An Earl Like You Page 3

  “Losing?” Hugh’s smile felt painful. He had the odd feeling Cross was impressed. That didn’t fit, somehow; the man looked competitive, the sort who would hate losing. There was a fair amount of gray shot through his dark hair, but otherwise he looked to be in the prime of life, lean and fit, his face tanned. He was clearly another Cit, but wore his wealth easily, just like his well-tailored jacket.

  “Yes, losing,” said Cross. “Not every man knows how to face it.”

  “A gentleman loses the way he wins: graciously, ever mindful of his dignity and his honor.” His father had said those words, more than once. Hugh tasted the acid sting of betrayal again as he said them now.

  “Most fellows can’t, gentleman or not. I suppose that says something about their dignity, or perhaps their honor.”

  Or perhaps it was due to the fact that losing was awful, a sharp stab to the gut that could turn into a festering wound if it weren’t salved by winning. Perhaps it meant nothing to Cross to see twelve thousand pounds slip through his fingers, but Hugh felt it like a condemned man watching his execution date draw near as hope of clemency dwindled.

  There was only so long he could get by this way. Perhaps he ought to give up the tables for a while and dedicate himself to finding a wealthy bride. He’d hoped to see at least Edith settled before he did that. Henrietta could wait another year, but Edith had a suitor, the oldest son of Viscount Livingston. He sent her flowers and came to call twice a week; Edith blushed and smiled every time he was in view. Hugh lived in daily fear that the young man would come to him and ask for Edith, because then he would have to reveal the extent of his father’s mismanagement. Joshua had used to tell his girls he would see them both duchesses, implying they would each have a large dowry. Hugh didn’t want to tell them the money had never been put aside, and had instead been spent on building and furnishing the new wing at Rosemere, tying it up where he could not get it.

  “It must be said that winning is vastly more enjoyable than losing,” he finally replied to Cross’s comment. “It is easier to remember one’s dignity and honor when in good spirits.”

  “True, true. But there’s an element of risk in damn near everything. Every enterprise has a risk of failure—and loss.”

  Hugh inclined his head. Did Cross have a point?

  “You’re a rare fellow,” said the man then, causing Hugh a start of surprise. He turned his head and saw that Cross was studying him intently.

  “In what way?” he asked, suddenly alert and cautious.

  Cross just smiled. “I like a man who can keep his balance.”

  For a split second, Hugh thought the man must know—there was something very canny about his words. It made his pulse stutter and skip, because Hugh had done his damnedest to hide his circumstances from everyone. Only his solicitors knew the full extent, and Hugh had maintained a pose of aristocratic indifference to debt in front of them. He knew he wasn’t the only nobleman in London who owed more than his life was worth, but showing any sign of worry or alarm would only alert the wolves to come feed upon him.

  So Cross couldn’t possibly know. His heart settled back into a normal rhythm, though the damage was done. He’d had far too much experience of losing tonight, and was sick of talking about it. Whatever Cross wanted, he was taking too long to come to the point. Hugh drained his glass and set it on the table between them. “Thank you for the port, sir, but I must be getting home.”

  “It was a pleasure, my lord.” Cross rose and bowed as he got up to leave. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

  Hugh smiled briefly. “Perhaps.” He made a mental note never to sit down at a table with Cross. “Good night.”

  Chapter 3

  If someone had warned Eliza that something momentous was about to happen in her life, she would have made sure to put on a nicer dress.

  Instead she wore a faded muslin, three years old, with a kerchief over her hair. Willy had got into something smelly and dirty, and he needed a bath. Willy hated the bath. When he caught sight of Eliza pulling out the large copper tub in the scullery, he wedged himself under a cabinet in the butler’s pantry and had to be dragged out by his back paws. Eliza carried him, his tail curled all the way under his belly, to the tub full of warm water.

  “If you would stay out of the kitchen scrap pile, you wouldn’t have to get a bath,” Eliza scolded him as she scrubbed the matted fur under his chin. Whatever Willy had rolled in was sticky as well as smelly, and her nose wrinkled as the maid poured buckets of clean water over him. Willy’s ears were down flat on his head, and he wriggled in her grip as she held him under the rinse water.

