by Jason
The earl’s lips thinned. “I cannot possibly allow you to wander London penniless, Cousin.”
“You are too kind, my lord, but I am not penniless.”
He raised his thin brows. “You refer perhaps to some money you had in a pouch in your drawer? It is a little foolish to keep such a sum where it is temptation to the servants. I have put it in my safe.”
A flutter of panic started in Portia’s chest. “Then I must ask you to return it, my lord.”
“I think it would be wiser to give it into your husband’s charge in a few days time.”
“That is thievery!”
Color touched his cheeks “You are intemperate! It is my duty to take care of such matters for you.”
“You have no duty to me, my lord! I will return to my rooms in Dresden Street. We have paid for heat and food, so I can survive there until my brother returns. He is the head of my family and will speak to you on this matter.”
“Portia, you are being most ungrateful!” chided Nerissa. “Trelyn is only arranging matters for your advantage, and in return you are upbraiding him. If you leave here, people will say we threw you out because of your scandalous behavior.”
“I will tell them otherwise,” Portia protested.
Lord Trelyn said, “I fear you do not move in circles where your words would carry weight, Cousin Portia. I cannot allow such foolishness. Until your brother returns, you must stay under my protection. I will send a message to your landlady asking that she inform us as soon as Sir Oliver returns to London, and to ensure that she does not encourage you in this madness.”
Portia could have protested further—she could have threatened them with the law—but she sensed the noose of power and influence tightening around her.
Dry mouthed, she stated, “You are keeping me prisoner.”
“Cousin!” exclaimed Lord Trelyn angrily. “How can you think such a thing? It is my duty to ensure your safety, that is all. You have not been in London long enough to realize that it is full of hazards.”
Considering her few days in London, Portia thought that hilarious.
“Persist in this,” he added sharply, “and I will begin to think that the shock of your situation has turned your wits.”
Any temptation to find this funny fled. He was threatening her with the madhouse.
“Come, come,” he said more moderately. “A little thought will show you that it is not so bad. You will have as pretty a wedding as we can arrange in short-order—Lady Trelyn assures me that a beautiful gown will be ready in time—and you will soon be part of one of our greatest families. In the meantime, no more talk of imprisonment, please. You may leave the house whenever you wish. I only insist that you do so properly accompanied for your safety.”
Portia looked between her two persecutors, then turned on her heel and left. In the hall she stopped and sucked in a deep breath, fighting panic. She must keep her wits clear.
They could not force her into marriage, not in this day and age. They could not!
Seeing a footman eying her curiously, she hurried up to the sanctuary of her room. Just in case, she checked her drawers, but Lord Trelyn had been telling the truth. Her money was gone.
So, she could not return to Dresden Street, and she could not pay for a coach seat to Dorset. She would not panic. Oliver would be back soon, and if necessary she could escape and flee to Fort. He would put a stop to this.
She began to calm and settled to trying to understand the motives of the Trelyns. Lord Trelyn was so able to appear noble and virtuous that she could almost believe he had her best interests in mind. She could not believe that of Nerissa. Was she just humoring her husband, or had she more underhanded motives?
With the briefest tap, Nerissa came in smiling. “How clever of you to trap Bryght, my dear.”
Portia turned at bay. “I did not trap Bryght. I do not want Bryght.”
Nerissa chuckled coyly. “Your fiery protests prove the point! Portia, everyone wants Bryght Malloren.”
“Including you?” Portia shot back. “If he’s your ideal lover, Nerissa, then take him instead of Lord Heatherington.”
The attack bounced off Nerissa. “Oh, at one time I hoped to have both,” she admitted, “but Heather suits me very well. The wedding will be on Wednesday at—”
“I will not be there.”
Nerissa’s smile became less pleasant. “I think you will.”
Portia’s belief that they could not force her to the altar was weakening. “Why? Why are you and Lord Trelyn so adamant about a match that will suit neither party?”
