by Nora Roberts
Hours later, as Brigham was preparing to leave for a quiet evening at his club, his sober-faced butler intercepted him.
“Yes, Beeton?”
“Your pardon, my lord.” Beeton was so old one could almost hear the creak of his bones as he bowed. “The earl of Whitesmouth requests a word with you. It seems to be a matter of some urgency.”
“Then show him up.” Brigham grimaced as Parkins fussed over his coat, looking for any sign of lint. “Leave off, man. You’ll drive me to a fit.”
“I only desire my lord to show himself to his best advantage.”
“Some of the female persuasion would argue that to do that I must strip.” When Parkins remained stone-faced, Brigham merely sighed. “You’re a singularly humorless fellow, Parkins. God knows why I keep you.”
“Brig.” The earl of Whitesmouth, a small, smooth-faced man only a few years Brigham’s senior, strode into the room, then pulled up short at the sight of the valet. It only took a glance to see that Whitesmouth was highly agitated.
“That will be all for this evening, Parkins.” As if he had all the time in the world, Brigham crossed to the table by the bedroom fire and poured wine into two glasses. He waited until he heard the adjoining door click quietly shut. “What is it, Johnny?”
“We have trouble, Brig.” He accepted the glass, and downed the contents in one swallow.
“I surmised as much. Of what nature?”
Steadier for the drink, Whitesmouth continued. “That pea-brained Miltway drank himself into a stupor with his mistress this afternoon and opened his mouth too wide for any of us to be comfortable.”
After taking a long breath, Brigham sipped and gestured to a chair. “Did he name names?”
“We can’t be sure, but it seems likely he spilled at least a few. Yours being the most obvious.”
“And his mistress … She’s the redheaded dancer?”
“The hair on her head’s red,” Whitesmouth stated crudely. “She’s a knowing little package, Brigham, a bit too old and too experienced for a stripling like Miltway. Trouble is, the young idiot has more money than brains.”
Miltway’s romantic liaisons were the last of Brigham’s concerns. “Will she keep quiet, for a bribe?”
“It’s too late for that. That’s why I’ve come. She’s already passed on some of the information, enough that Miltway’s been arrested.”
Brigham swore viciously. “Young fool.”
“The odds are keen that you’ll be questioned, Brigham. If you have anything incriminating—”
“I am not that young,” Brigham interrupted as he began to think ahead. “Nor such a fool.” He paused a moment, wanting to be certain his decision was made logically and not on impulse. “And you, Johnny? Will you be able to cover yourself?”
“I have urgent business on my estate.” The earl of Whitesmouth grinned. “In fact, I have been en route several hours already.”
“The Prince will do well with men like you.”
Whitesmouth poured a second drink and toasted his friend. “And you?”
“I’m for Scotland. Tonight.”
“Flight now will show your hand, Brig. Are you ready for that?”
“I’m weary of pretense. I stand for the Prince.”
“Then I’ll wish you a safe journey, and wait for word from you.”
“God willing, I shall send it soon.” He picked up his gloves again. “I know you’ve run a risk by coming to tell me when you could have been on your way. I shan’t forget it.”
“The Prince has my pledge, as well,” Whitesmouth reminded him. “I pray you won’t tarry too long.”
“Only long enough. Have you told anyone else about Miltway’s indiscretion?”
“That’s a cool way of putting it,” Whitesmouth muttered. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”
Brigham nodded. “I’ll spend a few hours at the club as I had planned and make certain word is passed. You’d best get out of London before someone notes that you are not indeed en route to your estate.
“On my way.” Whitesmouth picked up his hat. “One warning, Brig. The elector’s son, Cumberland. Don’t take him lightly. It’s true he’s young, but his eyes are cold and his ambition hot.”
* * *
The club held many faces familiar to Brigham. Games were being played, bottles already draining. He was greeted cheerfully enough and invited to join groups at cards or dice. Making easy excuses, he strolled over to the fire to share a bottle of burgundy with Viscount Leighton.
“No urge to try your luck tonight, Ashburn?”
