Worth Winning (29 page)

“I’ve been worried recently, that you might perhaps be developing some affection for my friend, the man you know as Mr. Charles Alver.”

It would have been impossible to miss the way he’d paused and reflected, his choice of syntax, the phrase “the man you know as,” but still Julia stayed silent, thinking that Claire would have been proud to know that Julia had, actually, listened and learned from Claire’s many lectures on social stratagems.

Robeson stopped walking, forcing Julia to stop and turn toward him.

“I must say I’m shocked that you haven’t peppered me with questions yet. The old Julia I knew would have invited the Spanish Inquisition by now, demanding to know exactly what I meant.” He smiled briefly, and Julia noticed again how impossibly handsome he’d become—all the old gawkiness was gone now. His shoulders were broad and his build lean yet muscular; he was a man’s man and had the confidence and attire to back it up.

“It’s been eight years, Arch,” the nickname slipped out before she had a chance to catch it. She blushed a bit before correcting herself: “Lord Robeson.”

“You’re the only one who ever shortened it that much, you know.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and she flinched away—the thought of him touching her again, especially after all that she had just done with Charles, seemed horribly wrong.

He let his hand drop to his side placidly, though a muscle ticked at his jaw. “Fine. I won’t press advances you clearly now find abhorrent. Instead, I will warn you, as a friend, that things with
Mr. Alver
are not as they seem.”

Again, the curious emphasis on his name. This time, Julia found that Claire’s training was for naught, after all, and she couldn’t resist. “Just tell me what you’ve come to say. Whether or not I ask it of you, there’s clearly something on your mind, something you now feel you have to reveal, so just . . . do it. Without the pomp and pageantry, please.”

“Do you really hate me so much?” Robeson asked. His voice sounded a bit wistful, though his eyes looked as cold as ever.

“I don’t hate you, you know that. We had a wonderful summer romance once, years ago. Though it ended on a somewhat sour note, I see no reason why we can’t forgive and forget.”

“As friends.”

“Yes.”

Robeson shrugged. “Then, as your friend, I feel it is my duty to tell you that Charles Alver is only pursuing you because of a foolish, drunken wager I made.”

Julia pursed her lips but said nothing. Since she’d already guessed as much, and since Charles had already confessed as much, she couldn’t exactly pretend ignorance.

“He told you?”

“I guessed. And he didn’t deny it.”

Robeson was silent for a moment, as if trying to assess her reaction, before continuing, “What he probably didn’t tell you is that there’s two thousand pounds riding on this little wager.”

She’d never thought of herself as a petty person, but she couldn’t deny a certain sense of superiority and satisfaction when she was able to say, quite truthfully, “He admitted as much to me. I’m certain it would quite restore his fortunes, but it was still a horrible thing to do.”

Robeson coughed at that moment, so Julia missed the brief look of surprise on his face, as well as the calculating gleam that briefly glimmered in his eyes.

“I was drunk, which you’ll have to admit, while imperfect, should act as some small measure of excuse.”

“Alcohol doesn’t make you a bad person, being a bad person . . .” Julia trailed off and turned a bit from him. “I’m sorry, that was a completely inappropriate thing to say.”

There was a brief pause and then Robeson continued. “You’re right. Alcohol or no, I should have known better, but look at it from my point of view. I’ve never forgotten you, and can you blame me for being a bit bitter about how things ended between us?”

“You tried to force yourself on me.”

“It wasn’t force. If you loved me as you said you did, it should have been mutual.”

Julia looked into his cold blue eyes, his perfectly chiseled face and wondered how she could have ever cared for him or thought there was a person underneath the posturing, the condescension, and the arrogance that had been there, even before his inheritance. “This is an old argument and one that will never resolve properly.”

She’d never let herself walk down that path of self-destruction again. Especially now that she’d had a taste of real passion, she’d never again mistake their awkward fumbling, his forced kisses, for anything more than what they were: the juvenile attempts of two people who were more interested in the idea of love than the actual emotion itself.

“Believe me or not, I was drunk and out of my mind, still regretting everything that had happened between us. It was Charles Alver who suggested the bet.”

