Good Earl Gone Bad (2 page)

Percy, the wealthy heir of Viscount Edgerton, persisted in the delusion that he was something of a virtuoso at the tables. From what Jasper could tell, he wasn't all that bad when his opponents were on his level. Hence the earlier winning streak. But the Earl of Mainwaring was accounted to be the most skilled player in the
ton
and as such had proceeded to annihilate Percy trick by trick until the other man was left with only a few coins on his side of the table.

“Come now, Percy,” said the blowsy widow at the young man's shoulder, her rouged lips close to his ear. “I'll have my cook prepare you a nice supper to make up for it.”

Despite his winnings, Jasper felt an unaccountable stab of envy. A warm woman and a nice supper sounded damned inviting.

What did he care that a scapegrace like Percy Edgerton was destined for a more comfortable night than his own? Clearly he'd had too much brandy.

It wasn't as if he couldn't find a willing woman if he wanted one. His dark hair and handsome face had served him well with the ladies since he was a halfling. He wasn't a vain man, but he knew that regular bouts at Jackson's and fencing at Angelo's had honed his lean frame into something more than one woman had found pleasing to the eye—and the touch.

But he'd begun to feel bored of late when it came to the practiced wiles of that kind of woman. Perhaps he'd been on the town for too long. Been the recipient of too many come-hither looks and calculated smiles. Or it could very well be that seeing his friend Freddy—Lord Frederick Lisle—settled down with a woman who had more to recommend her than bedroom skills and a fine bosom had given him an itch for something more permanent than the sort of relationships to which he'd become accustomed.

Whatever the reason, he was happy enough to go home alone if it meant avoiding the sort of liaison that would leave him temporarily sated but ultimately empty.

Before he could bid farewell to the unhappy gamester and his mistress, however, the Duke of Trent stepped up beside him.

“I think there's something you should see in the back room,” Trent said, his naturally saturnine face even darker than usual.

Why had Trent even come to Mrs. Wallingford's hell tonight? Jasper wondered as he followed the other man through the throng toward the rooms reserved for high-stakes games. Trent never seemed to enjoy himself when he played, and he lost more often than he won.

Even so, years of long friendship had led Mainwaring to accept the other man's presence on such occasions without question. At the very least they could both avoid matchmaking mamas in such establishments, which was a high recommendation in and of itself. And when necessary, the duke did what he could to extricate especially reckless young pups from the clutches of sharps.

“It's not young Lord Dalrymple again, is it?” Jasper asked in a low voice as they wended their way through the crowded card room. “I vow I've stopped his skiff from going over the falls so many times I'm beginning to think he should give his bloody family estate to me.”

But Trent shook his head before extending an arm for Mainwaring to precede him through a narrow doorway into a room that was even more crowded than the card room.

When he reached the edge of the crowd nearest the table, he saw at once why Trent had brought him.

“It's a pretty little estate,” the Earl of Upperton, Lady Hermione Upperton's father, said, running a finger beneath his cravat. “It's unentailed so it would be yours free and clear, Saintcrow. It's a valid stake.”

Earlier that year Jasper and Lady Hermione had been thrown together thanks to the marriage of her dearest friend to his. Though they hadn't always dealt amicably with one another, Jasper had a great deal of admiration for the lady's spirit—and if he were honest, for her sharp wit and shiny dark curls that seemed always to be escaping their pins. He certainly had no wish to see her embarrassed or impoverished by her father's profligate time at the tables.

Before he could speak, however, Upperton's opponent, Lord Saintcrow, a man whom Jasper knew to be a skilled card player, cleared his throat. “I don't know…” he said, drawing out the last word.

It might have been a ploy to make Upperton add more to his wager, but it might also have been sincere discomfort at the stake the older man offered. Jasper didn't know Saintcrow well enough to say.

But clearly Upperton had been spooked by the other man's reluctance. When Jasper glanced at the pile of IOUs on the table before them, he saw why. The two men had been playing for some time apparently. And like many gamblers before him, at each loss, Upperton had reupped the stakes in order to win back what he'd lost. If he was offering up his unentailed property, the play had been deep indeed.