“Not at cards.” Behind them, someone complained bitterly about the fall of the dice. “It’s a fair night,” Brigham said mildly. “One well suited for traveling.”
Leighton sipped, and though his eyes met Brigham’s, they gave away nothing. “Indeed. There is always talk of storms to the north.”
“I have a feeling there will be a storm here sooner.” The dice game grew noisier. Brigham took advantage of the noise to lean forward and pour more wine in the glasses. “Miltway confided his political leanings to his mistress and has been arrested.”
Leighton said something unflattering about Miltway under his breath, then settled back. “How loose a tongue has he?”
“I can’t be sure, but there are some who should be put on guard.”
Leighton toyed with the diamond pinned to the lace at his throat. He was fond of such trinkets, and was often taken for a man who preferred a soft life. Like Brigham, he had made his decision to back the Prince coolly and without reservation.
“Consider it done, my dear. Do you wish for company on your journey?”
Brigham was tempted. Viscount Leighton, with his pink waistcoats and perfumed hands, might have looked like a self-indulgent fop, but there was no one Brigham would have chosen over him in a fight. “Not at the moment.”
“Then shall we drink to fair weather?” Leighton lifted his glass, then gave a mildly annoyed glance over Brigham’s shoulder. “I believe we should patronize another club, my dear Ashburn. This establishment has begun to open its doors to anyone.”
Brigham glanced around idly to the game. He recognized the man holding the bank, and most of the others. But there was a thin man leaning on the table, a sulky look in his eyes, a half-filled glass by his elbow. He was not taking his losses in a manner acceptable to polite society.
“Don’t know him.” Brigham sipped again, thinking that he might never again sit cozily by the fire in this club and drink with a friend.
“I’ve had the dubious pleasure.” Leighton took out a snuffbox. “An officer. I believe he’s off to cross swords with the French quite soon, which should make the ladies sigh. However, I am told that he is not in favor with our ladies any longer, despite the romantic figure he attempts to cut.”
With a laugh, Brigham prepared to take his leave. “Perhaps it has something to do with his lack of manners.”
“Perhaps it has something to do with his treatment of Alice Beesley when she was unfortunate enough to be his mistress.”
Brigham raised a brow, but was still only vaguely curious. The game was growing louder yet, the hour later, and he still needed Parkins to pack his bag. “The lovely Mrs. Beesley is a dim-witted piece, but from what I’m told, quite amiable.”
“Standish apparently thought she wasn’t amiable enough and took a riding crop to her.”
Brigham’s eyes registered distaste as he glanced over again. “There is something particularly foul about a man who …” He trailed off and his fingers tightened on his glass. “Did you say Standish?”
“I did. A colonel, I believe. He earned a particularly nasty reputation in the Porteous scandal in ‘35.” Leighton flicked a flake of snuff from his sleeve. “It seems he quite enjoyed sacking and burning and looting. I believe that’s why he was promoted.”
“He would have been a captain in ‘35.”
“Possibly.” Interest flickered in Leighton’s eyes. “Do you know him aft
er all?”
“Yes.” Brigham remembered well Coll’s story of Captain Standish and the rape of his mother, the houses burned, the defenseless crofters routed. And Serena. He rose, and though his eyes were cold, there was nothing of his temper in his voice. “I believe we should become better acquainted. I fancy a game after all, Leighton.”
“It grows late, Ashburn.”
Brigham smiled. “Indeed it does.”
Nothing was easier than joining the game. Within twenty minutes he had bought the bank. His luck held, and as fate or justice would have it, so did Standish’s. The colonel continued to lose and, egged on by Brigham’s mild disdain, he bet heavily. By midnight, there were only three left in the game. Brigham signaled for more wine as he sprawled easily in his chair. He had deliberately matched drink for drink with Standish. Brigham had no intention of killing a man whose faculties were less sharp than his own.
“The dice appear to dislike you this evening, Colonel.”
“Or they like others too well.”
