Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (26 page)

Then it dawned on her at last that Overstead was safe.

Overstead was safe!

A smile broke on her face, and tears escaped. Tears of joy. Thank God, thank God, the worst was over and Overstead was safe. A few more days and she could return home. She would continue her improvements and pay off the debt. Oliver would love the army and cover himself with glory.

The battle was won.

It was as if a leaden, clinging blanket slid from her and she could stand straight and breathe freely for the first time in weeks.

Still smiling, she became aware of discomfort from her tightly dressed hair and began to remove the pins. It was a relief to let it down and work her fingers through it. She rubbed at her tender scalp, and finger-combed the hair loose around her shoulders.

Then she realized she was still in yesterday's crumpled clothes and began to change. As she unlaced her stays, however, she saw she wore no shift and began to remember.

She pushed the memories away. That was over. She didn't need to think of Mirabelle's. She didn't need to think of Bryght. She would stay quietly in her rooms until Oliver returned, and need never see Bryght Malloren again.

As she took off her creased petticoat, however, she wished she could remember going to bed last night. It was strange that she would go to bed in her clothes, no matter how tired.

She tried to think back. Oliver had gone out, and she had sat up to await him.... She couldn't remember anything more until she woke up this morning. She must have put herself to bed in her sleep.

How peculiar.

Then, as she hung up her dimity gown, she saw her shoes placed neatly by the bed.

She had put herself to bed in an extraordinarily orderly manner, for she had the bad habit of stepping out of her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the room. This summoned a bewildered laugh. How strange to be tidier asleep than awake.

She wanted a bath, but that was not possible so she poured cold water into the basin and began a thorough wash. When she washed her face, however, she found a quantity of paint on the towel and scrubbed until every last trace was removed. If only she could scrub away all memory of the previous night as easily.

She doubted she would ever forget the desire Bryght Malloren had stirred in her.

She was fastening a fresh gown when there was a knock on the door. She rose to answer it then hesitated, thinking of Cuthbertson. But no. That must be over.

She swung it open ready to take on whatever trouble awaited, but it was only the landlady's boy, Simon, come with some coals to make up her fire. He had also brought her breakfast of bread and butter and small beer.

It seemed bizarre to Portia that these daily routines were going ahead as if nothing had changed.

In a sense, nothing had.

Yet it felt as if everything were different.

The first touches of warmth from the fire were welcome, and Portia thanked the young man then sat to nibble the bread.

Every time she let herself think, however, her wayward mind turned straight to Bryght Malloren. She was going to run mad here alone for a week with nothing to do.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Portia went warily to open it, but it was merely Mrs. Pinney in a belligerent mood.

"Miss St. Claire," she said, tiny mouth pinched into a little bud. "Where is your brother? If, indeed, brother he is."

Portia was taken aback by this unexpected attack. "Half-brother," she said. "He has had to leave for a few days, though I wonder how you know."

"I know because he was seen to leave, sneaking away like a thief in the night!"

Portia stiffened. "Our rent is paid well in advance, Mrs. Pinney. If my brother wishes to leave, he is free to do so."

The woman backed away a little, her mouth softening in surprise at this attack. "Surely, miss. But he left the door unlocked again. We could all have been murdered in our beds!"

Portia's outrage lessened. "I'm sorry...."

"And gentlemen!" continued Mrs. Pinney, mouth pursing again. "My good neighbor across the street says you were brought home late at night by gentlemen, and that another
gentleman
left here at nearly dawn! What do you say to that, then?"

"It's nonsense." Portia saw that her firm denial had impressed the woman, and added, "I was escorted home by the servants of... of a friend. My brother left to catch the early coach. There was nobody else here. Your neighbor must have been mistaken."

"Um, perhaps," muttered the woman, eyes shifting. "She did speak of a monstrous creature, which seems unlikely."

"A creature?" Portia wondered if she were still asleep and dreaming.

"A huge black hound," the woman whispered, "that crept after the Prince of Darkness like a foul specter."

"Really, Mrs. Pinney..." But the words stirred a memory for Portia. Then it struck her that when she had first seen Bryght Malloren she had thought of the Prince of Darkness, of Lucifer himself. And Bryght had a large dog.

Could he have
been
here.

Been
in
here?

Mrs. Pinney was shaking her head. "Yes, it is as you think, Miss St. Claire. Gin. So sad. But," she added, with a return to her former belligerence, "there will be no more neglecting of the locks, or out you go! And your brother had best be back soon. I don't hold with young women living alone, particularly those who like to be abroad at night!"

Portia bit back another protest. "Sir Oliver has gone to Dorset, Mrs. Pinney. He will be back within the week."

"A week! That is a great time to leave a single lady unattended."

Portia could have delivered a lecture on the question of who had been attending whom, but merely said, "Since I have nowhere else to go, and know of no one who would come here to attend me, there is nothing to be done about it."

"I could put you on the street," the woman said. "This is a decent house, and I'll not have it otherwise."

"Nor would I," Portia protested, "And you cannot evict me when the rent is paid."

The woman was about to speak when her son raced up the stairs. "Ma! There's a grand coach at the door!"

Portia's first thought was that it was Bryght Malloren come to seize her. But when she followed the landlady into the hall to look down the stairs, she saw Fort.

He was dressed quite casually in dull blue and top boots, with his brown hair was simply tied, but it was certain this house had never seen his like. The two powdered footmen added splendidly to his ambience. He left the men at the door and mounted the stairs with eloquent disdain. Mrs. Pinney and her son melted out of his way and he ignored them.

