Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] Read online

  She was a country woman. How could she live without fields and a garden?

  All the streets close to her uncle's house were the same, with scarcely a tree or a flower, just lumbering carts bringing raw materials, spun thread, or cloth. The carts stirred up dust and left tufts of wool and cotton to float in the air.

  Even if she were to plant a garden, she had to wonder if flowers would thrive in such a place.

  But if they lost Overstead, their choice would be Manchester or starvation.

  The hours of worrying had so worn Portia down that she could have produced tears, but now that it was a new day she set about turning her mind to optimism.

  After all, she thought as she flung back the curtains to let in crisp sunlight, the money hidden behind the fireplace made them safe for a little while. They wouldn't become homeless because they could not afford rent, or starve because they could not afford food.

  And Fort was expected in town any day. Even if Oliver continued to gamble, he could not get into deep trouble in a few days. When Fort did arrive, she decided, she would not depend on Oliver. She would go to him herself and put their case. They were of an age and good friends. She knew he would help in some way.

  Perhaps he would call out the horrible Major Barclay and kill him. That wouldn't wipe out the debt, but it would be some kind of blow against fate.

  As a result of these satisfying thoughts, when Oliver cheerfully insisted that they should go out to celebrate his winnings, Portia didn't make a sour comment. Sitting in these bleak, chilly rooms and worrying about their situation would soon turn her into a shrew. She needed fresh air, and she did want to see something of fashionable London before leaving it forever.

  She entered into the spirit of the day by dressing her finest. She'd only brought a few garments with her and all her wardrobe was country wear, but the quality was excellent so she felt no need to blush for her appearance. She chose an open gown of light brown callimanco, a glossy wool, which showed her best petticoat of embroidered silk.

  Since she hadn't lost all sense, she wore a heavy drugget petticoat beneath for warmth. It might be a sunny day, but it was still December.

  In view of that fact, it would have been prudent to wear her heavy cloak, but Portia decided to have done with prudence for one day, and put on her short blue silk pelerine. Oliver had bought it for her last Christmas, before his father's death, before their current disasters.

  Now, when she fastened it at her neck he smiled proudly. "I chose that blue well, didn't I, Portia? It matches your eyes and lights up your hair." He winked. "You'll catch all the men's eyes today."

  Portia glanced in the small mirror. She dismissed the second part of his statement, but she had to admit that the cloak did suit her well. The color did its best for her blue eyes and red hair. It was a shame about the freckles, but she had long since realized that no treatment was going to remove them.

  She had tried. She was not vain, but the freckles worked with her small stature and short nose to make her look absurdly young. Perhaps other women wanted to appear younger than they were, but having resigned herself to maturity, Portia wanted all of it.

  She remembered someone saying, "By your looks and your behavior, I thought you younger..."

  Then she remembered who it had been.

  "What are you frowning at?" Oliver asked.

  "Oh, just follies," she replied and smiled. She fixed a neat flat hat at a jaunty angle on top of her curls, and decided that with the addition of a large fur muff Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Hall, Dorset, was as fine as possible.

  Oliver was equally elegant in a suit of mulberry velvet, and shoes with a high heel. He did not destroy the effect with a cloak, but he too carried a fashionable muff. With his best powdered wig, he looked a true Town exquisite.

  She linked arms with him and gave him a jaunty smile. "Let us venture forth, my dear, and slay London with our magnificence."

  As they strolled toward the more fashionable part of town, Portia deliberately put aside her cares. She simply enjoyed the fresh air and the interesting sights. She was pleased to see that Oliver was not trying to spend money on every gew-gaw they passed, but then he did stop in front of a milliner's. "You don't have a mask with you, do you?"

  "Of course not. At this season, there's hardly a need to shield my face from hot sun or dust."

  "But it's all the go to carry one. You really should." He was already entering the doorway, and Portia grabbed his coat.

  "Oliver, I do not need a mask!"

  He smiled at her. "Yes, you do. I just remembered that there's a parade of the foot guards in St. James's Park. I'll go odds all the world will be there. You'll enjoy it—the king will be there, even—but you should carry a mask."

