Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 2

  Bryght wished to hell Cyn was here. Despite a lack of height Cyn had that extra something, that instinct and reflex that made a true swordsman. He was just possibly better than Rothgar. This was even Cyn’s fight since the insult was to his wife.

  Curry took his rapier from an attendant to begin some practice passes and lunges.

  “Plague take it,” Bryght muttered. “He’s left-handed.”

  “A truly sinister advantage,” Rothgar remarked as his valet eased him out of his coat. “I know.”

  It was like a rap on the knuckles. Of course Rothgar knew. His brother never moved into even a casual encounter without research. Between last night and now he’d doubtless discovered how many bugs Curry had in his bed.

  “As I thought, he’s good,” Rothgar said as his valet relieved him of his long waistcoat. “He’s fought three duels in England and won them all, leaving his opponents with nasty but nonlethal wounds. Rumor says he’s killed two men in France.”

  Bryght drew on his training to act as unconcerned as his brother, but real worry churned. Rothgar practiced regularly with a master, and had insisted that all his brothers did the same as protection against just this sort of incident. A trumped-up excuse for a duel.

  But was he good enough?

  Fettler, his brother’s valet, was calmly folding the discarded coat and waistcoat. The liveried footman who held his master’s inlaid and gilded rapier case looked unalarmed. Clearly in the servants’ eyes Rothgar was already cast in the role of victor. Bryght wished he had that ignorant security. No match between skilled swordsmen was ever certain.

  Rothgar turned to him. “Go. Do your secondary duties.”

  “What are my primary ones?”

  His brother twisted off his ruby signet and passed it over. “To take up my burden if things go awry.” With a slight smile, he added, “Pray, my dear, for my success.”

  “Don’t be damned stupid.”

  “You thirst after the marquisate?”

  “You know I don’t. I meant, of course I pray for your success.”

  “But I doubt either of us have voices heard by angels. Go, therefore, and make a last attempt at peace.”

  “Is there any basis upon which you would?”

  Rothgar was tucking his lace ruffles into his cuff. “But of course! Am I an animal? If he crawls over here on his knees begging forgiveness, he may flee into exile unharmed.”

  Though his own terms would be exactly the same, Bryght felt like rolling his eyes as he walked partway between the two groups and waited. The chance of apology was nonexistent, but one must always go through the correct steps.

  Sir Parkwood Giller minced forward to meet him, clearly enjoying his central role in this popular drama. He even produced a gaudy, lace-edged handkerchief to flourish as he bowed too low in a sickening cloud of cheap perfume. “My lord!”

  Bryght cloaked his disgust and gave the slightest possible bow. “I come to ask if your principal has realized his error.”

  “Error!” The handkerchief wafted again. It could constitute a secret weapon. “Lud, no, my lord. But if the marquess realizes that his offense was misplaced—”

  “You jest.”

  “Not at all. Everyone knows—”

  “Giller, the days in which seconds engaged in combat are past, but I will oblige you if you insist.”

  Handkerchiefs at twenty paces. No, make it thirty.

  White showed around Giller’s eyes—or bloodshot pink to be precise. “No … not at all, my lord. I assure you!”

  “How wise.” Bryght then stated his brother’s terms, at which Giller’s snub nose pinched and he stiffened in affront. “Then the duel goes on, my lord!”

  “It is your duty to put the terms to your principal, as I will put Curry’s to mine.” With a sharp bow, Bryght returned to his brother.

  “Complete acceptance that Chastity is a trollop, of course.”

  Rothgar, warming and loosening his muscles, didn’t respond. Bryght didn’t say more, knowing his brother had a way of settling and focusing his mind before swordplay. It wasn’t something he himself had ever been able to do well, which was doubtless why Rothgar and Cyn could always defeat him in the end.

  Come to think of it, fire-eating Cyn didn’t seem to do much mental settling before a contest either. With him it was pure lightning brilliance. Bryght wished again Cyn was here. He’d slice Curry to ribbons and enjoy every minute of it. Six years of soldiering had hardened him to death-dealing to a remarkable degree.

