Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] Read online

  "He did give me a blow, Portia."

  Portia had forgotten that. She'd been thinking of the man's treatment of herself. "It can't be necessary to fight him."

  "Maybe not, especially if I never encounter him again. Which seems likely, the way things are. In fact, we had better hope you didn't anger him. We don't need the enmity of the Mallorens to add to our load."

  Portia didn't comment on that. She'd opposed Lord Bryght and tried to shoot him, but he hadn't been in a rage until he'd found that letter and she'd told him her name. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed.

  She pinched some sugar from the cone and stirred it thoughtfully into the dark coffee. "He seemed to recognize the name St. Claire. Can you think why?"

  Oliver shook his head. "I suppose your father's family might be known to him. Your uncle is Lord Felsham after all, though he's very minor nobility."

  Portia's father had been the third son of Lord Felsham. After his death, Portia's mother had married Sir Edward Upcott, and had more children, two of whom had survived—Oliver and Prudence. Pretty Prudence, who was sixteen and had hopes of a good marriage before her brother made her a pauper. Portia stopped that line of thought.

  There must be a way to save their home and their future.

  "As far as I know, Lord Felsham is a nonentity," she said. "I have an uncle who is Bishop of Nantwich, but he would be of even less interest to these Mallorens." She pulled a face. "But I suppose there could be a blood feud going on with me none the wiser. The St. Claires never approved of father marrying a stocking-maker's daughter. We have no contact with them. I suppose we could see if they are able to help now...."

  "I doubt it, Portia. Lord Felsham would have to be a regular Croesus to be able to toss me five thousand guineas without caring about it."

  Portia sighed. Five thousand guineas. The price of her life, and the life of her family. It was almost impossible to believe that they were in such straits.

  It had started with the death of Oliver's father. Sir Edward had been an honest country squire, but too inclined to indulge in rich foods and port wine. One day he had risen from his bed complaining of indigestion, and fallen down dead.

  It had been a terrible shock to the whole family, but none of them had expected the tragedy to have a such a dramatic effect on their lives. Oliver inherited the baronetcy, but being only twenty-one, he was unlikely to unsettle things soon by bringing a bride to Overstead.

  However, Oliver had always been restive and unable to settle to country life. He had revived the idea of joining the army. When his family protested—Hannah and Prudence adding tears to their pleas—he had gone off to London "to see a bit of the world."

  Portia remembered that they'd all been immensely relieved to have him engaged in such a safe activity. Of course, they'd imagined Oliver in picture galleries, attending Court, and meeting philosophers and writers in the coffee houses.

  Instead of intellectual speculations Oliver had been drawn into less lofty ones. He had soon been spending all his time in clubs and gaming hells, both winning and losing. Then had come the disastrous night when he had staked and lost Overstead to a Major Barclay.

  Major Barclay now featured in Portia's nightmares—a shallow, shifty individual, with leering eyes and a demonic grimace. And, of course, he must be a trickster and a cheat.

  Being a low-minded type, the major had little interest in a small estate in Dorset. He wanted cash and had agreed to let Oliver redeem his home for five thousand guineas. Oliver had failed to persuade any bank to lend him so much on the estate, however.

  Curse the major, and curse the bankers.

  Portia wished she had been able to attend the meeting at the banks, but of course it was unthinkable for a woman to take part in such business, even if the woman knew more of the estate than the man.

  But she had helped Sir Edward manage the estate and knew it could bear the loan.

  When the banks turned him down, Oliver had been inclined to give up, talking again about joining the army. He was sure he could earn advancement and be able to support his family in modest circumstances.

  Portia, however, had not been willing to surrender so easily. As a last resort, she had suggested applying for advice to their neighbor, the great Earl of Walgrave. She had hoped, of course, that he would advance Oliver the money, for he was very rich and was also Oliver's godfather. Unfortunately, the earl had not been at his estate, Walgrave Towers.

