Chapter 4
Bryght separated from Andover near Bond Street, and let his friend take the hack.
He had no particular inclination to find a link-boy even, for the weak moonlight was enough to show his way to nearby Marlborough Square.
He knew danger lurked in every shadow, but the only precaution he took was to toss back his cloak and make sure the hilt of his sword was clear.
The scavengers of London were generally on the prowl for easier prey.
Marlborough Square was perhaps the finest square in London, with grand houses surrounding a lovely railed garden which even boasted a duck pond.
Malloren House stood in the center of one side of the square, set back from the road, and fronted by a paved courtyard.
A narrow lane ran down each side, setting it off from lesser houses nearby, but blocked by ornate wrought iron gates. At the back there was a large garden.
As Bryght climbed the shallow stairs to the pillared portico, the night-doorman seated in an alcove leapt to his feet to open one of the heavy double doors.
Bryght recalled a conversation with Portia St. Claire about knocking on doors. He had said he never knocked on doors that lacked servants to open them. The truth was that he rarely had to exert himself as far as knocking.
Why did that woman keep popping into his head? It would be foolishness to become embroiled in the affairs of the petty gentry who had to knock at doors, and even—heaven forbid!—answer them, too.
Bryght suppressed a grin as he nodded to the elderly man and passed into the gloomy hall.
It would not do to be seen grinning at nothing, or the word would soon be around that he had rolled home drunk.
He drank. He did not become seriously drunk, which was yet another reason for his success at gaming.
There was a very soft woof and a dark form heaved to its feet by the table holding the candles. Bryght went over to greet Zeno. The Persian Gazelle Hound’s head almost reached Bryght’s waist, which made it easy to rub his long, silky ears.
This was as well, for neither Bryght nor the dog were inclined to lose their dignity in the relationship.
Bryght was not about to crouch down and talk nonsense, and Zeno would never dream of leaping up or employing any of the other fawning tricks common to his species.
His greatest sign of devotion was to be at Bryght’s side whenever he could.
Bryght’s brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, had received a pair of the dogs as a gift.
He had intended to keep them both at Rothgar Abbey, but as soon as the male dog had seen Bryght he had firmly attached himself to him.
Even as a six-month pup there had been no bouncing enthusiasm, just a resigned recognition of fate.
Which is why Bryght had named him Zeno after the founder of the Stoical movement.
He rubbed the dog behind the ears, and Zeno pressed just a little closer—the only sign of approval Bryght was likely to get.
Bryght turned away to light a candle at the night-light.
He was the only one of the family in residence at the moment and his standing orders were for the staff to retire early unless he gave other instructions.
The house was silent apart from the ticking of clocks and he had to admit that it was pleasant to have Zeno to greet him when he returned to his cavernous home.
’Struth, he was going to turn maudlin!
Well, if he wanted company, he’d go odds there was one person still awake.
Bryght climbed the sweeping stairs, shielding the candle flame from the draft of his movement, and followed by the click of Zeno’s claws on the steps. He headed for the room where his guest was doubtless poring over papers to do with his canal.
As Bryght had expected, he found Francis Egerton, Duke of Bridgewater, hunched over a desk. But he was working on accounts, not diagrams.
“Is the news good or bad?” Bryght asked as Zeno flopped lazily in front of the fire.
The duke looked up with a quick, almost shy smile. “Both. There’s money for three months, I estimate, barring disasters.”
“Such as the canal bursting its banks again.”
“Exactly,” said the duke with a grimace. “Brindley really does think the trees we’re planting along the banks will help.”
“And bring profit, too, in time. Genius, Francis.”
“Brindley’s, not mine.”
“You’re too modest.”
Bridgewater shrugged. He was a slender young man, five years Bryght’s junior and an awkward blend of naiveté and shrewdness. As a youth he’d been thought both frail and stupid, but he was proving to be neither. There were many who now thought him mad, but Bryght knew they’d be proved wrong, too.
If the money held out.
Bryght poured brandy for them both. “I won a thousand or so tonight you can have. Less a couple of hundred.”
“You lost?” asked Bridgewater with mild surprise.
“On purpose.”
“How strange.”
“I felt inclined to do a kindly act.”
Bridgewater glanced at the window. “And it’s not even full moon.”
“Christian charity seems amazingly out of favor these days,” commented Bryght dryly. “Consider it an investment, then. That’ll be more to your mercenary heart.”
