Forever Your Earl (11 page)

In response, Marwood gave them both a short, mocking bow. After wishing them a good evening, he wove his way through the crowd, followed by his fawning entourage.

“He could've stayed,” Eleanor grumbled once Marwood had gone.

Ashford shook his head and guided them toward one of the card tables. “Don't need to tell you the reputation Marwood's got. He's one of my closest friends, and even I think he's poisonous.”

“I can handle myself with dangerous men,” she countered. “Look how well I'm managing you.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “I wasn't aware I was being
managed
.”

“Because I'm so deft at it.”

“Even so,” Ashford continued, “I know your secret and Marwood doesn't. He could manipulate you in a very unpleasant way if he learned the truth.”

“He's as bad as that? I thought Lord Allam is his father. Shouldn't that count for some degree of virtue?”

“That apple,” Ashford said, “didn't fall close to the tree. In fact, it threw itself off the tree's branches, rolled down a hill, and straight into the nearest theater box, where it surrounded itself with a variety of strawberries of dubious repute.”

Eleanor fought to keep her laugh to a deeper, masculine chuckle. “Oh, for God's sake, never become a writer. You just murdered a poor metaphor in the most brutal way.”

“The metaphor had it coming.”

Something tugged on the corner of her thoughts, and she placed her hand on Ashford's sleeve, stopping them both in their progress through the gaming hell. Bodies swirled around them, like a river of iniquity.

“You didn't have to do that,” she murmured.

He looked impatient. “I told you, Marwood's—­”

“Not him. I meant the way you behaved toward Jenny.” She glanced around, then lowered her voice. “She's hired female company, but . . . you gave her courtesy. The same courtesy you'd give a lady. Not many men would do that.”

“Surely they would,” he protested.

“I've seen it. They'd treat her as if she didn't have any feelings. As if she wasn't human.”

His cheeks darkened. “Of course she's human.”

“Few men see women like her that way.”

“Trying to ascribe some kind of altruism to me?” He made a dismissive gesture. “That's a fool's errand.”

She smiled up at him. “You haven't forgotten that I'm a journalist by trade. I make my living—­”

“Through fabrication.”

“Embellishment, not fabrication,” she corrected. “But that's based on observation. And I see far more than you'd like me to. Including the fact that you think of courtesans as ­people deserving of respect.”

“What a poor example of a rake I am.”

“But a rather sterling man.”

He snorted. “I'm not working hard enough at my dissolution.” He waved toward the card table nearby. “Time to put my rakish reputation to the test.”

“I wonder, though,” she murmured, glancing around the room. “It seems that every titled nobleman is here—­except Jonathan Lawson, the Duke of Holcombe's heir.” She peered at Ashford. “You two are awfully close—­or were, if I remember properly. Went to Eton and Cambridge together. You were inseparable until he shipped overseas.”

“How do you know all that?” he said stiffly.

“I'm a journalist, if you recall. It's my business to know.”

“It's not your business to know everything.” His voice had gone tight, hard.

“But I'd think that the young man would be here, of all places. Celebrating his new role as heir to a dukedom.”

“If you persist in these impertinent observations,” the earl said through his teeth, “the night will be over in mere seconds.”

She blinked at him. His violent, angry response mystified her. As did his friend's absence. But she didn't doubt that Ashford would carry through on his promise, and likely have her bodily thrown out of the gaming hell.

“Very well,” she said as mildly as she could. “Consider the matter as exiled as Bonaparte.”

He nodded, but still looked taut and guarded.

Eleanor followed as he walked to the game table, but she placed all this new information in her mental cabinet, to be reviewed later. Lord Ashford was certainly not what he appeared, or the figure he presented himself to be. Maybe he wasn't even aware of it, but beneath his handsome, wicked exterior, there beat the heart of a genuinely decent man—­and perhaps there was the true story.

But could she write about it? Could she write about him, coming to know him as she did?

And what of his friend—­Jonathan Lawson? Was there something to his absence tonight?