Standish’s words were blurred by drink and bitterness. He was a man who required greater sums of money than his soldier’s pay to back his lust for gambling, and his equal lust for a place in society. Tonight his bitterness stemmed from a failure to achieve either. His offer for a well-endowed—both physically and financially—young lady had been turned down only that afternoon. Standish was certain the bitch Beesley had gone whining to whomever would listen. She’d been a whore, he thought as he swilled down more wine. A man had a right to treat a whore however he chose.
“Get on with it,” he ordered, then counted the fall of Brigham’s dice. Snatching up the dice box, he threw and fell short.
“Pity.” Brigham smiled and drank.
“I don’t care to have the bank switched so late in the game. It spoils the luck.”
“Yours seemed poor all evening, Colonel.” Brigham continued to smile, but the look in his eyes had driven more than one man away from the game. “Perhaps you consider it unpatriotic that I’m fleecing a royal dragoon, but here we are only men, after all.”
“Did we come to play or to talk?” Standish demanded, signaling impatiently for more wine.
“In a gentlemen’s club,” Brigham replied, coloring his words with contempt, “we do both. But then Colonel, perhaps you don’t often find yourself in the company of gentlemen.”
The third player decided the game was a bit too uneasy for his taste. Several of the other patrons had stopped what they were doing to look, and to listen. Other games were abandoned as men began to loiter around the table. Standish’s face reddened. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he had been insulted.
“I spend most of my time fighting for the king, not lounging in clubs.”
“Of course.” Brigham tossed again, and again topped the colonel’s roll. “Which explains why you are inept at polite games of chance.”
“You seem a bit too skilled, my lord. The dice have fallen for you since you took your seat.”
“Have they?” Brigham glanced up to raise a brow at Leighton, who was idly swirling a drink of his own. “Have they indeed?”
“You know damn well they have. It seems more than luck to me.”
Brigham fingered the lace at his throat. Behind them the club fell into uncomfortable silence. “Does it? Perhaps you’ll enlighten me by telling me what it seems to you.”
Standish had lost more than he could afford to, drunk more than was wise. He looked across at Brigham and hated him for being what and who he was. Aristocrats, he thought, and wanted to spit. It was for wastrels like this that soldiers fought and died.
“Enlighten everyone. Break the dice.”
The silence roared into murmurs. Someone leaned over to tug on Brigham’s sleeve. “He’s drunk, Ashburn, and not worth it.”
“Are you?” Still smiling, Brigham leaned forward. “Are you drunk, Standish?”
“I am not.” He was beyond drunk now. As he sat he felt every eye on him. Staring at him, he thought. Popinjays and fops with their titles and smooth manners. They thought him beneath them because he had taken a whip to a whore. He’d like to take a whip to all of them, he thought, tossing back the rest of his wine. “I’m sober enough to know the dice don’t fall for only one man unless they’re meant to.”
Brigham waved a hand toward the dice, but his eyes were sharp as steel. “Break them, by all means.”
There was a rush of protests, a flurry of movements. Brigham ignored both and kept his eyes on Standish. It pleased him a great deal to see the sweat begin to pearl on the colonel’s forehead.
“My lord, I pray you won’t act rashly. This isn’t necessary.” The proprietor had brought the hammer as requested, but stood casting worried glances from Brigham to Standish.
“I assure you it’s quite necessary.” When the proprietor hesitated, Brigham whipped his rapier gaze up. “Break them.”
With an unsteady hand, the proprietor did as he was bid. There was silence again as the hammer smashed down, showing the dice to be clean. Standish only stared at the pieces that lay on the green baize. Tricked, he thought. Somehow the bastards had tricked him. He wished them dead, all of them, every one of the pale-faced, soft-voiced bastards.
“You seem to be out of wine, Colonel.” And Brigham tossed the contents of his glass in Standish’s face.
Standish leaped up, wine dripping down his cheeks like blood. Drink and humiliation had done its work well. He would have drawn his sword if others hadn’t stepped in to hold his arms. Brigham never moved from where he sat sprawled in his chair.
“You will meet me, sir.”
Brigham examined his cuff to be certain none of the wine had spattered it. “Naturally. Leighton, my dear, you will stand for me?”