Bridgewater grinned unrepentantly. “An investment in what, though? Is there profit in it?”
“Only spiritual.” Bryght deflected this line of talk. “Do you still intend to return north tomorrow?”
Bridgewater threw down his pen and stretched. “Yes. I’ve done all I can to push the bill through. I wish to hell Parliament had no say in private enterprise. It would make my life easier.”
“What problems are the committee raising now? I’ll grant that approving an aqueduct did demand an act of faith since the ill-educated dolts seemed unaware that Roman examples still exist. But it’s straight for the sea now, isn’t it?”
The duke grimaced. “With a canal, nothing is ever straight except the cut. They’re a huddle of nervous fools. If no one ever takes a risk, there’ll be no progress.”
“Having the aqueduct fail before their eyes doubtless made them cautious,” Bryght pointed out.
“A minor flaw, and soon corrected. There’s been no problem since.”
“Except a couple of expensive floods…”
“Whose side are you on? In a new venture there are bound to be problems!”
“Pax,” said Bryght with a grin. “I’m teasing you, Francis. But you must admit that for people more cautious than we, it does seem a mad scheme. You ought to have heard Andover on the subject.”
“Is it caution, or greed? Behind some of those Doubting Thomases there are people who stand to lose a great deal of money when the canal is working. Brooke practically had an apoplexy speaking against my Bill.”
“Be fair, Francis. Brooke isn’t thinking of profits. He doesn’t care for you cutting a bloody great pathway across his part of the country. Just be grateful you’re not trying to do it near Rothgar Abbey or you’d have my brother against you.”
“There has to be change if there’s to be progress. These conservative old squires will ruin England.”
“I do hope you’re not thinking of Rothgar as a conservative old squire.”
Bridgewater burst out laughing. “Perish the thought! And I certainly wouldn’t care to be up against him.
” He sobered. “As it is, most of the opposition are venal. Their doubts disappear at the sign of gold. I’ve given elegant gifts and even naked coin to people I’d rather kick in the ballocks.
Gads, but I’d rather see the money going toward construction. ”
“It’s all construction of one sort or another.”
“Building fortunes for the greedy? There’s honest money to be made everywhere these days, but lazy people here in London look only to bribery and gaming.”
Bryght toasted him ironically. “Thank you.”
“Lord, not you, Bryght. I know you’ve no great taste for hells anymore.”
“And nobody ever offers me a bribe except the beauties hoping for an introduction to Rothgar.”
“You could make a fortune that way,” Bridgewater remarked with a grin.
“I’m afraid what they offer is not hard currency.”
“No. Something very soft. Pity.”
“You’re turning into a veritable money-grubber, Francis.”
“I simply do what I must to reach my goal.”
“That goal being profit.” Bryght wandered restlessly over to the fire. “Just how virtuous is it to lend money and profit thereby, when others do the sweaty work?”
“We pay a fair wage and they’re glad of it. Without those willing to provide capital, there would be no work for the laborers and nothing would ever be achieved.”
“True enough.” Bryght shook off his unusual qualms and returned to the desk to top up their glasses. “So, if you think you’ve greased enough palms to get your Bill, why not stay a few days and wallow in delicious vice?”
“London bores me, and I want to see how the work progresses.”
“You’re in danger of becoming a devilishly dull dog, you know. The Deadly Duke.”
“Better than ‘the Poor Duke,’ which is the label I grew up with.” He sipped from his brandy. “I’m going to be the richest duke in England, Bryght. What drives you?”
“To be the richest commoner?” Bryght offered lightly.
“There are easier ways to make money.”
“At the tables? I lack the ice to strip men of their all.”
“On ’Change. I know you enjoy investment more than the tables.”
“Ah. But having sunk my funds into your enterprise, I have nothing to venture. I get my speculative pleasures these days with Rothgar’s money.”
The duke frowned. “I’m sorry. It must gall you to be dependent on him.”
“Francis—”
But the duke overrode him. “I seem to have dragged you into a pit, Bryght. I know you invested in me on a whim when…well, it was a whim. I’ll buy you out as soon as it’s possible. It could be soon. Now the aqueduct is working, I actually have people approaching me about loans.”
“Without having to be pressured? A change indeed. But I have no wish to abandon the project.”
“You’ve put everything into it, and it’s a damnable risky business.”
“Francis! Risk is my delight.”
The duke grimaced in exasperation. “Bryght, think. What will you do if we fail?”