Page 6 of An Earl Like You
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.”
“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.
