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 siring of a son and heir - 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 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