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

by Jason

  They did not stop, but they hit a patch of bad road where recent rains had created axle-deep mud. They had to wait for extra horses to be brought from a nearby farm before the coach could be freed. That added hours to their journey. Matters became worse when the moon clouded over again in the dim pre-dawn and they had to slow to a crawl. The wintry sun was high by the time they arrived at the drive up to the Abbey, and shone bright on the handsome white house on the rise.

  The park was not gated, so there was no hindrance to their arrival at the doors. Fort helped Portia down and she shivered. It was partly tiredness, and partly the chill air, but it was largely fear as to what she would find here.

  Bryght found it hard to concentrate on balance sheets and profit calculations, but he forced his mind to discipline. Portia had already turned his life upside down and shattered his ability to think. He would not let her rule him entirely.

  As midnight struck he stretched wearily and decided he could cease work with honor. The problem now was being able to sleep. He tended the fire, extinguished the candles and went into his bedroom, where he had expected to enjoy Portia as his wife. He laughed bitterly. He should have known that with Portia nothing would go as expected.

  He’d had very pleasant plans, however, plans of a relaxed, leisurely loving with no strains or guilt between them. Plans of introducing a very eager student to some of the finer points of sensual love.

  The memory of her mouth hot upon him had him hard. He sucked in a deep breath. The damn witch was not going to rule him with his cock.

  He prepared for bed burningly aware of the object of his desire lying in a bed only two doors away. And his. By laws of God and man, his to take when and where he wished.

  But he had no wish to take Portia. None at all. He’d had enough of fighting and was ready for peace. He wanted her to come to him in joyous wanting, without compulsion or wager.

  Sly temptations crept upon him. Perhaps she was as eager as he, just not sure how to break this stalemate without losing face. If he went to her, would she smile with relief and drop her unreasonable demands?

  He had his hand on the knob of her bedroom door before he found the control to stop. No, she must see that she could not rule him or he was a hopeless case.

  He retreated to his bed to toss and turn until he got up to drink a few glasses of brandy. Not enough to lose all restraint, for God knows what he would do then, but enough to blunt awareness and eventually to bring him sleep.

  He was woken by daylight and rang for his valet. He stretched, not feeling his best by any means, but proud of the fact he’d survived the night without groveling or violence. They had a lifetime. He could wait.

  “We’ll breakfast in my study,” he told his man when he arrived. “Have word sent to milady.”

  The man bowed out and Bryght rose to look out the window. Misty, but it promised to be clear. Good traveling weather. Once they were on their way north Portia would have to see that he was adamant. That still left the problem of Upcott to be faced, but once she was his body and soul that would be easier.

  “Milord . . .”

  Bryght turned, detecting a strange note in his valet’s voice.

  “Yes?”

  The man was red-faced and bewildered. “Milord, her ladyship is not in her bedchamber.” The man’s eyes flicked around as if seeking her here.

  A chill went through Bryght. Damn it to Hades! “Has her bed been slept in?”

  “Er ... no, milord . . .”

  He’d wring her beautiful neck! He made instant decisions. “Who knows? Just you and her maid?”

  The man nodded.

  “Then no one else is to. Is the maid tall or short?”

  “Quite short, milord.”

  “Good. Have my coach ready in twenty minutes and tell the maid to put on a cloak like my wife’s. She will enter the coach with me. I’ll let her off nearby. As far as anyone is concerned, my wife and I have left on our journey north.”

  The valet’s eyes were widening despite his training. “Yes, milord.”

  While the man arranged matters, Bryght dressed and ran through options. He feared he had seriously misjudged matters.

  There had to be more to it than willfulness. Portia would never act this way in a simple fight as to whether they went north or west. He remembered now a desperation in her manner when she’d asked that they go to Overstead.

  Why?

  He traced back her behavior after the wedding.

  She had not been radiant, but she had been resigned.

  Then she’d found out about Barclay and been furious, but there’d been no talk of going to Overstead.

  That had come . . . after she’d been talking to Fort.

  Overstead was in his area, and it was possible news from there would travel.

  Bryght got out of the house without a hitch—such as running into Rothgar—and dropped off the maid nearby with a reminder that she was to keep this matter to herself. Then he directed the coach to Ware House.

  A footman opened the door, clearly ready to send away anyone who called at such an early hour. He was immediately quelled by rank. “I wish to see my brother-in-law,” said Bryght crisply, walking into the house.

  “He is not at home, milord.”

  Bryght stiffened. “At this hour?” Again he made a swift analysis. “Gads,” he said lightly, “has he left already?”

  The man’s eyes flickered revealingly.

  “Were there three women with him—or four?”

  The footman’s eyes almost popped. “But one, milord!”

  Bryght hid his triumph. “How moderate, though on a long journey into Dorset, a full coach would be inconvenient.” He gave the man a knowing wink and a coin.

  The footman almost sniggered as he pocketed the coin. “Not Dorset, milord,” he said quickly. “Surrey.”

  Bryght flicked him another coin and left.

  The Abbey! And Portia alone in a coach for hours with Fort Ware, the man she seemed to prefer. Fort clearly was not devoted to Portia, but it might suit him to seduce a Malloren bride.

