An Earl Like You

by Caroline Linden

  “When Mr. Reeve holds his sermons to less than an hour, I’ll give him money.”

  “I don’t think he’d take that well.”

  “I don’t think a church needs gold chandeliers and marble altars. We’ll see who’s more determined to get his way.” Edward Cross drained his second cup of coffee. “I’m meeting Southbridge and Grenville today. I’ll be out late.”

  “Don’t lose too much,” she returned. She knew Sir David Southbridge and Robert Grenville were not only business partners of Papa’s but gambling mates, as well. They never wagered against each other, but all three were ruthless competitors, in business and at cards. When Papa arrived home after late nights with them, usually much the worse for drink, he’d tell her stories about Grenville wagering thousands of pounds at the tables, or Southbridge’s steely nerve in risking shares of his trading company on a horse.

  “Lose!” Her father looked affronted. “I’ll not be ordered about by a girl who waits hand and foot on a ragged mongrel.”

  “Now, Papa,” she remonstrated, “you’re looking much less ragged since you let Jackson trim your hair.”

  “Impudence!” he grumbled. “Why the Good Lord gave me a clever girl, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  She beamed at him. “Who else would put up with you like I do?”

  He gave her a narrow glance. “Ought to be putting up with a husband.”

  “I don’t think that would go well,” she replied. “I couldn’t put up with any of the fortune hunters and idiots who called on me.”

  He made a face as he pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “There’s no need for you to marry a clever man! You’ve got enough brains for both of you.”

  “And more than enough fortune. I know.” Eliza folded her hands and assumed a dreamy expression. “Surely there’s some viscount or baronet out there, titled and handsome but dull-witted and utterly penniless, who might be willing to have me.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “That’s not what I meant.” She wrinkled her nose and finally he laughed. “I love you, Lilibeth,” he said, calling her by her childhood nickname as he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

  “I love you, too, Papa, even though you long to be rid of me.” But she said it with a fond smile.

  Papa snorted. “Rid of you! As if I’m wrong to want my girl settled in a home of her own. Serves me right, eh?” he said to Willy, who barked in reply. “She runs circles around me with my own words.”

  “I just want you to know I’m happy,” she protested. “Even as a spinster. If I never meet a handsome, charming, dull-witted, impoverished baronet, I shall still be happy, with you and Willy and my friends.”

  “Supposing he weren’t an idiot,” Papa said. “Would you have him then?”

  She rolled her eyes again. He was in rare form this morning.

  “You say you’re happy, but won’t you be jealous when your friends marry and have families? I hear Lady Georgiana is finally getting Sterling to the altar next spring. What if she no longer has time for your teas and shopping trips when she’s got a babe or two on her knee?”

  Eliza buttered her muffin. She had thought about that. Georgiana had been engaged to marry Viscount Sterling for two years now. The wedding hadn’t happened because her brother, the Earl of Wakefield, was surly and reclusive, and had argued with Sterling over the marriage settlements for two years. Frankly it had begun to seem that Georgiana would be engaged forever, but of course that wasn’t true. Eventually she would be Lady Sterling, with Sterling’s heir in her arms. “I shall be very happy for her,” she said in answer to her father’s wheedling question. “She’s been in love with Lord Sterling forever.”

  “And you should be in love, too! Your mother would say so if she were here.”

  “Mama would not want me to marry someone simply to be married,” she returned. “I hope you don’t, either.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Of course not. But I do want you to leave your mind open. There’s bound to be at least one decent chap with a title who would see you for the diamond you are.”

  Eliza took a bite of her muffin. She thought that mythical man would have to look very closely at her to determine that, and none of the titled gentlemen she met looked twice at her. Nor did any of the common gentlemen. If she let herself dwell on it, it would be quite lowering, really; even with a large dowry, an elegant wardrobe, and every accomplishment a lady could have, Eliza rarely warranted more than a passing glance from a man of any standing. She knew she was plain and quiet, but she’d seen Lady Sarah Willingham, daughter of the Duke of Jarros, attract a few suitors despite being shy and having a squint.

