Chapter 11 #2
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.
Why would there be a light so many hours after Portia should have gone to bed?
He tried the door.
He expected to find it locked, but it opened, increasing his concern.
He entered the dark, narrow hallway, all senses alert for trouble.
Finding none, he gave Zeno a quiet command to stay by the door and moved further into the chilly house.
This reminded him of his visit to Maidenhead.
He hadn’t sensed trouble then, and had found a great deal—Nerissa’s letter, and a dangerous .
If he’d not met Portia there, his life would still be orderly. But if he’d not met Portia there, tonight she would have been raped by Steenholt or D’Ebercall in front of twenty salivating voyeurs.