“You’ve known her all her life?” He tried to keep his tone even and only mildly curious. “I didn’t know you were such a friend of the family.”
Grenville faced him, no longer laughing or cynical. “I am,” he said in subtle menace. “Cross and I go back for ages.”
“I didn’t know,” murmured Hugh, as if taken aback by the coincidence. “Perhaps you could advise me. He and I have not hit it off.”
“Advice?” Grenville looked him over with faint contempt. “Remember that he always plays to win. He never stops until he gets what he wants. Spare yourself the frustration and accommodate him.”
Expressionless, Hugh said nothing. He sat forward in his chair and scraped up his collection of markers. It was clearly time to leave, with his nine thousand eight hundred pounds of blood money. Tomorrow he’d be back, alert to avoid Grenville, and he would play again. Just the thought of throwing the money in Cross’s face had a motivating and soothing effect on his mind.
The play at the table was growing animated. The chap across from Hugh, Lord Talbot, exclaimed in disgust as he played. Grenville laughed, the sound menacing to Hugh’s ears. Another man called for more wine, just like George Alderton had done many weeks ago, and told the servant to pour it for everyone at the table. A slim taciturn fellow named Southbridge made an unusually large opening bid, eliciting a curse from several players.
There was something off that Hugh couldn’t put his finger on; he took his time gathering his winnings, watching the play. The hand ended, with Talbot having to pay the pot, which he did with an angry oath. It was an ordinary table of loo, with high stakes and crushing losses, until the cards were dealt again. The deal passed to Southbridge, and if Hugh hadn’t been right next to Grenville he would have missed it: Southbridge gave him an extra card. And Grenville kept it, hiding it in his sleeve with such smooth ease Hugh realized he’d been expecting it.
He raised one hand, and a servant stepped up. “Fetch Dashwood,” he murmured almost silently, naming the club owner. “Deal me in,” he told Southbridge when the hand ended.
“Recovered your nerve?” asked Grenville with a smirk.
Hugh grinned lazily. “I have. I’ve never seen a poorer lot of players. It’s foolish of me not to win some of your money.” Everyone laughed as Southbridge dealt him cards, and play began. At some point Hugh saw, from the corner of his eye, Mr. Dashwood step up beside him, as silent as a ghost. Dashwood never interrupted play. He would stand there for half an hour, waiting until his patron chose to speak to him. Perfect.
During every hand, Hugh deliberately needled Grenville. It was not his usual habit, but tonight it came without effort. Grenville was not easily rattled, but Hugh took vengeful satisfaction in every annoyed glance and tightening of his mouth. And finally, in the last round of the hand, Grenville slipped. He shuffled his cards and reached for his wine, and his sleeve gaped for a moment.
“I say, Grenville,” said Hugh, “it looks as though you’ve got a spare card in your cuff.”
The other man froze for a bare second. “How dare you,” he said with indignant offense. “It sounds as though you’re calling me a cheat.”
“I just remarked that you’ve got a card up your sleeve.” Hugh raised one brow. “I suppose it’s the extra one Southbridge dealt you.”
Grenville inhaled loudly. Southbridge, who had as much charm as an owl, blinked. “I say, sir! That’s too far.”
Reclining in his chair, Hugh motioned at Grenville. “Look in his cuff. I can see the edge of it.”
“That’s a serious allegation, Lord Hastings,” said Mr. Dashwood.
Hugh let his remaining cards fall to the table. “And if I’m wrong, you may banish me from your club.” He glanced up at the owner. “But if I’m correct . . .”
Nicholas Dashwood was watching Robert Grenville, who sat in tense rage. “Would you turn out your cuffs, sir?”
Grenville’s head went back. “If I decline?”
“I can also banish you from my club.” Dashwood said it mildly, but there was steel in his tone.
Grenville rose. He gave his jacket a jerk, and withdrew the card from his sleeve. Lord Talbot swore in amazement under his breath. Southbridge’s head sank on his shoulders.
