Page 2 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)

Chapter

One

“ I don’t know how you do it, Windham. There isn’t a gentleman in London who wins at the gaming tables as often as you do.”

Cass let the door of The Deuce slam shut behind him.

The heavy thud of the wood hitting the door frame echoed in the darkness around them, announcing their presence as surely as a pistol shot to any scoundrel who happened to be lurking in the shadows.

That there was some version of scoundrel lurking nearby went without saying.

This was London, after all, but tempting fate had become one of his favorite pastimes.

“You’ve got the devil’s own luck at Hazard.

” Hayward shoved his hands into his pockets and began to make his way down Maiden Lane as if he were taking a stroll down Rotten Row during the fashionable hour instead of skulking about the darkened streets of Covent Garden. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How dare you, Hayward? It’s skill, not luck.”

“Skill, at Hazard?” Hayward snorted. “I think not, my friend. But you don’t look pleased, Windham. Indeed, for a man who just left a gaming hell several hundred pounds richer than when he entered it, you look downright grim.”

“I don’t care about the money.” Cass fingered the stack of notes he’d tucked into his coat pocket. “Only a fool frequents the gaming hells expecting to get rich.”

“Only a fool frequents gaming hells at all, but you’re hardly a stranger at The Deuce. Everyone from the banker to the lowliest clerk greets you by name.”

“One might say the same of you, Hayward.”

“Yes, well someone has to keep an eye on you, don’t they?”

Alas, there was no disputing that, as much as he would have liked to, but the truth was Hayward had been pulling him out of one scrape after the next since their Eton days, much as a more responsible elder brother might have done, even after Cass’s harmless boyish pranks had given way to a grown man’s far more worrying vices.

It was a mystery why Hayward bothered with him at all anymore.

“I go to pass the time.” Although there always seemed to be more of it, no matter how much of it he wasted. “What do you suppose has become of the carriage?”

He’d left it…somewhere.

Bedford Street, maybe. Or had it been St. Martin’s Lane?

Damned if he could remember, but no matter. Massey would find them. He always did. The man was a magician when it came to locating lost earls, but then this wasn’t Cass’s first jaunt through Covent Garden in the wee hours of the morning. Massey had had a good deal of practice.

Hayward let out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s on Garrick Street. I swear, Windham, you’d lose your own head if it wasn’t sitting on your?—”

“Shhh, Hayward.” Cass paused in the middle of the street, the hair on his neck prickling. “Did you hear something?”

“No.” Hayward paused, glancing around them. “Like what?”

“It sounded like footsteps.” He peered into the darkness. It was as thick as a blanket around them, only a few dim rays of moonlight peeking through the heavy layer of London haze, but every inch of his skin was thrumming, and his senses tingling with warning.

Someone was there in the darkness, waiting.

“I think someone followed us from The Deuce. Quickly, Hayward.”

“I don’t hear any—” Hayward broke off with a grunt and dropped onto his knees on the cobbles. “What the devil!”

“Hayward! Are you—” That was as far as he got before a thick, muscular arm snaked around his throat, jerking him off his feet.

“Don’t. Bloody. Move.”

Cass shifted, his muscles flexing instinctively, but the arm around his neck tightened like a noose and the man wrenched him backwards with such brutal force if he hadn’t had his walking stick he would have landed on his knees on the filthy cobbles beside Hayward, who was grappling with a shadowy figure roughly the size of a tree.

Cass kept his feet, but it did him no good. When he tried to throw the arm off it pressed against his windpipe, choking him.

“Are you deaf, my lord? I said don’t move.” A blade appeared in the man’s hand, the dull gleam of it winking in the dim light, and an instant later warm blood trickled down his neck. “You don’t follow orders very well, Lord Windham.”

Lord Windham . The villain knew him. This wasn’t a random robbery then, but a planned attack. It wasn’t good news.

“Secure the other one.”

Beside him there was a thud, followed by another grunt from Hayward, and a familiar, cold fury settled like a ball of ice in his chest. By the sounds of it, the blackguard had just planted a fist in his friend’s stomach.

“Now, there’s no need to be ungentlemanly about this, eh, Windham?” The villain who had him by the neck cackled, and a puff of his fetid breath wafted into Cass’s face, making him gag.

“Just give me the money like a good lord, and we’ll take our leave.”

