The Earl's Revenge

by Allison Lane

  They handed their hats to the porter at White’s and crossed the reading room. Brummell and his friends usually occupied the new bow window, but they were absent today. Carrington soon saw why.

  “You are about to verify the adage about a fool and his money,” he warned Reggie softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watch. And learn,” advised his cousin.

  Thirty gentlemen clustered around a table, the size of the crowd signaling that a high-stakes game was in progress. Even before he drew close enough to see, Carrington had identified the players by their voices – Bridgeport and the newly wealthy Mr. Hardwicke.

  Mark Allan Parrish, seventh Earl of Bridgeport, had been considered the top catch on the marriage mart for years, despite his determined disinterest in eligible females and despite the curse some still suspected hung over his head. He possessed everything a matchmaking mother could want – a respected title, seemingly bottomless coffers, several estates, a large townhouse in Berkeley Square, and the face and form to make any girl swoon in delight.

  Intense green eyes surrounded by long dark lashes glowed under artfully arranged russet curls, providing the focal point of a heart-stoppingly handsome face. Nor was his physique a disappointment. Broad shoulders contrasted with a slender waist and hips above shapely, well-muscled thighs. All this male magnificence was immediately obvious, for he chose to wear the most modest of jackets and the simplest of cravats, leaving only his own splendor on view to the world.

  A sigh rose from the crowd as the earl swiftly played out the hand of piquet to a resounding victory.

  “Piqued, repiqued, and capotted,” murmured a spectator in admiration, accepting several banknotes from his friend.

  Hardwicke was paler than even fashion demanded. “How could you have had that spade guard?” he muttered, draining a glass of wine.

  Bridgeport made as if to rise.

  “No, you don’t,” objected Hardwicke. “The luck is bound to turn. It never stays away for long. Another rubber, double stakes.”

  The crowd emitted a collective gasp.

  “I have had enough of cards for one afternoon,” replied Bridgeport, pocketing his winnings.

  “Are you afraid to take me on again?” taunted Hardwicke. “How can anyone who claims to be a gentleman refuse me a chance to recoup my losses?”

  Bridgeport frowned.

  “Give the lad a chance,” called a spectator.

  “Can’t honorably refuse a game,” commented another.

  “You don’t want to play just now,” observed the earl quietly. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. Changing one’s luck requires time.”

  “Now!” demanded Hardwicke harshly. “I can feel the change. By tomorrow it may have flopped back.” He signaled a waiter for another bottle of wine.

  “Very well.” Bridgeport dropped back into his seat with a shrug.

  “Fool,” whispered Carrington so only Reggie could hear.

  “The earl?”

  “Of course not.”

  Two tense hours ensued. Bridgeport won one rubber, then two. The crowd swelled to over a hundred as word of Hardwicke’s folly spread. Wagering among the onlookers was not on who would win, but on the point spread and the extent of Hardwicke’s ultimate losses. The third rubber ended in Bridgeport’s favor.

  “That is all,” the earl announced with finality. “I have an appointment that I cannot break.”

  Hardwicke stared at the score-sheet in shock, not believing the numbers that swirled before his bleary eyes. The amount represented half of the inheritance he had just received from his uncle.

  Bridgeport stretched, noting Carrington’s presence behind his chair for the first time. “Back from Newmarket already?”

  “This morning. Darlington scratched his black, so there was no point staying for the race.”

  “I heard about that at Tattersall’s. Any word why?” drawled Lord Templeton, sounding only mildly curious.

  Carrington shrugged. “Officially, Titan strained a hock in workouts yesterday, but rumor suggests sabotage. One of the grooms mysteriously disappeared.”

  “Smart of you to leave, Richard,” murmured Bridgeport under the buzz of speculation at this news. “Odds won’t mean much that case.”

  “So I thought. Have you met my cousin Reggie? He is just down from Cambridge.” Carrington effected introductions. “I hope he has learned the benefits of caution,” he added with a rueful glance at Hardwicke.

