Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (24 page)

Damn.

He'd thought Nerissa had turned his heart and mind to ice, but Portia St. Claire seemed to be thawing it to slush, with all the intelligence one could expect of slush.

Rothgar spoke as if there were nothing amiss. "I have come up to Town for the discussion of the war with Spain and the financing of it. I intend to stay here for some weeks. I note here some trouble in Bridgewater's affairs." He indicated the ledger he had been reading when Bryght came in. "His debt load seems heavy, and there's no certainty he'll get the Bill. I've heard Brooke on the subject and he virtually has a seizure at the mere mention of canals. If the waterway is stopped at Manchester, Bridgewater will be bankrupt. Do you still have faith in that project?"

Bryght snapped his wits into order. "Yes, of course. It's the way of the future."

"It will change England forever."

"Gads, Bey, I never thought you of that stamp. Man must progress. People like Brooke would have us all still living in moated castles."

"There are times," said the marquess contemplatively, "when it would be very comforting to live in a moated castle. Such as when the duke's creditors come howling to the door."

"The family's investment in the canal is moderate."

"Your personal investment is not. You've become a shareholder. You're liable for any and all debts."

Bryght stiffened. How the devil had Rothgar discovered that? "That is my concern."

"In this family, nothing is entirely a personal concern." Rothgar leaned back. "I wonder why you would take such a risk."

"Profit?"

"Are you trying to do better for yourself than for the family?"

Bryght felt an absurd flash of guilt for perhaps deep within him there was a desire to out-do Rothgar. He didn't know. "I'm more cautious with the funds of others. It would be madness for you to become a shareholder, but you could increase your loans to Bridgewater. He'd welcome it."

"I'm sure he would." Rothgar contemplated Bryght for a moment, but then abruptly switched topic. "How are the cotton manufactories in Manchester progressing? Are they obtaining adequate supplies from India and the Americas?"

So Bryght found himself in a damnably unwelcome inquisition of the financial affairs of the House of Malloren, of the nation, and even of the world. Not that there was anything lacking about his knowledge of those affairs, but he was not in the mood to concentrate.

Had it been wise to trust Mirabelle to see Portia safely home? Would Portia have taken care not to be seen leaving such a place of ill-repute? What would her brother have done and said when she returned? What had she told him...?

"Bryght, do you have concerns about the Northumberland property?"

Bryght realized he'd allowed his thoughts to distract him entirely and failed to answer a question. "No, of course not. The new drainage system is Brand's concern not mine, but the reported yields last year were up to expectations. There's a good chance that coal will be found there, too. It's a sound investment."

Rothgar moved on to some foreign dealings and Bryght forced himself to pay attention. He could plead tiredness, but as he had always been a night-owl Rothgar would be bound to find that peculiar. Rothgar himself seemed to have an inhuman ability to do without sleep entirely at times.

The clocks were striking three when the marquess closed the final ledger. "And your personal affairs?"

"What?" asked Bryght, who felt squeezed dry, and could only think his brother meant Portia.

"You had plans not long ago to buy Candleford Park."

"Oh. No longer."

"You were, as I remember, quite keen."

"Put down the scalpel, Bey. You know damn well that estate was intended for Nerissa."

The marquess studied him with dark, hooded eyes. "And you are no longer interested?"

"Certainly not for Nerissa." Bryght was startled, however, by a clear vision of Portia at Candleford.

He had always seen Candleford as a bower for Nerissa. It was an old, lush estate with ancient spreading trees and a solid house of mellow bricks. He had envisioned Nerissa there, sun-dappled under a tree, being peacefully beautiful, surrounded in time by peacefully beautiful children.

Now, thinking of the estate, he saw Portia racing across the lawns, fiery hair flying loose of its pins, chasing a laughing scampish child with the same burnished hair....

"I hear talk of a Mrs. Findlayson," said Rothgar.

Bryght was genuinely startled. Jenny Findlayson was far from his thoughts. "You shouldn't listen to gossip, Bey."

"But its so informative. There will be some other lady one day and you will want a home for her."

Unspoken between them was the fact that, because of his mother's madness, the marquess had ceded the duty of continuing the line to Bryght.

"As you have doubtless discovered," said Bryght coolly, "at the moment my funds are tied up in Bridgewater's affairs. I doubt Candleford will stay on the market long."

"We could buy it for the family and you could take it over when convenient. It's a fine place, and well situated."

"Perhaps." But Bryght did not want his home at Rothgar's hands. He received a handsome share of the family's profits for his labors, but did not want charity. He realized this damnable inquisition could have waited until tomorrow. It had been designed to wear him down so he would reveal more than he intended, and it might have worked.

He rose to his feet. "Keep your fingers out of my personal affairs, Bey." With that short comment, he left the room.

He only realized a moment later that he had shut the door on Zeno. There was no complaint. Ah well, moral duty could only take any male so far.

* * *

Beowulf Malloren, Marquess of Rothgar, leant back thoughtfully in his chair and two dogs sat up to rest their heads on his knees. He played absently with their ears as he considered matters. "Not Nerissa, then," he said to them. "But I didn't expect that after recent events. And not the Findlayson, thank God. But some other woman. Any suggestions, Zeno?"

Zeno had his eyes contentedly closed.

"Such admirable discretion. A problem, whoever she is, for he's guarding the matter from me."

The marquess's siblings had a lamentable tendency to think he would interfere between them and their attachments. Well, perhaps he would if he thought them unadvisable. At least part of his purpose in coming to Town was to look into the matter of the rich widow who was throwing out lures to Bryght.

