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.
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.”
