Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (37 page)

Thinking clearly seemed like an excellent idea for all concerned, especially as Bryght had to gain some money if he were to pay that debt.

He left Rothgar's room to go pigeon hunting, for hells and clubs did not wait for darkness.

Bryght was particularly hoping to find the revolting Mr. Prestonly, but some other of the same sort would do. It was impossible these days for Bryght to take more than a handful of guineas from the common run of gamester—even from ones like Upcott who seemed hell-bent on losing their all to someone. No, he needed victims who deserved their fate, and preferably ones who were also worthy opponents.

Mr. Prestonly would fit the bill exactly but Bryght did not come across him. He joined a game of Macao at White's but as it was a friendly game for moderate stakes, he rose an hour later with only a hundred or so. He went on to the Cocoa Tree, and found a lot of money moving there. There was no one he felt able to fleece, however, and so he merely watched for a while and then moved on.

Down the scale.

At Harker's he gathered nearly five hundred without being obvious about it. He would have done better had it not been for one desperate man. Norton was clearly dipped far deeper than he could afford and trying to recoup. Bryght wished he could help but as Andover said, trying to help every drowning soul in London was impossible.

Bryght played a couple of hands, trying to ignore the man but failing. Well, if he were to do something, the wisest thing would be to follow Rothgar's prescription and fleece him well then tear up the notes later. But Norton was an older man who might not accept that kind of charity.

Bryght gave in to foolishness and let him win fifty guineas then took his leave, praying it didn't lead to deeper play.

At the next hell—Mrs. Marlowe's—Bryght had a most enjoyable encounter with a Frenchman. He appeared to be a veritable popinjay, positively awash with ribbons, flowers, and perfume and with no brain to speak of. He played cards as if he scarcely understood the suits.

He was clearly a professional hawk.

Bryght enjoyed fencing with him for he was extremely skillful, but after a while with the money still even the Frenchman looked up and grinned. "Ah so,
monsieur."

"Ah so, indeed. You are new in London?"

"Vraiment.
You are well-known here?"

"I am known for my luck. Lord Arcenbryght Malloren."

The Frenchman quirked a painted eyebrow.
"Enchanté,
milord. But it is a little more than luck,
hein?"

Bryght straightened the pack and stood. "Perhaps.
Bon chance, monsieur."

Bryght left Mrs. Marlowe's discreet establishment to find the light beginning to go, and his limited enthusiasm for the enterprise fading too. He headed back toward Marlborough Square, knowing there was one more likely hell en route.

Inclination drove him straight home.

Duty took him into Dante's.

The owner claimed that Dante was his real name, but Bryght doubted it. He was sure he enjoyed the fact that his establishment was nicknamed "The Inferno." It was a place for high play and no quailing at the odds.

Hygiene was not a priority with Signor Dante, and the place stank of mold, rot, and stale urine. The blinds were drawn and the candles were inadequate—all the better for the card sharps and other cheats. Really, Bryght had to wonder why anyone, even a lustful gamester, would choose to play in such a hellhole. It was fashionable, however, with a certain kind of blade.

It was a hawk's roost, and Bryght was seeking one particular hawk. He spotted him and wove through the crowded room nodding coolly to some acquaintances. He pulled a chair up to a small round table. "Good day to you, Cuthbertson."

The swarthy man looked up in idle surprise. "Lord Arcenbryght? I'm honored."

It had slipped Bryght's mind that Cuthbertson knew nothing of his connection to Portia, and therefore was unaware of how deeply he was loathed. "I have heard of your skill at cards, sir. I hope to test it."

The man's eyes narrowed, but at Dante's one did not refuse to play. "I'm at your service, my lord."

"Piquet?" Bryght deliberately chose a game of considerable skill. He did not want to leave this to chance.

Cuthbertson gnawed his lip nervously, but agreed. A few idlers had gathered so he could afford no sign of weakness. Like a pack of rats, these creatures would turn on the vulnerable.

Signor Dante himself brought the fresh pack of cards, and stayed to watch.

Bryght had encountered Cuthbertson here and there, but had never played against him. Bryght was definitely not the sort of prey this hawk searched for. For the first few hands he tested the man, assessing his skills.

He decided he was a cheat.

Oh, Cuthbertson wasn't trying to cheat now—that would be foolhardy indeed—but he didn't have the degree of skill to win consistently by brain alone.

Bryght began to take his money. Playing the hawk at his own game, he allowed small wins to encourage him, and to prevent him from calling a halt. If Cuthbertson tried to stop when he had just won, it would look bad.

Soon Bryght had gathered the three hundred guineas Cuthbertson had taken from Portia and her brother. He won another hundred before the sweating hawk stopped the play.

"My lord, I confess, my luck is out and yours is in. I will have to concede."

"Already? I am willing to take your vowels, sir."

Cuthbertson rose. "Alas, I am engaged elsewhere, my lord."

Bryght rose too, and favored his opponent with an ironic bow. "I am desolate. This has been most enjoyable."

