Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (13 page)

Portia leaped up from the chair in which she had been fretting. "Oliver, how could you? You
stole
that money."

"How can I steal what is mine?" he blustered, but without conviction.

Portia bit her lip. It was true that it was his money but he simply couldn't be allowed to throw away seventy guineas a day. And, of course, it had gone on gaming.

"Yes, yes, I played," he admitted, collapsing onto the faded sofa. "And deeper than I meant to. I thought perhaps I could win enough to redeem the estate, then there would be no debt to tie us all. After last night, and our grand success today, I thought my luck had changed...." He looked up despondently. "I won't be so foolish again, I promise, my dear."

He
sounded
sincere.

"I suppose it was Bryght Malloren," Portia said bitterly. How could she have mellowed toward the man? He was setting up Oliver like the hawk he was, intent on taking every last penny.

Oliver's eyes widened with surprise. "Malloren? No, I told you I don't move in those circles. It was a man called Cuthbertson who won most of it. Not a bad sort of fellow. You can't blame him—the luck was against me. And seventy guineas is nothing. In fact, if I'd had more, I could probably have turned the tide."

Portia just looked at him, a sick feeling in her stomach. In every other respect Oliver was a good and rational man, but in this one matter, he was mad.

She kept her voice calm as she said, "I hope you mean that, Oliver—that you won't play again. What little money we have won't last if you spend it like that." She remembered Bryght Malloren talking of responsibilities, and added, "And you have to think of the whole family."

Oliver flushed. "I know, I know. I was doing it for the family. If we're to have any kind of life at all, we need money."

"Fort will lend you the money, Oliver. We will be able to pay it back if we live simply and work hard."

"It'll be demmed dull for everyone."

"No one will mind if we have Overstead back."

He looked up. "You might not—you love the country and harvests and lambing and such—but Pru won't much like having to turn her dresses and miss the local balls."

He'd brought in their sister, but Portia knew he spoke for himself. He had no interest in country life or economy. "If we're careful perhaps we'll be able to afford some entertainments." She was offering the sop to him as much as to the absent Prudence.

"Going to parties won't do her much good without a dowry."

Portia wanted to snap that he should have thought of such matters before throwing everything away, but she said, "Pru's pretty enough to marry well without. And if she complains, we'll remind her that the alternative is Manchester. She'll learn to count her blessings."

She hoped he was getting the message, too.

Perhaps he was, for he grimaced wryly. "Aye, that'll certainly cool her. Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that when I strolled past the Ware mansion on the way to Watkin's it looked as if they were readying for an arrival. What's the odds that Fort will be in Town soon?"

A weight seemed to slide off Portia's shoulders. "Oh, I do hope so."

She was convinced that Bryght Malloren had offered one truth. The only way to avoid total ruin was to get Oliver away from London—back in Dorset and drowning in hard work.

* * *

The next day, trying not to be obvious about it, Portia guarded her room and the money. Oliver tried various sneaky ways to avoid her vigilance, and then faced her.

"Two guineas? You expect me to go out with a mere two guineas in my pocket?"

"You are going out to see if Fort is in Town yet. Why do you even need two?"

"It's a pittance. You will make me appear a pauper!"

Portia's patience snapped. "You
are
a pauper!"

"I'm only a pauper because you are sitting on my money like a miser with a hoard."

"I am sitting on it because you have no sense in these matters."

"I have more sense than you."

"Then how did you throw everything away at cards?"

"Plague take you, Portia. That isn't fair. I was cheated!"

She planted her hands on her hips. "The more fool you. And the more fool you for playing still."

"Need I remind you that I won two hundred guineas, and from Bryght Malloren, no less?"

"And lost seventy of it last night."

"I was just unlucky."

"And always will be."

After a moment of glaring violence, he slammed out of the room leaving Portia badly shaken. She'd never fought with Oliver before because he wasn't of an argumentative nature. He certainly wasn't of a violent disposition, but now she was afraid of him. She feared he was, in truth, mad when it came to gaming.

How was she to avoid disaster?

Her hands were shaking as she took out the small pouch of gold and counted out the rent for three months. She considered carefully, then included money for coals, for bread and ale, and for one meal a day each from the chop house. She took it down to their landlady.

"Why, Miss St. Claire," said the thin woman, sliding the purse into her pocket, "how pleasant it will be to have two such respectable people in my house for so long."

"I may not stay, Mrs. Pinney. I will soon be needed at home."

"Well, you may be sure I will take excellent care of your brother for you. Such a fine young man. There is just one thing..."

"Yes?" asked Portia, wondering what new blow was about to fall.

"I think Sir Oliver is a little neglectful about the locks, Miss St. Claire. I rose this morning to find the door unlocked. We could all have been murdered in our beds!"

Portia relaxed with relief. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Pinney. In the country..."

"This is not the country. Please ask Sir Oliver to be more careful."

"Yes, I will. Thank you."

Portia escaped back to her room, feeling some relief to have matters settled.

