"Going to parties won't do her much good without a dowry."

  Portia wanted to snap that he should have thought of such matters before throwing everything away, but she said, "Pru's pretty enough to marry well without. And if she complains, we'll remind her that the alternative is Manchester. She'll learn to count her blessings."

  She hoped he was getting the message, too.

  Perhaps he was, for he grimaced wryly. "Aye, that'll certainly cool her. Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that when I strolled past the Ware mansion on the way to Watkin's it looked as if they were readying for an arrival. What's the odds that Fort will be in Town soon?"

  A weight seemed to slide off Portia's shoulders. "Oh, I do hope so."

  She was convinced that Bryght Malloren had offered one truth. The only way to avoid total ruin was to get Oliver away from London—back in Dorset and drowning in hard work.

  * * *

  The next day, trying not to be obvious about it, Portia guarded her room and the money. Oliver tried various sneaky ways to avoid her vigilance, and then faced her.

  "Two guineas? You expect me to go out with a mere two guineas in my pocket?"

  "You are going out to see if Fort is in Town yet. Why do you even need two?"

  "It's a pittance. You will make me appear a pauper!"

  Portia's patience snapped. "You are a pauper!"

  "I'm only a pauper because you are sitting on my money like a miser with a hoard."

  "I am sitting on it because you have no sense in these matters."

  "I have more sense than you."

  "Then how did you throw everything away at cards?"

  "Plague take you, Portia. That isn't fair. I was cheated!"

  She planted her hands on her hips. "The more fool you. And the more fool you for playing still."

  "Need I remind you that I won two hundred guineas, and from Bryght Malloren, no less?"

  "And lost seventy of it last night."

  "I was just unlucky."

  "And always will be."

  After a moment of glaring violence, he slammed out of the room leaving Portia badly shaken. She'd never fought with Oliver before because he wasn't of an argumentative nature. He certainly wasn't of a violent disposition, but now she was afraid of him. She feared he was, in truth, mad when it came to gaming.

  How was she to avoid disaster?

  Her hands were shaking as she took out the small pouch of gold and counted out the rent for three months. She considered carefully, then included money for coals, for bread and ale, and for one meal a day each from the chop house. She took it down to their landlady.

  "Why, Miss St. Claire," said the thin woman, sliding the purse into her pocket, "how pleasant it will be to have two such respectable people in my house for so long."

  "I may not stay, Mrs. Pinney. I will soon be needed at home."

  "Well, you may be sure I will take excellent care of your brother for you. Such a fine young man. There is just one thing..."

  "Yes?" asked Portia, wondering what new blow was about to fall.

  "I think Sir Oliver is a little neglectful about the locks, Miss St. Claire. I rose this morning to find the door unlocked. We could all have been murdered in our beds!"

  Portia relaxed with relief. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Pinney. In the country..."

  "This is not the country. Please ask Sir Oliver to be more careful."

  "Yes, I will. Thank you."

  Portia escaped back to her room, feeling some relief to have matters settled.

  She knew she could not stay in London for it was poisoning her, but she wasn't at all sure she could persuade Oliver to leave. If Fort had no help to offer then she would return to Overstead and organize the move to Manchester.

  She told herself firmly that even Manchester was a better place than this, and that with courage and hard work a good life could be made anywhere.

  She would try to persuade Oliver to go with her. If he would not go, however, she could leave knowing that he would have a roof over his head and a meal a day for a few months.

  That left only thirty guineas in the purse, however, and she feared Oliver would notice the lack. She did not want him to even suspect that she had hidden part of the money and so she took out some of the coins from behind the fireplace.

  Some of them were jammed and a couple had slipped in too far, and so she had to use a knife to work them free. As she did so, she couldn't help thinking of Lord Bryght.

  Her hands paused in their work. She had been awake half the night puzzling over him, and when she slept he had been in her dreams. He was as alien to her as a hawk in a chicken coop, and just as dangerous, and yet she could not banish him from her mind. She could recall his flickering, subtle smile, the graceful movements of his elegant hands, and the soft magic of his beautiful voice....

  She jabbed a coin fiercely with her knife, but instead of loosening it, she pushed it farther back and out of reach.

  Damnation!

  She rested her head in her hands, fighting tears. Not only was she facing abject poverty, against all reason she was obsessed by a high-born rake of a gamester! No doubt every woman he met fell in love with him and he found it vastly amusing. He probably expected her to be so overwhelmed by the honor of his attentions that she would fall willingly into an illicit affair.

  Well, she certainly would not act the fool with a man she hardly knew, especially when most of what she knew about him was bad. He was a rake, and if he had any honorable intentions toward a lady, it was toward a walking fortune called Mrs. Findlayson. Worse still, he was an unrepentant gamester, the one thing above all she detested. And he thought the mere idea of fidelity and evenings by the fire amusing.

  What, then, did she see in him?

  Sex.

  Her cheeks heated at the thought, but it was true. She was twenty-five years old and knew enough of such matters to understand that naked lust could strike the most sensible person. She would like to deny it, but the fact was that she was attracted to Bryght Malloren in a strictly physical way.

  But powerfully.

  Her body reacted to his body, and in her dreams last night...

  She hastily returned to prying out some more coins.

  If Oliver was mad about gaming, she was running mad in another direction. Her whole family was clearly unbalanced.

  But it wasn't just lust, she thought wistfully. He could be charming and had a clever tongue. She did admire a man with an agile mind and a sense of humor. Were he of a station closer to hers and not a gamester...

  "Devil take you," she muttered to a particularly uncooperative coin, though the words were intended for another target. "You're a man, no more, no less. And not the sort of man for me."

  She counted up their money, both the coins still hidden and those in the pouch, and found they had just over a hundred guineas left. It was a great deal of money, but not if Oliver lost seventy a day!

