Chapter 3
Bryght Malloren lounged in a gaming hell called Jeremy’s and eyed the young man at the other end of the lansquenet table with a very jaundiced eye. He didn’t know his full name, but he was a St. Claire—the pocket ’s brother, the one Bryght had knocked out when he’d gone to get that letter.
There were a number of aspects to that encounter he regretted, but knocking out the bantam cock was not one of them. Undoubtedly the wisest course was to ignore him now.
Since when had a Malloren been wise?
Bryght was outside several bottles of excellent claret or he’d probably have noted the young man sooner. On the other hand, the inadequate number and smoky nature of the candles in Jeremy’s made vision difficult. The air was marbled by smoke, and full of the smells of tension, excitement, and fear.
Bryght wondered what the devil he was doing in such a low hell. He wasn’t in desperate need of funds at the moment.
After an excellent dinner with Andover, Bridgewater, and Barclay at Dolly’s Steak House, they’d gone on to the Savoir Faire club. There, they’d consumed a quantity of wine but found the company dull. It was Andover, damn him, who’d suggested checking out the latest hell.
Bridgewater had declined, for he had no taste for this kind of speculation any more, and Barclay had encountered other friends.
Bryght had agreed to accompany Andover to Jeremy’s in the faint hope that it would prove to be a place where his notorious luck would fail.
Not that he would continue to play there if he started to lose, but it would be a pleasantly novel experience.
He hadn’t risen a loser in about a year.
Ah well, they said “Lucky in love, unlucky at chance.” Clearly the reverse was true. Thanks to Nerissa St. Claire, Bryght had given up on love entirely, and at the tables he could not lose.
Young St. Claire must be in a state of perfect happiness as far as matters of the heart went. He was losing steadily.
The game here was high-stakes lansquenet—a singularly mindless way of risking large amounts of money. There was no skill involved in turning cards unless one cheated. Bryght found it suited him for it took away the guilt of winning.
“Demme!” exclaimed one man, glaring at the two turned up by the banker.
“Can the cards never come right?” He stood up and took off his coat, replacing it inside out.
“There, perhaps that’ll do the trick.” He peered through the smoke at Bryght.
“Malloren, what’s your secret? Demme, man, you never lose! ”
“A bitch,” drawled Bryght. “Find yourself a bitch, Danforth.”
“Any particular breed?” Lord Danforth asked anxiously.
“No, just be sure she’ll raise her tail for any cur that sniffs there.”
“Do you say so? I’ll find one tomorrow. I’ve tried lucky heather, and new shoes. Nothing seems to work. Now, let’s play.”
Danforth himself had lost over a thousand, and a good part of it sat in front of Bryght along with contributions from most of the other men.
He played idly with the stack of guineas and vowels.
Danforth could probably afford the loss.
Others at the table could not. He disliked winning from those who should not be playing, but sometimes it was unavoidable.
To refuse to play with a man was to insult him.
At this distance, Bryght couldn’t follow how much his pocket ’s brother was dropping, but he doubted the young man could afford a penny. What the devil was he doing in a hell like Jeremy’s?
It was none of his damned business, he told himself, but guilt over his behavior to that spirited young woman nagged at him.
He remembered enjoying the encounter with Portia St. Claire at first, as he had not enjoyed an encounter with a woman for a long time.
For a start, he thought, smiling at the memory, there weren’t many who tried to shoot him on sight.
Or who tried to bar his way with her body.
Her tiny body.
She hadn’t been a beauty, but the fire in her angry eyes and the firm line of her mouth had stayed tantalizingly with him. At disconcerting moments he would remember the vibrant energy in her slender body as she fought him, and wonder what it would be like to tussle in a more friendly way with her.
He had no intention of pursuing the question.
He’d had a belly full of St. Claires, and his marital attentions—if he had any at all—were firmly directed toward marrying money.
His mistreatment of a courageous woman lingered sour in his mind, however, and he would be pleased to pacify his conscience.
With a sigh, he stood.
“I say,” said Danforth. “You’re not leaving now, Malloren. My luck’s about to change.”
“Then I’ll play you tomorrow, Danforth.” He waved for a club servant to collect his winnings and strolled around the table to where the young man sat. A neat bag-wig, fine satin suit, and clean lace. The family wasn’t on its last legs yet.
Did he have a first name for the cub? Hippolyta had addressed him by name, but it had not registered.
