The next morning, having committed Portia to marriage, Bryght found himself able to attend efficiently to business at last. As he read through the reports and documents, his conscience occasionally pricked him for trapping Portia but he suppressed it. He could make her happy, but left to herself she would probably have run off into more danger to escape him.
He understood her misgivings, however.
He paused in the middle of a complicated letter about currency transfers to wonder how he could persuade his bride that his business dealings were not the road to ruin. Since her father had ruined himself through investments, it wouldn’t be easy. It would help if his affairs were in the relatively healthy state they had been before he’d plunged deep into Bridgewater’s affairs. Now, details could support her fears that he was headed for bankruptcy.
Perhaps if he took her north to see the work…
He turned back to business. He’d concentrate now on getting her to the altar. In time, she’d see that he could be trusted.
Reports arrived from the servants who were watching over Portia’s affairs. Cuthbertson had apparently fled the country. Moreover, the hawk had left a number of creditors behind, some the type who would be as cruel as he if they got their hands on him. That revenge would have to suffice for now.
He frowned over one report from Dorset, for it told him that Portia’s mother and sister had left to visit Manchester, and Sir Oliver had only paused at his home for an hour or so before riding on. As a result, Bryght’s man had lost track of him.
Bryght cursed. He definitely didn’t want Oliver Upcott on the loose and gaming again. He hoped his man had tracked him down by now.
To keep his word to Portia, he had sent off a new messenger last night, ordered to head for Overstead Manor at all speed with a wedding invitation. Even if Upcott were there he’d never get to London on time, but he had kept his word. As it was, Bryght suspected that Portia’s brother had fled the country, leaving her to cope alone.
If true, it made paying Upcott’s debt less hazardous, and redeeming the estate should warm Portia’s heart a little. He sat back to contemplate her resistance. At times he was convinced that she felt as passionately as he. At others, such as when she had claimed not to love him, he had doubts.
Was it possible to love a woman desperately and not be able to win her? He need only look at the Trelyns to see that miserable situation.
At least Portia was no Nerissa. If she disliked him, she’d tell him so. Hell, if she took lovers, she’d doubtless tell him that, too. Grinning at the thought, he went out to visit his thorny beloved to find out who her brother’s debt-holder was. This time they were permitted privacy.
She didn’t look quite as haggard as at her worst, but she was clearly not a glowing bride. He noted ruefully how warily she regarded him and discarded any notions of kissing her.
“I wondered if you knew the name of the man who won Overstead,” he asked her.
“Why yes. It was a Major Barclay.”
“Barclay…?” Bryght felt he had fallen into a theatrical performance. After all this, the debt was held by his friend?
Her eyes turned sharp. “A familiar of yours?”
Bryght was for once unsure what to do and say. He did not like to be dishonest, but he couldn’t give Portia cause to flee now. “I think I may know the man,” he said as calmly as possible, then deflected discussion toward some minor matters of their wedding.
He took his leave as soon as possible before he gave himself away. Hell and the devil, what would happen when Portia discovered Barclay was one of his closest friends?
As Bryght was leaving Trelyn House he was found by one of his running footmen with an urgent message. When he read it, he cursed under his breath, ready to tear his hair out.
He headed for Barclay’s rooms and demanded, “Why the devil didn’t you tell me you were the one who won Upcott’s estate?”
“Why should I?” asked his startled friend. “Deuce take it, Bryght, I’m not the sort of man to boast of such foolishness.”
Bryght took a deep breath. “Upcott is my future wife’s half-brother.”
“Good lord, I had no idea. Is he here for the wedding?”
“No. I just received word that my plague-ridden people have exceeded their orders. They’ve kidnapped him and carried him off a prisoner to Rothgar Abbey.”
“Heavens above! Why?”
“The devil only knows. They seem to have decided he was trying to flee the country to avoid paying a debt to me.”
Barclay suddenly chuckled. “You’re looking decidedly ragged, my friend.”
“I feel it. Not unreasonably, Upcott resisted. He’s somewhat battered and is walking with a limp. Even were I to restore him to his sister’s loving arms, she’d hardly be pleased with me. Look, sign over that debt to me.”
Barclay’s pleasant face fell. “Bryght, I wish I could. Walgrave purchased the note off me yesterday.”