Last year, Bryght's attachment to Nerissa St. Claire had been a problem, especially as the young woman had made clear advances to Rothgar behind Bryght's back. It was surprising how a clever man could be a fool over a woman.

Rothgar had always handled Bryght with a great deal of care, understanding many of the forces that shaped him. They had an amicable relationship, but it was shadowed. It was shadowed mainly by Bryght's mother, which would have distressed her.

Gabrielle, Marchioness of Rothgar, had been a charming, generous, warm-hearted woman who had brought joy and laughter to a house shadowed by murder and madness. All the world, including her children, had adored her, but perhaps Bryght—her oldest child—had been closest to her heart.

Rothgar had appreciated his stepmother's qualities, though he knew he had never treated her with the warmth she wanted. Perhaps, even when too young to understand, he had been responding to her own ambivalent feelings.

He was a child, and Gabrielle reached out to all children, especially sad ones. But he was also the quiet moody son of the madwoman who had murdered a newborn and caused such grief to her husband, and he carried that woman's blood.

Gabrielle had treated her stepson with as much love and care as her own children, but she had never concealed the fact that she did not think his blood should be passed on. She had raised Bryght to provide the next generation of Mallorens.

That was perfectly reasonable, but it had gone further.

She had wished her stepson dead.

It had only been the once, as far as anyone knew. Rothgar—Lord Grafton then—had been brought home to the Abbey deathly ill of a fever picked up during a rash adventure on the seamy side of London. Gabrielle, his father, and Bryght had been by his bed, and he had known he was dying.

Gabrielle said, "Perhaps it is for the best."

His father said, "No," but without great conviction.

Bryght exclaimed, "No! I don't want Bey to die. Don't wish him dead." He had flung himself on the bed as if to protect his older brother from harm.

Perhaps it was duty, but Rothgar thought it was guilt over that death-wish that had driven his stepmother to drag him back from death by will alone. She had nursed him, but more importantly she had berated him, refusing to allow him to slip away. At times he had wanted to beg her to let him go, but he was too weak even for that.

By the time he was strong enough to speak, she was ill herself, for she caught his illness. No one was able to drag her back from death, though the marquess tried. Then he, too, succumbed. Rothgar had risen from his sickbed responsible for his parents' deaths, and responsible for holding his family together.

He had never let anyone know that he had been aware of that crucial conversation.

However, he suspected that Bryght carried a little of his mother's guilt, for though he hadn't wished his brother dead at that moment, he must have wished later that Rothgar had died rather than his parents. Certainly Gabrielle's clear desire that Bryght marry and produce a future marquess now had the power of a sacred duty.

Rothgar approved, for he knew Bryght was well-suited to marry. He liked women and children, and was generally patient and willing to compromise. There had always been a danger, however, that in his desire to fulfill his mother's dreams to the letter, he would choose with his head rather than his heart.

At least the Findlayson seemed safely out of the running, and Nerissa was both married and unmasked.

But the new, mysterious candidate for Bryght's hand was a powerful one.

For as they had gone through the ledgers of accounts and investments, Rothgar had deliberately made several mistakes, and Bryght—sharp-brained Bryght to whom figures and facts were life-blood—had not even noticed.

Rothgar extinguished the candles thoughtfully and left the offices. Despite Bryght's warning, he would have to investigate matters.

When they entered the hall Zeno gave a
woof
that was much sharper than usual, particularly for night-time when he knew he was not allowed to make noise other than to sound an alarm.

Rothgar looked around, but there was nothing amiss.

The dog loped over to the front door and waited there.

Rothgar followed. "Gone out, has he?" He opened the door and looked at the chilly rain. "Are you sure?"

Zeno gave what seemed suspiciously like a sigh and slid out into the chilly dark.

Rothgar closed the heavy door thoughtfully. He'd give a great deal if Zeno could submit a written report tomorrow.

* * *

Bryght was on his way to Dresden Street.

He had intended to go to bed. In fact, he was exhausted which was unusual for him, but even as he climbed the stairs, thoughts of Portia had jangled in his mind and he had known he could not sleep until he was sure of her safety. He'd gone to his room to get a heavy cloak and to put on boots, and had then returned downstairs and left the house.

The streets were mostly quiet at this dead hour, for there was an icy rain and even the skulking predators had burrowed into their hovels. A stinking night-soil cart rattled by, hauling off excrement to dump into the river. Once Bryght passed a watchman, patrolling with his bell and lantern. The man peered at him suspiciously, clearly wondering why any honest body would be out in such weather at such a time.

Bryght ignored him, but was perfectly aware that he was acting the lovesick fool. If Rothgar found out he'd die laughing, or clap him in an asylum. Even under Nerissa's thrall Bryght had not behaved like this.

But his feelings for Nerissa had not been like this.

There was only the slightest click of claws to warn him before Zeno appeared dark, wet, and silent at his side.

"Damnation," said Bryght. "I suppose you announced to all that I had gone out again."

Zeno just snuffled, head down against the rain.

"If you don't care for the weather, you could have stayed at home with your lovely mate. But I suppose she's not in heat yet. It must be convenient to have times when you're not pulled toward her."

The dog ignored him.

"A taste of the fruit can be fatal, though," Bryght mused. "Having experienced Portia's passion, I'm addicted as madly, as insanely, as an opium eater. Will it kill me, do you think?"

Bryght laughed and abandoned the unproductive conversation, abandoned, too, unproductive speculation about the state of his heart. He was bewitched by something that could neither be explained nor controlled and he was happy to surrender.

He arrived at the house and saw candlelight in an upper room. He had rather hoped to find the place peaceful and dark, for then he would have no excuse to intrude.