  “Open the door, Louisa,” said Eliza, trying to get a grip on her wet, wriggly dog. “I’m going to put him straight into the garden to dry.”

  The scullery maid swept open the door leading into the walled kitchen garden. Eliza gauged the difference, and heaved Willy out of the tub, clutching him against her chest. He wasn’t very heavy, but he was all muscle, and when he was wet he might as well have been an otter.

  Sure enough, he started twisting with renewed vigor, and managed to rake one paw across the underside of her chin. “Ouch! Willy—stop!” She tried to hold him tighter, but he was thrashing wildly now, slipping through her hands. “Willy—Willy, no, bad dog!”

  The dog hit the floor running. He raced under the sink and sent buckets clattering out into the narrow scullery. Louisa, the silly girl, shrieked and cowered out of his way, accidentally knocking the garden door closed. Willy skidded on wet paws and slammed into the closed door so hard he rebounded and rolled over backward. Eliza gasped in concern, but Willy was back on his feet and running again. The poor dog. He was scared and perhaps hurt. She ran to open the door so he could get into the garden, where he loved to be.

  “What’s this noise?” Cook threw open the door from the kitchen. “Louisa, what be you doing?”

  “No,” cried Eliza as Willy shot past Cook’s feet, making her shriek. Willy could get into so much trouble in the kitchen, especially when he was being chased. Willy adored being chased.

  Cook fell back as Eliza ran by her. “Bar the door,” she shouted to a startled footman. But his arms were full of dishes, and she threw up her hands as Willy jumped against the swinging door and escaped the kitchen.

  Eliza yanked the kerchief from her head. “Bring the towel, Louisa,” she called as she picked up her skirt and ran after the dog. Papa would be so annoyed. She hoped he was still out, or safely closed up in his study.

  But as she rushed into the spacious entry hall, barely a step behind Willy, a dreadful sight met her eyes. Not Papa, but much worse: a visitor, and one she’d never met before. He was just handing his hat to the butler, and he looked up in astonishment as Willy hurtled toward him, yapping happily. Willy loved people, especially new people. He would jump on them and lick their hands, and he had been known to nip a dangling pocket watch or loose handkerchief off an unsuspecting victim. Unfortunately his teeth were rather sharp, and he also tended to leave little holes in whatever clothing he caught.

  “Willy!” She lunged toward her dog. Papa would be furious if Willy stole the guest’s handkerchief or ripped his coat. “Sit!”

  The wicked animal bounded out of her reach, his tail wagging. He paused long enough to give a hard shake. Eliza flushed in mortification as the gentleman leapt backward to avoid the spray of water. “Willy, sit,” she said firmly, advancing on the dog. From the corner of her eye she saw Louisa, the scullery maid, hovering in the doorway with a towel. Perhaps, if she were very lucky, the gentleman would think she was also a maid.

  Willy cocked his head, watching her. Eliza advanced on him without looking away. Stay there, she silently commanded the dog. She didn’t dare look at the visitor.

  “If I may, Miss Cross,” began the butler just as she got within an arm’s length of her pet. At his voice, Willy jumped sideways, gave another bark, and took off toward the visitor at a run.

  Eliza let out a horrified noise and threw herself for
ward. She managed to intercept Willy, but the dog pulled her off balance and onto her knees, dragging her under the large round table that stood in the center of the rotunda hall before she got a good grip on him. The dog wriggled, but she clamped her arms around him until he gave up the fight and began furiously licking her face.

  “Are you all right?” asked a voice.

  Eliza dodged Willy’s tongue and looked up to see the gentleman visitor bending down to regard her with a mixture of caution and alarm. Abruptly the indignity of her position flooded in on her, and she felt her face turn red. “Yes, perfectly,” she said, crawling from under the table, still clutching the wet dog.

  His brow quirked ever so slightly, doubting her assurance, but he extended one hand. “How fortunate.”

