“Till kingdom come, I would think. Plague take you, Portia, what’s the point of that when we’ll soon be moving somewhere better?”
“Better? Where?”
“Anywhere would be better than this place. You must have been mad to commit us to it.”
Portia controlled her own temper, knowing it would be fuel to a dangerous fire. “I thought it safer, Oliver.”
“Safer! You think I’ll lose it all, but I know better.” He scooped the coins back into the bag. “I won again last night. I turned that measly two guineas into twenty. When I come home tonight, everything will be different. You wait and see.”
He was leaving. “Oliver, what about Fort? Is he here?”
He paused. “Any day, they said. But now we won’t need to grovel to the mighty Earl of Walgrave, or live a life of squalor slaving to pay off an enormous debt.” He paused and suddenly smiled, looking a little like Oliver again. “Trust me, Portia. For once, just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
With that he left and Portia sat down with a thump. Was it possible that he knew what he was doing—that he would come home rich? She’d love to trust him, but she didn’t. He was going to come home with empty pockets. Thank heavens that she’d paid for their keep and still had some coins behind the fireplace. At least they had their coach fare home.
She laughed without humor. If Oliver had any head for figures he could reckon up their recent expenses and know she had squirreled away almost fifty guineas. But he hadn’t a head for figures. She had to wonder how anyone thought to gain through gambling who couldn’t keep track of such minor matters as that.
There must be games that required no skill at all.
But how could someone as cursed with ill-luck as Oliver expect to gain through games of chance?
She shook her head. She would never understand gamesters. A vision of another gamester came into her mind to puzzle her. It was impossible to imagine Bryght Malloren avid-eyed over the turn of a card, throwing good money after bad with insane optimism.
She almost wished she could go to a hell and witness it. Surely that would cure her forever.
“Get out of my head!” she muttered fiercely and made herself think of Oliver.
Was there anything she could do? If she’d been quicker-witted she could have followed him, but what good would that have done? She could not have pursued him into a club or hell. And if she managed that, she could not stop him from playing.
Was she supposed to drag him out by the collar, like an unruly lad?
Portia sighed and rubbed her head. She wished to heaven she could, but Oliver was a man now. Oh, he was still her baby brother but he was beyond her control.
Let the matter play out.
But what if it ended with a pistol to the head like her father?
“I can do nothing to stop it,” Portia muttered fiercely and made herself settle once more to writing letters.
She did not attempt a letter to her mother, knowing she would soon be home. Instead, she wrote farewell letters to her friends in Dorset, explaining the sad course of events.
She would not send them until all hope was gone, but they were ready, like winding cloths laid ready near a deathbed.
Having completed that unpleasant task, Portia found she could not just sit and wait for the end. She needed fresh air and exercise and so she walked as far as a nearby bakery to buy some bread. She even indulged in a currant bun, for if Oliver could take so much money out to game with, she could surely pay a penny for a bun. She delayed going home and wandered the streets, distracting her mind with the variety of busy people.
In the end she had to return to her empty rooms to wait. Though it meant using an extra candle, Portia stayed up late, hoping Oliver would come home. She did not feel she would be able to sleep not knowing where he was or what he was doing. By midnight, however, she could not keep her eyes open.
As she climbed into bed, she tried to convince herself that he would have come home if he’d lost all the money, and that he must therefore be winning.
She couldn’t believe it. Disaster was hovering like a thundercloud.
Despite her gnawing anxiety, Portia did eventually fall asleep, and when she awoke it was morning. Her first thoughts were panic-stricken and she rushed out, seeking signs of disaster. Snuffling snores from Oliver’s room told her that at least he was in his bedroom and alive.
There was no indication of whether he had been lucky or not. There was certainly no pile of gold on the table. She rather thought that if he’d been hugely successful he would have woken her with the news.
A small win, though. Was that too much to hope for?
Even a small loss would be a relief.