“My daughter's matched grays,” Upperton said, his voice sharp with anxiety. “You know she's renowned for her appreciation of horseflesh. They are worth fifteen hundred at least.”

Saintcrow, who had not seemed particularly interested before now, sat up straighter. “The ones I saw her driving in the park last week?”

It was well-known around town that Lord Saintcrow was in the market for a coaching pair, and had even applied to Tattersall's to search out a team for him. But it was an expensive way to acquire horses, and there was no denying that there was a certain allure in the idea of gaining a well-matched set of horses over the course of an evening for a few hundred quid instead of after months and a couple thousand pounds.

Upperton, however, was not so knowledgeable about horses as his daughter was. “I suppose they're the same ones,” he said with a shrug. “I haven't seen them myself, but since she got them I've been approached by any number of chaps with offers to buy them.”

I'll bet you have, Mainwaring thought with a grimace. Any man of sense would know Upperton was short of the ready and might be eager to sell off any valuable possessions. Even if they didn't, strictly speaking, belong to him. He recalled quite clearly that Hermione had purchased the pair with her own funds since her father—notorious for his objections to her fondness for driving—had refused to buy her a pair with his funds.

Saintcrow, however, had no notion of the horses' true ownership, and his eagerness was apparent in the way he leaned forward at the table. “I'll accept the pair as your wager, my lord. And the Lincolnshire estate.”

Jasper exchanged a quick look with Trent. He could, knowing the truth about the horses, speak up, but to declare it openly in front of witnesses would be tantamount to calling Upperton a liar and men had been called out for less. Plus, the scandal would damage Hermione's reputation irrevocably. Something he'd avoid if he could help it.

Once the terms were set, the game itself was short and sweet—at least for Saintcrow, who at the end of play found himself the proud owner of a pair of finely matched grays, named as Jasper had heard Hermione say, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, because their original owner had been fond of Shakespeare. He only hoped that the end of this particular drama was happier than that of
Hamlet.

“You may collect the horses at your convenience, Saintcrow,” Upperton said with a shrug, indicating that the loss of his daughter's prized possessions was not of particular interest to him. “Though I must insist you give me the opportunity to win back my losses sometime soon. That estate has been in my wife's family for generations.”

“Clearly it is weighing heavily on you, my lord,” Jasper said with irony as the earl rose from his place at the table.

He would have pulled Hermione's father aside to chastise him in private, but was forestalled by the appearance of Upperton's mistress, the widowed Countess of Amberly.

“Have you been a naughty boy, Upperton?” she purred, slipping an arm into the earl's.

“My dear lady,” Upperton said blithely, “I have lost nothing that you will miss, I can assure you. And I always win back my losses. You will see.”

And any chance Jasper might have had for discussing Upperton's losses with him was lost as the two lovers disappeared into another part of the house.

“That went well,” Trent said dryly. “Though what we could have done to stop things short of leaping into the flames ourselves I have no idea.”

“It's a damnable thing when a man can wager his daughter's belongings without a by-your-leave,” Jasper groused as he and Trent stalked from the card room and toward the door to the street.

“True enough,” Trent said. “But I have a feeling Lady Hermione will not take the news without a fight.”

“Even Lady Hermione Upperton cannot interfere in a matter of honor like a wager,” Jasper said, brushing a spare thread from the sleeve of his greatcoat. “Though I should like very much to see her try.”

*   *   *

“You're sure Leonora and Freddy will be there?” asked Hermione as she negotiated her bright yellow curricle around a narrow turn.

Though Ophelia was not overly fond of riding in the fast carriage, she had agreed to do so that morning for the sake of the occasion. Today was Hermione's first outing as a full-fledged member of the Lords of Anarchy driving club.

“Yes,” Ophelia answered sharply, gripping the side of the carriage with one hand and her pretty bonnet with the other. “Leonora promised me that they would be there to cheer you on. And if they are not I shall be quite put out since I planned to stand with them as we watch the procession.”