  “Perhaps someone will, someday,” she said, choosing to placate her father.

  He nodded in satisfaction. “Someone will. The only question is whether he’ll take the dog, too.”

  “If he won’t take Willy, I won’t take him,” she said at once. “I would never speak to anyone who didn’t like Willy.”

  “Damned mongrel,” grunted Papa.

  But Eliza saw the shilling-sized piece of bacon he stole from the platter and flicked at her dog. Willy caught it in midair and swallowed it in one bite. His tail wagging, he barked in thanks. Papa was already out the door, shrugging into his coat as he strode down the corridor without a backward glance.

  Eliza glanced at her pet in reproach as she finished her muffin. “You’re horribly spoiled.”

  Willy yipped in happy agreement.

  “For that, you can go into the garden by yourself.” She rose from the table. “James, would you let him out?”

  “Yes, miss.” The footman stepped forward and snapped his fingers at Willy, whose ears drooped as he realized Eliza wasn’t coming. She made a shooing motion, and the dog followed James.

  She wondered when Papa would accept that she wasn’t the sort of girl gentlemen flocked to. In his eyes she was lovely, but Eliza knew he was the only one who saw her that way. Plain girls had made splashes in society, but usually by virtue of being vivacious and witty. Eliza tended to grow mute and hesitant in the presence of elegant strangers, and any wit she had vanished from her brain if one of them actually spoke to her. Undoubtedly Papa hoped her enormous dowry would outweigh her shyness, but Eliza would rather be that eccentric old lady with a house full of dogs than marry a husband who only wanted her money.

  So Papa could dream, but Eliza was far less certain. Perhaps some day she would meet an affable country squire who didn’t need a beautiful, charming wife, but preferred a quiet girl content to play with her dog and tend her garden. And if not, she would just remain as she was.

  Chapter 2

  Hugh Deveraux was having a very good night.

  It was about time. His luck had been lackluster for the last fortnight. Perhaps the last month. He hadn’t lost a vast sum of money, but neither had he won one. And despite playing ruthlessly and keeping his head clear, he hadn’t been able to make a sustained run of wins. Up one night, then down almost as much the next.

  For the last year and a half, his London plan had worked reasonably well. Thanks to his luck at the card tables he’d been able to make the most pressing debt payments, open the town house, even provide some new gowns for his mother and sisters. Unfortunately, now he needed more than that. Edith was old enough to make her debut, and she needed a dowry.

  At first he’d hoped he could give her land. He’d had his solicitors comb through every word of every deed, and they all said he couldn’t transfer property to either of the girls on her marriage. He could take out additional mortgages on the properties for the money, but that would leave him in even more desperate straits. He’d sold some artwork his father had bought, but everything he tried to get rid of set off a night of tears for his mother, who remembered when and how every item had been acquired, and deeply mourned the loss of each memento of her husband. She was sentimental and emotionally fragile; she could assure him she understood his intentions entirely at breakfast, and be prostrate in bed by dinner after the p
ainting or statue was carted away to the auction house.

  Hugh had long since realized that his family would be no help to him. The move to town had been hard on the countess, leaving his father’s grave and coming to the drab London house Joshua had despised so much. She accepted Hugh’s explanation, that it was to give Edith her Season and find a husband, but grief clung to her. His sisters were no better. Edith fretted about their inability to entertain properly, and Henrietta begged for her own new wardrobe, chafing at the sight of Edith’s stylish gowns. Hugh was beginning to think it would be easier to let himself be sent to the Fleet.

  That would be surrender, though, and he refused to surrender. His father had left him a mess, but he was determined to claw his way out. All he needed, after all, was a reliable bit of luck.

  His favorite gaming establishment had become the Vega Club, right in the heart of London. It was well kept and one needn’t fear being knifed on the way home. The owner was a hard but fair man, and he insisted on only two vows from his members: that they not tell gossip about the club, and that they pay their losses promptly.

