Devilish Page 0,1

to him for singing that song and no one would have objected."

"You think not? This is not autocratic France, and besides, he seemed intent on a duel."

"You aren't usually so obliging to those with intent," Bryght snapped, for it touched on an issue he'd come to London to raise. Now, however, was definitely not the time. If this went amiss, it would end the issue anyway.

Rothgar smiled slightly in the flickering light of the carriage lamp. "The duel would have been hard to avoid, Bryght, and I found myself curious as to who wants me dead."

Bryght looked at his brother. "So, you do know the man's reputation?"

"A bully and probably a cheat who gets away with it because people are afraid of his skill with a sword. He needs a lesson."

"But why from you?" Rothgar was good, damn good, but there was always someone better. He'd drilled that into his younger half-brothers when preparing them for the world.

Rothgar didn't answer, and Bryght remembered what he'd said. "You think he's a hired killer? Devil take it, Bey, who would want you dead?"

Rothgar turned one of his deceptively mild looks on him. "You think me unworthy of hate and fear?"

Bryght laughed - Rothgar often had that effect on him - but said, "He'll not make a killing matter out of it. Deadly duels can land a man in prison these days."

"What else is the point? And he's just the sort of rootless rogue to flee to France without a care, especially with a large bag of blood money for comfort."

"Whose money?"

"That's the interesting question. I fail to see any enemies who would go to such extremes. Rather lowering, really. Surely the passion of one's enemies should mark the stature of one's triumphs."

"You probably have enemies you don't even know about." Rothgar's almost playful mood made Bryght snappish. "The trouble with being the "Dark Marquess," and the eminence noire of England is it makes it easy for anyone to blame their misfortunes on you."

Rothgar laughed. "Like a warty village crone? The sort simple people blame for every misshaped child or suddenly dead sheep?"

Bryght had to laugh, too, for a less likely image for his elegant, sophisticated brother was hard to imagine. As the coach halted in the front courtyard of Malloren House, however, humor faded. Did someone want his brother dead?

After a restless night, he was still asking that question the next morning when their coach arrived at the area of St. James's Park close to the gloomy pond. "Devil take it! Why are there so many people here? This is a duel, not a theatrical performance."

"Is there any difference?" Rothgar asked dryly as he climbed out of the carriage. Bryght could not know if his brother had slept well, but he seemed his normal, unruffled self.

Bryght climbed down, staring around at the crowd. Most of London Society seemed to be here - the male part at least. Behind the fashionable circle in lace and braid clustered the lower orders, bobbing up and down to try to see. Some, by Hades, carried children on their shoulders, and a number of men, women, and children were up in nearby trees. In the distance, people massed in the windows of overlooking houses. Flashes of reflected sunlight told him some had telescopes.

Anything his brother did was cause for public excitement, but this was damned improper for a meeting of honor. Who the devil had alerted the world? It almost turned the duel into a joke.

Then Bryght noticed Lord Selwyn at the front of the crowd. Selwyn had a morbid taste for public executions, and traveled Europe to watch the most gruesome. He wouldn't have risen early from his bed for a joke.

Selwyn, at least, expected to enjoy a death here today.

Bryght realized that he was staring around in far too revealing a manner. He forced himself to relax, pulled out a silver box, and took a pinch of snuff. Though he'd abandoned London's games for the country when he married, he still knew the rules. One did not show fear or even concern over personal safety. Rarely in private. Never in public.

Or, as in the animal world, they'd tear you apart.

He turned his attention to Rothgar's opponent. Curry was already down to shirt and breeches, showing a body that was whipcord thin and strong. Height and reach must be similar to his brother's.

Bryght wished to hell Cyn was here. Despite a lack of height Cyn had that extra something, that instinct and reflex that made