It was with a sense of unreality that Hermione had had her beautiful matched grays harnessed to the curricle that morning. She had spent so long applying and being rejected by the most prestigious clubs in London that finally achieving her goal of membership was still a little unbelievable.

“Good,” Hermione said with some relief. She wasn't sure why, but having her friends there to cheer her on was of the utmost importance to her. Perhaps it was because her only family to speak of was her father, and he had proved himself to be indifferent at the best of times. Much better to count on the affection of Leonora and Ophelia, who had on more than one occasion shown they were not as fickle as her father was. “I wonder if there will be a crowd. There are only twenty-four club members but I should like to think that a day as pretty as this will command a few onlookers at least.”

“You only wish for the world to see your splendid carriage and even more glorious horses,” Ophelia teased. Since Hermione had spoken nonstop about the pair since she'd acquired them a few months earlier there was little danger Ophelia would forget them. “Though I must again complain that you really ought to give them to me, considering that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were clearly destined to be mine.”

“If you had the least inclination of what to do with them, my dear,” Hermione said with a laugh, “then perhaps I would agree with you. As it is, you will have to content yourself with loving them from afar. Or at the very least, safely from the ground, for I am not convinced that you are not terrified now as they convey you through the streets of London.”

Since Ophelia continued to grasp the side of the curricle like a shipwreck victim does a lifeboat, she did not disagree.

Fortunately for her, they were nearing the Queen's Gate of Hyde Park where club members had been instructed to muster.

To Hermione's pleasure, quite a number of onlookers, on foot, by carriage, and on horseback had gathered around the gate to watch the splendidly colored carriages. The members of the Lords of Anarchy were distinguished by the red and yellow striped waistcoats each driver wore. Hermione's driving costume was a lovely fitted crimson and yellow striped spencer over a sturdy riding habit of light wool. She'd had it specially created for today's outing and was glad for it as soon as she saw how many curious looks she received as the only female member of the notorious club.

“Hermione!” she heard a familiar voice shout from a nearby open barouche. “Ophelia!”

A quick glance to the left revealed Leonora seated beside her husband and waving her handkerchief in the air in order to attract their attention.

Pulling alongside her friends' carriage, Hermione felt the scrutiny of the newcomers. “What?” she asked with a frown. “Have I got dirt on my face?” She lifted a gloved hand to brush her cheek.

“Nothing like that, you silly creature,” Leonora said with a grin. “I was just taking in the sight of someone who is living out her greatest dream. How does it feel?”

Since her own thoughts hadn't been too far from her friend's on the matter, Hermione grinned, too. “It feels wonderful,” she said, barely stopping herself from crying out a huzzah. “Better than I could have possibly expected.”

“You'd better divest yourself of your passenger before you gallop off into the sunset,” Freddy said wryly. “For I fear Miss Dauntry is not experiencing the same sort of bliss as you are at the moment.”

Turning, Hermione saw with a start that Ophelia was indeed looking a bit like she wanted to leap from the curricle and never look back.

“Shall I give you a hand down, Miss Dauntry?” asked Lord Mainwaring, who had ridden up to their little party on a handsome bay, with the Duke of Trent not far behind on his own splendid midnight-black mount.

Before Ophelia could respond, Mainwaring was on the ground, and handing Ophelia down from Hermione's curricle and up into the Lisle barouche.

“You might have told me you were so desperate to get down, Ophelia,” said Hermione with a frown.

Of course it had been Lord Mainwaring who came to her friend's rescue. He would consider Ophelia's reluctance to ride in such a fast vehicle as a mark of her true femininity. Whereas Hermione, with her taste for driving and fine horseflesh, was far too unladylike for such as him. She felt a pang of jealousy over the way he looked up at her friend before quickly stifling it. Today wasn't about attracting the notice of handsome gentlemen—at least not the sort who found the notion of a lady driving something akin to a dancing dog, she thought, paraphrasing Johnson, not that she did it well, but that she attempted it at all.