Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (38 page)

Because Prestonly was a shrewd player, it was easy for Bryght to keep the game even. After three hours of play, he had won only a few hundred.

Prestonly called for more wine. "This is dull stuff, my lord!" he declared. "A guinea here, a guinea there. Raise the stakes, I say." They were playing for guinea points, a hundred the match, and the split on the points had never been more than two hundred.

"By all means," drawled Bryght, as if he had no interest in the matter at all. "Ten guineas the point, and a thousand the match?"

Prestonly's hand paused in the process of raising his glass to his lips. "A man could sink deep at that."

Bryght thought he had misjudged, but Sir William had strolled over, and now intervened. "Lord Bryght is joking, Prestonly. He's a damned fine player...."

"Ten and a thousand it is," snapped Prestonly and drained his glass. "I hope you're good for it, my lord."

Several men were watching and at this breach of good manners there was a mutter of disgust.

This suited Bryght for he wanted no sympathy for his prey. Now it was just a matter of winning, of hoping that his skill and luck held out. Skill alone would hold off total disaster, but as with most things in life, only the addition of luck would bring full success.

He suppressed a smile, wondering what Prestonly would think if he knew he was part of a noble knight's battle for his lady's hand and heart. He won the cut for deal, then turned up the knave of diamonds for trumps, and a chance at a bezique.

Luck did appear to be with him. He could only hope that was not an ill omen for his affairs of the heart.

Two hours later Bryght played out the last cards of a hand and achieved the score of one thousand a little ahead of his opponent. "Eight hundred and twenty guineas in points and a thousand for the match, sir. I make it a little over four thousand. Perhaps it is time to stop."

Bryght was ready. He had lost the taste for plucking feathers even from a man like Prestonly, and he had achieved his aim. Once he knew who held the note on Upcott's estate, he could redeem it.

"The night's still young, my lord," Prestonly snarled, mopping his red face. "You've had the cards and it's time they turned. I demand a chance to get my revenge."

Sir William, who was now a spectator, intervened. "Prestonly, I'm sure Lord Bryght will play you another night..."

"I say we play now. It's only one o'clock."

Bryght had a strange impulse to caution, to hold what he had won and not risk it. It was so unnatural to him that he ignored it and humored the sugar-planter. "By all means."

Anger had turned Prestonly rash, however, and he'd also taken to drinking deep. Without really trying, by three in the morning Bryght had won over twelve thousand guineas—enough to cover Portia's debt, and to cover most of the cost of an estate of his own.

An estate like Candleford if it was still on the market.

He was hard-pressed not to grin like a delighted schoolboy. He pretended a yawn. "I really must decline another hand, Mr. Prestonly, enjoyable though this has been. I'm for my bed."

"Someone waiting for you?" sneered the man, but he looked shaken.

Bryght ignored that and rose to his feet. Prestonly gripped his arm. "You can't leave now, my lord!"

Bryght looked down at the fat hand creasing the silk of his sleeve until the man removed it. "Mr. Prestonly, I enjoy play, but I do not ruin people. Your luck is clearly out."

"Ruin?" Prestonly laughed. "Twelve thousand? Hardly notice it."

Bryght inclined his head. "I will sleep the sleep of the just, therefore. Alone, of course." He then left before the revolting specimen spat out some of the insults that were clearly churning in his brain. It would be farce to challenge such a man, but he could tolerate little more.

He was lighthearted, however. With luck he would not need to involve himself in serious gaming again.

He and Andover were just emerging from the club, and Bryght was enjoying a deep breath of clean crisp air, when they encountered Lord Walgrave and a couple of friends.

"Ah, Lord Arcenbryght," said Fort, a distinct curl to his lip. "I've been looking for you."

Bryght's instincts signaled the alarm. "Yes?"

"Name your seconds."

Shock froze Bryght for a moment. "Barclay and Andover," he said levelly. "But I would be interested to know why I am going to kill you."

Fort smiled coldly. "It will not be so easy, I assure you. The cause? Let us say I do not care for your management of your Brazilian affairs."

Amazonian affairs, in other words. Hippolyta. What the devil...? "I was unaware that you had such a passionate interest in that part of the world, Walgrave."

"I have interest in fair play, Malloren. I hear you have made commitments there and failed to honor them. Where and when?"

"My lord," Andover protested. "It is the duty of the seconds to attempt a reconciliation. How can we do that if we do not know the cause?"

"But we do," said Bryght flatly. "Lord Walgrave wants to ravage South America himself."

Fort's hands formed fists and he took a step forward, but one of his friends grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "Lord Andover," the man said hurriedly, "may we meet in your rooms in the morning?"

"Aye."

Andover and Bryght watched as Fort's friends persuaded him into the club.

"He always was a hothead," said Andover. "It must be some mistake."

"Certainly it must, since I am pure as the driven snow."

"Bryght...?"

Bryght snapped out of his trancelike state. "Andover, would you oblige me by lingering a little? Try to find out what the devil's going on. I'm for home to tell Rothgar that there's likely to be a death in the family."

"You can best him."

"You forget. He's my brother-in-law." With that, Fort strode off into the dark.

* * *

Rothgar, however, was not at home. Boudicca and Zeno were uninformative and Bryght would not descend to questioning the staff. It was highly unlikely that they would have anything to tell him anyway.

Bryght could guess. It was possible that Rothgar was at some entertainment, but there were few enough events at this time of year, and even fewer enthralling enough to hold the marquess into the dead hours of the morning.

He could be with friends.

He was probably with Sappho.

