Chapter Thirty-Seven
Four days later, the Earl was back in London, pushing open the door to his club. He had sold his wife’s jewels and had the money in his pocket. The family pieces were back in the townhouse. He had no intention of wagering them. He wouldn’t need to.
As he strode though the hall, he encountered Lord Bushnell. Not wanting to get into recriminations regarding the loss of the loan Bushnell had made him, he would have liked to avoid him. But it was impossible.
“Ah! Doncaster!” Bushnell hailed him. “Haven’t seen you since that tragedy of the Mary Jane! Damned bad luck, what?”
“Evening, Bushnell. Yes. Of course, I blame it on Parsons, you know. He should have investigated that fool of an agent. I mean, the man sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. How was I to know he was an idiot? I’m just a farmer, not an international trader.”
“Well, he paid for it, I suppose, going down like that, and the rest of them. Only about four of the crew survived, I understand.”
“Is that so? Still, sailors have to be ready for rough seas — it’s part of their job. Of course, the captain was an idiot, too. He must have known there was a storm coming. That’s the problem, Bushnell, You can’t trust anyone. They’re all idiots.”
Lord Bushnell was beginning to think they weren’t the only ones, and started to move on, when a thought struck him.
“I say,” he said, “I met your younger brother a few weeks back. Andrew Fielding. I knew I’d heard the name somewhere, then it came to me.
I tell you, Doncaster, he’s a bloody marvel.
He did a painting of my Genevieve you wouldn’t believe.
Though she’s my daughter, I have to admit she’s not what you’d call a well-favored girl, but the portrait he did!
I mean, it looks just like her, but, well, you can’t take your eyes off it!
It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth every penny.
Even she likes it, and she don’t like anything.
She was supposed to have her coming out, but with the loss of the Mary Jane, we’ve had to put that off.
Oh, and another thing. The word in the village is he’s marrying a local spinster.
Not a bad-looking woman, but she’s got to be ten years older than him, and she don’t have a bean, so it must be love! Funny old world, ain’t it?”
The Earl had stopped listening after hearing the words not cheap. “So the young fool sells his paintings, does he?”
“I should say so! They’re lining up! I tell you, he’s very good. Shouldn’t be surprised to see him in the Royal Academy one of these days. You must be proud of him. A credit to the family!”
And with that, Bushnell left him.
The news that his younger brother was actually earning money — and good money, it appeared — came as a bombshell to the Earl of Doncaster.
Andrew not only had the inheritance from their mother, but he had money coming in!
And still he had refused to help him! This so enraged the Earl that if it had been during business hours, he would have gone to Parsons to demand his brother’s address, and he would have ridden there straight away.
He would have forced Andrew to hand over his blunt.
As it was, he stalked into the salon where members were today playing Pharaoh, and sat down with thunder on his face. Between the news about Andrew and the fact they’d all made fun of him the last time he was here, he was in no mood for banter.
He called for a bottle of claret, and said, “Well, get on with it then. Don’t just sit there like a bunch of idiots!”
They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows but quickly dealt him in.
In short order, the Earl proceeded to lose all the money in his pocket.
He started out by making fairly modest bids, but whichever card he placed his wager on, lost. He tried using the same number, different numbers, he increased the stake, but, calling for a second bottle of claret, the Earl of Doncaster lost… and lost… and lost.