It was further evidence that the woman had the unique ability to tangle his mind.
Perhaps it would be wiser and kinder for both of them just to let her go.
As he locked the safe, however, he knew it was a kindness beyond him. He wanted Portia. He wanted to guard her from her own folly, and cherish her as she deserved. He wanted his fiery Amazon in his bed, and he wanted to see her run in the sun, chasing after a happy child.
A child of his.
He went to remove his courting finery. When he emerged it was to the news that Rothgar had returned home. Bryght went in search of his brother and found him in his suite of rooms, in the dressing room, being divested of his glory by two valets. When he was in plain breeches and shirt, he waved away the minions.
“You are now dis-engaged,” he said, passing over the topaz and diamond ring. “I don’t know if felicitations are in order or not.”
Bryght fingered the ring. “Did you speak with Portia?”
“Assuredly. She gave me that, even though Nerissa protested that she should keep it. But she was devilish hard to read. She seemed both relieved and alarmed.”
Bryght put the ring in his pocket and went to look out the window. “I’m afraid she’s being pressured, but I’m not sure how. No one should know of the brothel affair. What else could be used to manipulate her?”
“We can only hope you will have the opportunity to ask her one day. What will you do now?”
“The first thing is to find out who holds Upcott’s debt and purchase it.”
“An excellent plan. Once that pressure is eased, presumably the lady will be able to think more clearly about other matters.”
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.