  Hardwicke chose that moment to come out of his shocked stupor, pulling everyone’s attention back to the game. “I demand a rematch!”

  “Another day,” suggested Bridgeport gently. “I have to leave.”

  Panic appeared in Hardwicke’s eyes, his wine-thickened tongue tripping over the words. “No! Now! One cut. High card wins. Double or nothing.”

  “You haven’t got it,” murmured Bridgeport into his opponent’s ear. “Wait until you are sober, Peter.”

  “My estates,” Hardwicke begged desperately. “The ones from my uncle. Without the money, they are worthless to me anyway.”

  Bridgeport glanced at the circle of expectant faces. If he refused, Hardwicke would consider him an enemy. Many of those watching would believe him to be dishonorable. Already the spectators were placing side bets. He sighed a little sadly. “All right. Will you do the honors, Brummell?”

  The Beau opened a new pack of cards and shuffled thoroughly, each riffle raising the tension in the crowd. He squared the deck and set it in the exact center of the table. Bridgeport carelessly cut, turning over the three of diamonds.

  A gasp rolled around the room. Hardwicke straightened, a smile breaking out on his face. He lifted half of the remaining deck and upended it. One hundred gentlemen inhaled in shock. The two of clubs stared mockingly into Peter Hardwicke’s ashen face.

  He collapsed.

  “I will see him in the morning,” Bridgeport murmured to Lord Templeton, who was Hardwicke’s closest friend. “We will settle up then.”

  “Winning again?” sneered Harold Parrish, pushing his way through the crowd.

  Ignoring his cousin, Bridgeport snapped his watch open and deliberately grimaced. “I am late. Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Poor Hardwicke,” murmured a spectator. “Bridgeport has all the luck.”

  “There ought to be a law against someone that wealthy winning so consistently,” groused another, handing over a wad of banknotes to cover his own lapse in judgment.

  “Ah, well, lucky at cards, unlucky at love,” intoned Harold, pitching his voice loud enough that Bridgeport would hear, though he had nearly reached the door.

  The earl stared at his cousin a moment, an odd curl twisting his lips. Without a word, he left.

  “What was that all about?” asked Reggie as he followed Carrington out to the street.

  “A Parthian shot between cousins over the earl’s one failure. Mr. Parrish detests Bridgeport, envying him his looks, his acclaim, his wealth, and especially his title. Parrish missed it by twenty minutes.”

  “But they are cousins! How could that be?”

  “Their fathers were twins.”

  Reggie stared. “I see. Mr. Parrish appears older than the earl.”

  “By two days.” It was Parrish’s dissipation that made him look nearly forty.

  “Why did you call his words a Parthian shot?”

  “You are too inquisitive by half, Cousin,” Carrington protested. “Leave off prying into the lives of your betters.”

  “But how will I learn to go on if I don’t ask questions?”

  Carrington sighed. Never had his position as head of the family weighed so heavily. “Enough, Reggie. Bridgeport is a powerful member of society. While he does not follow the dandy set as you so obviously do, his animosity could make your life very difficult.”

  “But why would he want to?”

  “He wouldn’t if you mind your own business. But he is a very private person who hates to have his affairs bruited about. That comme
nt alluded to the origins of his nickname. I trust you will not refer to either again.”

  “Only if you tell me the truth of the rumors. I heard he has been jilted several times.”

  “You are a pest, Reggie!” the marquess muttered, half to himself. “But I suppose you will ask someone else if I do not satisfy your curiosity, and that would be worse.” He straightened. “It is Bridgeport’s misfortune that four betrothals produced only one marriage and no heir, though only two of the chits actually jilted him. His third fiancée and his wife both died. It is just as well, for his mother chose all the girls, and she had abominable taste."

  “Why did he not protest?”

  “Because he truly does not care who he marries. But that is all I will say, for his reasons are his own affair. This topic is now closed.”

  “What about the tales of his raking?” Envy of that legendary prowess permeated his words.

