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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