Julia London (77 page)

Hill looked at him warily, unsure how to respond. “It is a responsibility I do not take lightly.”

“Of course not. But the fact of the matter is, there are times when a man must weigh his responsibility against circumstances beyond his control.”

Hill scowled. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that at times, regardless of a man’s situation, he encounters someone so extraordinary that he must follow his instinct. I do not trifle with your sister, sir. I
could
not—I respect her far too much. I would not seek to harm her in any way—but her friendship is very important to me. So
important, I would defy convention in order to speak with her. I
must
speak with her.”

Hill said nothing, clearly confused. Alex smiled thinly. “Might you at least offer a man a drink after such an admission?”

Hill hesitated; slowly, he pushed himself out of the chair and limped to the sideboard. “Port? Or do you prefer whiskey?” he asked stiffly.

“Whiskey.”

Hill poured him the drink, then helped himself to a port. He resumed his seat, looking out the window as he sipped. Alex was prepared to wait, to argue, to duel if he must. He could hardly blame Hill for being angry; this was the epitome of gall, he knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures. They sat in silence for what seemed hours, until Hill gulped the last of his port and glanced at him sidelong. “How long do you intend to wait? They could be hours yet.”

“As long as is necessary.”

With a snort, Hill hoisted himself up again. He went to the sideboard and grabbed the decanter of port and brought it back to his chair. Seating himself, he pulled the stopper from the decanter and tossed it aside. He poured another glass, then set the decanter roughly on a table, causing Dowling’s stuffed bear claw to lurch eerily. “Lauren is right, you know. You
are
an arrogant fool. I suppose Lady Marlaine knows of your gentlemanly call?” he asked.

Alex frowned at him over the rim of his glass. “Rest assured that my betrothal does not preclude an honest friendship among the fairer sex.”

“Do not patronize me, Sutherland. I am not stupid.”

The lad had backbone; he would give him that. “No, I would never say you were stupid.” Alex came to his feet and went to the sideboard. “Far from it.” Following his reluctant host’s lead, he picked up the container of whiskey and returned to the settee with it. “Your forays into South
wark alone have proven as much. It is a very clever man who wins so consistently.”

The glass of port stilled halfway to Hill’s mouth. “How would you know of that?”

“Word travels, my friend,” Alex grinned. “I understand your winnings are not insignificant—the German must require a sizable dowry.”

Hill eyed his port. “It is no doubt inconceivable to you that Bergen does not require a dowry. Imagine, a marriage without the requisite business exchange. My winnings are for Rosewood. Ah, but that’s a subject you know nothing about, as it is not something which would amuse you,” he said arrogantly.

“On the contrary, I am quite familiar with Rosewood,” Alex admitted. Hill’s head shot up, his eyes narrowed with unspoken accusation. Chuckling, Alex lifted a hand in supplication. “Do not assume the worst. I stumbled across it when my horse drew lame one day. Quite by accident, I assure you.”

Clearly stunned, Hill’s blue eyes widened as they searched Alex’s face. “
That
was you? Mr. Christian?”

“Of course it was me! Surely you knew that?” Alex laughed.

“
Christian.
Bloody hell, I should have known!” he groaned, closing his eyes.

“I do not suppose that endears me to you?” Alex asked with an irreverent chuckle.

Hill shot him a disapproving frown. “Does it make you any less a duke? Does it change your imminent marriage? Does it improve my sister’s situation in any way?”

Hell, there was no good response to that, Alex thought, and wisely chose not to answer. He tossed back his whiskey and poured another. Just what
did
he intend to do with Lauren when he saw her, other than be near her and breathe her in?

Nor did Paul trust what the duke really wanted, and it
unnerved him. Friendship? He had trouble believing that was all. He poured another port, eyeing Sutherland with suspicion. Good God, how had he missed such an obvious connection? Alex Christian, Duke of Sutherland, Mr. Christian. Why had he not put two and two together? Why hadn’t Lauren told him? Because, he angrily reminded himself,
she
knew he was Mr. Christian, the country gentleman with whom she had fallen madly in love. And every time the subject of Sutherland had come up, Paul had done his damnedest to warn her of the scoundrel’s intent. Dear Jesus, they had argued bitterly about it at Rosewood last weekend. He had suspected her feelings. She, of course, had heatedly denied it, but now everything was crystal clear to him. Lauren loved this wretch. This wretch who was capable of changing nations with a simple speech.