  “Enough!” Carrington glowered. “Even I do not know those details, despite being his closest friend, but I suspect half of society’s matrons and all the top courtesans have encountered him. Bridgeport is the finest man I know and deserves every bit of his luck. His father was a weak-willed scholar, completely under the thumb of his harridan mother. She tried to do the same to Mark, eventually driving him away from home. He has worked hard to get where he is today, but after battling domination for so long, he despises all signs of weakness. Hence his reticence. Exposing his private self would make him vulnerable.”

  “But that tells me nothing,” objected Taylor.

  “Precisely. One more word, and then we will permanently drop the subject. If you wish to keep your money, never bet against Bridgeport; never play cards with him; and never wager on whether or whom he will wed.”

  * * * *

  Wearing a concealing cloak, Bridgeport slipped out of the back of his townhouse. One of the lessons he had mastered after a lifetime of countering his mother’s manipulation was how to cover his tracks. He went first to the rooms he rented under an assumed name, downed a bite of dinner, and put in an intense four hours of work. Then he picked up Lady Wainright behind Lady Beatrice’s house, where she was attending a card party, and headed for a cottage he owned in Kensington. The lady was a nitwit, but it was not her conversation that interested him. She was the most insatiable of his current liaisons. Two hours of frenzied passion expended the restless energy that had accumulated since his morning bout with Jackson, allowing him to pass the night in peace.

  Chapter Two

  “Mr. Thornton accepted my sketches!” announced Elaine Thompson, bursting into the parlor where her friend, Anne, huddled close to the fire, a woolen shawl tucked securely around her legs. Anne had not completely recovered from a winter chill.

  “I knew he would,” she replied calmly. “You possess an enviable talent. I am glad that you have the opportunity to develop it.”

  A shadow flickered across Elaine’s face. “Poor Mr. Beringer. How I miss him. What a tragedy that he died so young.”

  “Sixty is hardly young,” protested Anne, herself but four-and-thirty.

  “You know what I mean. He was as energetic as Mr. Reeves.” Reeves was their forty-year-old vicar who regularly tramped the hills and moors in pursuit of his duties. “And he was never sick a day in his life that I know of. I thought my own heart would stop when I heard that his had given out in his sleep. Poor man. How I miss him,” she repeated.

  “I know, dearest,” soothed Anne. “But you had the benefit of his instruction, advice, and support for nearly eight years. He has established you as an illustrator in your own right and even arranged for his solicitor to continue looking after your interests. How many projects have you finished?”

  “Seventeen, but they are all fairy tales and other children’s stories. I am not yet sufficiently well known that I can cease fretting. What if Mr. Murray discovers that M. E. Merriweather is a lowly female, and not a very aged one at that?”

  “And how would he go about learning such a thing?” she countered sensibly. “Mr. Beringer took steps to see that your career would flourish regardless of what happened to him. He loved you very much.”

  “Certainly, but not in the way you imply. He looked on me as a daughter. I sometimes think he believed I really was Jessie.” Mrs. Beringer and their daughter, Jessie, had drowned more than thirty years before. According to local gossip, Beringer had shut himself away from all human contact for nearly a decade, remaining reclusive even after that. Elaine had been amazed when he’d agreed to instruct her in drawing. She had been barely seventeen at the time, newly arrived in Cornwall, and female to boot.

  She had Anne to thank, of course. And for so much more. She had arrived on Miss Becklin’s doorstep with no warning, all her worldly possessions carried in one small valise, her money nearly exhausted by the expenses of the long journey, and her sole companion a fourteen-year-old maid who was untrained in even basic duties. Her former governess had taken her in, resumed the education that had been so rudely interrupted five years earlier, and lavished her with affection. Anne had enthusiastically examined the sketches Elaine had made during the trip to Cornwall, and had immediately shown them to their neighbor, Mr. E. F. Beringer, artist and illustrator.

  Elaine added a bit of coal to the fire, hoping the extra heat would make Anne more comfortable. Spring was late in arriving this year, allowing cold damp to linger.

