'Devilish' excerpt 2
Book 5 of the Malloren Series
Winner of the RITA award.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 should never 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 re-live 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?"
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 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 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 caught Bryght's attention. "Where the devil are you going?"
"You have forgotten that it's Friday?"
He had. Every Wednesday 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.
"Still?" Bryght queried. "He 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 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.
"Have you thought that the king might disapprove of Curry's death?" he asked.
"If he wishes to rebuke me, he must be given the opportunity."
"What if he wishes to throw you in the Tower? Make you stand your trial?"
"That too. It was a properly run affair, however, in front of many witnesses."
"Your killing blow could be seen as unorthodox."
Rothgar turned to Bryght. "You wish me to skulk here until I know the king's mind? Or perhaps you think I should flee to Holland, or even take ship to the New World?"
Put like that, attending the levee was the only course, and in full magnificence. He should have known. When did Rothgar ever misplay a hand in this game?
His brother was fascinating and admirable, but at times he seemed scarcely human. His attention to detail, even the detail of his costume for this appearance, the fact that he was almost always on stage and in complex roles, had to take a toll. It was not a lifestyle to wish on a laughing cherub. Rothgar, after all, had been shaped by terrible losses and demands.
Perhaps the dark steel had always been there, but four tragic deaths had formed him into the man he was today -- a man who had been plunged into his powers and responsibilities at nineteen. A man who had created and now controlled a small empire; who perhaps needed that empire, and control of it, as guard against fears of loss.
Or guard against fears of madness.
His mother had gone mad and murdered her newborn child. Rothgar, a young child himself, had been a powerless witness. Sometimes Bryght thought that his brother's need to control was a kind of madness in itself. He tried to make the world a theater stage, with himself as director. Or perhaps one of the complex automatons he liked so well. A machine controlled by him; his, and his alone, to keep in working order; a world where he truly could keep disaster at bay.
It was an awe-inspiring performance, and Rothgar did remarkable things for his family and for England, but Bryght wished no crucible of pain to form his son into his brother's like. Yet he had let the subject slip away.
Before he could gather courage to try again, Rothgar eased into his precisely cut jacket. The dull steel-gray silk fit without a ripple, and was lavishly embroidered with black and silver six inches deep all down the front. Fettler smoothed the silk across his shoulders and down the back, chasing non-existent flaws. Though Rothgar wore an ornate small sword, Bryght knew he could never fight in such a restrictive garment. However, he looked, doubtless by design, like an ornamental steel blade himself.
His breeches were of the same gray, as were his stockings. He stepped into black shoes with silver heels and buckles and chose a snowy silk handkerchief edged by the most subtle band of silk lace. Lastly, Fettler put on the Order of the Bath, the blood-red ribbon the only touch of color apart from his ruby signet.
Then he turned, and flourishing the handkerchief in fashionable style, bowed with perfect grace.
Beauty and threat, precisely blended.
Bryght clapped, and his brother's lips twitched. Though Rothgar could play his role on this stage to the hilt, unlike many he did not get lost in the artifice. As he'd frequently pointed out to his family, their world was a costume ball, but a ball at which momentous matters were decided.
They left the room and a subtle perfume traveled with them. Rothgar had put a touch of it on his handkerchief, and the contrast with that popinjay's cheap drenching stuff was almost worthy of tears.
As was the fact that Bryght had let a golden opportunity slip away. "About Francis," he said, knowing it wasn't a good moment.
"Yes?"
The single word was cold as steel, but Bryght persisted. "You'll get to know him better, during the journey to Brand's wedding."
"I tremble in delight." But Rothgar glanced over and smiled. "He is a charming child, Bryght. Do you think Brand's plans of living in the north will work?"
"Probably. He's never had a taste for fashionable life." Bryght was aware, however, of being deflected. More gently this time, but just as firmly.
"He won't be able to avoid it entirely," Rothgar said, as they entered the landing at the top of the sweeping main stairs. "His bride's cousin holds grand estate there. Her home rivals Rothgar Abbey."
"The Countess of Arradale? Bey-"
"A formidable northern warrior maid, with weapons of curls, bright eyes, silk, and pistols. And skillful with all of them."
"Bey-"
"Did Brand tell you she nearly killed him? And, of course, she ran me and my men off with her own small army."
Idle chat as a defensive weapon, wielded like a rapier so Bryght couldn't quite see how to say what he needed to say.
"A countess in her own right," his brother was saying, as they began to descend the stairs down to the spacious hall. "She holds considerable power, and intends to keep it."
Ah-ha! "Not everyone likes power," Bryght interjected firmly. "Bey, I don't want Francis burdened with being your heir."
It was as if at icy mist descended. "Then assure him, when he is old enough, that I will do my best to outlive him."
"I wish you would marry, Bey."
"Even for you, Bryght, no."
"There's no other insanity in your mother's family. Perhaps it was a disease, a freak!"
"Everything has to start somewhere. I prefer not to take the risk."
"Do my concerns carry no weight at all?"
They'd reached the base of the stairs and Rothgar turned to him. "I embrace all my family's concerns. One solution would be to give me the child to raise as my heir." Bryght had not found words for that when Rothgar carried on, "The other is for me to die soon. Then you would be marquess and Francis could grow up secure in his future role. Shall I let the assassins do their work?"
Plague take him for a heartless devil. Beneath love and friendship this always lingered -- a rivalry and opposition that came from their roles, their natures, and their history.
Though Bryght feared it was pointless, he persisted. "You could marry. Take the risk."
Rothgar's brows rose. "Risk tainted generations merely to spare you some concern, and your son some uncertainty? I think not. Raise Francis to accept whatever burdens fall on his shoulders. It is the only way. For coddle him as you will, those burdens will fall. That, at least, I have learned."
He turned and accepted cloak and hat from a hovering minion then walked out of the tall double doors to enter his painted and gilded sedan chair for the short journey to St. James's Palace. For once, he ignored the petitioners hovering in hope of a moment of the great marquess's time, for a scrap of his power and influence directed to their cause.
The liveried chairmen picked up the poles and set off, armed footmen walking at either side.
The Marquess of Rothgar was once more on stage.
Bryght turned away, shaken by anger and sheer nervous tension. There were times when he'd like to skewer his brother himself if only he were able.
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