Chapter 17
Bryght was thoughtful as he walked back to Marlborough Square.
It had all been a shock, he was sure, but that didn’t explain Portia’s state. He had given her the opportunity to escape and she had refused to take it. He had looked into her eyes and seen that she meant the words she said, but was deeply distressed.
He didn’t understand it, but couldn’t marry any woman so against her will.
When he arrived at Malloren House he went to the offices, hoping to drown concern in hard work. He could not concentrate, however. After listening to a clerk’s explanation of wine imports and prices, and realizing that he hadn’t taken in more than a tenth of it, he gave up the effort.
When he entered the hall, he encountered Rothgar in full Court magnificence, including his Orders.
“And how are our beloved monarchs?” Bryght asked.
“Dull as always,” said Rothgar. “I intend to be dissipated and drink strong coffee. Do you care to join me?”
Bryght was tempted to find a hole to hide in but refused to succumb.
They went to the library, Rothgar’s favorite haven, an oak-paneled room lined with a disorderly collection of well-read books. As they waited for the coffeepot, Bryght said, “Do you think the Song of Songs is allegorical or simply a love story?”
“Cannot it be both?” Rothgar took a seat close to the fire, flipping back the encrusted brocade skirts of his coat and adjusting his rapier to settle comfortably by his side.
Like Bryght he was powdered, but for Court he had clearly intended to impress.
His buttons were rubies, his sword-hilt was set with diamonds, and he wore three heavy rings on his elegant, pale hands.
“I feel positively underdressed,” said Bryght, taking the opposite chair. “Are we asking for something?”
“Quite the opposite. When petitioning, one appears gentlemanly but unostentatious. I am merely making an impression against the time it becomes necessary. There are some people still looking to the old order, and paying their greatest attention to the king’s mother and Lord Bute. I look to the future.”
“Will the king ever break free of his mother and Bute?”
“Undoubtedly. Especially with my help.”
“’Struth! Are you turning king-maker?”
Rothgar smiled. “Hardly that. But he is somewhat in awe of me, and I am one of the few around him not constantly asking for favors. A little heart-to-heart we had at the Abbey after Cyn’s wedding didn’t hurt either.”
Bryght couldn’t help but grin. “About politics?”
“Devil a bit. About the marriage bed. He and the queen are most grateful, though she, of course, doesn’t know from whence the blessings came.”
Bryght dissolved into laughter. “Gads, Bey. I don’t know how you do it.”
Rothgar looked slightly hurt. “It is merely that I have everyone’s best interests at heart. Now, as to your love-life…”
The arrival of the coffee was fortuitous. By the time the footman had poured the drink, handed the cups, and been dismissed, Bryght had composed himself.
“My love life goes ahead smoothly without your aid. The wedding is to be on Wednesday.”
“Then I had best send for Elf and Brand immediately. Perhaps your bride would like to dine here tonight. With the Trelyns, of course.”
“I’m not sure.”
“If that is not convenient, I must call upon her.” When Bryght remained silent, he added, “To do less would be discourteous.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“Bryght, if there is about to be a disaster in the family, I would like to know.”
Bryght put down his empty cup. He had always guarded his personal affairs from Rothgar, but his brother was right. This could go beyond the personal. “Make no mistake of it,” he said, “I want to marry Portia St. Claire. It is not a particularly prudent marriage, but I want it.”
“I would be positively alarmed if my family were to start being prudent.”
Bryght laughed at that. “Your composure is safe, I assure you. I was caught kissing Portia at Lady Willoughby’s soiree last night. Kissing her with considerable enthusiasm.”
“Was she kissing you back?”
“With equal enthusiasm.”
“Where, then, is the fly in this ointment?”
“I’m not sure. Trelyn is preaching propriety and insisting on marriage. I think he’s three parts honest. The other part is a desire to see me married and thus less likely to rut with his wife.”
“What an optimistic view of marriage, to be sure.”
That made Bryght laugh again. “I think his optimistic view of marriage is a little dented, but he doesn’t yet realize the full truth. It’s not my business to enlighten him.”
“Assuredly not. So, he is insisting on marriage. You wish to marry. The lady is enthusiastic. Where is the problem?”
“The lady is not enthusiastic. She was not exactly enthusiastic last night, and now she’s as keen as someone invited to sleep the night in a plague house.”
Rothgar leaned back. “Bryght, I will not assist you to capture an unwilling bride.”
