Page 12 of An Earl Like You
“Excellent.” Hugh could feel the frost on his own words. “To what do I owe this invitation?”
Cross shrugged, and motioned for the servants to leave. “A desire to become acquainted.”
Hugh counted to ten to keep his temper from boiling over. “Mr. Cross,” he said, biting off each word, “we are not peers. We have little in common. There is no reason for us to become acquainted except for the fact that you now own most of the debts I owe.”
“Thanks to your father,” Cross interjected.
Hugh clenched his teeth. “Yes. That is the way of inheritance.”
“Not mine,” said Cross baldly. “My father left me nothing, for good or for ill.”
“How kind of him.” Hugh stared stonily at the man. “What do you want from me?”
“How much have you won at Vega’s?”
He jerked at the invasive question. “That is hardly your concern—”
“That’s your income, isn’t it?” Cross nodded as Hugh seethed in impotent silence. “I thought about it for several days. I’ve watched plenty of aristocrats play deep at Vega’s, but you don’t fit their pattern. You play as if it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose ten thousand pounds, but we both know that’s not true—you need to win.” He paused, his eyes piercing. “Don’t you? You need it to stay afloat, to pay your creditors just enough to hold them at bay. I mean no affront,” he added as Hugh made a choked growl. “I’m not a gentleman, remember. I see nothing wrong with needing to earn an income of some sort, rather than have it simply flow to you by divine right.”
“What,” repeated Hugh, “do you want?”
“Part of what made me successful was my eye for need, and surplus.” Cross looked rather pleased with himself. “When one party has a need, find someone who has a corresponding surplus. Connect the two, and everyone is better off.”
Hugh breathed in and out, letting his eyelids drop closed. He was helpless, trapped here while Cross rambled on about his philosophy of life and success.
“You,” his host went on, “have a need. A rather crushing one. Now, some gents in your shoes might marry a duke’s daughter with a plump dowry or a wealthy widow—but you haven’t. Haven’t even courted one, unless the gossips have missed it.” Cross shrugged. “There are only a few reasons why a man in your straits wouldn’t do that. I heard no rumor hinting that you have any unnatural desires, which likely means that you haven’t found a woman with enough fortune to put you back in clover.”
This was a circle of hell, Hugh decided. Who the devil was this man who thought he could pry into the most intimate details of a stranger’s life?
“There now.” Cross’s voice grew almost genial. “You look so grim, Hastings! I presumed you knew what gossip said about you. It took no effort at all to hear it.”
Hugh had spent the last year and a half acting a part: the role of an earl with rather empty pockets but rich in land and consequence. Society from bottom to top understood that character very well, accepted it and embraced it. He was still invited to the most elitetonparties, and no tradesman had refused him credit. On one hand, it was reassuring to hear that he’d been successful, but on the other hand...
“I wonder why you cared to hear anything at all of me,” he said to Cross. “A perfect stranger.”
The other man grinned. “Do you? Come, lad, I heard you were clever. Good with cards, a careful gambler, never lose your temper or your good humor. Always a gentleman! I admire that.” He shifted in his chair, leaning forward as he reached for the brandy. Hugh hadn’t touched his, but Cross’s glass was empty. “But neither am I afraid to lay my cards on the table. You have a need—a desperate need for money, and quite a lot of it from what I understand. Your sister Lady Edith is being courted by Livingston’s heir, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” The word felt like the confession of a sin.
Cross nodded. “And she’s got no dowry, has she?”
Hugh jolted in his seat. How the bloody hell could Cross know that? “What?”
“Richard Nesbit knew your father well,” was all Cross replied. He went on with his prosecution of Hugh’s failings. “Neither has your other sister, I expect. She’ll be making her debut soon, won’t she? That’s not one but two dowries you’ll need.”
Feeling as if his limbs were made of wood, Hugh rose. “Pray excuse me, Cross,” he said coldly. “I must be going.”
“I have a surplus,” said Cross. “Of the very things you lack. Sit down, Hastings,” he added when Hugh didn’t move. “Not only a surplus of funds, but of a daughter without a husband.”
For a moment Hugh could only stand in bemusement. Then a disbelieving laugh erupted from his throat as Cross’s meaning sank in. “Are you mad? You think—you think I should marry your daughter?”
“I’d like it above all else,” said the man bluntly. “Whether she’d like it is another question, but if you married her, your troubles would be over.”
Hugh just stared at him. What a deranged idea. Yes—the man must be quietly deranged. There was no other explanation.
“I’ll forgive the mortgages and debts outright,” Cross said, his voice no longer casual and relaxed. “Elizabeth has a dowry of fifty thousand pounds, and she’ll inherit the rest when I die. Almost half a million pounds as of now.” A predatory smile glinted across his face for a moment. “I’m not done yet, of course. It might be twice that when I shuffle off my mortal cloak.”
“Does she know about this lunatic plan?” Hugh finally found his voice.