  “I’ll kill him,” Bryght muttered as the coach sped out of town. “Family connection or no.”

  This wasn’t fast enough. On the edge of London, Bryght got rid of the coach and its servants, telling them to stay in a quiet inn for a few days. He hired a fast riding horse and set off for the Abbey at a gallop.

  * * *

  Portia stared at the imposing entrance of Rothgar Abbey with dismay. “I suppose we should have tried to slip in quietly rather than announcing our arrival.”

  Fort’s look of astonishment reminded her of his stiff-rumped father. “Be damned to that.” His groom was already rapping on the door and Fort led Portia to it.

  It opened almost exactly as they arrived there, making Portia wonder if there was a skill to it—both servants and lord trained with military precision.

  Clearly a night of anxiety and no sleep was not good for her sanity.

  They were soon inside the handsome house, and Portia began to fret about what excuse they should make.

  But Fort merely said, “We are here to see Sir Oliver Upcott.”

  The footman was well-trained and did not so much as blink before directing them to a reception room and saying, “I will enquire, milord.”

  An admirably noncommittal answer. Portia thought that his very woodenness had been revealing, however.

  “He knows something,” she said as soon as they were alone.

  “Or he was just astonished to be asked about a perfect stranger. Come to the fire, Portia.”

  She went over and tried to warm herself, but the chill went deeper. “What do we do if they deny all knowledge? After all, if the Mallorens have done away with Oliver, they would scarcely let their servants know.”

  “With the Mallorens all things are possible,” Fort said dryly, explaining, “it’s one of their favorite sayings. I have to admit, they have the best-trained servants I’ve ever come across. They favor old family re
tainers, of course, but they manage to hold their loyalty. It’s hard to even get them to gossip, as I have discovered.”

  “I think it disgusting for you to be prying into other people’s affairs.”

  He was about to make an angry retort, but the door opened. It was Brand Malloren. He stared at them with blank astonishment then shut the door. “What the devil’s going on?”

  Portia decided on attack. “I’ve come to see my brother.”

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “Following,” she said, knowing that in one way or another it was true.

  Brand lacked his brother’s dark, dramatic beauty, but his expression was all Malloren. “Forgive me for mentioning it, Lady Bryght, but it does rather leap to mind that last night was your wedding night, and that you appear to have spent it with Lord Walgrave.”

  Portia remained resolute. “I want to see my brother.”

  “All you’ll get, if you want it, is breakfast.”

  Portia looked to Fort for help, but he appeared to have chosen a passive role. He took a measured pinch of snuff.

  Portia actually stamped her foot. “I demand to see my brother. Now!”

  Brand opened the door. “The breakfast parlor is across the hall. You will find an adequate selection, I believe, though there may not be eggs to your liking. . . .”

  Portia swept through and headed straight for the stairs.

  Brand seized her by the arm. “No.”

  Portia tested his grip, but he tightened it unhesitatingly. “Fort!” she protested.

  “You were the one who thought it disgusting to be prying into other people’s affairs,” said her untrustworthy accomplice. “You wouldn’t actually want to search someone’s house, would you? They will have to take us to Oliver eventually.”

  But Bryght could be here by then, Portia thought wildly. She was growing terrified of meeting her husband. “Anything could be happening,” she protested. “I can’t just sit and eat breakfast!”

  Brand towed her toward the breakfast room. “Yes you can. Terribly bad form to interrupt a torture session, you know.” He relieved her of her cloak and pushed her into a chair at the well-laden table.

  Portia landed with a thump and stared at him. She’d swear that comment about torture was a joke, but could one be sure of anything with a Malloren? Especially an angry Malloren?

  Her dazed eyes settled on a stranger at the table, a pleasantly ordinary brown-haired man who, she noticed, lacked a hand.

  He smiled, “Major Cranton Barclay, at your service, ma’am.”

  “She’s not ‘ma’am,’ ” Brand said shortly. “She’s Lady Bryght Malloren. Sit down, Walgrave. As far as I know we have no standing orders to poison brothers-in-law.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” Fort settled at the table and helped himself to ham.

  Major Barclay was looking uncomfortable and confused, but all Portia’s wary attention was on Brand. It was almost impossible to believe that he was party to murder, but he was clearly furious at her adventure.

  And he wasn’t her husband.

  He passed her a plate of bread rolls. “We don’t have servants at the breakfast table unless there are a number of guests. If there’s anything you require, I will ring for it.”

  Portia took a roll with unsteady fingers and made a botch of buttering it.

  “We only have coffee and small beer,” he said. “Would you like anything else, Portia?”

  Just to be difficult, Portia said, “Chocolate, please.”

  He rang a bell and ordered it.

  Silence settled, with Portia and Brand radiating animosity, Barclay looking bewildered, and Fort almost appearing amused. Portia knew now that involving Fort in this had been like throwing oil on a fire, but what else could she have done? Then something clicked in her weary brain.

  “Barclay!” she exclaimed staring at the man across the table, a man innocently taking a bite of toast. “You’re the wretch who stole our estate!”

