“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.