“Don’t bother,” said Grenville coolly to Mr. Dashwood. He spun the card at Hugh. “I’ve had enough.” He turned and strode out the door.
“Sir David,” said Dashwood to Southbridge. “Did you deal him that card?”
The man shot a black look at Hugh. “I must have, without realizing my error.”
Dashwood made a quiet noise in his throat, disbelieving. “See that you don’t accidentally deal incorrectly again, sir.”
Two spots of color burned in Southbridge’s narrow face. “No.”
With one more speaking look, Dashwood strolled away. His message had been heard; Southbridge would be watched closely from now on, and expelled at the slightest slip. Even worse, word would spread that he had cheated and got off. Almost in one motion, all the other players at the table except Hugh pushed back their chairs and left.
Southbridge leaned forward, spite shining in his eyes. “Fine work, Hastings.”
“Spoiling a fixed game?” Hugh swept up his markers. “I take pride in it.”
“Idiot,” said Southbridge in contempt. “If anyone should have kept his mouth shut, it ought to be you.”
Hugh just raised one brow in contempt.
Southbridge got to his feet. He smoothed one hand over his slicked-back hair. “You never saw Grenville do it to you, I wager. Losing can leave a man open to other opportunities which far outstrip a paltry loss at the tables.”
Hugh’s hands slowed to a stop as the meaning sank in. Right. He might have guessed. “As you say,” he said evenly, carefully, “it did work out to my benefit. I suppose Cross intended it that way.”
Southbridge snorted. “It was more than you deserved. Ned Cross was a bigger fool than I thought when he chose you.” He scooped up his markers and walked away.
He sat motionless as a statue. It was the final stroke, the only thing wanting in this miserable deception. Cross had set him up from the beginning, telling Grenville—and Alderton?—to ensure Hugh lost. What had the man said to him that first night? Not every man knows how to face losing. But Hugh did. Hugh kept his temper and lost honorably, even graciously, never thinking he’d been cheated, and in response Cross bought up all his debts and boxed him into a trap.
His chest hurt. Eliza couldn’t have known this. He knew his wife, and she would never, ever approve of cheating, let alone cheating someone just to see how he handled a crushing loss.
And how the devil could Cross do such a thing? Sudden fury filled him. How dare that man think so little of his daughter that he felt it was necessary to break and trap and coerce a man to court her? Any sensible fellow would fall in love with her if only he spent a few days in her company. Cross could have filled his home with guests, taken a damn house in the middle of London and let her find her own stride, even simply let her go live with Lady Georgiana, where she would have met any number of eligible men at her dazzling friend’s side. At least a few of them would have been intelligent enough to discern Eliza’s worth—not in pounds sterling but in heart, in sense, in joy, even in beauty, quiet and understated. The urge to call Cross out burned in his chest.
And he’d told her to go ask her father. Hugh’s heart sank as he realized his mistake. He’d sent her to the person who had caused all her pain, but also the person least likely to tell her the truth about what he’d done. The person who openly admitted he was not a friend to Hugh, who promised that if Hugh proved a poor husband, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to settle accounts.
He’d sent her right to the person who could ruin his marriage and turn his wife against him forever.
He strode through the salon. The early light of dawn was just filtering through the windows in the entrance hall. Forbes, the club manager, fell in step with him. “I apologize for the d
ifficulty you had tonight, my lord—”
“Yes.” He dumped his markers into the startled manager’s hands. “Credit these to my account. I have to go to Greenwich.”
Chapter 29
Eliza reached her father’s house in Greenwich resolved to be calm and reasonable. There must be an explanation for everything.
It wasn’t that she doubted Hugh. Why would he say those things to her if they weren’t true? If put to the point of a knife, she would say that he did love her, now, just as he said. The hurt of hearing what he had done before, though, was too deep and too sharp to ignore. She had to know why and how and what her father had intended.
Papa. She gulped back a sob. How could he have done this to her?