The earl was using her for some unknown purpose. This she understood. She used him, too. A simple exchange. Yet it didn't seem simple anymore.

Damn and hell—­suddenly she'd developed an ethos. And at such an inconvenient time, too. It was like a sickness. One without a cure.

 

Chapter 7

Dame Fortune is indeed capricious, for why else would she dangle before us prospects that could either lead to our greatest pleasure or most calamitous ruin?

The Hawk's Eye
, May 4, 1816

A
s his anger cooled, Daniel debated. Should he take Miss Hawke to the sedate table, where older gentlemen played piquet? Or would she and her writing be better served by the more complex, and unrestrained, games of baccarat, hazard, or
vingt-­et-­un
? Glancing over at her as she surveyed the room beside him, a gleam of excitement in her eyes, he knew his choice—­definitely the wilder option.

He was still thrown by her observation that Jonathan was missing from the gaming hell. Naturally she'd notice something like that. Daniel himself had been searching for his friend every time he set foot in Donnegan's, hoping against reason that Jonathan would show up. But tonight, as it was each time, he was disappointed.

He shouldn't have gotten so upset with Miss Hawke. She'd surely latch on to that suspicious behavior and search out the answer. If she pressed him, he could always claim that he and Jonathan were feuding for some reason, and the mere mention of his “former” friend's name angered him. That would suffice.

“Have you much experience with games of chance?” he asked.

“A little.” A small, wary smile curved her mouth.

He couldn't let himself be distracted by that smile. It wouldn't serve him well if he was caught staring at his “cousin's” lips.

“Let's avoid hazard for now,” he said. The rules were complicated, and though she claimed “a little” knowledge of gaming, he didn't want to tax her overmuch on her first night in a gambling hell. If she got too lost, it wouldn't translate well in her article. “Same with baccarat.
Vingt-­et-­un
should do us very well.”

He struggled with the impulse to put his hand on her back and guide her toward the baize-­covered table. Instead, he led the way, the crowd parting for him as he walked. He had to trust that she followed.

The card table was thronged with men, and though the game required concentration, these young bucks were more interested in shouting their enthusiasm with each turn of the cards. Women draped themselves on the players, cheering on their night's benefactors, or else commiserating with their losses. A dealer stood at the head of the table, his implacable expression a contrast to the exuberance of the players.

“We ought to watch a few hands before we play,” Daniel murmured to Miss Hawke.

She threw him a grin. “Too safe. No scandal in that.”

He raised his brows. If it was scandal she wanted, then he'd give it to her.

“I'm staking this young gentleman a hundred pounds,” he said to the dealer.

The grin faded slightly from Miss Hawke's face. It wasn't the highest amount he'd ever played, but for a woman of her class, a hundred pounds was enough to sustain someone comfortably for a goodly while.

“Yes, my lord,” the dealer answered. “And for you?”

“A thousand pounds.”

Even above the din, he heard Miss Hawke's soft inhalation. But the other players didn't look shocked. If anything, it was standard procedure for a man of his stature to start off with a stake of a thousand pounds.

“That's just the beginning,” he said lowly into Miss Hawke's ear.

She shook her head. “You aristos are mad as circus elephants.”

“I thought circus elephants were well trained.”

“Until they decide they've had enough, and then they trample everything in their path.” She glanced down at his shoes. “Maybe I'd better check for a smashed mahout under those big feet of yours.”

He scowled, the size of his feet and hands always subject for self-­consciousness. Earls weren't built like laborers, but he'd always been too oversized for his role in life, as though he'd been intended for the fields and not a ballroom.

“Careful,” he growled, “or one impertinent journalist might feel the wrath of my appendages.”

“You wouldn't kick a lady,” she insisted.

“I don't see one standing here.”

She flashed him a gesture so obscene, so unexpected, that he couldn't help but laugh.

Stacks of chips appeared before them on the table as they took their seats, with her to his right.