  Hugh might have gnashed his teeth a time or two about the last one, but he wholeheartedly appreciated the first. Before he’d joined the Vega Club, tales of his wagering—often wildly exaggerated—had reached his mother’s ears and set her all aflutter with worries that he was becoming wild and irresponsible.

  His father had been dead for a year and a half, and Hugh still hadn’t told her how badly off they were.

  If his luck held like this for a few nights in a row, though, he might not have to.

  He was up by almost nine thousand pounds. Tonight he’d got into a table with some gentlemen and a few Cits, men of large fortune and no name. Hugh liked playing with that sort of fellow. They were pleased to sit down with an earl, and when they lost to him, they didn’t dare try to wriggle out of it. In addition, they were all in fine spirits tonight. One man kept calling for wine, and Hugh was fairly certain all three of them were three sheets to the wind.

  Some might think it unsporting to play with a bunch of drunks, but Hugh knew better. They hadn’t been drunk when they invited him to join their table, and he hadn’t been the one to order the claret. None of them were green striplings, and since Hugh had heard their fortunes ranged from two hundred thousand pounds to well over half a million, he presumed they could afford to drink themselves stupid and lose a few thousand pounds. In fact, he was counting on it.

  They had begun by playing simple five card loo. As long as one took a single trick, one didn’t lose. Hugh was good at remembering that point and bowing out at once if his hand was unpromising. He took some ribbing for this, but good-naturedly laughed it off. More than once he’d seen a young man—or, at Vega’s, a woman—heckled into playing too rashly, only to panic when he lost. Hugh was not at Vega’s to lose.

  But after a while, five card loo, even for rich stakes, grew too tame for some of them. “We’re going in circles,” complained Robert Grenville, shuffling his cards. “No limit, chaps.”

  “Unlimited!” William Harker, youngest son of Viscount Ellery, turned pale. He glanced nervously from side to side before pushing back his chair. “That’s too high for me.”

  Grenville and another fellow, George Alderton, laughed. “Go on, then! Come back when you’ve grown a bit.” Harker was thirty if he were a day. His mouth thinned, but he got up, collected his markers, and left. Hugh admired that. A man had to know his limits.

  As for himself, though . . . The stack of markers in front of him was comfortingly large. Over eight thousand eight hundred pounds, in carved ivory counters. He could double or triple it in unlimited loo. This was Edith’s dowry, sitting right in front of him.

  Hugh stayed in the game.

  Alderton, deep in his cups, missed taking a trick and had to pay the amount of the pot, which opened at a thousand pounds and quickly rose over three. Hugh accepted his share—almost eight hundred pounds—with a carefree wink and a ribald comment about Alderton, making them all shout with laughter. Another round and then another, when no one missed a trick. The pot reached eight thousand pounds, and Hugh reminded himself to be careful. He folded his next hand, a lackluster set of cards without trumps.

  And then . . . it happened. He didn’t quite know how. The hand dealt him was solid; respectably high cards, two in the trump suit. He should have been guaranteed at least one trick. But one by one, each trick went to other players. Even his queen of trumps fell to the king. The hand ended, Grenville had taken it, and Hugh had nothing.

  His heart made a strange echoing thud against his ribs. He’d lost. For a moment the room went dark and eerily quiet. He’d made a mistake, and cost himself everything he’d won tonight.

  Alderton slapped the table. “A miss at last! Damn, I thought we’d never get him to stumble, chaps!”

  Grenville sloshed more wine into his glass and raised it. “A toast to Hastings,” he said slyly. “And to his coin, which we’ll be glad to take.”

  Somehow a smile came to Hugh’s face. Chin up and face forward. He shook his head as he pushed nearly his entire stack of counters toward the center of the table. Edith’s dowry, gone. “I should have had more of Alderton’s claret,” he said lightly. “Damned sobriety tripped me up.”

  Grenville hiccupped with laughter, and Alderton tossed the bottle at him. Hugh caught it and made himself take a drink. The wine tasted like bile on his tongue. Tonight was ruined, but Hugh needed to be able to play with these men again, tomorrow or the night after. No one else could afford to lose the kind of money he needed to win. So he bowed and said farewell before walking away with the bottle still in his hand.