“Charles?” This did shock her a bit. She had always assumed it was Robeson’s suggestion, that Robeson had proposed a way by which Charles might rebuild his funds.

“He thinks of himself as a bit of a charmer, and before his more recent reversal of fortunes . . . well, he was used to being quite the success with ladies, even bragged about tiring of some of his conquests.”

“Truthfully, that doesn’t sound like him.”

Robeson bit his lip, as if realizing he had said too much. “You don’t know the first thing about how men talk among themselves in the safety of their clubs. After he had tired of his most recent mistress,” he said, looking disdainfully at Julia’s slightly scandalized expression, “yes my dear, I said mistress, and she, only the most recent one. Well, he quite publicly declared that if I, or any other man, wanted her, we were welcome to pursue her. That’s how men talk, Julia; men like Charles Alver won’t hesitate to boast of their conquests. Do you want to be the next Loretta? To have your name bandied about like you’re a used . . .”

Julia held up a hand to stop him. She said shakily, “I’ll admit I don’t know much about his past, but I don’t think . . . I mean he seems quite serious—”

“Oh, my Lord.” Robeson breathed in deeply. “Never say he’s proposed.”

Julia would have tried to deny it if she could have. But she couldn’t; she’d never been adept at deception of any kind, and Robeson knew her from years ago—he probably would have seen through any attempt. Instead, she remained silent, dreading what Robeson would next reveal.

“He has. I never would have believed it. New identity, new tactics, I suppose.”

“New identity?”

“Charles Alver isn’t even his real name. Though you won’t confirm it, it seems obvious to me that the man’s proposed. So tell me, in his passionate declarations, did he bother to mention that he’s currently operating under a false identity?”

Julia gave a small shake of the head.

“You don’t have to believe me. Ask Billings. I’m not the only one who knows Charles Alver isn’t his real name.”

Julia almost said that she would but knew better than to challenge Robeson when he was already working himself into what was obviously a fine temper.

“This is no doubt merely the latest step in his plan to woo you and win the bet. Proposing marriage so that you’ll give him one of the forfeits the wager demands. He’d never guess that you and I would talk. To be honest, the wager is technically forfeit now, since you know, but of course, he’s probably so desperate for the funds that he’s willing to win by any means necessary. He has some of the worst credit lenders in London chasing him. Why do you think he agreed to locate here, in the middle of nowhere? He’s counting on the fact that he’s far away from London to give him a brief reprieve from the credit mongers, and also, he’s banking on that two thousand pounds to give him a chance to right his most recent losses.”

Seeing Julia’s shocked expression, Robeson continued, “You don’t think a man like him loses his entire fortune in one bad game, do you? Losing such a fortune takes years upon years of dedicated gambling, or ever-mounting losses. To men like him, the tables hold a siren call that no mere woman would ever be able to compete against. Trust me when I say that, knowing what I do of his financial straits, two thousand pounds will revive him only temporarily. To really restore his lands and station, sooner or later, he’ll need to marry an heiress. In all likelihood, he’ll use the two thousand pounds to tide himself over, to keep up appearances enough so that he may court heiresses without the threat of anyone discovering his true circumstances.”

Julia swallowed heavily. She didn’t want to believe that Charles was such a dedicated, hardened gamester, but what did she know about him, really? Could he be so desperately in need of funds? “These are just . . . educated guesses, though. It’s not as though you’ve talked it over with him?”
“Would anyone willingly admit to such a situation? Come now, Julia, even when you were younger, you were always able to look at things realistically, without the rose-colored lenses so many other flighty young females do. Even if you think he truly has grown to care for you, what can you possibly offer a man like him?”

“You mean just because I lack a dowry?” She had a dowry, of course, one that only she and Jack knew about, but that was neither here nor there.

“It’s not just the dowry. Charles
Alver
—you really should ask him about his true identity at some point, if you’re not willing to ask Billings—is a man with responsibilities. He inherited lands that are entailed and thus can’t be sold. He has an obligation to manage and maintain them, and you think he can do that on the pittance he currently survives upon? More than that, he’s a man with expensive tastes. You should see the way he disparages my wines and cook, as if it’s all beneath him, as if he’s offering me some grand show of favor just by deigning to dine with me . . .”