“The rules of the game are relatively simple,” he said as they watched the dealer distribute cards. “Shouldn't tax you overmuch.”

“What a relief.” She sighed. “This usage of my brain is
exhausting
.”

Of course, he'd been an ass in saying that—­to her especially. From their brief interaction, he already knew she was one of the most intelligent ­people he'd ever encountered.

“I'm assuming that the number twenty-­one comes into play,” she said, “given the game's name.”

Cards flew from the dealer's hands, and both Daniel and Miss Hawke watched him carefully.

“The aim is to wind up with a hand of cards totaling more than what the dealer holds,” he explained. “But,” he added, “it's got to be equal to or lower than twenty-­one points. Each card has a point value based on the face number, except for aces and face cards. Knaves, queens, and kings are worth ten points. Aces are either one or eleven, depending.”

She gazed up at him with round eyes. “You mean there's mathematics involved? I may fall into a swoon of despair.”

“I won't catch you,” he answered.

“Very unmanly,” she agreed. “Just throw a glass of wine in my face to rouse me. I'm sure, after everything I've written about you, you long for the opportunity to toss a drink at me.”

“Be lying if I said the thought hadn't occurred to me. But that's when I thought
E. Hawke
was a man.”

“Tonight, he is.”

Yet despite her convincing disguise, he never lost his awareness of her as a woman.

Reminding himself that they were still in the thick of a male haven, he quickly explained the rest of the rules to her. All the players were given one card facedown, same as the dealer.

“Now, look at your card,” he instructed her, “and make your wager based on that card.”

She did so, carefully peering under the card and shifting it just slightly so that he could see what she'd been dealt.

An ace. Could be high, could be low. He'd gotten the eight of diamonds.

“I'd—­”

But she waved off his suggestion. “I'll continue,” she announced to the dealer.

“I'm in for another, as well,” he said.

A second round of cards was dealt, facedown again. Daniel had gotten the seven of spades.

Miss Hawke wouldn't show him her card.

“I bet seventy-­five,” Daniel said to the dealer. Fifteen wasn't especially strong, but he'd won on worse. Besides, what did the money matter to him? To any of them?

The other players also joined in. Daniel glanced at Miss Hawke. She'd go out, most likely, otherwise the night's games would be over for her before they'd even begun.

“I'm in, too,” she said. “Seventy-­five, also.”

He stared at her. “I won't stake you more than that hundred,” he said lowly. He could afford it, but it seemed fundamentally wrong to throw money at her, as if it might somehow impugn her journalistic integrity.

“Good,” she answered, “because I'd hate to have to owe you.”

“Another card?” the dealer asked Daniel.

“I'll stand,” he answered.

Gamblers either took a third card, or else they stood. And when the dealer turned to Miss Hawke, she said, “I'll stand, as well.”

After the last round of cards was distributed, the dealer finally revealed his hand. An eight and a knave.

Daniel had lost. As had most of the men who'd remained in the game. They groaned and cursed as their hands were too low to beat the dealer's.

Then Miss Hawke turned over her cards. She had her ace, of course. And a nine of hearts.

She smiled enigmatically as the dealer called out that she was the winner. Daniel stared at her. It had to be luck.

So he believed, until . . .

She won the next hand.

The next, too.

And when she did lose, it was only a minor amount.

Her stack of chips was growing far faster than anybody else's. Everyone at the table, including the dealer, gaped at her. Some of the men congratulated her for her luck and skill. A few others grumbled, but she met their disgruntlement with good cheer. She was also neatly, carefully, extracting stories from the other players, getting them to reveal their greatest losses and wins at the tables. More fodder, no doubt, for her stories.

She was playing the whole night effortlessly.

“You rooked me,” he said lowly.

“Not a bit,” she answered, barely containing her smug smile.

“You said you had ‘a little' experience playing.”

“ ‘A little' is such a relative term,” she answered. “To us, a lion is a fierce, giant creature, but to an elephant, it's a little cat.”

“What is it with you and elephants?” he muttered.