  She had no choice but to let him help her up. He lifted her easily back to her feet, despite Willy’s struggles. He had already removed his gloves, and his palm seemed to leave an impression of tingling warmth on hers. She cringed to think of the traces of soapy bathwater her hand must have left on his. “Thank you, sir.” Breathless, she swiped at her hair, cringing as the loose lock flopped wetly against her ear. “Please pardon Willy, he’s very . . . energetic. But friendly!”

  The visitor’s eyes moved from her to Willy, who arched his neck in a renewed attempt to reach him. Eliza knew Willy only intended a welcoming lick, but it might look rather like he meant to bite. The gentleman straightened his shoulders, subtly drawing away as she wrestled the dog back into place.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” he said. His voice was really lovely, rich and smooth and unmistakably upper class, with the sort of diction that had been honed from birth. It fit with the rest of him, tall and well-dressed and impossibly handsome. His dark hair was combed back, but curled around his ears and collar, hinting at what he might look like when he was at ease, at home. His jaw was sculpted, and though he wasn’t smiling now, there were little lines around his mouth that hinted he did smile, a lot.

  But it was his eyes that made her acutely aware of how disheveled and dirty she was, clutching her dog to her soaked apron. His eyes were kind, and curious, and faintly amused; she just knew that still-quirked brow meant he was laughing inside at the chaotic welcome she’d given him.

  And so, unprepared and embarrassed, Eliza did what she usually did when confronted by a handsome man. Her tongue froze to the roof of her mouth and her face burned red, and she heard herself giggle nervously. She should introduce herself. She should apologize. She should say something witty, or at least polite, and instead she just stared at him, more awkward by the moment.

  “Eliza.” Papa’s voice was sharp. “What is going on?”

  Oh dear. She jerked her gaze away from the mystery gentleman. Papa stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene with displeasure. “Willy got away from me after his bath.”

  Papa’s lips thinned and he glared at the dog. Willy’s tail thumped against Eliza’s hip, and he yipped in delight at the sight of Papa, who fed him bacon. “Lord Hastings, my daughter Elizabeth. Eliza, this is the Earl of Hastings.”

  An earl. Mortified, Eliza made a clumsy curtsy. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Miss Cross.” The visitor bowed. The light of humor in his eyes was gone now.

  “I’d better put Willy in the garden,” she said. “Please excuse me, sir.” She started to curtsy again, almost lost her hold on Willy, and settled for walking very quickly out the back of the hall. Louisa, hiding behind the door, popped out as she approached, the towel in her outstretched hands. Eliza glared at her, irrationally annoyed at the girl. It wasn’t Louisa’s fault the dog loved to be chased, nor was it Louisa’s fault Cook had opened the door at the wrong moment. It was Willy’s fault, and as a result she’d met a handsome, good-humored gentleman . . . while dressed like a servant and smelling of wet dog.

  Just my luck, she thought, letting Louisa bundle Willy into the towel. And on top of that indignity, Papa would be angry with her for letting Willy loose in the house. “Bad dog,” she whispered to her pet as she went back to the kitchen. Willy’s ears drooped, but the moment she set him down in the garden, he gave a bark and a joyful leap, and was off chasing a bird.

  “Sorry, miss,” said Louisa hesitantly. “I didn’t know he’d run like that.”

  Eliza mustered a wry smile. “In the future, keep the door closed, and don’t be alarmed if he races around before going out. He won’t hurt you.”

  The girl smiled nervously and curtsied. “No, ma’am.”

  Suddenly Eliza understood. Louisa was young, only fourteen or so, and Eliza had been just the same at that age. “Are you frightened of dogs, Louisa?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “No, miss,” she said in a very small voice. “Not—not much, anyway.”

  Eliza gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. Can we try to help you over it, with Willy?”

  Blushing, the girl nodded. Cook’s voice rang out then from the kitchen, calling Louisa sharply to come wash some pots, and Louisa ran off with a hasty curtsy. Eliza took off her sodden apron and hung it on a peg behind the door. She put away the tin of soap and the copper tub; someone else had already emptied and rinsed it.

  When Willy came back to the door and barked to come in, she gave him a rough toweling until his short fur stood up all over, giving him a wild and fluffy look. She couldn’t help laughing. “You’re still a bad dog,” she told him, and he licked her face as if to apologize for it.