“I would hope not. I offered her escape and she refused it. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.” He rose to pace the room. “I tricked her into that kiss last night, Bey, but nothing will persuade me she didn’t enjoy it.”
“Perhaps you should tell me all about your bride-to-be.”
There was nothing Bryght wanted less, other than to hurt Portia. He sat down and complied, but left out everything about the brothel.
“So,” said Rothgar at the end, “her brother is ruined, and has possibly fled abroad, and she doubtless holds you to blame.”
“Me? Why?”
Rothgar shook his head. “You let him win. That was remarkably foolish. You should have fleeced him thoroughly, let him sweat for a few days, then torn up his notes.”
Bryght rolled his head back. “Damnation, so I should. I didn’t know then how deep in he was.”
“And of course, after two such unfortunate experiences of gaming—both father and brother—Miss St. Claire cannot feel easy about linking her life to an inveterate gamester.”
“Me? I’m no such thing.”
“To her, you doubtless are. My suggestion is that you explain the truth—that you are not a slave to Chance, and are willing to give up the tables forever.”
“I’m sure her brother promised that too,” said Bryght, but he was hedging.
“A little of your recent history might convince her. I doubt you’d played more than a sociable game of whist in years until you involved yourself in Bridgewater’s affairs.”
But Bryght couldn’t give up the tables just yet—not if he was to keep Bridgewater afloat and cover Upcott’s debt.
He had no intention of telling Rothgar that, however, for then his brother would offer funds from his own fortune.
“I doubt she’d be so easily convinced,” he said.
“She is not rational on the subject. No, I think I should withdraw my offer. If the Trelyns are forcing her, that will block them. If she can be convinced I am of the angels, we can achieve a new agreement over time.”
“It will look peculiar.”
“To the devil with how it looks. Even at the worst interpretation, there is no need of such a hasty wedding, and Lady Willoughby can attest to that. If the Trelyns make trouble, I have the means to deal with them. I do not want to watch Portia walk down the aisle toward me with that dread on her face.”
Rothgar studied Bryght thoughtfully as the clock ticked and a coal tumbled in the grate. Then he rose and went to his desk. He took a small stack of letters from a drawer and handed them to Bryght.
Bryght looked at them in surprise. They were all addressed to him, the papers were of many shades, and a distressing ferment of perfumes wafted from them. “What the devil…?”
“Your post. If Miss St. Claire does not find you to her taste, it does not seem to be the common opinion.”
Bryght ripped open a nasty-looking purple missive drenched with oil of lavender. It was a frankly lewd invitation to disport himself with a lady calling herself Sybella, and naming the time and place.
He threw it, and the rest of them unopened, on the fire then faced his brother. “What do you know?”
“It is all over the clubs that you have dedicated yourself to public education.”
“So few men have panache in these matters.”
“How true. But to pay six hundred guineas for the honor of demonstrating the art seems quixotic at the least.”
Bryght tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “It was a wager and I won.”
Rothgar merely looked at him.
Bryght sighed. “The tender virgin was Portia.”
“Ah. I suspected as much. A rash gamester for a brother does rather point the way.”
“Hopefully not too clearly.”
“Certainly no one speaks of it. No one questions Hippolyta’s extreme youth, and Cuthbertson’s prey are usually of the petty classes. The wager was a clever twist, too. Who would question a wager?”
“Quite. And I was able to set the terms.”
“I’m pleased your acuity has not entirely deserted you. It was also very clever to connect her with the Trelyns. Virtually untouchable. I congratulate you.”
Bryght laughed. “Call me rather a Prince of Serendip. That was not planned.”
“And the scandal at the Willoughbys’ is yet more luck? I was feeling positively overwhelmed by your genius! If anyone thinks to wonder why you are marrying rather lower than you might, they will have a reason. You were caught at the game and decided to act honorably.”
“And there you have some truth in it,” Bryght admitted. “I wanted to bind her.”
“But in view of all this,” asked Rothgar, “can you in honor retract your offer of marriage?”
“Can I in honor enforce it? She’s still a virgin, Bey.”
Rothgar’s brows rose. “So I gather, but as the story has already entered the realm of the fabulous I couldn’t be sure.”
Bryght suddenly laughed. “Hence the letters. I’m now a lover of mythic proportions and can expect to be hotly pursued by lustful ladies. I had best marry, and soon.”
“Don’t forget the lustful swains,” remarked Rothgar. “I overheard Ramage compose an ode to your torso. I hinted that I would treat such matters as if they were offenses against one of my sisters. He was chastened but confused.”