  Everyone was waiting now for Rothgar to indicate he was ready. Bryght certainly didn’t want to rush him, but he wished they’d get on with it, get it over with. Of course, it was quite likely this delay was designed to put Curry off balance. The man had already stopped his exercises and taken to marching back and forth in obvious impatience, playing to the crowd.

  The crowd, though restive, showed no signs of siding with Curry in this. When death hovered, impatience was gauche.

  As if judging his moment, Rothgar paused, straightened, gave Bryght one of his rare smiles, then walked into the center of the space.

  Gad, but he was magnificent.

  He always moved with a fluid grace, but before swordplay it changed slightly, as if the balance of his whole body shifted a lethal fraction. Of course, he’d taken off his heeled shoes, but he’d also dropped the studied grace of the courtier and released the beauty of the predator beneath.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, lean, and muscled—the truth was no longer disguised by the elegance and artifice of the fashionable nobleman. A hush settled on the crowd, and Bryght knew it was more than anticipation of the duel. It was awe.

  Everyone was familiar with the aristocrat who wielded great influence in England without taking political office. Few, however, had previously seen beneath the manners, wit, and silk.

  Bryght wondered if Rothgar’s reluctance to indulge in duels was not just that he had better things to do. Perhaps he disliked exposing this extra layer of power. It declared itself now in his strong body and lean features, still and focused on his deadly opponent.

  Curry didn’t seem to feel the change. With an audible huff, he stalked confidently to meet his opponent, only then settling into fencer’s stance, and a rather rigid version.

  Bryght relaxed slightly. Perhaps they were uneven after all.

  Not enough. From the first click of the swords, Curry too changed, and it was clear he deserved his reputation. More of a fire-eater than a scientist, he was still strong, quick and skilled, and had that advantage of being left-handed. He even possessed some of the magic spark that took sword fighting beyond speed and mechanics, a separate sense that made him able to avoid the unavoidable, and take advantage of the slightest slip.

  The light but lethal blades tapped and slithered, stockinged feet padded back and forth on the springy grass, agile bodies flexed and twisted, recovered, extended, retracted, lunged….

  Attacking blades were beaten back, but not always without contact. Soon, despite the cool morning air, both men poured sweat, and hair flew free of ribbons. Both shirts were gashed red. No more than scratches yet, but Bryght’s heart was racing as his brother’s must be. Plague take it but it was close. A slip could settle this, or it might come down to endurance.

  The two men fought in silence to the music of the blades, all concentration in eye and hand, and on the sword—the flexible extension of the hand, arm, and body. Agile feet and strong legs moved them back and forth with lethal speed. Both must know it was even, for they pushed the risks now, hunting the falter.

  Curry thrust high, forcing an awkward parry that still sent the point slicing across Rothgar’s shoulder. Curry was ready with an echo thrust to the heart, but by some miracle Rothgar kept his balance and knocked the rapier wide.

  Both men stepped back, panting and dripping, then lunged forward again. It could not go much longer. Then Rothgar parried another clever thrust and extended, extended almost beyond strength and balance so his rapier point penetrat
ed Curry’s chest just below the breastbone. Not deep enough to kill. Not even deep enough to seriously wound. But instinct staggered the man back, shocked, hand to the wound, and the crowd gasped.

  Perhaps they thought him killed.

  Perhaps he thought the same.

  With a rapid flick, Rothgar pinked him in the thigh so blood ran free. Curry tried to collect himself, to get back his balance and control, but Rothgar’s sword flickered past a confused defense of the heart to pierce deep into his left shoulder.

  The maiming wound. Curry would live, but unless he was very lucky, he would not use a sword with his left arm again.

  Bryght realized he’d stopped breathing, and sucked in air. All around, cheers and applause made this seem absurdly like a popular scene at the opera.

  Curry, to give him credit, seized his fallen sword in his right hand and tried to go on, but Rothgar disarmed him in a few moves. His sword rested at the man’s heaving chest, poised with intent over the false wound. Still sucking in breaths, he said, “I assume you are now … resolved to sing songs that are up to date and in tune?”

