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?”
