Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (6 page)

He hadn't risen a loser in about a year.

Ah well, they said "Lucky in love, unlucky at chance." Clearly the reverse was true. Thanks to Nerissa St. Claire, Bryght had given up on love entirely, and at the tables he could not lose.

Young St. Claire must be in a state of perfect happiness as far as matters of the heart went. He was losing steadily.

The game here was high-stakes lansquenet—a singularly mindless way of risking large amounts of money. There was no skill involved in turning cards unless one cheated. Bryght found it suited him for it took away the guilt of winning.

"Demme!" exclaimed one man, glaring at the two turned up by the banker. "Can the cards never come right?" He stood up and took off his coat, replacing it inside out. "There, perhaps that'll do the trick." He peered through the smoke at Bryght. "Malloren, what's your secret? Demme, man, you never lose!"

"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?"

"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?"

"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."

Andover slumped back down again. "I wondered why you'd taken to deep play again." He looked thoughtfully at Bryght. "I've never known you to back a failure. Perhaps I should make him a loan."

"Perhaps you should, but I tell you honestly there's no guarantee in it. It's a damned risky business. Apart from technical problems—and they're working out how to do things as they go—there are plenty of people who want to see him fail."

"All those with money tied up in river navigation schemes, for a start, never mind those with money in cartage." Andover chewed his thumb. "It'll be a lot cheaper to transport by canal?"