That voice. There was something familiar about it…

“Don’t be a fool, my lord. Reach into your pocket, easy like, and hand over those bank notes before your friend here gets hurt.”

The voice…yes, he had it now. It was the man who’d been seated beside him at the Hazard table earlier. He was a big, brutish sort of fellow, and he hadn’t been pleased to see his money disappearing into Cass’s hands.

“And we’ll have those dice too while you’re at it, your lordship.”

Dice? What did he…oh. The man was accusing him of cheating with false dice. “I don’t have any bloody?—”

“’Course you do, my lord. Do you take me for a fool?” A rough hand was shoving at him, tearing at his clothing and pushing into his pockets. “No one wins like that without cheating.”

Beside him, Hayward let out another gasp and toppled forward, his forehead striking the cobbles with a sickening thud, and another surge of rage gripped Cass, twisting his stomach.

No. This wasn’t going to happen. Not without a fight.

A second passed, then another. The man on top of him tensed, sensing an oncoming attack, but he was a second too late.

Cass jerked his head forward then slammed it back, smashing the back of his skull into the man’s nose.

The blade skimmed his throat, but he’d thrown his attacker off balance, and it left only a shallow cut.

He didn’t feel it. Not the pain, and not the blood, though it was more than a trickle now, the thick heat of it pooling in the hollow of his throat. He didn’t hesitate, but slammed his head back a second time, aiming for the man’s nose.

He hit his mark. The man was too skilled a fighter to be surprised into releasing the stranglehold he had on Cass’s neck, but not so skilled it didn’t slacken, the muscles in his forearm loosening just enough for Cass to wrench free of his hold.

He whirled around and pulled his arm back, ready to land a fist in his attacker’s jaw, but before he could swing, the man lunged. His knife arced through the air and found its mark on Cass’s arm. Fortunately, his coat caught the brunt of it, otherwise the knife would have slashed him to the bone.

The man was quick, and struck again at once, but this wasn’t Cass’s first brawl, and he was ready for him. He blocked the blow with his walking stick, then swung for the man’s head, but his attacker leapt backward in time to avoid a strike to the temple that would have knocked him senseless.

Instead, the stick caught him in the chest in a blow that should have sent him crumpling to the ground, but he was a big, strapping fellow, and he only staggered backwards, a whoosh of air bursting from his lungs.

He kept his feet, a bloodthirsty snarl on his lips and swung, and his meaty paw connected with Cass’s cheek.

His head jerked sideways, the entire side of his face exploding in pain, but by some miracle he managed to stay upright. He circled the man, waiting for his chance, and when he saw an opportunity to strike, he lunged, throwing every bit of strength he had left in his body into the blow.

The man leapt to block him, but he was expecting Cass to aim for his head or chest again. Instead, Cass aimed for the vulnerable space behind the man’s knees.

The blow was swift and brutal. The man’s legs collapsed underneath him, and he went down like a horse, his body weight sending him slamming into the cobbles.

He kept hold of his knife, but before he could move Cass was straddling him, his knees digging hard enough into the man’s sides to make him gasp.

Cass tossed his walking stick aside and seized the man’s wrist. He slammed it as hard as he could against the cobbles beneath them, but the man didn’t drop his weapon. So, Cass did it again, then again, until his attacker’s fingers went slack around the knife’s hilt.

He seized the knife, and God only knows what he might have done with it, how far he might have taken it, but before he could move, something slammed into the side of his head.

Pain burst inside his skull—splitting, searing pain—and stars burst behind his eyelids.

Then he was falling, his vision tunneling as he plummeted into darkness.

“If you insist upon winning exorbitant amounts of money at the Covent Garden gaming hells, Windham, then you’d do well to remember where you left your carriage.”

Something was moving in front of Cass’s face, but black was crowding at the edges of his vision, and he couldn’t make out what it was. “Is that you, Hayward?”

“Yes. Who else would it be? Take my hand.”

Hand? What…oh. That’s what that blurry thing in front of him was. Cass grasped the hand Hayward offered and stumbled to his feet, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain in his temple.

“Do you know what happens when you don’t recall where you left your carriage, Windham?”

Cass glanced around, but the men who had attacked them were long gone, and with them the three hundred pounds that had been in his pocket. “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“You get set upon by blackguards, that’s what. We’re damn lucky we didn’t get our throats slit.” Hayward drew his fingers across his neck with a dramatic flourish.