“Devil a bit. I’ll just get it at the tables.”
“If your luck holds.”
“It is not just luck,” Bryght pointed out.
“There’s nothing but luck when it comes to the devil’s bones.”
“Which is why I prefer the devil’s pictures. Why the gloom, Francis?”
The duke sighed. “If you suffer pangs of conscience at the tables, I suffer them, too. I don’t mind risking my all, but you’re the only outside shareholder. A shift of power in Parliament, a run of bad luck with the excavations, a mistake by Brindley, and we could be sunk. Even if all those things go right we may still run out of money.”
“Which is why I am charming Jenny Findlayson.”
Bridgewater frowned at him. “If it comes to the point, will you really marry her just to prop up my shaky dream?”
“Why not?”
“She’s a Cit.”
“She’s a fine-looking woman without any particular vices other than a strong belief in her worth.”
“Given her worth, she has reason. But…”
“But?”
The duke considered his words. “Forgive me if your feelings run deep, but having met the lady, I do not feel you would suit.”
Bryght raised his brows. “’Struth! Are you trying to tell me Jenny prefers your charms to mine? A duke in the hand and all that? You’re welcome to her.”
Bridgewater flushed. “Not this duke. I made delicate enquiries. Why get at her money through a broker if I can tap into it direct? She thinks I’m mad and that I’d pour all her money into a failing endeavor whilst expecting her to live on a pittance in a cottage.”
Bryght laughed. “I love a shrewd woman. I wonder if she’ll be very distressed to find that she’s dedicated her fortune to the failing endeavor by marrying me.”
The duke put down his glass. “I sometimes think you believe that, Bryght. That I will fail.”
Bryght cursed his flippant tongue. “I wouldn’t be supporting you if I didn’t have faith. But the risk is not a blemish to me.” Bryght took the last mouthful of the warm and very fine brandy and let it trickle down his throat. “Achievement without risk is tedious. I have a fondness for inspired insanity, and love a high-stakes game with some point to it. Build the canal, Francis. I’ll make sure you have the money.”
Portia awoke the next morning in unusually low spirits. Even under the blows she had recently received, she had always buoyed herself with optimistic plans of action. Now she didn’t know what to do.
She had hardly slept after Oliver had come home, and her thoughts had been as bleak as one could expect of that dead time of the night. She had told herself that Oliver had never shown sign of gaming fever before coming to London. Even so, she’d been unable to shake off the fear that he was now an incurable gamester, and that even if they obtained a loan, he would somehow lose everything again.
She had even begun to concoct strange schemes of imprisoning Oliver at Overstead so he couldn’t play again.
Then she had progressed to considering what would happen if they didn’t raise the loan, for now she could hardly blame anyone—even Fort—for seeing Oliver as a bad risk.
On New Year’s Day they would have to leave Overstead in the hands of this horrible Major Barclay. And then what?
Their only refuge would be her mother’s brother in Manchester, a prospect that pushed her further into gloom. She had visited Uncle Cranford twice and hated it. His house was handsome enough, for he seemed to be prospering. It was in the center of town, however, close to his new manufactories where banks of looms wove worsted and fustian. The house opened straight onto the busy street at the front and had only a tiny garden at the back.
She was a country woman. How could she live without fields and a garden?
All the streets close to her uncle’s house were the same, with scarcely a tree or a flower, just lumbering carts bringing raw materials, spun thread, or cloth. The carts stirred up dust and left tufts of wool and cotton to float in the air.
Even if she were to plant a garden, she had to wonder if flowers would thrive in such a place.
But if they lost Overstead, their choice would be Manchester or starvation.
The hours of worrying had so worn Portia down that she could have produced tears, but now that it was a new day she set about turning her mind to optimism.
