Call Down the Moon by Katherine Kingsley Page A

bottom of the Thames and felt as if it were coated with cat hair. He groaned and rolled over, burying his aching head in the pillow. He couldn’t remember a damned thing about why he was in such an appalling condition, but he knew that whatever he’d done, it had been a bad mistake.
    He hadn’t felt so awful in a good year, not since the night he’d left Paris for London to forcibly terminate his exile abroad. He tried to rally his muddled thoughts, but he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten home, let alone where he’d been. The last thing he recalled was leaving Lady Cumberland’s ball in fine spirits, Foxlane at his side.
    Foxlane. Hugo struggled to sit up, one hand clasped to his throbbing brow, straining for memory. White’s. That was it, they’d gone to White’s. But from there … where? On to Boodle’s, that was it, he thought with triumph. They’d gone to Boodle’s and met up with a group of friends he had been elated to see again.
    After that it was all a blur. Nothing but a black hole and a feeling of terrible dread that lay at its center.
    He wished to hell he could remember why.
    A discreet knock came at the door and he mumbled for the intruder to enter.
    “Good afternoon, my lord,” Mallard said, quietly nudging the door open, a tray balanced in one hand. “It is gone two o’clock, and I thought you might be prepared to rise.”
    “Two bloody o’clock?” Hugo said, severe alarm turning his blood cold. “What time did I get in?”
    “At seven this morning, my lord. Lord Waldock delivered you and left us to put you to bed. He asked that I give you this note when you woke.” The valet rested the tray across Hugo’s lap and handed him a folded sheet of parchment, then opened the curtains, but only partway.
    Hugo was grateful for Mallard’s tact, even though there wasn’t a hint of sunshine to be seen in the gray, wet afternoon. Any light at all felt like a knife piercing his skull.
    Hugo dismissed him with a curt nod. When Mallard had closed the door behind him, he picked up the butter knife and broke the seal, peering at the elegant script written on Southwell paper.
My dear Montagu,
    We have been friends these many years, and I am deeply distressed that you find yourself in such difficult circumstances owing to the play of this night. Although I hold your markers for the sum of one hundred forty thousand pounds as well as the promise of the deed to Lyden Hall, worth another sixty thousand, I wish to offer you every opportunity to find extra funds so that you need not lose Lyden.
    Therefore I propose that I give you ninety days to come up with the total sum of two hundred thousand pounds in hope that you manage to find a way to recoup your losses. I will await your reply.
    Your Obedient Servant,
    Waldock
    Hugo stared at the paper, sick memory flooding back in full. Vingt-et-un. Oh God. He remembered it all now. The cards, the endless play of cards, his losing at every turn, but foolishly confident that his luck would change. And then the final folly, the last bet, his judgment gone to hell by then in the bottom of a brandy bottle as he’d staked everything on Lyden. And lost.
    He groaned, closing his eyes and praying with everything he was worth that it was all a bad dream.
    But when he opened them again the same gray light assaulted his eyes and the same damning letter crackled between his fingers.
    He could think of only one solution to rescue him from this dilemma. And it was even more unpalatable than the taste in his mouth just now.
    “Lord Hugo, what a pleasure to see you again so shortly after our last meeting over your purchase of Lyden Hall.” Mr. James Gostrain of the esteemed law firm of Messrs. Gostrain, Jenkins, and Waterville rose from behind his desk to shake Hugo’s hand. Hugo didn’t feel like shaking much of anything other than Foxlane’s throat for having led him into disaster, but he obliged, forcing a smile to his dry lips.
    “Mr. Gostrain. Your servant.