  "The king...? But why a mask?"

  "Why anything? It's the fashion."

  Portia muttered about fashion, but she allowed herself to be drawn into the store where she chose a very plain, white, full-face mask on a stick. Oliver tried to persuade her to more ornate ones, but she refused all extravagance.

  As they left the shop, she said, "I can't think what to do with it."

  "Just let it dangle from your wrist by the ribbon. And now—on to St. James's Park, where all the world awaits!"

  It was as he said, and all the world—the Polite World, the Court—seemed to be in the park. The flowers were long gone, and most of the trees were bare, but the gorgeous clothes, the furs, and the jewels served to compensate for nature's lost adornments.

  Portia had no great interest in the rich and splendid, but faced by this fairy tale assembly, she could not help but be fascinated. Everyone seemed dressed too finely for a park—the men powdered, and the women in their richest gowns and cloaks. She remarked on this to Oliver.

  "That's because the king and queen will be here. This is almost like a Court."

  Portia chuckled. "I never thought to be at Court. I must pay attention. I'm sure Prudence will be fascinated to hear about our monarchs."

  "Truth to tell," murmured Oliver, "they're an ordinary enough couple, and the queen is positively fusby faced."

  "Shush!" she said in mock alarm, and they both laughed.

  Portia had a splinter of awareness that this was like the old times when she and Oliver had teased and joked, and that such times were gone. She blocked that thought. For this brief hour she would be happy.

  The neat columns of soldiers marched and turned to their officers' commands. Oliver took a genuine interest in it, but he was one of the few to do so. Portia could tell that the lords and ladies were present to see and be seen, not to watch military exercises. She thought their maneuvers as fascinating as the soldiers'. Some were fixed points, whilst others flitted from group to group like iridescent insects dipping nectar from a midsummer bank of flowers.

  Among the fixed points Portia noted two clusters centered around women. One was a lively dark-haired woman surrounded by a bevy of flirtatious men; the other was a beautiful blonde dressed in white, whose circle was more sober and mixed.

  She poked Oliver to get his attention. "Who are those ladies?"

  He looked where she discreetly pointed. "Ah, the rival queens. Rose White and Rose Red, some wags name them. The brunette is Mrs. Findlayson, a very wealthy widow. Her fortune comes from trade, but in view of its size most are willing to overlook that flaw. I wish to heaven she'd smile on me," he said with a grin, "for that would solve our problems nicely. But they say she is determined to marry into the aristocracy."

  "And the blonde?"

  "The beautiful Lady Trelyn. Society's darling. She is safely married. That's her husband hovering over her so devotedly."

  Portia considered the man. He was of medium height and build. With a pale face, gray hair-powder, and dull gray suit he looked almost ghostly in the vivid throng. "Such devotion is very touching."

  "Oh, he's certainly devoted. Nerissa Trelyn brought only a small portion to her marriage, they say, and Trelyn is both rich and powerful. He could have married a great deal higher."

  "Do people think of nothing but money and station in marriage?"

  Oliver shrugged. "Why not marry as well as possible? Perhaps I should consider that route myself. Or you," he said with a smile. "Looking as fine as you do today, perhaps you can save us all through a brilliant marriage."

  Portia laughed. "Don't be absurd, dearest."

  "No, I'm serious. You are looking your best, Portia, and there is something fetching about you, you know. Men like you."

  Portia shook her head with a smile. "Then perhaps liking has nothing to do with marriage, for my fetching qualities have not fetched me a grand husband."

  "I can't think why not."

  She gave him a look. "Perhaps my indifferent looks, small portion, and humble origins play a part?"

  Oliver, ever the optimist, was not to be dissuaded. "I don't think Nerissa Trelyn came from a station much higher than ours, and she married high indeed."