“You truly despise him, don’t you?”

Robeson paused, as if finally recognizing the vitriol with which he’d been speaking. “I—you’re not going to like this—but I pursued Loretta, before Charles.”

“Charles’s ex-mistress?”

“Yes, though that was, of course, before she’d accepted his protection. I would have treated her well, I would have—”

“Would you have married her?”

“Don’t be silly. Men like me don’t marry women like Loretta. But I would have kept her well, for a far longer time than your Charles did.”

“And you’re telling me that’s the source of the animosity between you?”

“If you don’t believe me, just ask him: ask him if Charles Alver is his real name, ask him whether he and I dislike one another because of a woman named Loretta, ask him whether two thousand pounds would sustain him for even a year.”

There was a specificity in his words, the way he was phrasing his questions, that didn’t seem quite right, but figuring out what that meant was beyond Julia, whose day had been a series of shocking events and who was feeling too drained to understand, much less question, anything Robeson was telling her. She listened and stored away all that he said, hoping that she’d be able to think about it calmly, later, when her head didn’t feel as though it were about to split. Julia smiled, thinking wistfully that perhaps her stepmother’s words had merely been prophetic, so truly, she had not just a mere headache but perhaps the worst headache she’d ever experienced. She whispered softly, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“We were once friends. Once, we were, I thought, significantly more than that. Whereas Charles Alver and I have never truly gotten along, even before the Loretta Fanshawes of the world.” He reached forward and took one of her hands; it was some measure of the distress she felt that Julia didn’t try to stop him but instead let his long, manicured hands envelop her small, clammy one. “The wager was a mistake—I knew it the moment I agreed—but I wouldn’t have interfered. Indeed, I was honor-bound not to tell you, once the terms had been set. But I found that, seeing you again, I couldn’t just stand idly by while you got hurt. I’ve never forgiven myself for how things ended between us last time, and I couldn’t let any harm come to you via my hands. Not again.”

He gave the cold hand he held a small, reassuring squeeze and looked into her eyes meaningfully.

“Thank you for telling me,” Julia said finally.

Robeson laughed, though it was a cold, humorless sound, a mere stretching of his lips that conveyed little warmth or amusement. “How prim and proper you are to the end. I break my word, as a gentleman, in order to warn you, and all you can say is—”

“I don’t know what you expect of me, Lord Robeson. You made the bet, or at the very least, you agreed to it. And now, you’ve told me quite a bit of information, and I’d be a fool indeed not at least to sit with it, think it over, before I commit to any course of action, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Robeson said, collecting himself with a visible effort. “By all means, take time to think and ponder. Just remember: you don’t have to take my word for this, any of this. Ask Billings. Ask Charles Alver whether he has another identity he’s afraid to tell you about. And then, when you’ve realized who your true friends are, you can come and apologize.”

Though Julia had claimed that she needed time to think, really the opposite was true—she didn’t want to think, didn’t want to sit and realize, each time she sifted through what Robeson had told her and what Charles had and hadn’t said, how it all seemed to make a frighteningly cohesive picture.

And not at all one she wished to acknowledge, much less think about.

Charles rarely spoke of his past, and when he did, it’d always been obvious that there were things he wasn’t talking about, that it wasn’t just a natural evasiveness but a purposeful avoidance of certain facts. His hesitancy in mentioning his Latin tutor, or his embarrassment over needing to learn, gradually, how to shave, for example.

What Robeson had said about the pseudonym, in particular, was believable. There had been more than one occasion during their walks when either she or Claire had struggled to get his attention, despite the fact that they’d said his name several times. At the time, Julia had thought he was merely absentminded, the way her father was when he sometimes started suddenly and then asked you to repeat minutes of conversation because he’d been “elsewhere.” Now, though, it was impossible not to see things the way Robeson had presented them: that Charles Alver wasn’t even his real name, that he’d undertaken the bet merely for the potential financial gain and that worse, two thousand pounds wouldn’t be enough to sustain him for . . .