She began to methodically slide the coins in there all the way around, hoping no glint of gold would reveal their situation. That only took care of half the money, but Portia felt better knowing that some of the coins should be safe.
She huddled back into her still-warm bed. They had three weeks left before the New Year, before the evil Barclay claimed Overstead—beautiful Overstead with its fertile fields and glorious gardens. The fields were partly her work, for she had chivvied her stepfather into introducing some of the new methods of agriculture. The gardens were her mother’s work, and it would break Hannah’s heart to give them to a stranger.
Three weeks left, stuck here in dirty, expensive, wicked London, and it was all her fault. She should have agreed with Oliver and gone home. Having landed them in such a pickle, however, she must keep Oliver away from his vice until Fort came to London.
And what of the rest of his life?taunted a little voice.
Portia ignored it. It was boredom that drove Oliver to the tables. If they could just raise the loan to save Overstead, Oliver would be too hard at work trying to pay it off to be gallivanting to London and falling into evil ways. All she had to do was manage the next few weeks.
But he’s gaming again, and he thinks it’s the way to solve everything.
If I keep the money I have safe, he can only lose the fifty guineas, and that’s fifty we didn’t have this morning.
He can run up debts. He didn’t have Overstead in his pocket when he lost it, did he? Men sign IOUs—vowels, they call them. Good as gold, they are. What are you going to do if someone turns up with a handful of vowels? Pay up, or see Oliver dragged off to the Fleet?
Presumably in the Fleet he won’t be able to lose any more.
Portia was immediately ashamed of that spurt of anger. Of course she didn’t want to see Oliver in debtor’s prison.
Tomorrow, when he wasn’t swayed by brandy and excitement, he would surely see that at best, tonight’s win had been a fluke.
Chapter 4
Bryght separated from Andover near Bond Street, and let his friend take the hack. He had no particular inclination to find a link-boy even, for the weak moonlight was enough to show his way to nearby Marlborough Square. He knew danger lurked in every shadow, but the only precaution he took was to toss back his cloak and make sure the hilt of his sword was clear. The scavengers of London were generally on the prowl for easier prey.
Marlborough Square was perhaps the finest square in London, with grand houses surrounding a lovely railed garden which even boasted a duck pond. Malloren House stood in the center of one side of the square, set back from the road, and fronted by a paved courtyard. A narrow lane ran down each side, setting it off from lesser houses nearby, but blocked by ornate wrought iron gates. At the back there was a large garden.
As Bryght climbed the shallow stairs to the pillared portico, the night-doorman seated in an alcove leapt to his feet to open one of the heavy double doors.
Bryght recalled a conversation with Portia St. Claire about knocking on doors. He had said he never knocked on doors that lacked servants to open them. The truth was that he rarely had to exert himself as far as knocking.
Why did that woman keep popping into his head? It would be foolishness to become embroiled in the affairs of the petty gentry who had to knock at doors, and even—heaven forbid!—answer them, too.
Bryght suppressed a grin as he nodded to the elderly man and passed into the gloomy hall. It would not do to be seen grinning at nothing, or the word would soon be around that he had rolled home drunk. He drank. He did not become seriously drunk, which was yet another reason for his success at gaming.
There was a very softwoofand a dark form heaved to its feet by the table holding the candles. Bryght went over to greet Zeno. The Persian Gazelle Hound’s head almost reached Bryght’s waist, which made it easy to rub his long, silky ears.
This was as well, for neither Bryght nor the dog were inclined to lose their dignity in the relationship. Bryght was not about to crouch down and talk nonsense, and Zeno would never dream of leaping up or employing any of the other fawning tricks common to his species. His greatest sign of devotion was to be at Bryght’s side whenever he could.
Bryght’s brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, had received a pair of the dogs as a gift. He had intended to keep them both at Rothgar Abbey, but as soon as the male dog had seen Bryght he had firmly attached himself to him. Even as a six-month pup there had been no bouncing enthusiasm, just a resigned recognition of fate. Which is why Bryght had named him Zeno after the founder of the Stoical movement.
He rubbed the dog behind the ears, and Zeno pressed just a little closer—the only sign of approval Bryght was likely to get.
Bryght turned away to light a candle at the night-light. He was the only one of the family in residence at the moment and his standing orders were for the staff to retire early unless he gave other instructions. The house was silent apart from the ticking of clocks and he had to admit that it was pleasant to have Zeno to greet him when he returned to his cavernous home.
’Struth, he was going to turn maudlin!
Well, if he wanted company, he’d go odds there was one person still awake.
Bryght climbed the sweeping stairs, shielding the candle flame from the draft of his movement, and followed by the click of Zeno’s claws on the steps. He headed for the room where his guest was doubtless poring over papers to do with his canal.
As Bryght had expected, he found Francis Egerton, Duke of Bridgewater, hunched over a desk. But he was working on accounts, not diagrams.
“Is the news good or bad?” Bryght asked as Zeno flopped lazily in front of the fire.
The duke looked up with a quick, almost shy smile. “Both. There’s money for three months, I estimate, barring disasters.”
“Such as the canal bursting its banks again.”