"Indeed it has, my lord." But clearly the hawk wanted only to escape with a few feathers left.

As he left the house, however, Bryght went with him. "Perhaps we are walking the same way, Cuthbertson."

The gamester turned, his face ugly. "That might not be wise, my lord."

"It would not be wise," said Bryght softly, "to presume to threaten me."

Despite the fact that his henchman had appeared at his shoulder, Cuthbertson blanched. "I meant no such thing..."

"Good. You took money from a connection of mine—Sir Oliver Upcott. I am displeased."

The man stepped back. "I did not know, my lord."

"Assuredly. I have corrected your error. I am sure that pleases you."

"I'm quivering with delight," Cuthbertson snarled.

"I thought you would be. I met a delightful young man at Mrs. Marlowe's...."

"So?"

"A Frenchman. He spoke so warmly of the delights of the Paris clubs that I am tempted to try them myself."

"Why don't you then?"

"Alas, I have commitments at the moment. You, however, are free to travel."

Cuthbertson's eyes narrowed. "I have no desire to travel."

"I think if you consider the advantages and alternatives, you will find it a most enticing prospect."

With that, Bryght turned and walked away, wondering if he would hear rushing feet and have to turn and fight for his life. The street was not entirely deserted, however, and no attack occurred.

He headed back for Malloren House, thinking that sponging off Rothgar—his course of last resort—was beginning to look damned attractive.

* * *

Portia sat in her bedroom in Trelyn House, contemplating the shapes and shadows in the leaping fire. The past twenty-four hours had been enough to turn anyone's wits, but she was beginning to feel almost calm.

The marquess's announcement that his brother was withdrawing his offer of marriage had been like an explosion. Lord Trelyn had been livid with rage. Nerissa had pretended to faint with horror, but was clearly furious.

Portia had not been able to suppress glee at these reactions, but mainly she was worried to death about the consequences.

"It is my brother's considered opinion," said the marquess calmly despite the outrage, "and it is an opinion I share, that his behavior was not extreme enough to make a hasty marriage necessary. Such a marriage might cast some shadow on the reputation of Miss St. Claire. He hopes to woo her in a more normal fashion."

"He will never darken my door again!" declared Lord Trelyn, almost quivering with fury.

"As I am sure Miss St. Claire will wish to rejoin her family in Dorset, you will not be put to that inconvenience, Lord Trelyn."

"We will not pay to send her there," snapped Nerissa.

"You have my money!" Portia declared.

The marquess looked at the Trelyns with such amazement that they both reddened with guilt.

"It is in safekeeping, you silly creature," snapped Lord Trelyn. "Are you accusing me of being a thief?"

Portia smiled sweetly. "No, Cousin, of course not. I am simply pointing out that I have the means to return home tomorrow."

"Then go," snapped Nerissa. "We arrange a most advantageous marriage for you, and you treat us as villains! I hope you are miserable in muddy, boring Dorset."

"Lady Trelyn," said her husband sharply, "you are forgetting Christian charity. And you are forgetting where the blame lies. In my opinion, Lord Arcenbryght has behaved in a most deplorable manner, and I will not forget it. In the meantime, Cousin Portia must need your loving care not your cruelty."

Cousin Portia wanted no such thing, but she allowed herself to be taken off by a superficially chastened Nerissa. She expected more attacks as soon as they were out of Lord Trelyn's earshot, but once in Nerissa's rooms her dresser handed her a note. "From the mantua maker, milady."

Nerissa almost jumped. She read the note warily, her lips tightening. "Another delay. Such people are so tiresome these days." She tossed it on the fire and Portia watched it burn. Why would a mantua-maker's note bring new flags of anger to Nerissa's cheeks?

But Nerissa turned to her with a smile. "Dearest, forgive me? I was so furious about the way that wretch treated you."

Portia guessed that Nerissa's fury was because she would not now get her letter back, but she played along. "It is what one would expect of a Malloren."

"Indeed it is. The wretch. The lizard! Word must get out so that he may be shunned as he deserves!"

"No! Please, Nerissa. You will ruin me in the process!"

Nerissa sat with an angry flounce. "But he must be made to suffer."

"I prefer to forget it and return home."

"You are a poor little mouse, aren't you? I will put my mind to avenging you...."

"No,
please
."

Nerissa ignored her. "Word must get out...."

Portia had escaped, hoping Nerissa's plans would come to naught. Now she sat in her room fighting a foolish urge to go to Bryght Malloren and warn him that Nerissa continued to plot. By heaven but she wished she had never met him!

If only Oliver had not come to London, had not started gaming, how happy they would be. Now he would end up in the army and probably die far away in a foreign land. Overstead would struggle under a burden of debt. And Portia would struggle under the burden of a broken heart.

She was not a person given to denying the truth. The simple truth was that Bryght Malloren had wormed his way into her heart and started a rot there that was likely to consume her even if they never met again.

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.