Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (23 page)

"I had my reasons."

"I don't doubt it." Andover, too, sipped his wine and mischief glimmered in his eyes. "I think of a hopeless gamester, a sister, and one of Cuthbertson's debtors...."

Bryght flicked him a glance. "Think no more."

Andover blinked. "My dear, my mind is a perfect blank. But a thought does intrude, alas. How are you going to guard against the next time?"

Bryght tapped a finger against his glass. "That had occurred to me." He shrugged and returned to the table. "Let us resume, gentlemen."

Bryght put all thoughts of Portia St. Claire out of his mind, intent on milking Prestonly of a fortune. But then he lost five more hands. He was forced to acknowledge that he couldn't keep his mind on the play at all. Hell, he and Andover had lost the hundreds they'd won earlier and were now down another three hundred.

He threw down his cards. "I'm for home, gentlemen. Do you want my place, Barclay?"

"The night's still young, my lord," said Sir William in surprise.

"You owe me a chance to make up my losses, my lord," said Mr. Prestonly, fingering his winnings.

Bryght rose. "I'll gladly play you another night, Mr. Prestonly." As Bryght passed Andover's seat, his friend murmured, "For home, or Dresden Street?"

Bryght stopped. "You, my friend, are going to become a dead bore."

Barclay overheard, and interjected with surprise, "With the emphasis on
dead?
What's up?"

Bryght laughed. "I am not in the habit of killing my friends."

"Then do you wish a friend's company?" Andover asked.

"No, I really am for home."

Bryght meant it. He was tempted to go and see if Portia was safe, but she wouldn't want such an intrusion now. He could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Back at Malloren House, however, Bryght's mind was still active, circling around financial arrangements. Prestonly had given him a draft on his bank and it should go into the safe. He decided he'd send Mirabelle and Cuthbertson their cut now.

He was aware that this was illogical and even dangerous, but he wanted this affair over with as soon as possible.

He arranged for a suitably heavy escort for the money, then took a corridor that led to the back of the house. It led, in fact, to the suite of offices from which the business of the marquessate was carried out. Most people were unaware that this business was Bryght's major occupation and delight.

When Bryght had finished his education and returned from his Grand Tour, he had plunged merrily into the social life of London—in particular into the gaming that went on everywhere. He enjoyed the challenge, particularly of games of skill, and was good at it. For a young man on a modest allowance, the winnings had come in useful, too.

Rothgar had been surprisingly tolerant, perhaps because Bryght generally won. Bryght amused himself sometimes trying to imagine what would have happened if he'd gone to Rothgar one day burdened with a massive gaming debt.

It was not, in fact, a particularly amusing thought.

But after some months, when the thrill was beginning to pall, Rothgar had started to introduce Bryght to a more interesting kind of speculation.

Investments.

And Bryght had fallen in love. He master-minded the Malloren financial affairs from a sense of responsibility, but he would have done it for the sheer excitement. Shipping, cartage, goods from the Orient and Africa, new ventures in England and the Americas. It was the best high-stakes game in the world and England was at the heart of it. Through Bryght's skillful management, the Mallorens were at the heart of it, too, bringing vast profits and substantial power.

Led by Zeno, and shielding the candle from the draft, Bryght entered the outer office where four tidy desks awaited the clerks who labored here during the day. Most people would be surprised at just how businesslike the Mallorens were about their affairs. Ten men worked in these offices by day—clerks, accountants, and a lawyer—but at night the place was deserted.

Not tonight, though. Bryght realized at last how strange it was that Zeno had preceded him instead of keeping his usual place at his heel. Of course he had. The phlegmatic animal had been longing to be in these rooms for hours.

For when Bryght entered the inner sanctum a branch of candles already illuminated his desk and the man working there. He was in shirt-sleeves, but the lace at throat and wrists was of the finest quality. His dark hair was tied neatly back in a bag-wig and he wore a large ruby signet on his right hand.

The Marquess of Rothgar looked up and surveyed his brother. "Trouble?"

Another soft
woof
announced a paler shape uncurling from a spot by Rothgar's feet. Zeno loped over to entwine himself comfortably with his mate, Boudicca.

Bryght could not imagine how he had missed Zeno's enthusiasm for this meeting. He was growing positively muddle-headed, and now he had a problem. Bryght would have given a great deal not to have Rothgar involved in this, but there was no avoiding it now.

"Just a debt to be paid." He went to a safe and unlocked it to take out a bag of money. He counted out four hundred and twenty guineas and put them into two separate pouches. It was, unfortunately, a startlingly large amount of money.

"Saints preserve us," said Rothgar mildly. "Do you mean you are losing?"

"No, actually, I won." Bryght told Zeno to stay, spun on his heel and went to give the pouches to the servants along with directions.

He paused then, tempted to go upstairs. He was in no fit state to handle his brother, but delaying a discussion with Rothgar would just increase his brother's curiosity.

Though Bryght was the second son, six years separated them. It was not a great age difference now they were men, but it encompassed more than years.

Bryght's early years had been idyllic, but Rothgar's had been marred by his mother's madness and her murder of her second child. Years later, the death of Bryght's parents had brought grief into an otherwise carefree boyhood, but it had been even worse for Rothgar. At nineteen, he had become responsible not only for the marquessate but for five young half-siblings.

Rothgar had his own reasons for being strongly protective of his family, and Bryght his own reasons for resisting it. Since they were close in age, the paternalism had never been as strong between them, but it was there. Bryght knew that Rothgar let nothing to do with his family escape his notice.

At times it was a damnable nuisance.

There was no choice, however. He headed back to the offices.

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.