“Are you trying to do better for yourself than for the family?”
Bryght felt an absurd flash of guilt for perhaps deep within him there was a desire to out-do Rothgar. He didn’t know. “I’m more cautious with the funds of others. It would be madness for you to become a shareholder, but you could increase your loans to Bridgewater. He’d welcome it.”
“I’m sure he would.” Rothgar contemplated Bryght for a moment, but then abruptly switched topic. “How are the cotton manufactories in Manchester progressing? Are they obtaining adequate supplies from India and the Americas?”
So Bryght found himself in a damnably unwelcome inquisition of the financial affairs of the House of Malloren, of the nation, and even of the world. Not that there was anything lacking about his knowledge of those affairs, but he was not in the mood to concentrate.
Had it been wise to trust Mirabelle to see Portia safely home? Would Portia have taken care not to be seen leaving such a place of ill-repute? What would her brother have done and said when she returned? What had she told him…?
“Bryght, do you have concerns about the Northumberland property?”
Bryght realized he’d allowed his thoughts to distract him entirely and failed to answer a question. “No, of course not. The new drainage system is Brand’s concern not mine, but the reported yields last year were up to expectations. There’s a good chance that coal will be found there, too. It’s a sound investment.”
Rothgar moved on to some foreign dealings and Bryght forced himself to pay attention. He could plead tiredness, but as he had always been a night-owl Rothgar would be bound to find that peculiar. Rothgar himself seemed to have an inhuman ability to do without sleep entirely at times.
The clocks were striking three when the marquess closed the final ledger. “And your personal affairs?”
“What?” asked Bryght, who felt squeezed dry, and could only think his brother meant Portia.
“You had plans not long ago to buy Candleford Park.”
“Oh. No longer.”
“You were, as I remember, quite keen.”
“Put down the scalpel, Bey. You know damn well that estate was intended for Nerissa.”
The marquess studied him with dark, hooded eyes. “And you are no longer interested?”
“Certainly not for Nerissa.” Bryght was startled, however, by a clear vision of Portia at Candleford.
He had always seen Candleford as a bower for Nerissa. It was an old, lush estate with ancient spreading trees and a solid house of mellow bricks. He had envisioned Nerissa there, sun-dappled under a tree, being peacefully beautiful, surrounded in time by peacefully beautiful children.
Now, thinking of the estate, he saw Portia racing across the lawns, fiery hair flying loose of its pins, chasing a laughing scampish child with the same burnished hair….
“I hear talk of a Mrs. Findlayson,” said Rothgar.
Bryght was genuinely startled. Jenny Findlayson was far from his thoughts. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Bey.”
“But its so informative. There will be some other lady one day and you will want a home for her.”
Unspoken between them was the fact that, because of his mother’s madness, the marquess had ceded the duty of continuing the line to Bryght.
“As you have doubtless discovered,” said Bryght coolly, “at the moment my funds are tied up in Bridgewater’s affairs. I doubt Candleford will stay on the market long.”
“We could buy it for the family and you could take it over when convenient. It’s a fine place, and well situated.”
“Perhaps.” But Bryght did not want his home at Rothgar’s hands. He received a handsome share of the family’s profits for his labors, but did not want charity. He realized this damnable inquisition could have waited until tomorrow. It had been designed to wear him down so he would reveal more than he intended, and it might have worked.
He rose to his feet. “Keep your fingers out of my personal affairs, Bey.” With that short comment, he left the room.
He only realized a moment later that he had shut the door on Zeno. There was no complaint. Ah well, moral duty could only take any male so far.
Beowulf Malloren, Marquess of Rothgar, leant back thoughtfully in his chair and two dogs sat up to rest their heads on his knees. He played absently with their ears as he considered matters. “Not Nerissa, then,” he said to them. “But I didn’t expect that after recent events. And not the Findlayson, thank God. But some other woman. Any suggestions, Zeno?”
Zeno had his eyes contentedly closed.
“Such admirable discretion. A problem, whoever she is, for he’s guarding the matter from me.”