  Rage flared in Curry’s eyes, the rage of one who’d never been defeated, who had thought himself invulnerable, and in a way still did. “Singing be damned. Lady Chastity Ware was a whore, and still is—”

  He died, his heart pierced, before more filth could spew forth.

  Chapter 2

  Rothgar pulled his sword free and the doctor came forward, in no great hurry, to confirm the end. None of Curry’s stunned friends seemed inclined to gather around the corpse and mourn, and suddenly, like a flock of birds released from cages, chatter rose all around.

  Rothgar looked around at his audience. “Gentlemen,” he said, instantly gaining silence and attention, “as you heard, Sir Andrew Curry tried to bring a lady’s name into this, thereby offending not just my family’s honor, but that of our gracious monarch and his wife. The king and queen have accepted Lady Raymore at Court as a woman of virtue. Their wisdom and judgment is not to be questioned.”

  After a startled moment, mutters of support swelled, scattered with calls of “Aye!” “God save the king!” and “Devil take him who thought it!” Curry’s cronies shared panicked glances and slipped hastily away.

  As men gathered around Rothgar to congratulate, and to relive the fight, Bryght saw that no one remained to arrange for removal of the body. He took the Malloren footman over to the doctor and put matters in hand. With luck Dr. Gibson or one of his colleagues needed a cadaver to mangle. By the time he’d dealt with that, Fettler was assisting his brother back into his coat.

  “Were you as pressed there as you looked?” Bryght asked.

  Rothgar took a deep swallow from a flask. It was doubtless the pure water he had brought in daily from a spring on the chalk downs. “He was good. But he never dug beneath the surface.”

  They climbed into the coach, the valet sitting opposite, and it moved off to take them back to Malloren House.

  “Are any of the wounds serious?”

  “Mere scratches.”

  “I don’t suppose he thought to poison his sword.”

  Rothgar’s lips twitched. “Don’t be theatrical.”

  “It’s just the sort of thing scum like that would do—”

  But his brother had leaned his head back and closed his eyes, so Bryght cut off more words. Even Rothgar must feel some effect of peril, exertion, and dealing out death. Bryght considered his own nervous reaction and knew he had lost all taste for this sort of thing. He wondered if his brother was feeling the same way.

  When they arrived at Malloren House, he couldn’t stop himself following Rothgar up and into his handsome suite of rooms. He knew common sense and a host of excellent servants would take care of him, but he had to follow. Rothgar raised his brows, but didn’t throw him out as he stripped off his ruined shirt. There were, in truth, only small cuts and scratches. The worst was the slash across the shoulder, and that wasn’t deep.

  Bryght began to get his brain back. “So,” he said, “do you think that was one rash man, or a plot?”

  Stripped down to drawers, his brother was washing. “If it was a plot, I assume they will try again. It will be informative to see how.”

  “Again? Plague take it, you can’t just wait for the next attack.”

  “How do you suggest I prevent it? Nor would I wish to. I prefer to have any murderous enemy flushed out of cover and dealt with.” Rothgar toweled dry and issued crisp commands about bandages and clothes. “You take an interest in mathematics. One point tells us nothing. Three should pin down the source.”

  “Next time it might be poison, or a pistol in the dark.”

  His brother sat so his barber could dress the wound on his shoulder. “I do my best to guard against such things.”

  “Even so—”

  “Heaven save me from newly hatched family men!” Rothgar turned sharply toward him. “It can be the only explanation for all this fussing. Nothing is particularly changed, Bryght. Except you.”

  The barber patiently shifted to work from the new angle.

  To hell with it, Bryght thought. He’d have the discussion he’d been seeking. “My circumstances have changed,” he said, passing the ruby signet back to his brother. “Having found domestic comfort, I quake at the prospect of having to take up your responsibilities.”

  “I will do my best to spare you that fate until you are far too old to care.”

