With relief, Bryght felt his brain click into operation like a fine chronometer, following many calculations at once—her family, her brother’s estate, Walgrave, Nerissa, Mirabelle, Cuthbertson….
He began to see the way.
The first thing, though, was to get his weary Amazon to bed.
Soft-footed, he explored the lodgings and found her bedroom. He turned back the sheets and wished he had a warming pan for them, for the air and the bed were chilly. She would be warmer, though, beneath the covers.
Then he went back to the parlor and gathered her into his arms smiling at how little she weighed. He half hoped she would wake, for that could prove interesting, but though she stirred, she slept on. In fact, she turned her head slightly against his coat and laid her hand on his chest in a trusting movement.
He halted to savor the moment.
He wished it were a greater distance to her bed, a longer time before he must put her down. With a wry smile at his own foolishness he moved on, but halted beside the bed. His agile brain came up with a number of plausible reasons why he should lie down with her—to warm her, to protect her….
He shook his head. He wanted, with alarming intensity, to make love to her—completely, fully—and it wasn’t the lust that could sometimes take a man, but something deeper. He wanted to explore her even more than he had done, and in much better circumstances. He wanted to enter her. He wanted to be the first, the only. He wanted to mark her as his for all time.
This was madness. There was no practical or material advantage in marrying this woman.
So be it.
He laid her carefully in the center of the sheet and eased off her shoes. He placed them neatly beside the bed then drew up the covers and tucked them around her. Unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed her brow. She stirred and he froze, half-hoping, half-fearing that she would wake.
After a moment, however, she turned and snuggled under the blankets.
Her hair was gathered up in a tight knot and he wanted to loosen it so it spilled long around her, but he had been foolish enough for one night.
But the vision returned, the vision of Portia running across the lawns of Castleford, red hair flying, laughing as she chased a laughing, mad-cap child.
He had never seen her laugh.
He had never seen her run in the sun.
But the vision was true.
Bridgewater’s needs would have to take second place to Portia’s. In fact, Bryght might not be able to help the duke much in future, for Portia had such a deep aversion to gaming that she would nag him to death.
He could understand that, after the ruin such matters had made of her life.
If Bridgewater failed, however, as a shareholder Bryght would fail too. Even if that didn’t occur, he’d sunk so much money into the canal that his income now was the modest one from the estate plus a little from other investments. It would be adequate, but would not cover the purchase of an estate like Candleford.
Yet that vision had the power of truth.
He shrugged, returned to the parlor where he extinguished the candle. Then he left, closing doors softly behind him. He had no way to re-latch Portia’s door, or to lock the door onto the street. He could only pray that his beloved would stay safe for the remainder of the night.
On his return to Malloren House, Bryght found no sign of his brother and was glad of it. He ignored tiredness and settled to constructing meticulous plans for his Amazon’s welfare. Mirabelle would not talk, nor would Cuthbertson once Bryght dealt with him.
That left two entwined problems—Portia’s scurvy brother, and her home. He would find out who had won the estate. With luck it would be a gentleman willing to extend the period of grace; more likely it was another such as Cuthbertson. In either case, Bryght would need plump pigeons in order to gather the money to pay the debt.
Before redeeming the estate, however, something had to be done to prevent Oliver Upcott from losing it again.
Bryght formulated a plan and considered how many people were needed to carry it out. The Malloren properties—particularly the London mansion and the Abbey—were heavily staffed with footmen, maids, grounds-staff, and grooms. This was not just because the Mallorens insisted upon good service, but because the service required could sometimes be out-of-the-ordinary.
As soon as the sun was up, Bryght summoned some of these excess servants and sent them out, eyes and ears open, to attend to certain tasks. Most were to operate in London, but two went to Dorset to act in the matter of Sir Oliver Upcott.
Next, Bryght sent a note to his brother-in-law, the Earl of Walgrave.
In the matter of business recently discussed between us, it would appear that the property is not well-secured. It would oblige me if you could find new storage until the full acquisition can be arranged.
Bryght knew that using Fort carried risks, for he’d rather harm a Malloren than help one, but if Portia was under the aegis of the Earl of Walgrave the gossips would hesitate to speculate. Bryght suspected Fort would play along, pushing his plan to force Bryght to marry a woman without status or fortune to recommend her. It would be amusing to watch Fort striving to bring about the match, thinking he was tying a millstone around a Malloren’s neck.
