“A bitch,” drawled Bryght. “Find yourself a bitch, Danforth.”
“Any particular breed?” Lord Danforth asked anxiously.
“No, just be sure she’ll raise her tail for any cur that sniffs there.”
“Do you say so? I’ll find one tomorrow. I’ve tried lucky heather, and new shoes. Nothing seems to work. Now, let’s play.”
Danforth himself had lost over a thousand, and a good part of it sat in front of Bryght along with contributions from most of the other men. He played idly with the stack of guineas and vowels. Danforth could probably afford the loss. Others at the table could not. He disliked winning from those who should not be playing, but sometimes it was unavoidable. To refuse to play with a man was to insult him.
At this distance, Bryght couldn’t follow how much his pocket Amazon’s brother was dropping, but he doubted the young man could afford a penny. What the devil was he doing in a hell like Jeremy’s?
It was none of his damned business, he told himself, but guilt over his behavior to that spirited young woman nagged at him. He remembered enjoying the encounter with Portia St. Claire at first, as he had not enjoyed an encounter with a woman for a long time. For a start, he thought, smiling at the memory, there weren’t many who tried to shoot him on sight. Or who tried to bar his way with her body.
Her tiny body.
She hadn’t been a beauty, but the fire in her angry eyes and the firm line of her mouth had stayed tantalizingly with him. At disconcerting moments he would remember the vibrant energy in her slender body as she fought him, and wonder what it would be like to tussle in a more friendly way with her.
He had no intention of pursuing the question. He’d had a belly full of St. Claires, and his marital attentions—if he had any at all—were firmly directed toward marrying money. His mistreatment of a courageous woman lingered sour in his mind, however, and he would be pleased to pacify his conscience.
With a sigh, he stood.
“I say,” said Danforth. “You’re not leaving now, Malloren. My luck’s about to change.”
“Then I’ll play you tomorrow, Danforth.” He waved for a club servant to collect his winnings and strolled around the table to where the young man sat. A neat bag-wig, fine satin suit, and clean lace. The family wasn’t on its last legs yet.
Did he have a first name for the cub? Hippolyta had addressed him by name, but it had not registered.
“St. Claire,” said Bryght. “Care for a private hand or two?”
The young man was so engrossed in the cards being turned up that he didn’t respond. Bryght had to tap him on the shoulder. He looked up distractedly, then his eyes widened. “You!”
“I am indeed me. I am inviting you to play with me, sir. In fact, I insist.”
The young man’s eyes flickered to the game before him, but then he succumbed to the stronger will and rose. Bryght was relieved to see that he had a few guineas to take with him. He settled them both at a table for two and called for wine. “Bezique, Mr. St. Claire?”
“It’s not St. Claire. It’s Upcott.”
Bryght raised his brows. “Half sister? Or is she a widow?”
“Half-sister. And I want to know what happened between you two, my lord. She would never tell me.”
Bryght had to give the cub credit for courage. “Then far be it from me to reveal her secrets.”
“You can’t make me think she enjoyed your attentions!”
“Attentions?” Bryght queried gently.
Upcott glared at him in thwarted silence. He had a handsome, fair-skinned face and looked more intelligent than his behavior suggested. It constantly amazed Bryght that pleasant, sensible creatures could be trapped by the tables.
Perhaps it was not too late for this one. A servant brought the wine and fresh packs of cards. Bryght poured for them both. “My dear Mr. Upcott—”
“Sir Oliver,” the young man tersely corrected.
Bryght inclined his head in apology. “My dear Sir Oliver, your sister and I had a small misunderstanding which I regret entirely. I hold her in no disrespect and apologize for any upset I might have caused her. And of course, I also regret our own little misunderstanding.”
It was clear that Sir Oliver was daunted by this apology. “Very well, my lord. We’ll speak no more of it.”
“You are all kindness, sir.” Bryght passed over a glass of wine. “Now, please say you will oblige me with a game. Do you play bezique?”
