“After last night? I’m exhausted, my dear fellow.”
“No stamina. You’re a disgrace to your rank.”
“Alas, likely true,mon ami,”They chatted over the rambling songs until the coach halted.
“Sir Oliver,” said Bryght, cutting through a chorus, “is this your place? Number twelve, Dresden Street?”
Upcott peered through the window dazedly. “The whole upstairs, my lord, but a sorry accommodation all the same. I’d ask you in, but…”
Bryght climbed out and extracted the young man. “You are everything that is kind, but it is late, sir. If I may be so bold, I advise you never to look at cards or dice again. You have no gift for it.” He bowed. “My respectful regards to your sister and all that.”
Upcott frowned slightly in bewilderment, then nodded. “Excellent, my lord. Excellent. Enjoyed the game. Must play again someday. Let you get your revenge….”
Bryght sighed and left him to find his own way into his lodgings. He commanded the driver to return them to civilization and took his seat again.
“Sister?” queried Andover in interest.
“A chance acquaintance, only.”
Now that there were only two of them, Andover stretched out his long legs. “Ah. And I hoped there was a rival for the Findlayson.”
“Hoped? How crude of you. How could any woman rival the bounteous Mrs. Findlayson?”
“Certainly none can rival her bounteous fortune, completely under her control.”
“Precisely,” said Bryght with a beatific smile.
“Why the devil are you so set on a wealthy marriage? With your income from your family and your luck at the tables, you surely have no need of money.”
“One always has need of money, it would appear.”
Andover frowned at him. “Are you really in straits? I could lend you—”
Bryght laughed. “A penniless Malloren? My dear, it is just that I have sunk a great deal in Bridgewater’s scheme.”
Andover straightened in surprise. “The canal? You think there’s something to it?”
“Don’t you?”
“It’s madness. Typical of Bridgewater. What’s wrong with river transport if roads won’t do? It goes against nature, cutting a waterway straight across the countryside.”
“Say rather it conquers nature,” Bryght responded. “Roads are rutted in frost, become mud soup in rain, and are poorly maintained at the best of times. Rivers turn shallow in summer, and flood in winter. A canal just sits there, always calm and ready to transport goods at a fraction of the cost.”
“But the cost of construction…”
“Ten thousand guineas a mile, apparently.”
Andover’s jaw fell. “How can Bridgewater ever recover those kinds of costs? I heard him say earlier that he’s not just going from his coal pits to Manchester. He’s going to push to the sea. That’s another twenty miles or so. It’ll cost a fortune.”
“It’s already cost his. He’s over thirty thousand pounds in debt…”
“Zounds.”
“…and people are very reluctant to lend him any more.”
“Hardly surprising. And you’ve actually lent him money?”
“All I can spare, and nearly all I raise at the tables.”