  He flushed. “Certainly not. I won it fair and square, Miss St. Claire.”

  “Lady Arcenbryght Malloren,” corrected Brand with emphasis.

  Portia ignored him. “How can it be fair to throw a family out onto the streets?”

  “How can it be fair for a man to stake his family’s welfare?” the major retorted.

  He was right. “But still,” Portia protested, “if no one gamed, no one would stake anything.”

  The major raised his brows. “As well say, if no one waged war, no one would have to fight. Unlikely, and demmed dull.”

  The servant returned with the chocolate pot, poured a cup for Portia, and then left.

  “There are many people,” she said, “who enjoy such a dull existence, enjoy the simple pleasures of peace and security, of family life and honest labor.”

  “How did you come to marry Bryght?” murmured Fort maliciously. “Perhaps it’s not too late for an annulment.”

  Vicious antagonism sparked between Brand and Fort and Portia leapt to her feet. “I must—”

  “Sit down,” said Brand coldly. “I’ll bind and gag you if I have to. You’re doing nothing until Bryght gets here.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let him kill you. Rothgar don’t care for murder in the house.”

  At that, Fort snarled something, and Portia feared he would lunge across the table and throttle the Malloren. He assumed control again, however, and contented himself with silent animosity.

  Portia looked wildly to Major Barclay, who might be the only sane man here. He did look uncomfortable, but she could not believe the villain in her life might help her.

  So she would have to help herself. She turned to Brand. “I need to relieve myself.”

  A flicker of amusement showed in his eyes, but he said, “Of course,” and rose to open the door for her. He led her through and up the wide staircase to the next floor. There he stopped to open a door. “An unused bedchamber, but I think you will find a close stool. There is no other door, so don’t think to start wandering.”

  His smile said that he had seen through all her tricks.

  Portia walked through and slammed the door in his face.

  She did need to use it, so she found the pot. Then she checked the window just in case. With astonishment, she found the wall on this side was covered by heavy ivy. She was a good thirty feet off the ground but still, it was this or captivity, and she was well-practiced at the art. She eased up the window and checked. The vine was firm against the wall and as sturdy as a ladder!

  “Ha, Brand Malloren,” she muttered as she shed her hoops. “Now we’ll see.”

  Lacking pins, she knotted her skirts then climbed out of the window, not allowing herself to think of how high she was. If the ivy was safe, the height didn’t matter.

  She worked her way down, expecting a shout from above at any moment. But she reached the ground without incident and looked up at the window with a grim smile of triumph.

  It was a temporary victory, she knew, but at least she wouldn’t be sitting meekly at the breakfast table when Bryght turned up to strangle her. And it was possible that in the meantime she might find Oliver and solve the mystery once and for all.

  She unknotted her skirts and ran round the corner, looking for another way into the house. How long would it be before Brand intruded to find out what was keeping her? The silly man clearly thought a guarded door meant that she was quite secure. With any luck he’d give her time, thinking she’d be sulking.

  She came across a side door and tried it. Unlocked! That wasn’t surprising in the country, but it made her feel the fates were on her side. She found herself in a passageway, and walked quickly down it by the kitchen and scullery. There were servants there, but none saw her.

  Now, where would the Mallorens keep Oliver?

  She wondered if this house had a cellar, but a quick exploration showed no sign of one. She had to slip into a corner at the bottom of some stairs to avoid one undermaid carrying a buck
et, but otherwise she met no one.

  Attics?

  She went up the stairs, climbing them all the way to the top. She heard a door open and close lower down, but no sound of anyone near by, and no sound of pursuit.

  When she reached the limit of the stairs, she went through a door into a plain corridor. Long past caution, she opened a door and found, as she’d expected, a servants’ bedroom. She checked each room and found them all the same. There was no sign of Oliver.

  What now?

  She would have to search the family part of the house. She didn’t want to, but she must.

  Portia came to a second set of stairs and went down them, trying to be quiet. By now Brand must have realized she’d given him the slip. She shrugged. Cowering would do her no good, and no amount of caution would avoid the eventual confrontation with Bryght. She opened a door and entered a carpeted corridor, pausing to listen.

  She thought perhaps she did hear distant voices, but was somewhat surprised not to find a hullabaloo. Since no one seemed to be nearby, she began again methodically checking rooms, opening each door. The corridors in this old house wandered, and it wasn’t easy for her to be sure she had checked everywhere.

  There were suites of rooms, and she thought that perhaps each member of the family had such a set of rooms, always in readiness. In one bedroom—possibly Major Barclay’s for it seemed more recently used and yet less settled than others—she found a pistol case. She calmly loaded one of the weapons and took it with her.

  Then she looked into a bedroom with a wide open window. This seemed so strange in December that she went over and peered out, thinking perhaps Oliver might have been here and escaped.

  She heard a click behind her.

  She spun around to see Bryght pocketing the key.

  Twenty-five

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  Portia’s heart leaped into her throat and she raised her hand to cover the area, only then remembering the pistol. She pointed it at him, but with a trembling hand.

  “This is where we came in, I think,” he said, walking toward her. “Put that down.”