“Of course.”
Bryght took it for entire agreement and broke open the two packs of cards, passing them to the younger man for both inspection and shuffling. Then they cut for deal.
When Bryght won he suppressed a sigh. His luck was clearly present in full force. This was not going to be easy.
Bezique was a game involving a great deal of luck, but there was skill involved in keeping track of the cards played, and in the variety of ways to score from the cards in hand. This was just the sort of thing Bryght was good at, and he intended to use his skill to line the lad’s pockets. Then he’d send him firmly on his way home and hope never to set eyes on him again.
Bryght had a fine instinct for trouble, and Sir Oliver and his sister were undoubtedly trouble. He played his first card. “You and your sister are now fixed in London, are you?”
Upcott frowned over his play, then took the trick. “Yes, my lord. In Dresden Street.”
Bryght placed it on the outer fringes of respectable London, thus confirming that they were not flush with funds. “The death of the Earl of Walgrave must have disordered your plans,” he probed.
The young man flushed. “What the devil…? What business is it of yours, sir?”
Bryght made a pacifying gesture. “I am maladroit. Forgive me please.” The young man was correct. None of it was any of Bryght’s business. He took a trick with the queen of diamonds—a singularly foolish thing to do in bezique, but his opponent didn’t appear to notice.
Andover did. He had come to observe the game and he raised an astonished brow at Bryght. Bryght flashed him a message, and his friend wandered off.
In bezique, it was the points scored by combinations in hand that mattered, not tricks won. Sir Oliver knew the rules of the game, but seemed largely unaware of the subtleties. If he didn’t avoid the tables, he was undoubtedly headed for debtor’s prison, and what would become of his sister then?
By very peculiar play Bryght managed to let Upcott reach the score of one thousand points first. “You win, Sir Oliver. Perhaps we could raise the stakes. Twenty guineas a round?”
Bryght found it easy to raise the stakes, but surprisingly hard to keep losing. Of course his damnable luck kept interfering—he couldn’t, for example, neglect to declare four aces when they appeared in his hand—but really the young man had no sense of the game.
By three in the morning, and after the hardest work he’d done in a long time, Bryght had managed to pass over two hundred guineas of his winnings to Sir Oliver Upcott. The young man’s eyes were aglow with triumph.
For the past half hour, Bryght had been plying Upcott with wine. Now, when he showed signs of heading back to the lansquenet table, Bryght steered him firmly toward the door and out into the frosty December air.
“I say,” said Upcott vaguely. “Night’s still young.”
“On the contrary. And your sister must be concerned.”
The young man frowned over that. “About you and my sister…”
“Nothing to it. Absolutely nothing.”
“Didn’t think so,” said Sir Oliver rather morosely. “She’s all set to lead apes in hell.”
She’d lead the apes a merry dance, thought Bryght dryly.
He sent a hovering link boy for a hackney and turned as Andover came up beside him.
“Are we interested in this one?” Andover asked quietly with a nod of his head toward Upcott. He was a loose-limbed blond of very easy-going temperament.
“In a limited way. Having restored his funds, I intend to get him safely home. Then, I hope, my obligations are over.”
Andover raised his brows, but made no difficulty. “Right you are.”
The one-horse carriage rolled up, and they hoisted the happy baronet into it then followed him inside. He collapsed onto the hard seat and began to sing. Out of key.
As the coach rolled off, Andover winced at Bryght. “What’s the interest?”
“Just my noble nature.”
“Indeed,” said Andover skeptically. “Take to rescuing every unlucky gamester in London and you’ll be worn to a frazzle.”
“Talking of being worn to a frazzle, do we go on to Mirabelle’s after we’ve delivered this?”
