Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (12 page)

"No matter," he said stiffly. "It's the truth, though at least it was my own money."

But all our lives went with it, she thought bitterly, and all my work on the estate, and mother's beautiful gardens....

The magic of the day shattered. Portia turned her back upon the Findlayson group so that she wouldn't be tempted to so much as glance at Bryght Malloren.

* * *

Bryght flirted with Jenny Findlayson, but his mind was on Portia St. Claire.

It had been simple curiosity that had taken him to her. The woman on Upcott's arm had looked so ordinary and yet had to be his sister. He had wondered if his fascinating Amazon was entirely a figment of his imagination.

Seen up close, she had still appeared ordinary, for she was no beauty and her clothes were not in the latest style. It had soon become clear, however, that beneath the prosaic surface she was the woman who had challenged him, fought him, and tried to shoot him.

Today she had no pistol, but she had confronted him with wit and a sharp tongue, and they were as intriguing. Moreover, the glimpse she had given of her home and family had touched him.

London Society would doubtless count him cynical, and in many ways he was, but he understood family bonds. He had been born into a happy family and raised with love. His parents had died when he was thirteen, however, when the new marquess had only been nineteen and the twins grubby seven-year-olds.

Relatives had immediately stepped in to take care of the younger ones, but Rothgar had refused to allow them to be fostered elsewhere. He had held the family together and built close ties between them. He had even arranged his inheritance in such a way that the younger sons found employment and profit in the business of the marquisate. Rothgar had created and nurtured strong bonds among his family, and Bryght understood without explanation Portia St. Claire's need to keep her family afloat and happy.

In the Mallorens, however, the load was shared. None of them was a burden. Bryght feared that Portia gained little support from her family and was leaned on heavily. He had been tempted to dig deeper, to find out more about the individuals, but he could detect a peril as obvious as that.

He was already more interested in Portia St. Claire than was wise.

By the end of their time together, even her slight build and unusual looks had appeal, and her fine-skinned face which showed every emotion had been enchanting him. The ladies of fashionable London had perfect, creamy complexions; if they were not gifted with them by God, they found them in a cream pot. Bryght was accustomed to it, though the fact that Nerissa Trelyn's complexion was her own had been a significant attraction.

He had not cared before that Jenny wore a discreet layer of paint. Now he compared her artificial complexion with a fresh country face sprinkled with freckles, and found it wanting.

He was turning mad.

He was done with romantics, and if he married it would be to money. There was no place in his life for a woman like Portia St. Claire.

He had told the truth, however, when he'd said he was concerned about her. She was too forthright and natural for London, and too inclined to fight against the odds. If her brother was the hopeless gamester it would appear, the perils were terrifying.

Damn it to Hades, but he had no desire to be constantly fretting about the woman!

He looked up from Jenny's teasing face and caught Nerissa Trelyn eyeing him.

He bowed.

She turned away, pretending not to have seen him.

Bryght saw a possible solution to his dilemma. What was the connection between Portia and Nerissa? If Portia was safe beneath the wings of the Trelyns, Bryght need never concern himself with her again.

He removed Jenny's possessive hand and kissed it. "Alas, but I must leave you again, dear lady."

"Indeed?" Her dark eyes cooled. "If you return to that red-haired dab, I will begin to think you insincere, my lord."

Jenny clearly thought that threat would control him, but Bryght merely said, "That would be unfortunate," and left her to interpret it as she wished.

As he crossed to where Portia stood with her brother, he prayed that Bridgewater not require large new sums of money. Before today, he had thought that making a practical marriage with Jenny Findlayson would be easy enough.

Now, for some reason, it was looking like a labor of Hercules.

* * *

Portia had blocked Bryght Malloren out of her mind so successfully that she was startled to hear his voice at her shoulder. "Miss St. Claire, a word with you, if you please."

She turned warily.

"What, pray, is your connection to the Gloucestershire St. Claire family?"

Portia was so disordered by his return that she could hardly think. She managed to answer coherently, however. "That was my father's family, my lord. He was a younger son of Lord Felsham." She was pleased enough to let him know that she was not a complete nonentity.

"Then perchance, is Lady Trelyn a connection?"

Distrusting everything about this encounter, Portia frowned at him. "Lady Trelyn?"

"Oh come, Portia," Oliver interrupted. "Nerissa Trelyn! You asked about her earlier."

"She was a St. Claire before she wed," said Bryght.

Oliver stared between them. "You mean Nerissa Trelyn is a connection of yours, Portia? Bless me, why didn't you say so?"

Portia was completely off balance. She flickered a glance at the beautified Queen of Society. "I don't know.... I believe I have a cousin Nerissa.... But..."

"But have not met," said Lord Bryght. "I thought so. You must permit me to introduce you. Come." He extended his arm.

Portia would not have gone, for she distrusted anything Bryght Malloren did. Oliver, however, urged her on.

Portia was shepherded across the grass to where Nerissa Trelyn was holding court. In contrast to the Findlayson, Lady Trelyn was cloaked in white satin lined with thick white fur, and was surrounded mostly by ladies. She looked for all the world like a queen with her court.

Portia halted. Though Lady Trelyn was quite young—probably younger than herself—Portia could not think of such a grand lady as her relative. "She will not repulse you, Hippolyta," said Bryght softly. "Not if you are introduced by me."

And what did that mean? Portia wondered as she was propelled forward by a hand on her back—a hand that seemed to be sending hot vibrations down her spine.

Lady Trelyn turned her head and saw them. She froze for a brief revealing moment, but then she smiled and Portia thought she might have been mistaken about that fleeting expression of alarm. Bryght bowed with almost exaggerated reverence.