"Cousin Portia," he said with a friendly smile and extended hands. "How wonderful to find you in London."

When she put her hands in his, he carried them to his lips and kissed each. "You look a little tired, which is hardly surprising given this dismal place. We must see what we can do."

He shut the door on the gawking Pinneys and released her hands. Portia remembered then that Fort had been at Mirabelle's, had bid on her, diced for her, and according to Bryght, would not have been able to get her completely free.

She had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

He was as tall as Bryght and a little heavier in build. He made the small room shrink even further, but he was Fort with whom she'd run wild in Dorset years ago and his slanted smile was familiar. "I thought you'd given up madcap adventures, Portia."

"I thought so too. Oh, Fort, thank you for helping us."

"It was nothing," he said and eyed her warily. "I rather thought you'd ring a peal over me about the military."

"I might have done, but I see now it may be for the best. But I do hope Oliver doesn't see much action."

"Don't be foolish. The only way to keep him out of trouble is to keep him in the thick of things. It's a damned shame the war's about over. You have almost mothered him to disaster."

"Are you going to put it all at my door, then? That seems unfair."

"Not all of it. Your mother and pouting Pru have done their part. Let him go."

She pulled a face. "It seems I have no choice. At least I am able to manage Overstead while he's gone. I assure you you will be repaid in full in not too many years."

"It is nothing," he said again, and Portia found it rather irritating. It was doubtless true that five thousand guineas was nothing to the Earl of Walgrave. It had nearly ruined her.

"In fact," she said, "we can pay off a good part of it immediately, for Bryght Malloren gave me the proceeds of his wager last night." There. She was rather proud of the cool way she had referred to it.

"Did he, by gad? Twelve hundred? I suppose he owed you something since you must have helped him win." His lip curled. "Rather a dishonorable bet, if one thinks about it."

"No more dishonorable than auctioning children!"

He shrugged carelessly. "The main thing is to see what can be done with you until Oliver returns."

"I can stay here now your visit has covered me with glittering respectability." But then she remembered that Bryght Malloren might have been here and shuddered.

"You see it is not proper," Fort said. "I could offer you refuge at my house, but it's a bachelor establishment at the moment and you are not a relative...."

"I don't expect you to house me, Fort."

"Do you not have any acquaintance or connection in Town?"

"No. We have only been here for a few days. Oliver has friends, but..."

"But, no," he completed with a raised brow.

"There's Nerissa, I suppose."

He looked a question.

"Nerissa Trelyn. She is apparently my cousin." Portia laughed. "I was supposed to dine there tonight."

A strange flash of humor touched his eyes. "But that is the perfect solution. Explain your plight—say Oliver was called out of town on urgent business. Lady Trelyn will be bound to take you in."

"Oh, I couldn't..."

"She will insist. Trelyn—dull dog that he is—is a stickler for family responsibilities. You will be secure in the highest levels of Society."

Secure. It was a delicious word. Portia remembered how charming Nerissa had been and the decorum that had surrounded the Trelyns in the park. In that circle there would be no risk of being importuned by a rakish gamester. "Do you really think it the thing to do?"

"Assuredly." And yet something in his tone made Portia's instinct twitch a warning.

"I don't like to impose."

"It will not be an imposition. Now, do you have ready funds? You should travel by chair."

"I have been used to walking about the town."

"I don't recommend it. I would take you, but Trelyn looks askance at any sort of wild living and I've done my share. My escort wouldn't add to your consequence. If we truly were cousins, it would be different." He smiled with genuine affection. "I do feel a family connection, Portia, and I will look out for your welfare."

"Thank you, Fort." She went into his arms. "It means so much to have someone to help me."

He hugged her. "Everything is going to work out well for you, I promise. But please stop fighting every battle. I know you too well for my sanity. The thought of you loose on London will turn me gray."

She laughed. "You weren't used to be so cautious. I'll try to act a decorous lady, but I do hate to give in without a struggle."

"I know it. Give in on this little thing, though. Promise you will take a chair wherever you go."

She smiled up at him. "Very well."

"And send word to me when you're settled. If Lady Trelyn fails you, I'll arrange something else. We really can't have you here like this."

She impulsively rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

He kissed her back, lightly on the lips. "I thought you past the age of being so foolish by now."

"So did I," she said wistfully, her thoughts all of Bryght Malloren.

Portia admitted then that it was not just her rooms that were insecure, but her heart. Bryght had invaded, and with very little effort could conquer. She needed stronger defenses.

So, as soon as Fort had left, she put on her hat and prepared to set out to visit the Trelyns. She found Mrs. Pinney hovering.

"A fine gentleman, your cousin," the woman said in a blend of awe and suspicion.

"The Earl of Walgrave?" Portia queried, smoothing her leather gloves.

The woman's eyes went wide. "The one they call the Incorruptible?"

"No, his son," said Portia crisply. "I am about to visit a relative to see if I can stay with her during my brother's absence. Please call me a chair."

"Very wise." Mrs. Pinney was almost groveling now. "A young woman can never be too careful of her reputation, my dear."

This struck Portia as funny, but she managed not to laugh.

She waited while Simon ran to a nearby stand for a chair, and fretted about Bryght. Why on earth would such a man be creeping about Clerkenwell in the middle of the night? Perhaps the gin-sodden neighbor had imagined the whole.