“I like elephants. They seem like wise, gentle creatures. Except when they rampage, of course.”

Daniel pulled her away from the
vingt-­et-­un
table before the dealer decided to garrote them. ­People eddied as they moved from table to table.

Finding a sheltered spot in the corner of the room, Daniel asked, “What other games do you have ‘a little' experience with?”

“Hm.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Loo, piquet, faro, hazard, baccarat.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh, and whist. And Pope Joan. And speculation. And—­”

“Clearly, you keep very reputable company.”

“I'm with you, aren't I?” She smiled angelically at him.

He guided her toward the hazard table. “Let's try again. And this time, I suggest you lose
big
every now and again to keep the management from throwing us out on our arses.”

She accompanied him as they headed to where a loud throng of men played at the dicing game. “I can't help it if I'm naturally lucky.”

“Somehow, where you're concerned, I doubt pure luck is involved.”

She gave him a shocked look. “Are you disputing my honor? Surely that's an offense that warrants a challenge to a duel.”

“Keep your damned voice down,” he growled as men nearby glanced at them. “Or else you'll secure us a spot at the park with pistols at dawn.”

“I was only jesting,” she protested as he dragged her toward the hazard table.

“A dangerous jest,” he threw over his shoulder, “especially in a place like this.”

“Have you seen men challenge each other to a duel here?” She peered closer. “I know that you've been challenged.”

They took their positions, readying to play. Miss Hawke, continuing to inhabit her male persona excellently, seemed to follow his directions, because she didn't win more than two rounds in a row, and when she did lose, she was careful that the amount was substantial. Despite his words of caution, grudging admiration for her knocked around in his chest. She was a born gamester, and clearly the possessor of some bloody sharp wits.

He'd grown weary of gaming hells, especially searching them fruitlessly for Jonathan, but having her beside him made the experience fresh again.

The play continued on for hours, the wild atmosphere swirling around them as players wagered outrageous sums of money, jewelry, properties. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, wine, and perfume. Half-­dressed women continued to hang on the players, some of them performing outrageous acts in front of the whole company. Their fingers disappeared into clothing, and more flesh was bared.

Miss Hawke didn't seem to bother to hide her shock. Young Ned Sinclair would likely be just as stunned as she might be at the carrying-­on. While playing the different games didn't seem to faze her, the activity around the games did indeed give her plenty of fodder for her newspaper.

As they tried their hands at sundry activities, Miss Hawke kept up a continuous running commentary for his ears alone. Observations about the players, or other witticisms that had him chuckling.

At one point in the night, Daniel excused himself to use the men's retiring room—­he wasn't fond of relieving himself behind a screen, as the other players seemed comfortable doing. On his return, he ran into Marwood.

“Must be a clever lad, that cousin of yours,” his friend noted.

“Why do you say that?” Perhaps Marwood noticed Miss Hawke's skill at the tables.

“Because you've been laughing at his little asides all night.”

Had he? “Wit runs in the family.”

“If so,” Marwood answered, “it skipped your branch entirely.”

“Did you know that every male in my family took top pugilism honors at university?” Daniel asked.

“We fought each other at Cambridge, and, if I recall, it was a draw.”

Daniel gave a slight tap of his knuckles to Marwood's stomach. “Perhaps time hasn't been kind to your skills in the ring.”

“One way to test that,” Marwood noted.

“Name the day and time,” Daniel said good-­naturedly. “Been a while since I've had a decent opponent.”

“Why are you always threatening to hit things, cousin?” asked Miss Hawke, appearing beside him. She shook her head and gave a baleful glance toward Marwood. “A blight on the family honor, he is.”

“Makes me look almost saintly by comparison,” Marwood agreed.

Daniel raised his hands. “Let's not succumb to hyperbole, lads.”

“Why not?” Miss Hawke replied. “You told me it's the only way to get women into bed.”

Before Marwood could speak, Daniel pulled Miss Hawke away to another corner. Marwood drifted away with a laugh.