  She took him to her room via the servants’ stair, both to spare the carpet on the main staircase and to avoid any chance of meeting Papa or his guest. If she ever met the Earl of Hastings again, Eliza would much rather be clean, dry, and prepared for the encounter. She should have a clever comment ready about their first meeting.

  I apologize for not falling at your feet this time, my lord, she imagined herself telling him with an artless laugh.

  No, that would remind him too vividly of her graceless sprawl on the floor.

  Willy sends his regards, my lord, and begs me to assure you he has much better manners than he displayed the other day, she could say ruefully, casting all the blame onto the dog.

  Or: Shall we begin again, my lord, and forget the time my dog charged at you? She batted her eyelashes at her reflection, pretending the handsome Lord Hastings was the one smiling back at her, or even not smiling but watching her with that little quirk to his eyebrow hinting at deep, private amusement over their first, disastrous meeting. He might find it charming, and remark that she was far prettier without an ugly apron on; she would bow her head and smile in acknowledgment of the gallantry. Then he might ask her for a dance, or at least fetch her a lemonade, and from then on they would be . . . friendly. Yes, Hastings came to dine last night, she imagined telling her friends casually, as if such a thing happened all the time.

  Such a thing had never happened. Such a thing probably never would happen. And she was both silly and naive to think Lord Hastings might find her charming.

  “Ugh!” Eliza made a face at herself in the mirror. “I should hope I never see the man again,” she said to Willy. “He surely thinks I’m half mad, thanks to you.” The dog yawned, then trotted to his basket in the corner and curled up in it, tired from his race through the hall and then his romp in the garden. Eliza shook her head even as her heart melted a little. She rang for her maid to help her change out of her wet dress, and tried to dismiss handsome earls from her mind.

  “I must apologize for the dog,” said Cross as he closed the door of his study. “My daughter has a tender heart.”

  Hugh nodded once in acknowledgement. “An admirable trait in a woman.”

  Cross paused, giving him a sharp look. “Yes.” He went around his desk. “Won’t you sit down, Lord Hastings?”

  Hugh took a very comfortable armchair. Nothing elegant by Chippendale in here; it was large, easy furniture, upholstered in the softest leather. Everything in the house that he’d seen had been that way—no slav
ish deference to fashion, but a refined comfort in materials of the highest quality. If he’d had any doubts about Cross’s wealth, they were gone now.

  It had been a fortnight or more since their odd conversation at the Vega Club. Hugh hadn’t thought much about it after that night, and he hadn’t seen Cross again except from across the room. Hugh had not expected to speak to the man again in his life, but it seemed Cross had other ideas. What he didn’t know was why.

  His host offered him a drink, which Hugh declined, and finally took his own seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord?”

  “I received a letter from Sir Richard Nesbit,” said Hugh. “As a courtesy, informing me that he’d sold some debt markers he held from my father.”

  “Very accommodating of Nesbit.”

  Hugh inclined his head, even though he thought Sir Richard was a very dodgy fellow. “Why did you buy them?”

  Cross leaned back in his chair. “I believed the investment was promising.”

  “Oh?” Hugh raised one eyebrow. “What investment?” The markers Nesbit held had been from a horse race five years ago. Joshua had wagered three thousand pounds on a colt who finished last in every heat. Hugh considered the debt invalid, but Nesbit still held the signed note—until Cross bought it, apparently at full value.

  “You, my lord,” Cross said easily, a smile on his face. “You are your father’s son, are you not?”

  Hugh ground his teeth together behind his austere expression. “Nesbit had no legal claim. It was a debt of honor of my father’s, and he’s dead.”

  Cross waved one hand. “Ah. Then Nesbit got the better of me.”

  “Why?” repeated Hugh, his voice soft and even.

  The other man smiled, a dry twist of his lips. “Do you know how I made my fortune, Lord Hastings?” Hugh stiffened. Cross went on without waiting for a response. “Speculation. A damned risky business, but rewarding.”

  “Speculators, as I understand, buy when they see a chance of profit,” said Hugh. “The longer the odds, the greater the profit. The odds of profit from Nesbit’s markers are very long indeed.” Nil, to be precise.