It had nearly ruined her.

  “In fact,” she said, “we can pay off a good part of it immediately, for Bryght Malloren gave me the proceeds of his wager last night.” There. She was rather proud of the cool way she had referred to it.

  “Did he, by gad? Twelve hundred? I suppose he owed you something since you must have helped him win.” His lip curled. “Rather a dishonorable bet, if one thinks about it.”

  “No more dishonorable than auctioning children!”

  He shrugged carelessly. “The main thing is to see what can be done with you until Oliver returns.”

  “I can stay here now your visit has covered me with glittering respectability.” But then she remembered that Bryght Malloren might have been here and shuddered.

  “You see it is not proper,” Fort said. “I could offer you refuge at my house, but it is a bachelor establishment at the moment and you are not even a relative. . . .”

  “I don’t expect you to house me, Fort.”

  “Do you not have any acquaintance or connection in Town?”

  “No, we have only been here for a few days. Oliver has friends, but . . .”

  “But, no,” he completed with a raised brow.

  “There’s Nerissa, I suppose.”

  He looked a question.r />
  “Nerissa Trelyn. She is apparently my cousin.” Portia laughed. “I was supposed to dine there tonight.”

  A strange flash of humor touched his eyes. “But that is the perfect solution. Explain your plight—say Oliver was called out of town on urgent business. Lady Trelyn will be bound to take you in.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. . . .”

  “She will insist. Trelyn—dull dog that he is—is a stickler for family responsibilities. You will be secure there in the highest levels of Society.”

  Secure. It was a delicious word. Portia remembered how charming Nerissa had been and the decorum that had surrounded the Trelyns in the park. In that circle there would be no risk of being importuned by a rakish gamester. “Do you really think it the thing to do?”

  “Assuredly.” And yet something in his tone made Portia’s instinct twitch a warning.

  “I don’t like to impose.”

  “It will not be an imposition. Now, do you have ready funds? You should travel by chair.”

  “I have been used to walking about the town.”

  “I do not recommend it. I would take you, but Trelyn looks askance at any sort of wild living and I’ve done my share. My escort wouldn’t add to your consequence. If we truly were cousins, it would be different.” He smiled with genuine affection. “I do feel a family connection, Portia, and I will look out for your welfare.”

  “Thank you, Fort.” She went into his arms. “It means so much to have someone to help me.”

  He hugged her. “Everything is going to work out well for you, I promise. But please stop fighting every battle, Portia. I know you too well for my sanity. The thought of you loose on London will turn me gray.”

  She laughed. “You weren’t used to be so cautious! I’ll try to act a decorous lady, but I do hate to give in without a struggle.”

  “I know it. Give in on this little thing, though. Promise you will take a chair wherever you go.”

  She smiled up at him. “Very well.”

  “And send word to me when you’re settled. If Lady Trelyn fails you, I’ll arrange something else. We really can’t have you here like this.”