“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, itwillwork 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.”