Nerissa subsided onto a sofa in a cloud of perfumed silk.
That perfume.
Lord Heatherington.
Portia realized that Nerissa had been the author of that disgusting letter, and that Lord Heatherington was probably Hercules. It hardly seemed to matter any more except that it confirmed her cousin’s villainy.
And because Bryght had cared. He had loved Nerissa ...
“Why?” Nerissa mused. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
Nerissa shrugged. “It will not help you. Trelyn is motivated by a passionate desire to see Bryght busy with some woman other than myself. He believes in that smokescreen quite firmly.”
Portia, too, sat down, finding some relief in the fact that they appeared to be at the point of honesty. “Is that all Bryght is to you, a smokescreen?”
“If you have no interest in the man,” asked Nerissa, “why are you jealous?”
“I am not jealous!”
Nerissa leaned back languorously. “Then you will not mind that he wanted to marry me . . .”
“But you chose a richer man!”
“... and that he and I have been lovers.” Portia looked away from those perceptive catlike eyes, aware of a pain near her heart. She didn’t know which was worse—that he had wanted to marry Nerissa, or that he might have rubbed perfumed oil into her feet. Had he told her of her beauty, and teased her skin with tongue and teeth . . . ? She summoned a casual tone to say, “If Bryght and I are forced to marry, won’t that blow away your smokescreen?”
“Alas, yes, but the rewards will compensate.” Portia turned back sharply. “What rewards?”
“He won’t be able to marry Jenny Findlayson.” Portia’s pain intensified.
“You think he loves her?” Nerissa burst out laughing. “Loves her! Oh, you dear ninny. You are so amusing. Bryght loves her money. He needs her money. I have made it my business to learn about Bryght Malloren’s affairs, and he is virtually penniless these days. Heaven knows where the money has gone for he had a modest fortune when he wooed me—I would not have considered him otherwise. His luck at the tables must have abandoned him, though I hear rumors he has sunk money in Bridgewater’s crazy venture.”
“So, you want me to marry a broken gamester? Is that it?”
“Broken? Somehow, I do not see Bryght as broken. And he is a Malloren still, which is worth a great deal. But only the second son of the Mallorens and thus dependent on Rothgar’s bounty. You can guess how that galls. Having lost what little fortune he had, his only door to freedom is by marrying money. A lot of money. Marriage to you will trap him as Rothgar’s pensioner forever.”
She was to be his prison? “Why do you hate him so?” Portia whispered. Nerissa’s face became almost pinched. “I have my reasons, which brings me to my other motive. He has a letter of mine.”
“I know of it, and you should be ashamed.”
For once she had dumbfounded Nerissa. “You know? And I thought you such an innocent!”
“If you mean I am virtuous, of course I am.”
“How then, are you so familiar with a letter Bryght keeps by his bedside?”
Portia colored. “I know nothing of his bedchamber. I learned of it elsewhere. What has this letter to do with my marriage?”
“Who better to find a letter kept in a bedchamber than a wife?”
Portia stared. “You will trap me into a vil
e marriage just so I can steal a letter?”
“But of course. And to call marriage with Bryght vile is to be ridiculous.”
“Then I am ridiculous! You cannot make me marry him, Nerissa. I will walk to Dorset if necessary.”
For the first time Nerissa looked less than complacent. “If you refuse, the world will learn about Hippolyta.”
Portia shuddered but hoped she concealed it. “So be it. I am headed for a life of obscurity where it will not matter.”
“You overestimate provincial tolerance.” Nerissa looked less certain of herself, however. “And what of your brother?”
“What of him?”
“If the whole world talks of your shame, Sir Oliver will have to defend your honor.”
Portia struggled against this new loop of the noose. “He will challenge Bryght? For buying me in a brothel? Hardly.”
