Page 3 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)

Cass rolled his eyes. Hayward had a lecture for every occasion, each one of them as helpful as the next. Which was to say, not helpful at all.

“What an invaluable lesson, Hayward, if a bit after the fact.” Cass fumbled in his coat pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to his friend. “Here. Your nose is bleeding.”

“You made quick work of that one villain.” Hayward pressed the handkerchief to his nose, chortling with obvious relish. “I daresay he wasn’t expecting such a dirty fight from a proper earl like yourself.”

An earl, yes. Proper? Hardly.

“If you recall, Hayward, I spent a good part of my childhood in St. Giles. This wasn’t my first street brawl.” The ton might snicker about his low birth, but a childhood spent scrapping with ruffians did come in handy now and again.

“A good thing, too, or else those two would have carved us up like a pair of Christmas geese. Have you ever considered going into prizefighting, Windham? You could make money and scandalize the ton at the same time.”

The side of Cass’s face was on fire, his chest ached as if a horse had trod on it, and bits of his brain were likely oozing from his ear, but he couldn’t stifle the hoarse laugh that broke from his lips.

“The last I remember, I was about to introduce that blackguard to the business end of his blade, but something hit me.”

“It was your walking stick.” Hayward picked it up from where it lay on the cobbles.

“If he hadn’t gotten ahold of it, you would have bested him, but a wee tap to the skull, and you toppled over like a sack of potatoes.

They had the money by then, and fled into the night like the scoundrels they are, and thank goodness they did, or else we?—”

“Is this going to be a long lecture, Hayward? Because I’m rather busy, what with the bludgeoning and all. Shall we go and find Massey before another pair of scoundrels appears? I’ve had quite enough entertainment for one night.”

“Are you sure you can manage it?” Hayward ran a doubtful glance over him. “You’re a bit unsteady on your feet, and you look like you’ve been beaten with a stick.”

“I have been beaten with a stick.” Cass waved at the walking stick still clutched in Hayward’s fist. “Remember?”

“So, you have. Very well, then.” Hayward took his arm and led him toward Garrick Street, and there under the light of a gas lamp was his carriage, right where they’d left it, with Massey perched atop the box.

There wasn’t another servant in London—or quite possibly in all of England—who was more impassive than Massey. The man had been a witness to enough scandals during his tenure with Cass’s father that nothing shocked him anymore.

But even Massey raised an eyebrow when he got a look at Cass’s rapidly swelling eye, and the blood trickling from Hayward’s nose. “All right, my lords?”

“Never better, Massey.” But Cass let out a groan as he stumbled up the steps and collapsed against the squabs. What had that villain done to his ribs? His entire left side was throbbing as if it were on fire.

It was only a short distance from Covent Garden to his townhouse in Berkeley Square, but a lifetime seemed to pass as they made their way through the silent London streets. By the time they arrived his head was swimming again, and Hayward was obliged to help him alight from the carriage.

“Straighten my coat and tidy my hair, will you, Hayward?”

“Tidy your hair!” Hayward gaped at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Am I to be your lady’s maid now, Windham?”

“Come, Hayward, help make me more presentable. I don’t want to upset Mrs. Hughes.” His housekeeper was a tender-hearted soul, and all the blood and bruising might send her into a fit of hysterics.

“Presentable? I think that’s closing the barn door after the horse has fled, Windham.” But then he noticed Cass was cradling his right hand against his chest, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Did you twist it?”

“Yes, when that blackguard tackled me, I put out my hand to stop my fall.”

“Ah. Well, I suppose it could have been worse. That was a six-inch blade he had in his hand. We’re fortunate your head is still attached to your neck.”

Cass didn’t feel particularly fortunate, but he said nothing as Hayward made a few adjustments to his person, grumbling the entire time. “All right then, there you are. Pretty as a sunrise.”

Cass rolled his eyes as they trudged up the steps toward the front door, but it flew open before they could touch the knob, and there stood Mrs. Hughes. She’d clearly been awaiting their return, the dim light of the hallway sconces behind her lighting up her silver hair like a halo.

The light fell across Cass’s face, and she lifted her hand to her mouth with a gasp. “Lord Windham! And Lord Hayward, my goodness! What’s happened?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hughes,” Cass began, even as he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. As far as Mrs. Hughes was concerned, blood was never all right.

“Not to worry, Mrs. Hughes,” Hayward added. “He’ll be all right. Windham here has the hardest head of anyone I’ve ever encountered.”

Mrs. Hughes drew herself up with terrifying dignity. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but Lord Windham is most certainly not all right. He looks as if he’s been run down by a barouche!” She backed away from the door, waving them inside. “I’ll send for Dr. Champion at once.”

“No doctors, if you please, Mrs. Hughes.” Cass limped through the door with Hayward on his heels, Mrs. Hughes clucking over them both like a hen over a pair of baby chicks. “A rest will set me right again.”

Mrs. Hughes stared at him, aghast. “But you’re bleeding , and your eye is turning black. You were gallivanting around Covent Garden again, weren’t you? For pity’s sake, will you never learn, my lord?”

If she’d been another one of his servants, he wouldn’t have tolerated such insolence, but Mrs. Hughes had been his father’s housekeeper as well.

She’d known him since he was a boy of eleven years and had come to live with his father in this very townhouse, and she’d been kind to him, even when all the other servants were whispering behind his back.

She’d been kinder to him than his father ever had been. She was the closest thing he’d had to a mother since his own mother had died, and in his eyes, she could do no wrong.

He wasn’t a good man. That much was plain. But he was loyal, and he never raised his voice to Mrs. Hughes, no matter how much she scolded.

“Finley, come here at once and see to his lordship.” Mrs. Hughes beckoned to a footman waiting in the shadows. He was a big Irish lad who’d performed this service for Cass more than once before. “Help him up the stairs, Finley.”

“Aye, Mrs. Hughes.” Finley sprang forward. “All right there, my lord?”

“I daresay I’ll survive, Finley.” He’d had worse, but his head was throbbing, he could no longer see out of his injured eye, and he was struggling to keep his feet underneath him.

“Take him to his bedchamber, Finley. Now then, Lord Hayward…”

Cass made his way up the stairs, leaning heavily on Finley, chuckling as Mrs. Hughes cajoled, bullied and then ordered Hayward up to the blue bedroom in the guest wing. The Albany wasn’t far, but Mrs. Hughes wouldn’t hear of Hayward setting foot outside the door again that night.

But later, as he lay alone in his bed, his ribs aching and his eye swollen shut, the incident was a good deal less amusing.

He’d persuaded himself it would be different this time. He was the Earl of Windham now, and London aristocrats adored their earls, particularly the wealthy ones.

But this was no different than St. Giles had been, or Eton, or later, Oxford.

The ton tolerated him, but he’d never truly be one of them. He didn’t fit here any better than he did anywhere else.

He’d only ever found his footing once. That had been more than a decade ago, and that time, that place, and that friend was lost to him now.

As lost as if they’d never existed.