  Damn. Damn it all. He wanted to throw the bloody bottle through a window. What had he done wrong? He wandered through the club as his mind replayed the last ruinous hand, trying to see where he’d erred, but there was nothing else he could have done. Someone else had held a card that beat every single one of his. God bloody damn it.

  He let out his breath, careful not to display any sign of the furious turmoil inside him. All he’d needed was one more win. If it had been Grenville who lost, Grenville who held the queen instead of the king, there would be over thirteen thousand pounds in Hugh’s pocket at this moment, more than enough for Edith’s dowry. Instead he had markers worth barely twelve hundred, only two hundred more than he’d begun the night with and exponentially fewer than he needed.

  “A hard loss,” said a voice behind him.

  Hugh realized he’d been standing in the doorway of the main salon. He turned so he wasn’t blocking the way. “Your pardon, sir.”

  “Quite all right.” The other man didn’t stride through. He stayed where he was, watching Hugh with an expression of interested sympathy. “Grenville’s a cunning bastard.”

  “Is he?” Hugh managed a slight smile. “Very impressive, how he can be cunning and thoroughly foxed at the same time.”

  “There’s the cunning—he doesn’t drink as much as it looks like.” The fellow nodded at the bottle Hugh still clutched. “Fancy a decent glass?”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve won tonight.” He held it up and peered into it. “I might keep it.”

  “As a fond memento of happy times?” His new companion took it from him and deposited it on the tray of a passing waiter. “George Alderton drinks horse piss. Join me for a proper drink, won’t you?” He waved one hand at the armchairs across the room, but there was an air of command to it.

  Hugh straightened his shoulders, his guard up. “Forgive me, sir. I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “Cross,” said the fellow. “Edward Cross at your service, Lord Hastings.”

  Hugh gave a bow in reply. Cross had something to say to him, had sought him out. That rarely boded well in his current circumstances.

  Cross held out one arm again, a slight smile on his face. “Let’s have a drink.”

  Chin up. Hugh nodded once and led the way. This salon was removed from the gaming tabl
es, where patrons could order a meal or simply sink into an armchair to recover from a particularly taxing round of hazard. Like the rest of Vega’s, it looked more like a gentleman’s club than a gaming hell. Tonight it was mostly empty, perhaps because it was well past three in the morning.

  Cross took the seat beside Hugh’s and told a loitering waiter to bring a bottle of French port and two glasses. Hugh stretched out his legs and folded his hands over his stomach, waiting to hear what Cross wanted from him.

  Did he owe the man money? He was reasonably certain not. The name was not familiar.

  Had Cross heard of his difficulties and spied an opportunity? Hugh didn’t know what it could be. He’d received two offers for the entailed Rosemere estate from men like Cross, and both times he’d had to decline. Rather unfortunately, to Hugh’s mind. The offers had been very generous.

  “I saw your last game,” said Cross when the port was poured and the waiter had gone again.

  Hugh rotated his glass. It was a very fine port. His father would have purchased several casks of it on the spot. “That’s poor entertainment, when Vega offers so much more.”

  “Oh?” Cross gave his barely-there smile again. “I’d never sit down opposite Grenville or Alderton, but I do like to gloat a little when they lose.”

  God. The last thing he wanted to hear was gloating. Hugh drank, the wine flowing warmly down his throat. “I regret not providing an opportunity for you to do so.”

  Cross made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “You play well.”

  Not well enough, not tonight. Hugh conjured his sardonic grin again. “I thought you said you were watching.”

  “I was,” replied Cross, not put off. “Losing to Grenville . . . Many men have done that. You, though.” He cocked his head, watching him contemplatively. “You kept your head and played well.”

  “Only to lose in the end.” Hugh regarded his port. “When I play well, I don’t lose.”

  “Is that right?” murmured Cross. He refilled both glasses, even though Hugh’s was hardly touched. “You took it with grace.”