Page 2 of An Earl Like You
Edith came across the room and touched his hand. “Was he very dreadful?”
Hugh’s mouth twisted wryly. “Aren’t all lawyers?”
She laughed, but quieted almost immediately. “I wish Papa hadn’t died.”
“I know.” Hugh put his arm around his sister and kissed the top of her head. Edith was beautiful and petite, like their mother, and far too young to be burdened with this. His father had protected his wife and daughters from every unpleasantness, and in that much, Hugh wanted to emulate his father, at least for a while.
Of course, if his father hadn’t died, what would they have done? Hugh closed his eyes as the answer became apparent. The estate would have been mortgaged even more heavily and bled to the bone. Another five or ten years and Hugh might have inherited a far more desperate circumstance than he faced now—and with every likelihood that he wouldn’t have had any more warning.
“Mama has been weeping in front of Papa’s portrait for an hour,” Edith said softly. “Can we do something to divert her? Shall we go to Rosemere?”
Rosemere was the estate in Cornwall. It was quiet and beautifully idyllic, and it would be a wonderful place for the countess to recover from her heartache. It had been his father’s favorite home, the one he had rebuilt—at tremendous expense—and renamed for Hugh’s mother, a token of his great love for her. If his mother could be happy anywhere, it would be at Rosemere.
But it cost the earth to maintain all these houses. Sawyer had laid out the estate accounts in grim detail, and the expenses were crippling. Hugh realized the best thing to do was put the grandest properties into Holland covers until he could find tenants for them, and retreat to the most economical home.
Ironically, and unfortunately, that was the London house. His father hadn’t liked London, so the Hastings house near St. James’s Square was comparatively modest. It had been leased the last few years, but was empty at the moment. It would be dreadful to go to London in mourning, but his sisters were almost old enough for their debuts—assuming he could afford to launch them properly. If Edith and Henrietta made decent marriages, at least they would be settled and secure. It would be vital to conceal all hints of poverty, of course, further proof that he couldn’t tell his family how badly off they were.
There were even more reasons London was ideal. Hugh had been raised as a gentleman, with no profession or even much education of anything practical. But hewasgood at one thing, something his father had approved of as very aristocratic, something he could do without attracting any notice. London teemed with gaming establishments and gambling men. If he cut his expenses as much as possible and enjoyed modest luck at the tables, he could keep them afloat until he contracted marriage to an heiress.
Because that really was his only option. Everything was entailed, and auctioning off every stick of furniture and every portrait on the walls would only be a temporary windfall. He had to find a bride, as wealthy as possible, and the best place to do that...
He hugged Edith a little tighter. “Not Rosemere. I was thinking of London.”
Chapter 1
1819
Greenwich
Elizabeth Cross had grown up as the lady of the house.
Her mother died when she was three, giving birth to the baby brother Eliza had begged for. A week after Susannah Cross died, so did that tiny boy, whom Eliza had called Flopsy. When she was older she learned his proper name had been Frederick, after her grandfather, but at the time she cried for Flopsy and for Mama, and gave her second favorite toy to be buried with them. And from then on, it was just Eliza and Papa.
Her papa was a very busy man, but Eliza was the center of his world. He wanted her to have the best of everything and was determined that she would grow up knowing important things, things her mother would have taught her. “You should be a real lady, like your mother,” he would insist, even though Mrs. Cross had only been a baronet’s daughter and therefore not a born lady.
As a child Eliza constantly worried that she was falling short, but when she would anxiously inquire if she were becoming more like a lady, Papa would reply that she was doing splendidly, and he must do better to find someone who could teach her what she needed to know.
Eliza tried her best to learn, first from her governess, then from her teachers at Mrs. Upton’s Academy for Young Ladies, then from the companion hired to help launch her into society. By the time she was nineteen, she was confident that she could hold her own with any duchess when it came to serving tea, arranging flowers or planning a menu, or choosing the most stylish gown.
But she was equally as confident that she would always be considered a nouveau riche upstart by the London society her father was so determined to impress. Edward Cross had made his considerable fortune speculating in shares of hemp and iron and lead, all desperately needed by the British Navy during the wars. No matter how elegantly she dressed or how superbly she danced, nothing would ever erase the fact that her dowry was due to trade. She was an heiress—and quite a rich one at that—but not remotely a lady.
To draw a horde of aristocratic suitors, the sort who could elevate her to the social status her father craved, a girl needed three things: beauty, connections, and money. Eliza knew she was no beauty, and she had no noble connections. And really, she thought that if she could only have one of those three things, money was certainly the best. Even if she never married or attended a single society ball, she would still have a safe home, enough to eat, and means to provide for her dog.
The dog was more important to her than the home and food. Willy was a puppy when she found him walking home from the village. He’d been just a tiny ball of straggly black-and-white fur, hiding under a forsythia bush, but he crept right out when Eliza went down on her knees and reached out her hand. He arched into her hand as she petted his head, and her heart melted into a little puddle of love. She carried him home in her arms, considering all manner of grand names for him.
Papa was not especially pleased to see the puppy. “A mutt,” he said when Eliza showed him.
“He’s a baby,” she said. “And so sweet.” The little tail thumped against her side like a heartbeat. He snuggled in the crook of her arms as if he were home. Eliza kissed his head and smiled.
Papa grunted. “What if someone comes looking for him?”
“No one will. He was waiting for me.” Without waiting for his answer, she walked out and by the time dinner was served, the puppy had been washed, fed, and provided with a plush sleeping basket in Eliza’s own room. There were disadvantages to being an only child, responsible for the household, but there were also distinct advantages, namely that Eliza tended to get whatever she wanted. No one said a word about getting rid of Willy from then on.
And Eliza found herself very content with her life. Papa was a restless sort, always out and about either on business or manly pursuits. He was still a relatively young man, very fit and hale, and Eliza suspected he kept a mistress, a widowed lady who lived in Portland Place in London. But that left her free to do as she pleased. Every fortnight she went into London to shop and take tea with her two dearest friends, Lady Georgiana Lucas and Sophie Campbell, whom she’d known since they met as girls at Mrs. Upton’s Academy. She took long walks with Willy and visited the lending library in Greenwich. She helped out at the church, visiting the parishioners with her friend Belinda Reeve, the vicar’s wife, and she could spend many happy hours pottering about her garden.
The only sore spot was the fact that she remained unmarried, without a suitor in sight. While Eliza was coming to accept, deep down, that she would end up as one of those rich old ladies with a pack of dogs—she hoped to be quite an eccentric—her father was not nearly so sanguine about the prospect.
“I thought lap dogs were something only married ladies had,” said Papa at breakfast.