  Having done the best she could with their financial affairs, Portia turned to other matters. She settled to writing a letter home in case they had to stay here much longer. Hannah Upcott must assume her son and daughter were still in Maidenhead, but she would expect either their return or news.

  Instead of writing, however, Portia's pen began to sketch Bryght Malloren. Portia had some artistic skill and thought she caught part of the lean elegance of his features, but she could not catch the magic.

  "There is no magic," she muttered, and put some extra lines in his lashes, trying to convey the drama of his eyes.

  It didn't work. She doubted anyone would recognize him.

  Which was as well.

  She crumpled the paper and threw it on the fire.

  Let that exorcise him from her mind.

  Chapter 7

  Portia ate a lonely meal brought in from the chop house by the landlady's son. When Mrs. Pinney invited her downstairs for tea, Portia went because she was bored, but found she had to deflect a series of nosy questions.

  Oliver didn't come home until midnight. He said a brusque, "Good night," and disappeared into his room. It was nearly noon when he emerged demanding breakfast.

  Portia served him the bread and butter, and made tea with a kettle on the hob, trying to judge what he had been up to the night before. In his current mood he was a stranger. Just for something to say, she passed on Mrs. Pinney's warning about the locks.

  "I suppose we should be watchful for thieves," he said and rose from the table. "In fact, I think I should take charge of our money."

  Portia stared at him. "Why?"

  "It's hardly a task for a woman."

  "I don't mind."

  He fixed her with an alarming look. "Portia. Give me the money."

  Portia had never been afraid of Oliver before, but she knew there was a real risk of violence now. She bit back her arguments and went to get the pouch.

  He weighed it with a frown, and spilled the coins to count them. "Hell and the devil, there's scarce sixty here! Where's the rest?"

  Portia met his eyes calmly. "I used it to pay our rent well into the future."

  "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.

  Portia was very tempted wake her brother and demand an accounting, but what was the point? Whatever had happened had happened.

  The hours dragged by. Portia tried to settle to needlework or reading, but failed at both. She paced the room restlessly, feeling she must be wearing a hole in the thin faded carpet.

  What were they going to do if he had lost all the money?

  What if he'd lost more, much more?

  Again the image came to her of Oliver raising a loaded pistol to his head....

  "No," she said out loud and another faint snore reassured her.

  Fort. Fort was their only hope. Not only might he lend them the money, but he might be able to persuade Oliver to give up his madness and return to Dorset. Needing to act, Portia swung on her heavy cloak and went in search of the new Earl of Walgrave.

  As she approached the grand house, her heart lifted. A baggage-laden coach was just leaving the door, presumably to go to the mews to unload. Someone had arrived. She ran lightly up the steps and used the shining brass knocker.

  Portia knew it was unusual for a woman to call upon a man unescorted, but she hoped to carry it off with a grand air. When the door opened, she informed the footman that Miss St. Claire was here to see the earl.

  His expression was not welcoming. "The earl is not at home, ma'am."

  Portia stood firm. "I just saw a coach arrive."

  "That was his lordship's servants and baggage, ma'am."

  He began to close the door, and Portia said quickly, "So he is expected?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Then the door was firmly closed.

  Portia turned away, deflated but still hopeful. Fort would surely be here today or tomorrow. Despite her prickling concerns, nothing too terrible could happen between today and tomorrow. After all, Oliver already owed five thousand guineas. Any extra sums he had thrown away last night were just raindrops in a barrelful.

  Portia didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

  She didn't want to go back to their depressing rooms to listen to Oliver snuffle and snore, so she walked around this handsome area of London.

  These were wide, well-ordered streets with houses varying from grand to simply elegant. Generally the pavements were flagged with stone, and sturdy metal posts bordered them, offering some protection to pedestrians from the carts and carriages which rolled past. The people she passed were ladies and gentlemen or their servants and children. The gin-alleys and whores could be from another world.

  Scattered among the houses were shops filled with goods likely to appeal to the wealthy. Portia peered through small panes of glass at items from around the country and the world, wishing she could take some back to her family. Pru would love that lacy ribbon and it would only cost a shilling a yard.

  She squashed the temptation. She was as bad as Oliver, wanting to spend money they did not have.

  Retracing her steps to Dresden Street, she suddenly realized she had lost her way. She was not alarmed for she was equipped with Sayer's Map Of London, and she paused to study it. Ah yes, if she went through Marlborough Square she should be back on course, and she would like to see the famous square. It was supposed to be the finest in town.

  It was. Bordered by handsome houses of many types, the square included a railed park containing handsome trees, flower beds, and even a duck pond. Even at this bleak time of year it was lovely. In spring and summer it must be delightful.

  Portia heard laughter and saw some children and their nurse feeding the ducks.

  London had many faces, she mused. Squalid in one aspect, vicious in another, it could also be gracious, and even charming.

  She went over to the railings to enjoy the antics of the four young children. One young lad caught sight of her and waved shyly. Portia waved back. The nurse was watchful, but did not interfere and so Portia paused to wistfully enjoy the little ones.

  There had been suitors for her hand, but none she had been willing to accept. Her mother thought her unreasonable, but Portia needed to feel absolute trust in a man before she would give her life into his keeping. She had expected Hannah to understand this after her disastrous first marriage, but Portia's mother seemed to think that any man was better than none.

  If Portia had accepted one of the offers, however, she might have had children of her own. Now her chances were gone, for she was past her prime and without any kind of dowry.

  She had been resigned to her spinster state for years, but she had hoped to be aunt to Oliver's children. She had thought to live on at Overstead, working to make the estate prosper, enjoying nieces and nephews. Her mother expected to be there to enjoy her gardens and her grandchildren....

 

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