“St. Claire,” said Bryght. “Care for a private hand or two?”
The young man was so engrossed in the cards being turned up that he didn’t respond. Bryght had to tap him on the shoulder. He looked up distractedly, then his eyes widened. “You!”
“I am indeed me. I am inviting you to play with me, sir. In fact, I insist.”
The young man’s eyes flickered to the game before him, but then he succumbed to the stronger will and rose. Bryght was relieved to see that he had a few guineas to take with him. He settled them both at a table for two and called for wine. “Bezique, Mr. St. Claire?”
“It’s not St. Claire. It’s Upcott.”
Bryght raised his brows. “Half sister? Or is she a widow?”
“Half-sister. And I want to know what happened between you two, my lord. She would never tell me.”
Bryght had to give the cub credit for courage. “Then far be it from me to reveal her secrets.”
“You can’t make me think she enjoyed your attentions!”
“Attentions?” Bryght queried gently.
Upcott glared at him in thwarted silence. He had a handsome, fair-skinned face and looked more intelligent than his behavior suggested. It constantly amazed Bryght that pleasant, sensible creatures could be trapped by the tables.
Perhaps it was not too late for this one. A servant brought the wine and fresh packs of cards. Bryght poured for them both. “My dear Mr. Upcott—”
“Sir Oliver,” the young man tersely corrected.
Bryght inclined his head in apology. “My dear Sir Oliver, your sister and I had a small misunderstanding which I regret entirely. I hold her in no disrespect and apologize for any upset I might have caused her. And of course, I also regret our own little misunderstanding.”
It was clear that Sir Oliver was daunted by this apology. “Very well, my lord. We’ll speak no more of it.”
“You are all kindness, sir.” Bryght passed over a glass of wine. “Now, please say you will oblige me with a game. Do you play bezique?”
“Of course.”
Bryght took it for entire agreement and broke open the two packs of cards, passing them to the younger man for both inspection and shuffling. Then they cut for deal.
When Bryght won he suppressed a sigh. His luck was clearly present in full force. This was not going to be easy.
Bezique was a game involving a great deal of luck, but there was skill involved in keeping track of the cards played, and in the variety of ways to score from the cards in hand.
This was just the sort of thing Bryght was good at, and he intended to use his skill to line the lad’s pockets.
Then he’d send him firmly on his way home and hope never to set eyes on him again.
Bryght had a fine instinct for trouble, and Sir Oliver and his sister were undoubtedly trouble. He played his first card. “You and your sister are now fixed in London, are you?”
Upcott frowned over his play, then took the trick. “Yes, my lord. In Dresden Street.”
Bryght placed it on the outer fringes of respectable London, thus confirming that they were not flush with funds. “The death of the Earl of Walgrave must have disordered your plans,” he probed.
The young man flushed. “What the devil…? What business is it of yours, sir?”
Bryght made a pacifying gesture. “I am maladroit. Forgive me please.” The young man was correct. None of it was any of Bryght’s business. He took a trick with the queen of diamonds—a singularly foolish thing to do in bezique, but his opponent didn’t appear to notice.
Andover did. He had come to observe the game and he raised an astonished brow at Bryght. Bryght flashed him a message, and his friend wandered off.
In bezique, it was the points scored by combinations in hand that mattered, not tricks won. Sir Oliver knew the rules of the game, but seemed largely unaware of the subtleties. If he didn’t avoid the tables, he was undoubtedly headed for debtor’s prison, and what would become of his sister then?
By very peculiar play Bryght managed to let Upcott reach the score of one thousand points first. “You win, Sir Oliver. Perhaps we could raise the stakes. Twenty guineas a round?”
Bryght found it easy to raise the stakes, but surprisingly hard to keep losing. Of course his damnable luck kept interfering—he couldn’t, for example, neglect to declare four aces when they appeared in his hand—but really the young man had no sense of the game.
By three in the morning, and after the hardest work he’d done in a long time, Bryght had managed to pass over two hundred guineas of his winnings to Sir Oliver Upcott. The young man’s eyes were aglow with triumph.
For the past half hour, Bryght had been plying Upcott with wine. Now, when he showed signs of heading back to the lansquenet table, Bryght steered him firmly toward the door and out into the frosty December air.
“I say,” said Upcott vaguely. “Night’s still young.”
“On the contrary. And your sister must be concerned.”
The young man frowned over that. “About you and my sister…”
“Nothing to it. Absolutely nothing.”