To call Sappho Rothgar's mistress was like calling Bryght Rothgar's employee. They appeared to have an intimate sexual friendship that was, paradoxically, largely intellectual.

Sappho—who never went by any other name—was of such mixed blood that no one could ever specify her race. Her mother, she said, had been a pale-skinned Tunisian, and her father a Russian sailor with Mongol blood. She was six foot tall with coffee-colored skin, wide cheekbones, fine features, slanted eyes, and heavy straight black hair that fell to her knees.

She was a poet of considerable skill in three languages, and made no secret of the fact that she was a lover of women. Rothgar was the only man she was known to be intimate with, if intimate they were.

Bryght occasionally whiled away idle moments wondering about that relationship. Rothgar had various sexual arrangements, but Sappho was the only woman with whom he ever spent the night.

This was not, however, an idle moment.

This was a damnable hour.

Bryght went up to his suite attended by both Zeno and Boudicca, and stripped off without wakening his valet. He prowled the room naked, wondering what the devil had happened. Clearly Fort had learned he had withdrawn his offer to Portia. After having goaded Bryght into vowing to marry her, he was annoyed.

But it was unlike even Fort to go off half-cocked like this. He must know there was danger of harming Portia's reputation, and even of drawing attention to the brothel and Hippolyta.

Bryght detected Nerissa's spiteful hand, and fingered the book of sermons which contained that letter. If he died in this affair, he'd damned well make sure that letter was sent to Trelyn.

The main question was, why was Fort in such a rage? The affair at Lady Willoughby's had not been nearly the scandal they had all pretended. An embarrassment, yes, but it had been collusion between Bryght and the Trelyns that had painted it a desperate situation.

To trap Portia.

Had
Portia
complained to Fort that she'd been jilted?

The idea was ridiculous.

Bryght sensed a plot, and needed a rational talk with Fort. When the earl became hot-headed, however, it took him time to cool, and time they might not have.

Bryght flung himself down on his bed to seek sleep. He'd need his wits tomorrow.

* * *

Rothgar didn't appear for breakfast the next morning, but Andover did. When the footman who had let him in disappeared, he said, "You're not going to like it."

"You surprise me," said Bryght who was breakfasting on coffee alone.

"Walgrave is maintaining that it is a personal matter to do with South American trade. No one believes it any more than they'd believe it if he'd taken your hat and stamped on it, saying it offended him."

"So what do people believe?"

Andover toyed with a bread roll. "That you raped, or as good as raped, Portia St. Claire at Lady Willoughby's."

"
What
?"

Andover grimaced. "It's all whispers and innuendo—to preserve the lady's reputation, they say—but the message is clear. You tried to prove your skill on another virgin, but this one wanted no part of it. You insisted. You were interrupted by Lady Willoughby and Lord and Lady Trelyn, all seeking Miss St. Claire. The lady was disheveled, distressed, and her gown was half ripped off her."

"'Struth."

"Lady Trelyn is denying the whole thing, with enough fervor to convince the doubting that every word is true. It is known that a wedding was planned, but that the groom has since declined to be present. The lady is prostrate with shock and shame, or possibly recovering from her injuries. Walgrave is apparently a close neighbor of Miss St. Claire's and as good as a brother to her...."

"Dare I show my face out of doors?"

"It's not as bad as that, Bryght. It's all rumor, and no one knows the truth. If Miss St. Claire were to appear, composed and uninjured, most of it would die. The Trelyns claim she is suffering from a mild head cold, but again, the manner of their protests.... Fort calling you out does rather add color to it."

"Damn fool. Then I suppose the only thing is for
me
to appear composed and uninjured."

"Speaking of injury, Barclay and I met with Walgrave's men...."

"Has he come to his senses?"

"Perhaps." Andover frowned. "It's damned strange, Bryght. He admits privately that the cause is Miss St. Claire, and says he will retract his challenge if you marry her. Perhaps he believes the stories."

Bryght looked at his friend. "It sounds as if you are beginning to believe them."

Andover colored slightly. "Of course not. But why would Walgrave be so serious about pushing the marriage?"

"He obviously regards the lady as a galling cross for me to bear." Bryght poured himself more coffee.

"So?" Andover prompted. "If he is willing to drop the matter if the marriage goes ahead, why not appease him? Do you not wish to marry her?"

"Yes, but not against her will."

"Damnation, Bryght, this could be serious. You can pleasure any wench out of her sulks."

A look from Bryght had Andover blanching, but the man said, "I can't understand her. You're a rare catch for such a woman."

"She values herself higher than that."

"Do you
want
to fight Walgrave? He'll do his damndest to kill you and I hear rumors he's been training hard with Angeli. Even had him down in the country to coach him."

"Good, then he'll offer some sort of challenge. Let us go face the lions."

Andover tried further reasoning, but then abandoned it as useless. He didn't abandon Bryght, however, but stayed by him as they strolled around the more fashionable parts of London.

It was not pleasant, but it was not disastrous. No one attempted to cut Bryght, though he was the focus of curious, suggestive looks. There were a few innuendoes at which he could have taken offense, but one duel a week was sufficient, even for a Malloren.

It did still appear, however, that Bryght was going to have to fight Fort.

* * *

It only slowly dawned on Portia that she was a prisoner.

After Bryght withdrew his offer, she had demanded her money, and been put off.

Next, she sent a message to Fort. When there was no response, she began to suspect that it had gone no further than the nearest fireplace.

The next morning, she asked Lord Trelyn to arrange for the purchase of a coach ticket to Shaftesbury. He protested that no lady of his family ever traveled on the common stage, and promised to arrange her journey in his own traveling coach, and with suitable escort.