  Portia knew Oliver meant well, but his partiality was embarrassing and she was glad there was no one by to hear it. She looked at Nerissa Trelyn wryly. If one needed that degree of beauty to make a man forget a dowry, she was sunk before she sailed. The lady had pure creamy skin, full pink lips, big dark eyes, and a mass of shimmering golden hair. Add to that a lush figure, graceful movements, and an air of profound womanliness.

  She was almost the antithesis of Portia.

  Portia was saved from further embarrassment by the approach of a trio of Oliver's friends. They were all light hearted gallants, dressed in the height of fashionable absurdity, which meant peacock colors, huge muffs, and high red heels on their shoes. They reminded her rather of ornamental birds.

  When the first bunch fluttered on, more arrived, and so it went. As they str
olled around the park it became clear that Oliver did have a great many friends. Portia wasn't surprised. He was charming, and great fun when not gaming.

  At one point, Portia noted Oliver give an en-passant bow to a tall man in dark green silk and powder, and saw the courtesy returned. The man looked at her rather more closely than she liked, and she felt a twitch of familiarity. "Who was that?"

  "Don't you recognize him?" asked Oliver with a teasing look. "That, my dear, was your moonlit marauder."

  Chapter 5

  Portia stopped dead. "Bryght Malloren?"

  "Encountered him last night," said Oliver, still in the manner of one about to reveal a joke.

  Portia resisted the urge to turn and stare after Lord Bryght. He had looked very different in fashionable finery. For some strange reason, the knowledge of who he was had actually speeded her heart. It could not be fear, for it was impossible for him to attack her here.

  "What happened?" she asked unsteadily, forcing herself to move on. "Did you fall into an argument with him? Oliver—not a duel..."

  Oliver laughed. "Of course not. In fact, I paid him back for upsetting you and for attacking me. It was from him that I won all that money."

  Portia clapped her hands. "Oh, well done!" But that flash of satisfaction immediately faded. Even as she greeted two more of Oliver's friends—one plump, one slender—she was growing uneasy. Oliver had said that he and the Mallorens did not move in the same circles, so how had they come to play?

  Was Bryght Malloren a professional gamester—a hawk? He was, after all, just a second son. She knew him to be capable of wickedness. She would not, however, have thought him a cheat....

  Oliver was relating his great success to his friends.

  "Does Lord Arcenbryght gamble a great deal?" Portia asked.

  The plump young man answered. "Bryght Malloren? Plays all the time, dear lady, and has the devil's own luck. I tell you, Upcott, if you won from him last night you're a walking miracle."

  Oliver's eyes shone. "Well, I did, and at bezique. That takes some skill. If he's lucky, perhaps the secret to beating him is to stick to games of skill."

  His friend shook his head. "I've heard of him winning at piquet, ecarte, and whist. Devilish sharp man. But then, all the Mallorens are."

  "And quick with their swords," said the slender one, whose long neck and jerky movements reminded Portia of a nervous chicken. "I'd keep out of Lord Bryght's way, if I were you, Upcott. Dangerous men, the Mallorens."

  "He insisted on playing with me," said Oliver with an air. "I would have carried on, too, but he called an end to it after losing so much. If he wants his revenge, I'll not refuse."

  Portia bit her lips to smother a protest. Bryght Malloren sounded exactly like a hawk. She glanced over to where he had paused to converse with a group of men, and promptly had some strange thoughts about birds.

  Birds of a feather flock together, or so they said.

  In this grand setting Oliver's friends all appeared to be lesser species—nervous chickens, pretty finches, or pigeons who puffed up their chests and strutted about in search of crumbs. Bryght Malloren's friends, however, were predators—strong, self-assured, and sharp of beak and claw. She could imagine their eyes to be like the eyes of the hawk when seeking its next meal.

  And hawks preyed upon chickens and pigeons, especially at the gaming table.

  The two young men minced off on their high-heeled shoes. Portia was hard put not to giggle at how much they did look like a chicken and a pigeon pecking their way around. She had to tell Oliver, and they ended up stifling laughter.

  "But they're good fellows," he said. "Truly."

  "They give good advice, at least. I think you should avoid Bryght Malloren."

