“Itisall 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.
After an excellent dinner with Andover, Bridgewater, and Barclay at Dolly’s Steak House, they’d gone on to the Savoir Faire club. There, they’d consumed a quantity of wine but found the company dull. It was Andover, damn him, who’d suggested checking out the latest hell.
Bridgewater had declined, for he had no taste for this kind of speculation any more, and Barclay had encountered other friends. Bryght had agreed to accompany Andover to Jeremy’s in the faint hope that it would prove to be a place where his notorious luck would fail. Not that he would continue to play there if he started to lose, but it would be a pleasantly novel experience.
He hadn’t risen a loser in about a year.
Ah well, they said “Lucky in love, unlucky at chance.” Clearly the reverse was true. Thanks to Nerissa St. Claire, Bryght had given up on love entirely, and at the tables he could not lose.
Young St. Claire must be in a state of perfect happiness as far as matters of the heart went. He was losing steadily.
The game here was high-stakes lansquenet—a singularly mindless way of risking large amounts of money. There was no skill involved in turning cards unless one cheated. Bryght found it suited him for it took away the guilt of winning.
“Demme!” exclaimed one man, glaring at the two turned up by the banker. “Can the cards never come right?” He stood up and took off his coat, replacing it inside out. “There, perhaps that’ll do the trick.” He peered through the smoke at Bryght. “Malloren, what’s your secret? Demme, man, you never lose!”
