Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(70)

Derek stared at the gleaming mahogany surface of the table. “With that one entertaining speech, my lord, you sentenced thousands of innocent boys to death for years to come. To something worse than death.”

“They are sons of day laborers, Mr. Craven, not sons of the gentry. They will never amount to anything. Why not put them to good use?”

“Craven,” Alex Raiford muttered, fearing that an ugly scene was about to take place.

But Derek lifted his eyes and regarded Lauderson in a cool, almost pleasant manner. “You almost tempt me to give you back a pig of your own sow, my lord.”

“What does that mean?” Lauderson asked, chuckling at the crude cockney expression.

“It means the next time you defeat a bill I’m particular to, using one of your frivolous high-kick speeches, I’ll stuff your gullet full of soot and mortar and shove your fat arse up a chimney. And if you get stuck there, I’ll light straw beneath you, or jab pins into your feet to get you going. And if you complain of burns from a hot flue, or of suffocation, I’ll flay your hide with a leather strap. That’s what a climbing boy goes through every day of his miserable existence, my lord. That’s what the bill would have prevented.” Giving him a chilling glance, Derek stood up and left the dining hall with a measured tread.

Lauderson had turned scarlet during the contemptuous speech. “What gave Craven the idea that his opinion is worth a farthing?” His voice echoed in the deadly quiet of the room. “A man of no blood, no education, and certainly no refinement. He may be the wealthiest bastard in England, but that gives him no right to speak to me in that insolent manner.” He glanced at Alex in rising indignation. “An apology is due me, sir! Since you’re responsible for inviting the man, I’ll accept yours in lieu of his.”

The assemblage froze. Not even a creak of a chair disrupted the silence. Alex’s face was like carved marble as he returned Lauderson’s stare. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he finally said. “The air in here has suddenly turned foul.” He left the table with an expression of distaste, while Lauderson’s eyes bulged.

Alex couldn’t find Derek until the ball had begun. He walked into the ballroom, pausing to observe the orchestra nearly concealed behind huge banks of roses. A row of French crystal chandeliers, each weighing a thousand pounds, shed sparkling light over the gleaming floor and the huge columns of fleur de peche marble. Lily presided over the ball with her usual warmth and grace, effortlessly making everyone feel welcome.

Catching sight of Derek taking a drink from the tray of a passing servant, Alex went to join him. “Craven, about that scene in the dining hall—”

“I hate the upper class,” Derek muttered, and took a large gulp of wine.

“You know we’re not all like Lauderson.”

“You’re right. Some are worse.”

Following Derek’s gaze, Alex saw Lauderson’s bulky form join a group of peers who were all engaged in toadying up to Lord Ashby. A haughty, irascible gentleman of the old school, Lord Ashby was usually making some speech or another. He believed that every word he uttered was like a pearl dropping from his lips. Because of his rank and wealth, the obsequious fools around him would never have dared to contradict that opinion. “Has Lady Ashby approached you yet?” Alex asked.

Derek shook his head. “She won’t.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I almost strangled her the last time I saw her.”

Alex looked startled, and then smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

Derek continued to stare at Lord Ashby. “Joyce was fifteen when she married that old bastard. Look at him, surrounded by those highborn lickspittles. I can see why Joyce turned out the way she did. Married to him, a girl in her teens would turn into either a trembling rabbit or a monster.”

“You sound as if you have some sympathy for her.”

“No. But I understand her. Life makes people what they are.” A scowl settled between Derek’s dark brows. He gestured to a corner of the room. “If any one of those fine barons or viscounts had been born in the rookery, they wouldn’t have turned out any better than I did. Noble blood counts for nothing.”

Following Derek’s gaze, Alex saw a growing coterie of men around Sara Fielding. Her small but lushly curved body was clad in a blue velvet gown a few shades darker than her eyes. Her hair was pulled into a mass of chestnut curls. She was uncommonly pretty tonight, exuding a shy charm that any man would find irresistible. Alex looked back at Derek’s expressionless face. “If that’s true,” he asked slowly, “then why let one of them have Miss Fielding?”

Derek ignored the question, but Alex persisted. “Would any of them treat her more kindly than you? Take better care of her? Would one of those young fops value her as you would?”

The green eyes glinted coldly. “You of all people know what I am.”

“I know what you were,” Alex replied. “Even five years ago, I would have agreed that you didn’t deserve someone like her. But you’ve changed, Craven. You’ve changed enough. And if she finds something in you that’s worthy of her affection…for God’s sake, don’t argue with a gift that fate has handed you.”

“Oh, very simple,” Derek jeered. “It doesn’t matter that I was born a bastard. She deserves nothing better than a man with a false name, fine clothes, and a sham accent. It’s not important that I have no family and no religion. I don’t believe in sacred causes, or honor, or unselfish motives. I can’t be innocent enough for her. I never was. But why should that matter to her?” His lips pulled into a sneer. “A match between us wouldn’t be a gift of fate, Raiford. It would be a bloody joke.”