The butler gaped at her in astonishment when he opened the door. “Miss Cross,” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon—Lady Hastings.” He bowed.
“Never mind, Roberts.” She let him take her cloak. “Is my father home?”
“No, ma’am, but he did say he would not be late.”
It was already late. Eliza nodded. “I’ll wait.”
“Of course.” He rushed to follow her to the morning room, hastily lighting the lamps. “I shall tell him of your presence the moment he arrives.”
“Thank you, Roberts.” She smiled at the dear man, who had been butler here since she was a child.
“Shall I send for tea?”
Eliza knew the cook and kitchen maids would have gone to bed by now. “No, please don’t wake Cook. I shall be fine.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” He bowed out, closing the door.
Eliza let out her breath. It felt strange to be here again, where she had once been so at home. In just a few weeks her sense of home had shifted, from her father’s large elegant mansion to Hugh’s house in St. James’s Square, smaller and darker and desperately in need of renovation.
What choice did I have? echoed his voice in her mind. Go to prison or court the girl. He’d been forced to it, but he’d done it so gentlemanly. She remembered the soft brush of his hand against hers; the way he looked at her when he said he wanted to kiss her. He had waited for her encouragement at every turn. She wondered wildly what he would have done if she’d ever said no, turned him away and discouraged his attention.
A tear leaked from her eye. Hugh would have accepted it. She couldn’t believe anything else, not after the way he tried so hard to shield his sister from heartbreak. Even more, the way he had tried to keep things from her. He had every reason to hate her father; a petty man would have told her everything the day after they were married, when there was nothing she could have done but despise both of them. Hugh, though . . . Hugh was kind and decent and passionate and he did fall in love with her. And she believed him.
A crunch of wheels on gravel sounded outside. She swiped at her eyes, not wanting to face her father as a teary-eyed mess. Within minutes the door burst open and Papa strode in, still wearing his greatcoat and hat with a deep scowl on his face.
“Eliza. What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”
She backed away from the hands he reached out to lay on her shoulders. “I’m not ill,” she said. “I discovered what you did.”
“What?” Still frowning in concern, he took hold of her chin. “You look pale.”
“I know,” she repeated. “I know what you did.”
His face went frighteningly still. She had never seen him look that way. “What did Hastings tell you?” he asked in a soft ominous voice.
No. It was not right to start with Hugh. She raised her chin. “Is it true you bought all of Hugh’s debts so he would have no choice but to marry me?”
“Rubbish,” said her father with scorn. “Who told you such a thing?”
“But I found the promissory notes,” she replied. “I know you did it.”
Papa paused, his expression inscrutable. “I did buy some of Hastings’s debts. As speculation, nothing more.”
“When?” She saw him hesitate again. “When did you buy them, Papa? Before he came to call upon you here that first time? If you won’t tell me, I shall call on every one of his creditors and ask them.”
His fingers drummed against his thigh. “Before.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “I took a chance, Lilibeth. He seemed a good fellow, and I thought, if he got to know you and you got to know him, you might take a liking to him.”
“And what about his choice?” she exclaimed.
Papa threw up one hand, looking irked. “He had a choice! I never said he must marry you—never,” he repeated firmly. “We . . . negotiated terms. If you turned him down, that would be that. In fact, he bargained for a sum of money in the event his suit was rejected. Hardly an innocent victim, if you ask me.”
“What did he ask?” Eliza’s heart felt hard and heavy, as if it would tear loose inside her chest.
“He wanted compensation if you turned him down. Ten thousand pounds, he demanded. Hefty compensation for a few calls, don’t you think?”
Eliza couldn’t breathe for a moment, and then realized why Hugh had wanted that. Edith. Mr. Benwick had been courting Edith and Hugh had needed a dowry for her, and quickly. Her knees almost gave out as she understood what her husband had done, not for himself but for his family. “It was no more than you deserved,” she retorted to her father.
He sighed impatiently. “Of course! I expected it—I respected it. But don’t let him tell you I forced him to everything.”