There was every indication that Catholic emancipation would pass the Lords, and that was due in no small measure to Sutherland’s steady persuasion over the last two days. Paul should know—he had followed every word of the debates. The prospect excited him. If Catholics were given a seat in parliament, other reforms leading toward equal representation could not be far behind. And with fair representation, or rather, a representative protecting the interests of small estates such as Rosewood, there was every possibility the family home could flourish once again. Only yesterday, he had joined in holding the Duke of Sutherland up as the people’s hero. The image of that powerful change agent was hard to reconcile with the man sitting in his parlor just now.

“The weather is quite nice for the time of year, wouldn’t you agree?” the duke asked idly. Paul thought that a perfectly ridiculous remark from such a visionary, seeing as how it rained four out of every seven days since he had been in London, and said so. Sutherland took exception to Paul’s characterization of London being a dark pool of all sorts of deviant behavior, which led to a debate over the merits of London in general. Slugging back drinks with abandon, the
two turned the discussion into a heated debate ranging from Parliament to foreign trade, in which Sutherland obviously was heavily invested, to the government and private securities, with which Paul was extremely well acquainted. And then, miraculously, the two men began to agree on the types of reforms that were needed to foster a healthy economy. Paul even went so far—after his fifth glass of port—to commend the duke’s most recent speech on that very topic.

After three hours, Paul and Alex had argued about every conceivable social topic under the sun, had drunk enough liquor that both men were blurry eyed, and still had not resolved the unspoken question of Lauren hanging between them. Paul was unyielding on that front. With every glass of port, his duty to his sister became more entrenched. Alex was prepared to camp on the settee if he must, but as that was no solution, he came up with the drunken notion of a bet.

“All right, Hill,” he said, grinning, the contents of his glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he struggled to perch on the edge of the settee, “you think you have such a way with cards, why not put your mouth where your money is?”

“Put it wherever you like, Sutherland, but I will put my money in my mouth,” Paul tried to correct him.

Alex frowned and waved a hand at him. “No, no. A wager. Here it is.” He paused to stifle a drunken belch, wiping the palm of his hand across his dangling neckcloth. “All right. Here it is,” he repeated.

“What is the wager?” Paul asked, as if he had missed it.

“I am
thinking,
” Alex castigated him, and closed his eyes tightly shut, trying to recall the perfectly brilliant idea he had just had. It suddenly came to him, and he opened his eyes, grimaced at the wave of dizziness, and gave himself a moment to focus. “Here it is. I want to attend the opera. Shall we cut cards?”

“For what?” Paul asked, clearly confused.

“For the
opera.
”

“I do not want to attend the opera with you!” Paul said disdainfully, and took another long drink of his port.

“Good
God, not you. Lauren,
” Alex exclaimed with horror.

“You are awfully familiar with my sister, sir,” Paul snapped.

“Obviously not as familiar as
Madgoose
! Bloody hell, how many times can one carriage circle that damned park?” Alex shouted.

Paul chuckled. Alex glared at his young adversary, steadying himself against the arm of the settee until the room stopped spinning. When he could at last focus, he glared at Paul. “Cut cards?” he repeated.

“Let me get this straight,” Paul slurred, and attempted to lean forward, only to fall backward again. “If you win, I should take Lauren to the opera.”

“No!”
Alex roared, and mumbled an impatient curse under his breath. “If I win, I shall take Lauren to the opera,” he said, thumping himself on the chest. “The highest card wins. It’s all very, very
simple
, Hill.”

“But what if I win?” Paul demanded.

That gave Alex pause. Busily trying to fit a bottle stopper in the whiskey container, he wavered, frowning at the bottle. “You should get something,” he agreed.

“Yes! I should!” Paul exclaimed, bobbing his head in furious agreement.

“Well … do you like my horse?” Alex asked.

Paul dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “No use for it.”

“I have some fine hunting dogs at Sutherland Park,” he offered. “Do you like to hunt?” Paul sighed, looked pointedly at the cane propped against his chair, then at Alex. “Oh,” Alex muttered sheepishly, “that wouldn’t do, would it? Let me think … I have money.”