  “Can you spare Francis, too?”

  He was referring to his son. For a telling pause, Rothgar concentrated on sliding the ring back onto his right hand, then on flexing his bandaged shoulder and nodding his approval. At a murmur from the barber, he turned again and the man began to shave him.

  Bryght’s jaw tensed. The issue here was marriage—Rothgar’s marriage and siring of a son and heir—and his brother was warning him off. Because Rothgar’s mother had gone mad, he had resolved not to continue that tainted blood in the line. It had always been understood that Bryght or one of his brothers, sons of a different mother, would produce future generations of Mallorens.

  The subject was forbidden, but Bryght couldn’t take the warning this time. As soon as the barber put down the razor and began to wipe away traces of soap, he demanded, “Well?”

  Rothgar rose to put on the shirt and breeches offered by junior valets. “Perhaps one day high rank and power will be your son’s delight.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “He will, I assume, be trained to do his duty anyway.” The exquisitely embroidered gray silk waistcoat came next, and a valet set to fastening the long line of chased silver buttons.

  Bryght was sweating as if he was in fact engaged in a duel.

  He had long accepted his place as Rothgar’s heir. Growing up the son of a marquess, he had willy-nilly learned a great deal about the business, and Rothgar had insisted that he learn more. Though unwilling, he was capable of taking up the burden if necessary.

  When he had married last year, he’d accepted that his eldest son would one day inherit the marquisate. Now, however, that theoretical heir was a nine-month-old child with copper curls and a beloved smile. Francis, whom Bryght and Portia wanted to grow up free to explore the whole of this exciting modern world. How was Francis to shape a life of his own, yet be ready to take on awesome responsibilities tomorrow, or next year, or forty years from now?

  Or never.

  Intolerable.

  But how to argue the case … ?

  He realized that he’d let Rothgar have his way. He’d let the matter drop. Perhaps his nerve had failed him, for he knew his brother would fight any pressure to marry as fiercely, as ruthlessly, as he had fought Curry.

  The coiffeur carried in a gray wig, back hair hidden in a gray silk bag gathered by a black ribbon. The grandeur of his brother’s preparations finally caught Bryght’s attention. “Where the devil are you going?”

  “You have forgotten that it’s Friday?”

  He had. Every Wedne
sday and Friday the king held a levee. Attendance was not precisely compulsory, but any man of importance at court or in government was expected to attend if he was in London. If he did not, the king could assume that he was siding with one of the factions opposed to his policies.

  “You still intend to go?” Bryght queried. “The king must know you just fought a duel.”

  “He will wish to be assured of my good health.”

  “There’ll be a dozen men there able to—”

  His brother’s raised left hand, glittering now with two fine jewels, silenced him. “Country living is corroding your instincts, Bryght. The king will wish to see me, and it is necessary that the world see that I am completely unharmed and unshaken. Besides which,” he added, glancing at a tray of cravat pins presented for his selection, “the Uftons are in town and I am promised to present them.”

  “Who the devil are the Uftons?”

  “A small estate near Crowthorne.” He touched a black, baroque pearl. “Solid people. Sir George is showing his son and heir the wicked wonders of London, doubtless in the same way he has shown him hoof rot, mange, and sour land. Carruthers has them in hand.”

  Bryght abandoned his protests. Rothgar might, if so inclined, disappoint the king. He would not disappoint the Uftons.

  He would not disappoint anyone today. He was preparing for a grand entrance. The scarce-noticed barbering had doubtless been the second of the day, removing any trace of dark bristle in preparation for the powder and paint. Essential, of course, to give an impression of noble delicacy. Though normal for court, the extreme care now was doubtless intended to restore the veil after the earlier exhibition of lethal strength.

  Bryght thought of Shakespeare. “All the world’s a stage …” First the violence of the duel, then the studied artifice of the court. Perhaps later the wit of a salon, the seductive magic of a ball, or the danger of the gaming tables. He himself had played on these stages before his marriage and enjoyed them, but he had always lacked his brother’s consummate art.