Chapter 11
Portia returned to her rooms in a coach with two of Mirabelle’s hefty servants in attendance. They were disconcertingly proper, and even came in with her in case Mick was still there.
There was only Oliver, tied, gagged, and bound.
The men would have untied him, but Portia sent them away, wanting to get rid everything to do with tonight’s events. Then she ran to get a knife and free her brother. As soon as his mouth was free he choked out, “Portia, my God! I’m so sorry!”
“It’s all right.” She sawed at the rope around his wrists. “It’s all right. Nothing terrible happened.”
He rubbed the rope marks. “But Cuthbertson?”
She was freeing his feet. “Has been paid.” She decided impulsively not to tell him the whole. “Bryght Malloren saved me. He bought me.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “And nothing happened?”
She smiled through tears. “Nothing happened.”
He hugged her close. “Oh, thank God! I’ve been desperate. I was imagining…. Portia, I swear, I swear, I will not play again.”
She pushed back to look at him. “I’ve heard that before, I think.”
He was sober and serious. “This time I mean it. I’ve come to my senses.
It’s not that I love gaming so much anymore.
But I kept thinking I could find an easy solution to my problem, have everything back just as it was.
But I can’t. I’ve made a mess, and we’ll all have to live with it, but I won’t make it worse again. ”
Portia kissed him, for at last he did seem resolute. “Then perhaps tonight was worth it. And, Oliver, Fort is here. He…” she went hot, “…he was there. At Mirabelle’s.”
“Does he know?” His voice wavered a bit.
Portia grimaced. “I think so. He tried to buy me, too, presumably with the same intent as Bryght.”
Oliver sank his head in his hands. “He’ll flay me….” But then he stood and stretched his stiffened limbs. “Oh well, another bullet to bite. I deserve it. I think it would be best if I go now.”
“Go to Fort? It’s midnight.”
“Early hours in town, love, and I’d rather get it over with. I doubt I can sleep after all this. If he’s not in yet, I’ll wait until he comes home. I want this settled so we can get you safe back to Overstead.”
She shared that wish. “I’m sure Fort will give you the loan, and then we’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”
She suddenly remembered the twelve hundred guineas. She couldn’t see how to tell Oliver about it without revealing more about tonight than she wished. Surely Fort would give Oliver the whole loan, and then later she’d explain the money somehow and pay off part of the debt.
“I’d better dress.” Oliver hugged her again. “You are the best and bravest of sisters and I will not fail you in future.”
He went purposefully into his bedroom and Portia sat wearily, but with a degree of content. The affair had not gone as badly as it might, and it seemed to have shocked Oliver into his senses. She hoped Fort did ring a peal over him to complete the job.
And with any luck, they could be on a coach to Dorset tomorrow. She need never see Bryght Malloren again.
She rested her head on her hand and fought tears. They were just tears of weariness. She didn’t want to see him again. Even if his actions tonight had been to her advantage, he was a rake and a gamester, and the only offer he’d ever made her was an insulting one.
She sent Oliver on his way with a cheerful, confident smile and a teasing reminder to lock the outside door properly, then latched their door after him.
She roamed the room restlessly for a while, mind whirling with too many disordered thoughts, then collapsed into a chair to await her brother’s return.
She was exhausted, but unable to sleep. She tried to discipline her mind, but all she could think of was a man’s touch, a man’s beauty in flickering candlelight, and a kindled desire that would never come to full flame.
Bryght returned to the office to find Rothgar had poured two glasses of port. “Am I to have an explanation of the mysterious purchase?” Rothgar asked.
Bryght leaned with assumed carelessness against the corner of the desk and sipped the wine. “I see no need. It is not a matter that effects the family.” Not yet, at least. He supposed marrying Portia would affect the family, but not unpleasantly…. Unless tonight’s business became known.
“Over four hundred?”
“Of my own money, Bey.” And that wasn’t strictly true. Bryght had lent his ready cash to Bridgewater before the duke went north. But he’d soon have more.
Except that it occurred to him that he was deep in debt at the moment.
He’d just paid out four-twenty, thinking it was coming from Prestonly’s wager, but he’d promised Portia the whole twelve hundred.
He didn’t begrudge it, but it had been strangely careless of him not to even think of it.
With his losses at the table tonight, he was over seven hundred guineas in debt.
Not an alarming amount, but more than he could ever remember owing.
’Struth, if he won Portia St. Claire and it turned out that lucky in love did mean unlucky at cards he was in a pretty pickle. He suppressed a grin. Unless he wanted his brother to guess all, he’d best keep his wits about him.
Rothgar said, “I am as vulnerable to curiosity as any other man, Bryght. Are you going to torment me this way?”
Bryght couldn’t help but grin. “Yes.”
Rothgar smiled as he shrugged. “So be it.”
“And don’t employ your busy network to discover what I have been up to.”
“So be it,” said Rothgar again, but Bryght cursed silently. He knew his brother would keep his word and not pry, but he also knew that he’d made yet another error. He’d told Rothgar that he had something to hide.
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.