Paul’s face lit up. “Yes! Money! Two thousand pounds!” he exclaimed gleefully.

Alex frowned. “Two thousand pounds? My God, man, it is only the opera!” he scoffed.

“But it is my sister!”

“Good point,” Alex agreed cheerfully, and fit the stopper in the neck of the whiskey bottle. His triumphant smile faded rapidly when he noticed his glass was empty.

“Then we are agreed,” Paul said firmly. He stood up—a little more smoothly than would be expected—grabbed his cane, and staggered to a writing desk. “Best two out of three?” he called over his shoulder as he searched for the playing cards, which were stacked neatly on top of the desk.

“Two out of three,” Alex agreed. Paul found the cards after a moment, made some remark about the housekeeping, and pitched to the settee, sitting heavily next to Alex.

“You had best hope you not lose, Sutherland. Two thousand pounds is very, very … much … money,” Paul mumbled.

“Not to me,” Alex blithely admitted, and reached for the cards. He made a great show of cutting them, going very deep into the deck, and lifted a two of diamonds. He groaned and fell against the back of the settee, draping one arm over his eyes with exaggerated flourish.

“Ha!” exclaimed Paul an instant later, laughing gleefully. Alex peeked out from beneath his arm; grinning like an idiot, Paul danced a six of spades in Alex’s face. Bloody hell, he needed a miracle.

Paul went next, drawing an eight of clubs. This time, Alex abandoned any pretense at flourish and closed his eyes to cut the deck. He drew a ten of diamonds. Hill’s expression did not change but for the single quirk of a brow. “I assume you will accept a bank draft,” Alex said dryly.

“Naturally,” Paul agreed amicably.

As Paul clumsily shuffled the deck, Alex suppressed the urge to laugh. He would lose, he knew it in his gut, but to
come this close to winning was, at the moment, terribly amusing. He grinned at Paul. “Nine o’clock tomorrow evening,” he said easily, tossed back the last of his whiskey, and cut the deck, drawing the queen of hearts. Paul’s eyes flicked to the card. With a moan, he stared at the cards for a long moment before reaching to cut what was left of the deck. He slowly turned the card over in his hand. He and Alex gasped simultaneously and lifted startled gazes to one another.

The three of spades.

Alex had gotten his bloody miracle.

“You cannot take her without chaperone!” Paul shouted angrily.

“No, no, of course not. Paddy, she goes, too,” Alex muttered, stunned by his luck.

The room grew silent as both men stared at the three of spades in Paul’s hand. At length, Paul spoke, his voice ragged. “Give me your word.”

Even in his state of inebriation, Alex did not have to ask what he meant. “You have it,” he responded quietly. Paul tossed the losing card onto the floor and pushed himself to his feet. Once he had steadied himself on his cane, he looked down at Alex without emotion. “I have your word,” he reiterated.

Alex nodded mutely and watched as Paul made his way from the parlor. Only then did he fall back against the settee in complete elation, reminding himself not to forget his horse on the way out.

Wrapped in a hooded cloak, Lauren stared out through the door of the barouche at the brightly lit windows of the opera house. She expected Ethan to pawn her away like some worthless trinket, but
never
Paul. He had tried to justify his actions by blaming it on the port, and when that had not worked, by insisting it was not good to provoke the duke, who had, after all, won this night fairly. Lauren had vehemently objected to being bartered, for which Paul had again apologized. But then he had insisted she attend, adamant that whether she liked it or not, the Hills honored their debts. Ethan, damn him, had chortled his agreement, excited at even the remote possibility of a duke as a suitor. So here she was, stuffed into a coach with
him
and a chatty Lady Paddington, forced to honor Paul’s foolish,
foolish
bet!

Faint strains of music drifted to her ear as Alex helped her and Lady Paddington from the coach. She could not deny that in spite of being
completely
humiliated by the drunken wager, she had desperately longed to see him. At the moment, however, all she wanted was to give him a good
piece of her mind, maybe even wipe that lazy smile from his face. She bounced up the stairs behind him and Lady Paddington and stalked inside, pausing to push away the hood of her cloak.