  Again, Oliver had been inclined to give up and prepare to hand the estate over to Barclay. Portia had fought on. She had discovered that the earl was in Maidenhead and had virtually dragged Oliver here. It was the worst luck that they had arrived at this rented house just as the earl was on the point of leaving. He had ordered them to stay here until he had time to attend to their affairs.

  It had sounded promising, but two days had passed with no news, so Oliver had gone out this evening to seek word. Surely he must have discovered something. "Did you find Lord Walgrave?" Portia asked.

  He shook his head. "He seems to have left Maidenhead and taken his entourage with him. Face facts, Portia. He's turning his back, too. It's hopeless."

  She reached over to grip his hand. "You can't just give up, Oliver. You still have a month to find the money."

  He laughed bitterly. "Where?"

  "Oh, Oliver, we have to keep trying. Perhaps we can follow the earl. Where did he go?"

  "Nobody knows. For heaven's sake, Portia, we can't go chasing after him like hounds on the scent. Do you never know when you're beaten? If Lord Walgrave had been willing to help us, he would have done so."

  "He was clearly busy...."

  "And always will be."

  "There must be something we can do."

  He drained his cup. "If there is, you must find it then, for I'm at a loss. The only way I can see to raise the wind would be to go to the moneylenders, and the interest they'd charge would break us anyway."

  "So, we go home, do we, and prepare to hand everything over to Major Barclay?"

  "What choice do we have?"

  Portia fixed him with a look. "We can chase after the earl like hounds on the scent."

  "Portia!"

  "Oliver, I will not give up until the very end. We will wait a few more days in case Lord Walgrave sends word, but if not I am going up to London to seek news of him. If you don't come, I will go on my own."

  * * *

  Oliver was most unhappy with the plan, and it took Portia nearly a week to get him to agree. Even as they waited in the inn yard for the London Fly to roll in, he was still arguing. "Mother is going to have fits to think of you in the wicked city with only me for escort."

  "There won't be much she can do about it," said Portia firmly. "And anyway, I hope to be home triumphant before Mama realizes we've left Maidenhead. It will surely only take a moment of the earl's time to settle matters, and with such good news, she'll forgive us."

  "If he's there," said Oliver despondently, but he climbed into the coach without further protest.

  Portia spent the six hour journey planning how best to approach the earl. He was an old-fashioned Puritan sort of man, and would not take kindly to a woman's voice unless she were pleading prettily for mercy. That wasn't in Portia's style, but if she left it to Oliver she wasn't sure he would carry it off.

  By the time they reached the city she had decided she must accompany Oliver to the earl's house. She resolved to do her best to be a quiet, properly behaved lady whilst there. Perhaps she could even squeeze out some tears.

  That reminded her of Bryght Malloren. How had he known that she did not cry? How had he known that she hated to give up?

  In truth, the dratted man had a distressing way of sneaking into her mind, and if she blocked him from her conscious thoughts he invaded her dreams. It was preposterous. He was a gamester and a bully.

  But she could still remember lying beneath him, remember his lips on hers. There were wicked moments when she wished she had not held herself impassive and had experienced that kiss to the full.

  She was twenty-five and had been wooed, but her suitors had all behaved correctly. She had never been kissed like that. It seemed a large gap in her education, and despite his wickedness, she suspected Bryght Malloren would be an excellent teacher.

  Oh but really, her mother was right when she claimed that the St. Claire blood inclined her daughter to wildness. Portia shook her head to throw these thoughts out causing Oliver to ask if she had the headache.

  It was as good an excuse as any, but it was her heart which pained her, not her head. That was evidence of acute mental instability. Portia knew it was her fate to be a spinster. She was too short, too thin, too outspoken, and cursed with red hair and freckles.

  As the straggling cottages and market gardens became the close-set houses and busy streets of London, Portia fought her insane attraction to a high-born stranger.

  By the time she climbed out of the coach in the inn-yard of the Swan, she had won the battle. After all, even if some suitable man were now to make her an offer of marriage, she could not take it. She would be needed at Overstead. She and Oliver were going to have to live quietly and labor hard for many years if they were to pay off the loan the earl was going to give them.