She shook her head. “Papa. You know better. You bought all his debts and threatened to put the bailiffs on him. You coerced him, regardless of his feelings or interest. What if he’d been courting another lady?”
“I made certain he was not.”
She stared at her parent, once more at a loss for words. “Papa.”
He scowled again, the irate expression he got when someone refused to recognize the logic of his position. “All I wanted was for you to have a look at someone. For someone—some highborn, decent fellow—to take a close look at you. I knew he’d see your worth, just as I thought you might take a fancy to him. You turned away all the chaps who came to call when you had your Season—”
“Because they only wanted your money!” she cried, aghast. “Most of them couldn’t even remember my name!”
He waved it off. “And Hastings did. You told me just a few days ago that he made you happy. Very happy, you told me,” he added as she gaped at him. “You might not approve of my methods, but I was right.” He shrugged. “I think my speculation paid off handsomely.”
Eliza could only stare in dumbfounded shock. “You told him he must court me properly,” she whispered. “That he must win my heart, and never ever tell me that you’d manipulated him into doing it.”
Her father’s mouth twisted but he said nothing.
“What about my choice?” She clapped one fist to her breast. “What about my feelings?”
“You love him.”
“But when I fell in love with him, he was only acting, on your orders.” She put up one hand to stop his reply. “It was an arranged marriage, only I didn’t know it. How could you do that to me?”
“Lilibeth,” he said, “I wanted you to be happy. If left to yourself, you would have spent your entire life here, fussing over the rosebushes and coddling stray dogs. You needed something to pry you loose.”
He might be right. Eliza had never wanted to face another London Season. But while she might be able to forgive her father for manipulating her into meeting a gentleman, it was much harder to forgive him on Hugh’s behalf. Even deep in debt, Hugh had been an eligible match—blindingly handsome, charming and decent, in the prime of life and possessed of an old and illustrious title. He could have courted and married any number of heiresses or wealthy women in London.
“Perhaps,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “you were right about me. I didn’t know it disturbed you so terribly that I wasn’t married. I took all your teasing about that as . . . well, as teasing. But yo
u had no right, none at all, Papa, to do that to Hugh.”
“He didn’t come out too badly,” muttered her father.
Eliza put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear another word! You lied to me, Papa. You tricked me and said nothing as I fell in love with a man who was only calling on me because you made him. Do you have any idea how stupid I feel? How mortified I felt when Richard Nesbit, a complete stranger, told me that you bought my husband for me?”
“Nesbit!” Her father’s expression turned furious.
“He said he sold you some debt himself,” she said, her voice trembling.
“That bloody scoundrel. He ought to know to keep his mouth closed. I’ll deal with him, see if I don’t,” he vowed vengefully.
And Eliza gave up. He didn’t see anything wrong with what he’d done. She had fallen in love with Hugh and Hugh had eventually fallen in love with her, so that made everything acceptable in his eyes. Even if they hadn’t cared for each other, she would still be a married woman, a countess, and perhaps that’s really all he wanted. There was a sharp pain in her chest, as if a deep fissure had split across her heart. “Good-bye, Papa,” she said quietly. She walked by him and out the door.
“Lilibeth,” he called, following. “Wait a moment. Eliza!”
She kept walking.
“Elizabeth,” he said firmly. “Listen to me.”
“I did,” she retorted. “What you said offended me.”
“But I meant well,” he cajoled. “I only wanted to be a good father. Your mother would be appalled if I did nothing. What else was I to do?”
Eliza shook her head and walked on. The hack she’d hired in London was still waiting, the driver drowsing on the box.
Her father strode past her and slapped one hand against the carriage door. “You’re not going off in this,” he said tersely. “What was Hastings thinking to let you take a ramshackle hired hack?”
Her breath shuddered in her lungs. “I chose it.”
He grunted. “You’ll let William take you home in the morning.” He fished a guinea from his pocket and tossed it to the driver. “Go on, man.”
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