Chapter 18
That evening Bryght went hunting again, and this time he found the right quarry. Sir William and Prestonly were in White’s and delighted to play. Prestonly sealed his fate by gloating over his past winnings and making a few filthy remarks about Hippolyta.
Andover was there and quickly understood Bryght’s mood and motives. They settled to play bezique—Andover against Sir William, and Bryght against Prestonly—and this time Bryght found he had an opponent who understood the subtleties of the game. He was glad of it for it soothed his conscience.
Having settled to his purpose, he was careful and gave the sugar-planter no reason to realize he was out-classed. The man was not stupid. If Bryght wanted to take a large chunk of money from him—say four thousand—he would have to reel him slowly and with great skill.
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?”