Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Read Online Free Page A

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 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.
    “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.
    “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