“It would be novel, wouldn’t it? No, I think we would conceal your wilder adventures. He would hear slander about your behavior at the Willoughbys‘, learn of it in such a way that he would have no choice but to challenge the slanderer. Of course we would ensure that his opponent has far greater skill with a sword.” Nerissa leaned forward, eyes hard and cold. “You are going to marry Bryght Malloren and retrieve my letter, Portia, because if you refuse, you will condemn your brother to death.”
Portia started to tremble. “You can’t do this!”
“I assure you, I can. There are always hired swords.” Sensing victory, Nerissa lounged back, once more the contented predator. “And Bryght could be forced into duels as well. You do not like him, but do you want his life on your conscience?”
“If I get the letter in some other way,” Portia asked desperately, “will you give up this plan?”
“Oh, no,” said Nerissa. “It is too complete a revenge.” She rose and shook out her skirts, creating a wave of Otto of Roses that made Portia feel physically sick. “You will marry Bryght on Wednesday, Hippolyta. I will give you no time to escape. Now I must go. There is so much to do if such a hasty wedding is to be worthy of us all.”
The door clicked behind her and Portia sat frozen like a stone statue. It was too much. She could endure almost anything herself, but she could not condemn Oliver and Bryght to death. The noose had finally tightened beyond all hope of escape.
Bryght ate his breakfast unsure whether matters were working out well or badly. He had decided he wanted to win the heart and hand of Portia St. Claire and now it appeared they would have to marry.
That was not, however, the same thing.
He was not at all sure that such a marriage would gain him her heart for she had appeared thoroughly alarmed at the prospect. If she’d had a pistol, she doubtless would have shot him, and before witnesses, too.
He refilled his coffee cup, smiling at the thought of his intemperate Amazon. Last night had reaffirmed that she was as fiery in love as she was in anger, and he couldn’t wait to let her burn him to a cinder.
Rothgar came in and Boudicca went to join Zeno by the fire. “You are amused by the coffeepot?”
Bryght tried to straighten his face. “I am amused by fate. You may congratulate me, Bey. I am to be married.”
Rothgar was serving himself from chafing dishes, for they let no servants hover over this meal. His hand froze in the act of reaching for a spoon. “I may not, as well. To whom?”
Bryght was surprised that his brother would reveal such overt opposition. “I doubt you know her. Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset.”
Rothgar’s dark eyes studied him for a moment then he continued to fill a plate. “Nerissa Trelyn’s cousin.”
“How the devil do you know that?”
“I was introduced to her last night. Short, slender, red haired. Not in your usual style.” He came to sit at the table.
“That should please you. You haven’t regarded the other contenders with approval.”
“It would depend on your reasons. I have become a convert to love in marriage.”
Bryght laughed. “Am I to wish you happy?”
“A philosophical convert only. Why are you marrying her?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Bryght amiably.
It seemed for a moment that Rothgar would insist, but then he said, “True. When are you marrying her? I might have a practical interest in that.”
“I’m not sure, but soon.”
“Ah.” There was a wealth of meaning in the word and the raised eyebrow that accompanied it.
Bryght felt damnably like a guilty schoolboy. “I haven’t taken her virtue, Bey. Or not much of it.”
“But enough, I gather. So be it. Honor above all. I suppose Elf should come to lend the girl credit.”
“The ‘girl’ is twenty-five years old.”
Rothgar’s brows rose. “Is she indeed? She looks younger. She will still be in need of credit and support, and I doubt the Trelyns are an unfailing bulwark. Do you not want your sister at your wedding?”
Bryght was finding Rothgar’s acceptance rather more abrasive than his opposition. “I would be delighted, of course. Why not the whole clan? Brand, Cyn and Chastity, Hilda and Steen and their family?”
“Cyn and Chastity are still newlyweds,” said Rothgar blandly, “and it is too far for Hilda and her brood. Brand, Elf, and myself along with a few distant connections who are in town should form an adequate family presence. An aura of respectability.”
“A massing of Mallorens is hardly likely to convey respectability.”
