An hour passed before Harold again approached the earl. Bridgeport had dressed and was striding down St. James’s Street.
“Some friends would like to meet you,” Harold commented.
“Why?” Bridgeport stared at his cousin. The dandy’s extravagant cravat forced his chin high into the air. It must have taken all of thirty minutes to squeeze his frame into the bright green coat, and as many more to stuff him into the yellow pantaloons. The fancy wardrobe was one of the reasons Harold was usually under the hatches, though not the only one. He also had a penchant for gaming hells and unwise investments.
“They are founding a company to provide deluxe passenger service on the canal system and are looking for influential backers. After spending several weeks investigating their plans and interviewing both operators and potential users, I am convinced it must reap large profits.” He chattered for several minutes about the details, ignoring Bridgeport’s silence and the fury growing in his eyes. “So you see, it is a foolproof investment. I trust we can count on your support.”
“How much are you staking?”
“Very little,” he admitted. “Things are at low water just now. But perhaps you can loan me enough that I can buy shares.”
“Finance is not something I know much about,” began the earl.
“I know, but I have already checked all the facts,” interrupted Harold.
“If you want my backing, you will have to convince my man of business. His decision is final. But I should warn you that he believes canal enterprises have already peaked. The future will belong to rail-type machines like Trevithick’s steam engine.”
“But that is absurd!” protested Harold.
“Nevertheless, I trust Nelson’s judgment, which is why I employ him. Without his endorsement, I will back nothing.” He turned into White’s, leaving a furious Harold standing on the sidewalk.
* * * *
The Marquess of Carrington was also annoyed with a cousin. “That is the fourth idiotic wager you have lost this week, Reggie. At this rate, you will drown in the River Tick by the end of the month, and your father will cut up my peace with complaints for the next ten years.”
“You ain’t responsible for me,” snorted Mr. Taylor.
“That’s not what my uncle will claim. Do try to bring a little sense to your capers, for my sake if nothing else.” They sauntered along St. James’s Street, the afternoon brightening as the sun peeped through a crack in the clouds.
“Who would have thought that anyone possessing the sobriquet of The Curst Lord could land a flush hit on the great Jackson!” mourned Reggie.
“Obviously you know nothing of either Jackson or Bridgeport.” Carrington shook his head. “At least learn the facts before you accept a wager. Greenlings like you are ripe for plucking by every sharp in town. Did they teach you nothing at that backwater school of yours?”
“More than you learned at yours!” Reggie glared at his cousin, forgetting for a moment the studied boredom all gentleman should radiate. Once he regained control of his face, he meticulously removed an errant dust mote from his lavender sleeve and continued. “I have heard tales for years about the Curst Lord. He is a dedicated libertine, an unlucky gamester, and has been jilted more than once by ladies fearing the family curse.”
“You make an ass of yourself when you rattle on about things you do not understand.” Carrington raised his quizzing glass to examine the fledgling dandy at his side. The lad had been in London only a week, but already it was obvious that a greener cub had not been loose on the town in years. “I never expected to see a member of my own family behave like such a nodcock.
What’s in a name?
as the Bard once asked. That silly sobriquet was coined by a wag eight years ago – Bridgeport was still Viscount Staynes at the time – after he suffered an embarrassment on the marriage mart. Yes, he was jilted, but he was lucky to have escaped, for the girl belonged in Bedlam. A groundless rumor surfaced afterward that she fled from a curse, but it died within the week. The name stuck because he is roundly cursed by everyone he bests, and he has bested nearly everyone. He is a nonpareil, the foremost Corinthian in the
ton
, excelling at fencing, sparring, marksmanship, and driving.”
Reggie groaned.
“Do you see why I said you were idiotic? Jackson spars only with his best pupils. Bridgeport is as handy with his fives as the cream of the Fancy and meets Jackson regularly. The reason you got such good odds on that bet is because the earl rarely fails to land at least one punch. As to your other claims, it is true he lost at cards when we were at Oxford together – though never as much as rumor reported. But he has now learned to play wisely, honing his talents until he seldom loses at games involving skill. He never plays at games of chance. He is also smart enough to walk away from the table if the luck turns against him, and he refuses to play when in his altitudes. You might take that lesson to heart. There is no bigger fool than a man who multiplies his vowels in a desperate bid to recoup his losses.”
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 comment 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.”