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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 nonexistent 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 pinned the silver star of the Order of the Bath to his left breast, the gold cross in the middle being the only color about him.

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 a grand estate there. Her home rivals Rothgar Abbey."

"The Countess of Arradale? Bey -