  * * *

  Portia had expected London to be grand and exciting, but this part certainly wasn't. As soon as they ventured from the inn-yard she began to wish herself safe in the country. London was crowded and noisy, and the sewers were clearly inadequate for their purpose, for the place stank.

  And it was riddled with vice.

  A couple rolled by drunk, and it was not yet dark. She saw a ragged woman leaning against a wall be approached by an equally ragged man. She could not mistake the transaction that was taking pla
ce, but the sum involved must be pennies.

  How horrible.

  She soon discovered that London was expensive for almost anything except whores and gin. It was as well they were not intending to stay beyond a few days for their small purse of guineas would not last long here.

  Oliver wanted to look for rooms in the fashionable part of town where he had stayed before. Portia squashed that plan and found them cheap ones on the fringes, in Dresden Street in Clerkenwell. They took two bedchambers and a parlor for two guineas a month, but had to pay an extra ten shillings a week for a daily fire in the parlor, which was a necessity in December.

  Portia looked around the simple rooms. "It is a ridiculous amount of money to be paying for such meager accommodations."

  "I assure you, Portia, we are living cheap." Her brother couldn't quite keep the sneer out of his voice.

  "We cannot afford to waste money, Oliver."

  He flushed guiltily. "Oh, I know, I know. I'm sorry. But I don't know how I am to entertain friends in such quarters..."

  "We're not here to entertain."

  He nudged a rickety, scarred table. "I've been thinking that if the earl won't lend the money, I do have friends here. But if I want help from them, I'll have to meet them and entertain them. Thank goodness none of them realize the extent of my losses."

  "Do you think they would avoid you if they knew? Then they are not true friends."

  "It's not as cut and dried as that, Portia. It's dashed embarrassing being with a man who's all washed up."

  And that was true, too. It was why Portia and her mother were keeping the matter quiet in Dorset. If they obtained the loan perhaps no one need ever know the extent of the disaster. If not, they would leave quietly without placing their friends in an embarrassing situation.

  She tried to find a compromise. "I understand men in London meet in their clubs and coffee houses. Coffee houses can't be too expensive." And surely don't permit gaming, she thought. "You had best meet your friends there rather than here. But, with luck, there'll be no need. First thing tomorrow, we will go to see if Lord Walgrave is in Town."

  Consequently, the next morning they walked the two miles to Abingdon Street, where the earl had his town mansion. As they moved into the grander parts of London, Portia began to see why people thought the capital so fine. The houses here were handsome, and the streets wide and clean. Her spirits began to rise, especially as she was certain that the solution to everything was only minutes away.

  She turned onto Abingdon Street in full optimism, only to come to a shocked halt at the sight of black hatchments on the door of Ware House. She and Oliver mounted the wide steps and knocked at the door. The footman who opened it wore a black ribbon.

  "Who has died here, my man?" asked Oliver.

  The solemn footman looked them over and decided they warranted a reply. "The great Earl of Walgrave himself, sir. Him they called the Incorruptible."

  "Dead?" asked a stunned Oliver. "But I spoke to him not a sennight ago."

  "It was very sudden, sir."

  "I am the earl's godson. I would like to offer my condolences to the family if any are at home."

  "No, sir. But if you would care to leave a message."

  They were ushered into the grand but chilly house, and taken to a small room where black-edged paper was available. They both wrote notes of condolence, and left them to be sent to the family. Then a thought struck Portia. This meant that the earl's elder son, Fortitude Ware, was now Lord Walgrave, and Fort was a friend of hers.

  She turned to the footman. "The new earl. Is he in town?"

  The man looked down his nose, but he had clearly decided to include them in the ranks of the privileged. "No, ma'am. He is at the Towers to attend the earl's obsequies. But he is expected here shortly."

  As they emerged, Oliver said, "Zounds, what a coil."

