When they were on the stairs and he seemed in better order, she said, “Tell me about the Mallorens.”
“Rothgar,” he stated, as if it were explanation in itself.
“What is Rothgar?”
But they were in the hall now and crumbs of plaster crunched under their feet. Oliver picked up the fallen pistol and looked at the scarred ceiling. “Why the devil was he firing a pistol in here?”
“It was me,” said Portia soothingly, steering him on. “I was startled. Unfortunately I didn’t hit him.”
Oliver looked back at the ceiling. “Unless he was flying, Portia, you never came close.”
Portia decided not to enlighten Oliver about the exact circumstances. Though younger than she, he took his position as head of the family seriously. If he faced up to Bryght Malloren the results would be disastrous.
There was little danger of it. When he collapsed down at the kitchen table, Oliver sank his head in his hands. “Bryght Malloren. Devil take it. The last thing we need is to be on the wrong side of the Mallorens.”
“Who are they?”
Oliver looked up. “The Mallorens? They’re one of the great families. Rich and powerful, with connections that run through society like dry rot through timber.”
Portia placed two cups on the table. “Then why was such a man breaking into this house?”
“They’re known to do their own dirty work at times.”
“Dirty work? You make them sound like criminals. Although I must say, that man acted like one.”
Oliver grimaced. “People like the Mallorens can damn near do as they please.”
The intruder had implied as much. Portia wished she could bring a certain Malloren before the magistrates for his crimes. She’d like to see him in chains. At the thought of him on a gibbet, however, her mind balked. No, she wouldn’t want it to go quite so far as that.
She put sugar and a jug of cream on the table. “What did you mean by Rothgar?”
“The Marquess of Rothgar. He’s the head of the brood.”
Portia returned to the stove for the coffeepot. “I’ve read the name in the news-sheets. Lord Rothgar takes some interesting positions in the House.”
“Doubtless ones which serves his own interests. He’s a cold-hearted devil by all accounts. Bryght’s a gamester.”
Portia froze in the act of lifting the heavy coffeepot.
A gamester.
She had to put the pot down again for a moment.
A gamester. The bane of her existence.
The whole world seemed riddled with an insane addiction to games of chance. Before her time, her father had apparently been a gamester. After marriage he had “reformed,” but instead of settling to honest labor, he had turned to investments—risky ones promising astonishing profits.
He had lost all and shot himself.
Only a toddler at the time, Portia had no memory of the event. She had heard of it often enough, however, especially when her mother wished to warn her against any kind of risk-taking.
“Don’t you be like your father, Portia—always thinking you are cleverer than the others, that you will win against the odds. Accept what the Good Lord sends.”
Portia had a sudden memory of that Malloren man asking if she always fought against the odds. How had he known her so quickly and so well?
It was true that she did not like to “accept what the Good Lord sends” and seemed driven to fight fate. She had often been irritated by her mother and stepfather because they were so accepting, so unwilling to take any kind of chance.
Now she saw she should have been grateful.