  Drawing had always been her obsession. Lacking formal instruction, she had taught herself the rudiments, experimenting until she could produce the images her eyes perceived. Beringer had complimented her talent, admired her skill, pointed out every one of her failings, and then taught her everything he knew. She had developed a style that packed immense amounts of suggestion into a few lines, conveying emotion as well as form and texture. Two years later, he’d set up her first contract – illustrating a new edition of Perault’s Mother Goose tale Cinderella using Samber’s translation from the French of twenty years earlier. There had been other commissions in the years since, but none as potentially rewarding as this latest one.

  Mr. Beringer had been contacted about doing an illustrated volume of poetry similar to Blake’s. Beringer had known Blake most of his life and possessed both Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Having often studied them, Elaine had envied her mentor his chance – which made her feel guilty now that tragedy had dropped the opportunity into her own lap. But excitement pushed that feeling aside.

  “Look at this,” she said, handing Murray’s letter to her friend. “Not only will he pay more than I received for anything I’ve previously done, but he has even agreed to give me a percentage of the sales. Not that they will be enormous, for this version will have a limited distribution, but it will allow me to support myself at last. I have lived on your charity far too long.”

  “Fustian!” snorted Anne. “You continually ignore Lucy in your very mercenary calculations. She is a godsend and has proven so adept that she takes the place of two ordinary servants. How many illustrations does Murray want this time?”

  “About a quarter of the poems. I can pick which ones I wish to do. The illustrations will occupy the same page as the text, so it would be best to choose the shorter ones, but I can’t wait to read Thornton’s verses. Those two samples he sent are his best work to date.”

  “I know he is your favorite, though personally I prefer Pope.”

  Elaine laughed at this old disagreement. “Pope wrote quite nice verse – as even our great-grandparents must have observed – but I find it sterile. Thornton’s words touch my soul in some strange way that other poets do not. I cannot really explain it except to note that there is no accounting for taste. Will you be needing me for anything?”

  “Meaning you wish to read and know you cannot stop once you begin,” teased Anne with a grin. “Of course you may. Lucy can take care of me quite nicely, and Mrs. Hedges promised to call.”

  Elaine made a face.

  “Yes, she is a trial,” agreed Anne. “But she d
erives so much pleasure from her tales that I hate to curtail her. Besides, I dare not risk her ire. One is never quite sure how she portrays us to others.”

  “There ought to be a way to divert her interest to some topic other than spiteful gossip,” grumbled Elaine.

  “Air-dreams, my dear,” said Anne with a chuckle and a shake of her ebony head.

  “At least spare me her company. I am out.” She headed upstairs to her studio.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, Elaine was perched on a rock with a sketchbook balanced on her lap. The site was her favorite place to idle away an hour or two in dreaming. Thus it seemed the ideal setting for Thornton’s poem, ‘The Secret Place,’ where one could come alone to contemplate the wonders of the world. Behind her was a shallow cave positioned halfway up a steep hill. The tiny lawn offered exquisite views of Bodmin Moor and the rugged Cornish coast with its ever-changing patterns of sunlight on water.

  She had pondered long over this verse, trying to decide if his words referred to the quiet beauty of a wind-ruffled pool hidden deep in a dark forest or to the wilder grandeur of the sparkling sea as viewed from the depths of the earth. In her own mind, nothing could equal the sea. There was another poem that she would interpret as the passionate fury of storm-tossed waves trying to overwhelm an ancient oak that stood on the edge of their domain, though perhaps she would not include that among the finished illustrations.

  Thornton’s verse always extolled the natural world – which had sometimes made her wonder if the man avoided human relationships – but she suspected that ‘The Siege’ was an allegory for a determined libertine’s campaign against a stubborn lady, though how that picture would arise in her five-and-twenty-year-old spinster’s mind she could not explain. But she was masquerading as a male in the publishing world. Perhaps she should illustrate it that way.

  She giggled. While she had never been the recipient of seductive looks, she had seen them bestowed on others during the month she had spent in London. Particularly by Devereaux and Staynes. But for now she would work on the ‘The Secret Place.’