  Hope was growing in Portia, however. "But Oliver, it is not all bad. Fort is now the earl."

  Oliver looked at her, brightening. "That's true, and he's always been a good'un. Not high in the instep at all."

  "And he's expected in London shortly. You see, it will work out."

  "There's still no surety he'll lend me such a sum, Portia."

  "Oh, I know he will!" Portia was almost dancing with joy.

  As they turned the corner, Oliver said, "It's not quite seemly to be so delighted at a death, you know."

  Portia bit her lip. "It isn't, is it? But I never cared for the old earl and I truly think we are saved. Just think, we could be back at Overstead with all secure in days."

  Oliver suddenly smiled. "It's good to see you happy again, Portia."

  She smiled back. "It's good to have reason to be. Everything is going to work out, Oliver. I told you it would."

  "It is all as good as settled, isn't it? Then you must see a bit of London while we wait. We'll go to the theatre. And if we're to do that, you really should have a new gown—"

  "Oliver, stop!" Portia's happiness was fading. "There is no place for this. Think. You are deep in debt. Even if we get the loan, there will be little money for years. We will all have to live very simply to pay it off."

  Irrepressible, he replied, "Then let us have one last fling."

  "Oliver!"

  "Demme, Portia. It's not like you to be such a dull stick."

  Portia just looked at him, and he flushed. "Oh, I'm sorry. That isn't fair, but it's a dashed shame to be in London, for perhaps the last time for years, and sit in some pokey rooms in Clerkenwell doing nothing."

  Portia knew he had a low tolerance for boredom. "There's no need for that," she assured him. "There's no reason you can't visit the coffee houses and meet with your friends. You never know but that you may still need their help in some way."

  "That's true enough," he said, brightening. He escorted her home, then set off for the Cocoa Tree.

  Portia sighed. She would rather have kept him tied to her side, but knew it was impossible. She put away the rest of their belongings, assuring herself that he couldn't get into serious trouble at a coffee house.

  She wasn't entirely convinced. She hadn't counted on staying in London for long. Even on brief acquaintance, she sensed the power of the city. She was sure it could be a charming and rewarding place; she was equally sure it could be evil. No wonder Oliver had fallen into such trouble here before.

  And she had brought him back.

  She truly did regret not going back to Dorset, for with Fort down there and now the earl, all could have been settled. How could she have guessed, though, that the earl would die? He'd been elderly, but still a hearty man.

  She had to admit that her impetuousness had led her astray again. It seemed she never learned. Her mother would certainly have words to say, and with reason, for she had brought Oliver back into danger.

  Even if he kept his word and avoided gaming, there were whores on every street corner, and cheap gin all over the place. She was sure the more elegant variations on the themes were available, too. Portia closed the door of a rickety armoire and told herself firmly that Oliver had never had a weakness for women and drink.

  She'd be glad when she saw him safe home, though, and waited anxiously for his return.

  But the late afternoon brought only an urchin with a note to say that Oliver was dining with friends. Dining with friends seemed innocent enough, but Portia felt a chill of unease.

  The chill deepened when night settled on the city and Oliver neither returned nor sent another message.

  Chapter 3

  Bryght Malloren lounged in a gaming hell called Jeremy's and eyed the young man at the other end of the lansquenet table with a very jaundiced eye. He didn't know his full name, but he was a St. Claire—the pocket Amazon's brother, the one Bryght had knocked out when he'd gone to get that letter.

  There were a number of aspects to that encounter he regretted, but knocking out the bantam cock was not one of them. Undoubtedly the wisest course was to ignore him now.

  Since when had a Malloren been wise?

  Bryght was outside several bottles of excellent claret or he'd probably have noted the young man sooner. On the other hand, the inadequate number and smoky nature of the candles in Jeremy's made vision difficult. The air was marbled by smoke, and full of the smells of tension, excitement, and fear.

  Bryght wondered what the devil he was doing in such a low hell. He wasn't in desperate need of funds at the moment.