Oliver laughed. “Of course not. In fact, I paid him back for upsetting you and for attacking me. It was from him that I won all that money.”
Portia clapped her hands. “Oh, well done!” But that flash of satisfaction immediately faded. Even as she greeted two more of Oliver’s friends—one plump, one slender—she was growing uneasy. Oliver had said that he and the Mallorens did not move in the same circles, so how had they come to play?
Was Bryght Malloren a professional gamester—a hawk? He was, after all, just a second son. She knew him to be capable of wickedness. She would not, however, have thought him a cheat….
Oliver was relating his great success to his friends.
“Does Lord Arcenbryght gamble a great deal?” Portia asked.
The plump young man answered. “Bryght Malloren? Plays all the time, dear lady, and has the devil’s own luck. I tell you, Upcott, if you won from him last night you’re a walking miracle.”
Oliver’s eyes shone. “Well, I did, and at bezique. That takes some skill. If he’s lucky, perhaps the secret to beating him is to stick to games of skill.”
His friend shook his head. “I’ve heard of him winning at piquet, ecarte, and whist. Devilish sharp man. But then, all the Mallorens are.”
“And quick with their swords,” said the slender one, whose long neck and jerky movements reminded Portia of a nervous chicken. “I’d keep out of Lord Bryght’s way, if I were you, Upcott. Dangerous men, the Mallorens.”
“He insisted on playing with me,” said Oliver with an air. “I would have carried on, too, but he called an end to it after losing so much. If he wants his revenge, I’ll not refuse.”
Portia bit her lips to smother a protest. Bryght Malloren soundedexactlylike a hawk. She glanced over to where he had paused to converse with a group of men, and promptly had some strange thoughts about birds.
Birds of a feather flock together, or so they said.
In this grand setting Oliver’s friends all appeared to be lesser species—nervous chickens, pretty finches, or pigeons who puffed up their chests and strutted about in search of crumbs. Bryght Malloren’s friends, however, were predators—strong, self-assured, and sharp of beak and claw. She could imagine their eyes to be like the eyes of the hawk when seeking its next meal.
And hawks preyed upon chickens and pigeons, especially at the gaming table.
The two young men minced off on their high-heeled shoes. Portia was hard put not to giggle at how much they did look like a chicken and a pigeon pecking their way around. She had to tell Oliver, and they ended up stifling laughter.
“But they’re good fellows,” he said. “Truly.”
“They give good advice, at least. I think you should avoid Bryght Malloren.”
He flushed. “Don’t fuss, Portia. The chances of gaming with him again are small, but if he wants his revenge I can hardly refuse. It would look as if I only played to win.”
Portia stared at him. Why on earth would anyone play tolose?Before she could frame this question, they were approached by another couple of strutting pigeons. Portia tried to put bird images out of her mind before she embarrassed herself by a fit of the giggles. The thought of hawks quickly sobered her, so that she could attend to the conversation and learn more of gaming lore.
She soon gathered that Oliver was right. In London all men were expected to play, and to seem to care whether one lost or won was the height of bad form. It was also clear that Oliver’s friends were not aware that he had lost all.
As the young men talked she saw that they were impressed that Oliver had played against Bryght Malloren—win or lose. Merely speaking to a Malloren would be an event for them.
So why, she wondered, had Lord Bryght played against Oliver?
She made the mistake of glancing over at the man just as he looked across toward her group. He caught her look and raised a brow. Then he bowed farewell to his friends and came over. Though he, too, wore fashionably heeled shoes, he managed not to strut or mince at all.
Portia’s heart-rate increased with every smooth step he took. This was ridiculous! He was a bully and a gamester, the type of man she abhorred above all.
He was powdered and wore snowy lace at neck and wrist. His earring was a large pearl. When added to his gold-braided green silk and white stockings it should all have removed the sense of darkness that she had retained from their first meeting. It did not. The gorgeous plumage could not disguise the predator’s body, and the artificial paleness of his hair gave his lean face even more dark beauty and strength.
Dangerous, Portia. Dangerous.
He bowed before her.“’Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.’” She had forgotten the power of his resonant voice.
She instinctively raised her mask between them. “You have the wrong play, my lord. My name is Portia.”
“Ah yes, the guardian of the door. And also the defender of mercy.‘The quality of mercy is not strained….’ Does that fit better? I hope your brother conveyed my apologies, and that I am forgiven.”
Oliver had not mentioned any apology, but Portia didn’t say so. “I do not wish to speak of it, my lord.”
