“No!” Portia exclaimed. “Don’t be so foolish.”
“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.
Theremustbe 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?”