Leighton took a pinch of snuff. “Of course.”
* * *
Just before dawn they stood in a meadow a few minutes’ ride from the city. There was a mist nearly ankle high, and the sky was purple and starless, as it was caught between night and day. Leighton let out a weary sigh as he watched Brigham turn back his lace.
“You have your reasons, I suppose, dear boy.”
“I have them.”
Leighton frowned at the rising sun. “I trust they are good enough to delay your trip.”
He thought of Serena, of the look on her face when she had spoken of her mother’s rape. He thought of Fiona, with her small, slender hands. “They are.”
“The man is a pig, of course.” Leighton frowned again, this time down at the moisture the dew had transferred to his gleaming boot. “Still, it hardly seems reason enough to stand about in a damp field at this hour. But if you must, you must. Do you intend to kill him?”
Brigham flexed his fingers. “I do.”
“Be quick about it, Ashburn. This business has postponed my breakfast.” So saying, he strolled off to confer with Standish’s second, a young officer who was pale with both fear and excitement at the idea of a duel. The swords were judged acceptable. Brigham took one, letting his hand mold to the hilt, weighing it as though he had a mind to purchase it rather than draw blood.
Standish stood ready, even eager. The sword was his weapon. Ashburn wouldn’t be the first he had killed with it, nor would he be the last. Though he might, Standish thought as he remembered the stares and murmurs of the night, be the most pleasurable. He had no doubt that he would cut down the young prig quickly and ride home in triumph.
They made their bows. Eyes locked. Sword touched sword in salute. Then the quiet meadow rang with the crash of steel against steel.
Brigham measured his opponent from the first thrust. Standish was no fool with a sword, had obviously been well-trained and had kept himself in fighting trim. But his style was a bit too aggressive. Brigham parried, putting Serena out of his mind. He preferred to fight emotionlessly, using that as a weapon, as well as his blade.
The ground was rich with dew, and the mist silenced the slide and fall of boots. There was only the song of metal slicing ov
er metal as the birds quieted. Their swords slid from tip to hilt as they came in close. Their breath mingled like that of lovers through the deadly cross of blades.
“You are handy with a sword, Colonel,” Brigham said as they drew apart to circle. “My compliments.”
“Handy enough to slice your heart, Ashburn.”
“We shall see.” The blades kissed again, once, twice, three times. “But I don’t suppose you required a sword when you raped Lady MacGregor.”
Puzzlement broke Standish’s concentration, but he managed to block Brigham’s thrust before the sword could run home. His brow darkened as he realized he had been led to this duel like a mongrel on a leash.
“One doesn’t rape a whore.” He attacked, fueled by a drumming rage. “What is the Scots bitch to you?”
Brigham’s wrist whipped the sword up. “You shall die wondering.”
They fought in silence now, Brigham cold as Highland ice, Standish hot with rage and confusion. Blades hissed and rang, competing now with the sound of labored breathing. In a daring move, Standish feinted, kissed his sword off Brigham’s, sliced in contre écart. A red stain bloomed on Brigham’s shoulder.
A cooler head might have used the wound to his advantage. Standish saw only the blood, and with the smell of it scented victory. He came in hard, judging himself moments away from triumph. Brigham countered thrust after thrust, biding his time as the blood dripped down his arm and into the thinning mist. He pulled back a fraction, an instant, laying his chest bare. The light of victory came into Standish’s eyes as he leaped forward to open Brigham’s heart.
With a bright flash of metal, Brigham knocked the sword aside moments before it pierced him. With a speed Leighton would claim later made the blade a blur, he twisted and plunged the point into the colonel’s chest. Standish was dead before Brigham had pulled the point free.
Beside the pale-faced soldier, Leighton examined the body. “Well, you’ve killed him, Ashburn. Best be on your way while I deal with the mess.”
“My thanks.” Brigham handed Leighton the sword, hilt first.
“Shall I bind up your hurts, as well?”
With faint amusement, Brigham glanced over to his horse. Beside it, the estimable Parkins sat on another. “My valet will see to it.”
