“Way up in the highlands. Wild place. No Englishman in their right mind would live there.”
Lord Garrett, the youngest at the table, shrugged. “Still, land is land, and is gambled upon often. That’s not so strange. I, on the other hand, recently laid claim to a prize-winning sow.”
Wilbourne laughed. “You, owner of a pig?”
“For as long as it takes my man to sell it, at any rate.”
Stockton shook his head. “A man who resorts to betting his livestock ought not be betting at all.” A longtime gambler, he dealt only in cash and land.
“Whyever did you allow the man to bet on it?” Wilbourne asked curiously.
Garrett shrugged. “I was enjoying the game. Didn’t want it to end.”
“A pig.” Wilbourne shook his head. “Beaufort? Anything you’ve won that can top that?”
“A woman,” Alex said, and almost immediately regretted it. He should have stopped drinking about three brandies ago, if he’d reached the point where his mouth functioned faster than his brain.
The other three men looked interested. Wilbourne set down his cards. “Do tell.”
“A servant?” Stockton asked.
“Someone’s mistress?” Garrett guessed.
Alex shook his head, wishing he didn’t have to explain. “Someone’s daughter.”
To their credit, the three men looked horrified.
Alex raked a hand through his hair. “I was gambling with a man who got in over his head. I didn’t know it, or I’d never have played with him. Anyway, suffice it to say, when he realized he couldn’t pay off his many losses, he offered up his daughter to work them off.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Wilbourne breathed.
“The man’s deceased. I’d rather not name him and tread further on his memory.”
“Barbaric,” Stockton grunted.
“Positively medieval,” Wilbourne confirmed.
“Did you accept?” Garrett asked.
“Of course he didn’t,” Wilbourne answered for him.
A man at the table closest to theirs—a man that Alex, in his brandy-induced haze, couldn’t place—stood and brushed past, headed for the entrance. The stranger glanced at Alex a little longer than polite behavior dictated. Clearly, he’d overheard their conversation.
Garrett looked at Alex for confirmation.
“No. I didn’t,” Alex said shortly. Was his reputation truly so bad even some of his friends thought he’d stoop so low? He’d had any number of mistresses and lovers, but he’d never taken a woman who hadn’t come to him willingly. Although, if this morning’s encounter had been any indication of Elizabeth’s willingness…
He stood. “I’m sorry to dash your hopes, Wilbourne, but you’ll have to content yourself with winning these other gentlemen’s money for the rest of the night.”
“Leaving so soon?”
Alex shrugged. His fogged mind tried to come up with a decent excuse, since he usually played cards well into the wee hours of the morning, but the only thing that came to him was a vision of a red-haired temptress with hurt green eyes.
“Sorry,” he said to the men remaining at his table, and left.
Elizabeth reached the temporary sanctuary of her room, paced for a few moments, then threw open her wardrobe and trunks. She contemplated which things were most essential to bring with her. The wild anger and fear she’d felt toward Harold had receded, leaving behind a steady resolve.
“He’s a horrible man. An animal.”
Elizabeth started. “You do have a way of sneaking up on people, Sister dear.”
Charity managed to look mildly abashed, then gave herself away by grinning. “How else is a body supposed to hear anything worth listening to?” She sobered. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, not really. You heard what happened in the study?”
“Most of it.” She tugged at her blond hair, distressed.
For a moment Elizabeth felt a pang of jealousy. Charity had golden hair and wide blue eyes, and she was irrepressible and fun. She’d have been an instant success in Society—if their mother hadn’t held her back this year, embarrassed by their circumstances. If Charity had been the older sister, she’d likely have found a bevy of pleasant suitors, and their whole family would be out of this mess. Or perhaps not. As the eldest, Elizabeth had sheltered her sister for most of their lives. She’d always been the responsible one, the one to deflect their parents’ displeasure over childhood foibles, and the one to try desperately to atone for not having been born a boy. Was it any wonder they’d turned out so differently?
Yet Elizabeth loved her sister far too much to remain jealous. Gently she pried her sister’s hand from her hair. “You’ll ruin your lovely curls.”
Charity shrugged. “I don’t know why I let Emma bother with them today anyway. E., how can you stand it? He’s just too awful. Income or no, I can’t fathom why Mother and Uncle wish you to marry him. I, for one, am glad you slapped him.”
Elizabeth cringed, embarrassed when she recalled all Charity must have overheard. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“You’re wrong. He deserved that and more. You just can’t marry him.”
“I know.”
Charity glanced around, seeming to notice for the first time that Elizabeth was packing. “I take it you’re leaving.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“As well you should. But where will you go?”
For that, at least, she had an answer. “I’ll visit Beatrice. She’ll take me in until I can figure something out.”
Lady Beatrice Pullington had made her bow to Society the same year as Elizabeth, and they’d been fast friends ever since. Bea had married almost immediately, for her family had made prior arrangements with Lord Pullington, an older member of the peerage. That gentleman had survived only six months of his marriage before his failing heart gave up entirely, leaving Bea a wealthy young widow.
For the past two years, Bea had kept her own house in town—a privilege afforded her by her widowed status. She was certainly pretty, and wealthy, enough to attract another husband, but she had no desire to relinquish the independence she felt she’d earned during her brief but stifling marriage.
Elizabeth knew she could find a temporary haven there. She had too much pride to prevail upon Bea’s generosity forever, but she could at least hide there while she formulated a new plan. Bea knew how to be discreet.
Charity nodded, her eyes wide. “Shall I compose