  He flushed. "Don't fuss, Portia. The chances of gaming with him again are small, but if he wants his revenge I can hardly refuse. It would look as if I only played to win."

  Portia stared at him. Why on earth would anyone play to lose? Before she could frame this question, they were approached by another couple of strutting pigeons. Portia tried to put bird images out of her mind before she embarrassed herself by a fit of the giggles. The thought of hawks quickly sobered her, so that she could attend to the conversation and learn more of gaming lore.

  She soon gathered that Oliver was right. In London all men were expected to play, and to seem to care whether one lost or won was the height of bad form. It was also clear that Oliver's friends were not aware that he had lost all.

  As the young men talked she saw that they were impressed that Oliver had played against Bryght Malloren—win or lose. Merely speaking to a Malloren would be an event for them.

  So why, she wondered, had Lord Bryght played against Oliver?

  She made the mistake of glancing over at the man just as he looked across toward her group. He caught her look and raised a brow. Then he bowed farewell to his friends and came over. Though he, too, wore fashionably heeled shoes, he managed not to strut or mince at all.

  Portia's heart-rate increased with every smooth step he took. This was ridiculous! He was a bully and a gamester, the type of man she abhorred above all.

  He was powdered and wore snowy lace at neck and wrist. His earring was a large pearl. When added to his gold-braided green silk and white stockings it should all have removed the sense of darkness that she had retained from their first meeting. It did not. The gorgeous plumage could not disguise the predator's body, and the artificial paleness of his hair gave his lean face even more dark beauty and strength.

  Dangerous, Portia. Dangerous.

  He bowed before her. "'Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.'" She had forgotten the power of his resonant voice.

  She instinctively raised her mask between them. "You have the wrong play, my lord. My name is Portia."

  "Ah yes, the guardian of the door. And also the defender of mercy. 'The quality of mercy is not strained.... ' Does that fit better? I hope your brother conveyed my apologies, and that I am forgiven."

  Oliver had not mentioned any apology, but Portia didn't say so. "I do not wish to speak of it, my lord."

  She was very grateful for the protection of the mask, but wished desperately that her unruly body was entirely within her command. Her heart was racing, she knew her cheeks were flushed, and her voice was not as steady as she wished.

  He took no offense at her chilly manner, but turned to bow to her brother. "And Sir Oliver. Most enjoyable hand or two we had. We must re-engage one day."

  Oliver returned the bow, flushed with pleasure. "Of course, my lord."

  As Oliver introduced his friends, Portia forced herself to remain silent, but she hated to see her brother preening to be merely spoken to by Bryght Malloren. His two friends were acting as if a god had come amongst them.

  Damn the Mallorens anyway. All this wretch was was a gamester. She breathed deep and slow, commanding herself to icy calm. What she needed to do was find out this man's intent toward her brother.

  The wretch turned back to her, not obviously discouraged by the smooth white mask between them. "You are fixed in London at the moment, Miss St. Claire?"

  "For a little while, yes, my lord."

  "London is greatly favored. I confess I found our last encounter unforgettable."

  Portia almost answered that honestly, and told him what she thought of their last encounter, but she forced a neutral answer. "I too have not forgotten, my lord." She added a dart. "I hope your letter proved to be all that you expected."

  Something flickered in his eyes. It could be admiration or anger. In the sunlight she realized his eyes were remarkably fine. They were a hazel that could flash green on occasion, or catch the sun with flecks of gold, and they were framed by rich dark brows and lashes. It was hard to ignore eyes like that.

  A quizzical widening of those eyes told her that even the mask could not hide the fact that she had been staring. She looked away, grateful that it at least hid her blush.

  Then Oliver said, "Bless me, Portia, there's no need to actually use the mask."

  Reluctantly, she let it fall. "There is a chill wind at the moment." She directed a meaningful look at her unwanted companion.

  He did not take the hint. In fact his eyes glinted with knowing amusement. "May I hope you are enjoying London, Miss St. Claire, despite the chilly weather?"