She knew she could not stay in London for it was poisoning her, but she wasn't at all sure she could persuade Oliver to leave. If Fort had no help to offer then she would return to Overstead and organize the move to Manchester.

She told herself firmly that even Manchester was a better place than this, and that with courage and hard work a good life could be made anywhere.

She would try to persuade Oliver to go with her. If he would not go, however, she could leave knowing that he would have a roof over his head and a meal a day for a few months.

That left only thirty guineas in the purse, however, and she feared Oliver would notice the lack. She did not want him to even suspect that she had hidden part of the money and so she took out some of the coins from behind the fireplace.

Some of them were jammed and a couple had slipped in too far, and so she had to use a knife to work them free. As she did so, she couldn't help thinking of Lord Bryght.

Her hands paused in their work. She had been awake half the night puzzling over him, and when she slept he had been in her dreams. He was as alien to her as a hawk in a chicken coop, and just as dangerous, and yet she could not banish him from her mind. She could recall his flickering, subtle smile, the graceful movements of his elegant hands, and the soft magic of his beautiful voice....

She jabbed a coin fiercely with her knife, but instead of loosening it, she pushed it farther back and out of reach.

Damnation!

She rested her head in her hands, fighting tears. Not only was she facing abject poverty, against all reason she was obsessed by a high-born rake of a gamester! No doubt every woman he met fell in love with him and he found it vastly amusing. He probably expected her to be so overwhelmed by the honor of his attentions that she would fall willingly into an illicit affair.

Well, she certainly would not act the fool with a man she hardly knew, especially when most of what she knew about him was bad. He was a rake, and if he had any honorable intentions toward a lady, it was toward a walking fortune called Mrs. Findlayson. Worse still, he was an unrepentant gamester, the one thing above all she detested. And he thought the mere idea of fidelity and evenings by the fire amusing.

What, then, did she see in him?

Sex.

Her cheeks heated at the thought, but it was true. She was twenty-five years old and knew enough of such matters to understand that naked lust could strike the most sensible person. She would like to deny it, but the fact was that she was attracted to Bryght Malloren in a strictly physical way.

But powerfully.

Her body reacted to his body, and in her dreams last night...

She hastily returned to prying out some more coins.

If Oliver was mad about gaming, she was running mad in another direction. Her whole family was clearly unbalanced.

But it wasn't just lust, she thought wistfully. He could be charming and had a clever tongue. She did admire a man with an agile mind and a sense of humor. Were he of a station closer to hers and not a gamester...

"Devil take you," she muttered to a particularly uncooperative coin, though the words were intended for another target. "You're a man, no more, no less. And not the sort of man for me."

She counted up their money, both the coins still hidden and those in the pouch, and found they had just over a hundred guineas left. It was a great deal of money, but not if Oliver lost seventy a day!

Having done the best she could with their financial affairs, Portia turned to other matters. She settled to writing a letter home in case they had to stay here much longer. Hannah Upcott must assume her son and daughter were still in Maidenhead, but she would expect either their return or news.

Instead of writing, however, Portia's pen began to sketch Bryght Malloren. Portia had some artistic skill and thought she caught part of the lean elegance of his features, but she could not catch the magic.

"There is no magic," she muttered, and put some extra lines in his lashes, trying to convey the drama of his eyes.

It didn't work. She doubted anyone would recognize him.

Which was as well.

She crumpled the paper and threw it on the fire.

Let that exorcise him from her mind.

Chapter 7

Portia ate a lonely meal brought in from the chop house by the landlady's son. When Mrs. Pinney invited her downstairs for tea, Portia went because she was bored, but found she had to deflect a series of nosy questions.

Oliver didn't come home until midnight. He said a brusque, "Good night," and disappeared into his room. It was nearly noon when he emerged demanding breakfast.

Portia served him the bread and butter, and made tea with a kettle on the hob, trying to judge what he had been up to the night before. In his current mood he was a stranger. Just for something to say, she passed on Mrs. Pinney's warning about the locks.

"I suppose we should be watchful for thieves," he said and rose from the table. "In fact, I think I should take charge of our money."

Portia stared at him. "Why?"

"It's hardly a task for a woman."

"I don't mind."

He fixed her with an alarming look. "Portia. Give me the money."

Portia had never been afraid of Oliver before, but she knew there was a real risk of violence now. She bit back her arguments and went to get the pouch.

He weighed it with a frown, and spilled the coins to count them. "Hell and the devil, there's scarce sixty here! Where's the rest?"

Portia met his eyes calmly. "I used it to pay our rent well into the future."

"Till kingdom come, I would think. Plague take you, Portia, what's the point of that when we'll soon be moving somewhere better?"

"Better? Where?"

"Anywhere would be better than this place. You must have been mad to commit us to it."

Portia controlled her own temper, knowing it would be fuel to a dangerous fire. "I thought it safer, Oliver."

"Safer! You think I'll lose it all, but I know better." He scooped the coins back into the bag. "I won again last night. I turned that measly two guineas into twenty. When I come home tonight, everything will be different. You wait and see."