"Lord Bryght." Nerissa's voice was husky. Portia saw with something like despair that Nerissa's perfect, pearly complexion owed nothing to artifice.

Bryght kissed the bejeweled hand she extended and then straightened to acknowledge the beauty's husband with a much more moderate bow.

No love lost there either, thought Portia.

"I come bearing gifts," said Bryght. "My dear Lady Trelyn, I do believe I have found a cousin for you."

"Cousin?" Nerissa looked between Oliver and Portia.

Bryght urged Portia a step closer. "May I present Miss Portia St. Claire?"

Nerissa looked blankly at Portia for a moment, then laughed with seemingly genuine delight. "Portia! Uncle Fernley's girl? But I have heard of you. How delightful!"

Portia was enveloped in an overwhelming perfumed embrace, and introduced to Lord Trelyn. Introduced in fact to everyone in a dizzying assembly of smiles and names.

"And you, sir?" Nerissa asked at last of Oliver.

He made a profound, adoring bow. "Alas, my lady, I can only claim to be a relative by marriage. I am Sir Oliver Upcott, Portia's half-brother."

He was kissed on the cheek all the same. "But a relative of sorts. This is of all things wonderful! You must come to dine, mustn't they, Trelyn? I want to hear all about your family, and... and, oh, everything." Her charming excitement was flattering, and all around beamed upon her. "Let me see. This is Tuesday and..." she counted on her pretty fingers and then glanced endearingly at her husband, "Saturday, Trelyn?"

"If you wish, my dear." But he alone was not beaming, and his voice and eyes were cool. He glanced at Bryght Malloren thoughtfully.

Portia, too, wondered what was behind all this. She was delighted to find a relative in London, especially such a powerful and charming one, but could not imagine that Bryght Malloren was motivated by uncontaminated kindness.

"Saturday, then," declared Nerissa. "Do say you will come on Saturday." She made it sound like a humble petition.

"We would be delighted," said Portia honestly. She had been feeling so alone, and now it seemed she had a relative and perhaps a friend. Nerissa was so wonderfully warmhearted that it was not surprising that everyone seemed to adore her.

Whatever Bryght Malloren's motives, she wanted to thank him for this, but when she turned, she found he was already strolling off.

Back to Mrs. Findlayson, it would appear.

Lord Trelyn's voice jerked her attention away from that elegant green silk back. "And how do you come to know Lord Bryght, Miss St. Claire?"

She turned to him nervously. "He is merely an acquaintance of my brother's, my lord."

"Ah." Lord Trelyn flicked a strange look at Oliver.

Oh, gracious. Would they interpret that as meaning Oliver was a gamester? What would happen when the Trelyns found out Oliver was ruined?

But Nerissa linked arms with her and drew her away from Lord Trelyn. "I feel as if I have gained a sister. We will be Portia and Nerissa at all times." She chuckled. "Just like in the
Merchant of Venice,
except that there Nerissa was Portia's serving maid. We will have to find you a noble Bassanio!"

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Portia was "my dearest cousin."

Though not much taller than Portia, Nerissa was an overwhelming presence, and Portia could hardly think while drowning in light chatter and rather heavy perfume. When it was time for them to move on she was a little bit relieved.

"Upon my word," said Oliver, once they were out of earshot. "The Trelyns and the Mallorens in one day. We are moving in the highest circles."

"Such high living is more likely to cost money than earn it, Oliver."

"That shows you don't know how the world works. Those great families have patronage at their fingertips. There are government posts worth hundreds, even thousands a year just waiting to be given, and they are given by people like that. Even if Fort lends me the money to redeem Overstead, there will still be a heavy debt to repay. An extra income of a few hundred a year would help."

"It certainly would, but you would not have time for extra duties, Oliver. If we do get a mortgage on the estate, all our efforts will have to go into paying it off."

He waved a careless hand. "Oh Portia, you know I'm no good at that kind of thing. But anyway, these posts don't actually involve work. One hires someone else to do the job at a fraction of the income."

She stared at him. "But that's
dishonest!
The person doing the work should get the reward."

He shrugged. "That's the way of the world."

In Portia's opinion, the way of the world was wicked.

But she had another problem teasing at her mind. All the time she had been in Nerissa's circle something had tickled her memory. It was an elusive reference, but it was as if she knew Nerissa from elsewhere, and yet she was sure they had never met, not even as children.

Suddenly it came to her.

Nerissa's perfume.

Nerissa's perfume was very like the one on that letter in Maidenhead.

Surely not.

She glanced at Bryght Malloren, who was kissing the hand of Mrs. Findlayson, widow of a tea merchant, and then at the gold and white Queen of Society, who had a taste for heavy rose perfume....

She shook her head. Assuredly not. Neither of them could be Desiree.

She turned to Oliver, and realized that during her abstraction he had arranged to meet some friends in Watkin's Coffee House. Her instinct was to protest, but she could hardly keep him tied to her skirts, much though she wished to.

She feared, however, that good fortune was not turning Oliver's thoughts in the right direction. Quite the contrary.

With a pile of guineas available, and the entree to the highest circles, he was already full of unrealistic plans.

All the way home he talked of rich sinecures and grand entertainments. He had not only put his debt out of mind, but clearly thought he was on the way to wealth and glory. Portia was so distressed by it that she was glad to wave him on his way. When he had gone, however, she discovered he had taken an extra twenty guineas to go with the fifty she had given him last night.

Seventy guineas! It was a respectable annual income. It was not even safe to be carrying such an amount, and what on earth could he want with so much?

She feared she knew.

He came home late that night, crestfallen and with empty pockets.