Chapter 10 #3
Bryght put all thoughts of Portia St. Claire out of his mind, intent on milking Prestonly of a fortune.
But then he lost five more hands. He was forced to acknowledge that he couldn’t keep his mind on the play at all.
Hell, he and Andover had lost the hundreds they’d won earlier and were now down another three hundred.
He threw down his cards. “I’m for home, gentlemen. Do you want my place, Barclay?”
“The night’s still young, my lord,” said Sir William in surprise.
“You owe me a chance to make up my losses, my lord,” said Mr. Prestonly, fingering his winnings.
Bryght rose. “I’ll gladly play you another night, Mr. Prestonly.” As Bryght passed Andover’s seat, his friend murmured, “For home, or Dresden Street?”
Bryght stopped. “You, my friend, are going to become a dead bore.”
Barclay overheard, and interjected with surprise, “With the emphasis on dead? What’s up?”
Bryght laughed. “I am not in the habit of killing my friends.”
“Then do you wish a friend’s company?” Andover asked.
“No, I really am for home.”
Bryght meant it. He was tempted to go and see if Portia was safe, but she wouldn’t want such an intrusion now. He could wait until tomorrow.
Back at Malloren House, however, Bryght’s mind was still active, circling around financial arrangements. Prestonly had given him a draft on his bank and it should go into the safe. He decided he’d send Mirabelle and Cuthbertson their cut now.
He was aware that this was illogical and even dangerous, but he wanted this affair over with as soon as possible.
He arranged for a suitably heavy escort for the money, then took a corridor that led to the back of the house. It led, in fact, to the suite of offices from which the business of the marquessate was carried out. Most people were unaware that this business was Bryght’s major occupation and delight.
When Bryght had finished his education and returned from his Grand Tour, he had plunged merrily into the social life of London—in particular into the gaming that went on everywhere.
He enjoyed the challenge, particularly of games of skill, and was good at it.
For a young man on a modest allowance, the winnings had come in useful, too.
Rothgar had been surprisingly tolerant, perhaps because Bryght generally won. Bryght amused himself sometimes trying to imagine what would have happened if he’d gone to Rothgar one day burdened with a massive gaming debt.
It was not, in fact, a particularly amusing thought.
But after some months, when the thrill was beginning to pall, Rothgar had started to introduce Bryght to a more interesting kind of speculation.
Investments.
And Bryght had fallen in love. He master-minded the Malloren financial affairs from a sense of responsibility, but he would have done it for the sheer excitement.
Shipping, cartage, goods from the Orient and Africa, new ventures in England and the Americas.
It was the best high-stakes game in the world and England was at the heart of it.
Through Bryght’s skillful management, the Mallorens were at the heart of it, too, bringing vast profits and substantial power.
Led by Zeno, and shielding the candle from the draft, Bryght entered the outer office where four tidy desks awaited the clerks who labored here during the day.
Most people would be surprised at just how businesslike the Mallorens were about their affairs.
Ten men worked in these offices by day—clerks, accountants, and a lawyer—but at night the place was deserted.
Not tonight, though. Bryght realized at last how strange it was that Zeno had preceded him instead of keeping his usual place at his heel. Of course he had. The phlegmatic animal had been longing to be in these rooms for hours.
For when Bryght entered the inner sanctum a branch of candles already illuminated his desk and the man working there.
He was in shirt-sleeves, but the lace at throat and wrists was of the finest quality.
His dark hair was tied neatly back in a bag-wig and he wore a large ruby signet on his right hand.
The Marquess of Rothgar looked up and surveyed his brother. “Trouble?”
Another soft woof announced a paler shape uncurling from a spot by Rothgar’s feet. Zeno loped over to entwine himself comfortably with his mate, Boudicca.
Bryght could not imagine how he had missed Zeno’s enthusiasm for this meeting. He was growing positively muddle-headed, and now he had a problem. Bryght would have given a great deal not to have Rothgar involved in this, but there was no avoiding it now.
“Just a debt to be paid.” He went to a safe and unlocked it to take out a bag of money. He counted out four hundred and twenty guineas and put them into two separate pouches. It was, unfortunately, a startlingly large amount of money.
“Saints preserve us,” said Rothgar mildly. “Do you mean you are losing?”
“No, actually, I won.” Bryght told Zeno to stay, spun on his heel and went to give the pouches to the servants along with directions.
He paused then, tempted to go upstairs. He was in no fit state to handle his brother, but delaying a discussion with Rothgar would just increase his brother’s curiosity.
Though Bryght was the second son, six years separated them. It was not a great age difference now they were men, but it encompassed more than years.
Bryght’s early years had been idyllic, but Rothgar’s had been marred by his mother’s madness and her murder of her second child.
Years later, the death of Bryght’s parents had brought grief into an otherwise carefree boyhood, but it had been even worse for Rothgar.
At nineteen, he had become responsible not only for the marquessate but for five young half-siblings.
Rothgar had his own reasons for being strongly protective of his family, and Bryght his own reasons for resisting it. Since they were close in age, the paternalism had never been as strong between them, but it was there. Bryght knew that Rothgar let nothing to do with his family escape his notice.
At times it was a damnable nuisance.
There was no choice, however. He headed back to the offices.