“It will, at least, silence any troublesome tongues. What of Candleford?”
“No, thank you.” Bryght could feel his jaw tighten.
“You will need a home.” Rothgar’s dark eyes were searching, which meant Bryght could not look away.
“We will not be welcome here and at the Abbey?”
“Of course you will.”
“Then that is where we will live until I can afford to buy a place of my own.”
“How very bourgeois,” drawled Rothgar.
Bryght rose and stalked out of the room, Zeno hurrying to catch up.
Bryght regretted within moments letting Rothgar catch him on the raw. It was unreasonable not to allow his brother to buy the property and give him the use of it. He received no special reward for his work, which had increased the family fortune immensely, just the normal portion allocated to all the younger Malloren men.
By rights nearly all the Malloren property was Rothgar’s alone. Their father had left dowries for the girls, and the marriage portion of the second marchioness went to her three sons—Bryght, Brand, and Cyn. Her early death had meant it was sufficient to provide a start for them in whatever profession they chose to follow. It was not enough, however, to support them in idleness for the rest of their lives.
The bulk of the property had gone, of course, to the new Marquess of Rothgar.
Rothgar, however, had chosen not to use it solely for his own purposes. He had decided that the business of the marquisate would provide employment for all the Malloren men, and all would receive a handsome income from it.
Rothgar had devised matters according to their talents. Bryght had been introduced to the delights of finance and investment. Brand, whose tastes were more practical, was in charge of the twenty or more estates that made up the marquisate. Cyn, the youngest, had been destined for the law.
Cyn, however, had rejected the plan and joined the army. Rothgar’s one failure, and it had taught him something about people, thank God—that they could not always be shaped to his will.
Cyn had taken his portion from his mother but refused all further financial help. Even so, his part of the family profits was put aside for him. If he never touched it, it would go one day to his children.
Hilda and Elf also received small incomes.
Bryght found the arrangement agreeable on the whole, but he did not like to feel that he was Rothgar’s pensioner. It was his own damn fault that he did not have the ready funds to buy Candleford and he wou
ld have to live with it. He could hardly expect all his dreams to come true. To have Portia as his wife would be enough.
Bryght went up to his room to change for his appointment with Trelyn. He might as well do the thing with full honors. As his valet powdered him, he pondered an additional problem presented by the current situation.
As Portia’s representative, Trelyn might feel entitled to enquire about Bryght’s financial standing. Since it was a marriage of compulsion, Bryght decided, Trelyn wouldn’t be able to insist. Bryght could agree to a respectable settlement for Portia, and that would have to satisfy everyone.
When Bryght presented himself at Trelyn House in full elegance of silk and powder it went much as he had expected. Once Trelyn realized he would not be allowed to pore over Bryght’s circumstances, they settled the matter quickly enough.
When all was arranged, Trelyn offered claret and Bryght felt obliged to take it. He had nothing against Nerissa’s husband except the man’s patent antipathy to himself.
The earl raised his glass. “You have my congratulations, Malloren. Miss St. Claire is in most respects an admirable and sensible woman.”
Bryght reflected that a sensible woman would not get herself into such predicaments, but merely said, “I think so.”
Trelyn cleared his throat. “I ... er ... I do hope you intend well by her.”
Bryght raised a brow. The dull stick was genuinely concerned. He was devilish anxious to see this match made—and Bryght could guess why, the poor fool—but his conscience was pricking him. “Why would I not?” asked Bryght blandly.
“Well, there is an ... er ... element of compulsion. . . .”
“But I am delighted to marry Miss St. Claire.”
Trelyn stared at him with a slight frown, clearly not believing a word of it.
“Or do you mean Miss St. Claire is under some compulsion?”
The touch of color in Trelyn’s cheeks was answer enough.
Bryght said, “I must be assured that the lady is willing.”
“Willing? Of course she is willing. She showed her partiality by her behavior, and why would a simple country miss not be delighted to marry so high?”