To fortify himself, he'd spend a few hours at his club. Gambling and drinking had a way of shoring up his beleaguered spirits.

Inside the club, he left his cloak and other trappings and walked through the crowded rooms toward the gaming tables in the back. All along the way, acquaintances stopped him for a drink or a chat. Though feeling like an incredible leech, he couldn't help feeling glad that he'd been offered several drinks which meant he wouldn't have to add them to his already excessive account.

Several different games of chance were available for the evening. Phillip selected dice and moved to the empty seat to which a friend waved him. He crossed the room and was welcomed with vigor by the revelers who had obviously been at it for hours before he'd arrived.

Phillip waved to one of the housemen to request the voucher he needed to sign for the night of credit which would allow him to play. It was something he'd done almost nightly for over a decade. The man didnat approach right away, and Phillip became annoyed by the delay. Just as he was ready to seek out the man himself, another appeared at his elbow.

"Begging your pardon, Lord Wessington, but Master Stevens desires a word with you."

Stevens owned the establishment as had his father and grandfather before him. He was an interesting sort of fellow, polite to the members of the ton, but Phillip always received the impression that he didnat care for any of them very much. That gave them something in common, since Phillip didnat care much for the members of the ton either.

He'd been invited back to Stevens' private rooms many times in his life, so he didnat think anything of the invitation. He simply followed where he was led.

"Wessington." Stevens nodded in acknowledgment of the Earl's entrance, then looked at his servant. "Close the door, would you? I don't wish to be interrupted." The man left silently.

"So what have you for me today?"

"Nothing, actually." Stevens, a man near Phillip's own age, was a handsome sort. Blond and blue-eyed, but with a rugged look about him that the ladies seemed to adore. "I needed to speak with you before you began playing. Something important has come up."

Phillip was instantly on alert. The only topics they'd ever discussed in this room had to do with what new types of enjoyment they could create to ease their own boredom and that of their friends. "What?" was all he could think to say.

"Unlike some other clubs, I have a limit on how far my customers can go into debt. I'll not be responsible for having a man's family tossed out on the streets."

"I know that about you. I've always admired you for it. But what has it to do with me?"

"You've finally managed to exceed your limit."

Phillip's outrage was matched only by his embarrassment. Years of breeding and training kept him from sputtering. "Your point'" he asked in his most aristocratic tone.

"I'm sorry, Wessington. I've known you for a very long time, but I simply can't carry your losses any longer."

"You're saying I'm cut off?"

"Actually, I'm saying you're no longer welcome. Not for spirits or meals or play. I don't want you back. Not even as someone's guest."

Phillip glared at him. The man didnat even have the sense to appear ashamed at his treatment of a peer of the realm. Poverty had a way of making everyone equals. He rose. "You miserable whelp, my grandfather was a charter member of this club. My father one of its premier members."

"I know, Wessington. And both of them always paid their bills. In full and on time, I might add."

"I'll see you ruined for this." Phillip immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. Without money, he had lost much of his power, and Stevens ran one of the most exclusive, most popular clubs in the city. Everyone wanted to be a member.

"No, you won't, because that would mean you'd have to tell people why you were asked to leave. I promise this meeting will be our secret. If anyone asks why you haven't been 'round, I'll spare you any embarrassment and simply say I hadn't noticed." Stevens rose so they were facing each other. "I know you don't believe me, but I'm really doing this for your own good. Come back when you can pay. Once you're back on your feet, you'll be welcome. Not before. I'll not let you in."

"You bloody bastard!" Phillip forced the words between clenched teeth, but he turned to go without further comment.

The doorman was waiting with his things. Without any excess expression of temper, he shrugged into his cloak. He didnat want anyone to have a hint of the unpleasant moment he'd just endured. The word would spread soon enough.

He stepped out into the night, wishing there was someone leaving at the same time so he could grab a ride, pretending that the lift was accepted simply because it was convenient. No one came out behind him, and he refused to linger on the steps like some kind of beggar.

Up and down the busy street, hackneys raced to and fro as people hurried to their evening's entertainments. But Phillip Wessington, the eighth Earl of Rosewood, the sixth Earl of Ravenwood, the fifth Baron of Abbeysford, did not have a coin in his pocket to hire one of them. Alone, embarrassed, angry and disgusted, he pulled his hat low to shield his face and began the long, dreary walk toward home.

Chapter Seven.

Phillip could not have said what twist of fate brought him to the front of the small townhouse occupied by Miss Fitzsimmons. After leaving his club, he'd begun heading home, but his mind was in such a jumble that instead of turning where he should have, he'd just kept going. If anyone had asked, he'd have said he was just wandering, taking a casual stroll in the misty evening, but apparently, he'd had a direction in mind all along.

So far, he'd managed to keep the extent of his financial dilemma a well-kept secret, but now, with his banishment from his own club, there'd be no stopping the flood of speculation and rumor. He trusted Stevens. The man was as good as his word and wouldn't tell anyone, but his employees would gossip with his servants and then his servants would gossip with others. On and on it would go until every member of the ton would be aware that he'd been cast out. Knowing the fickle attitudes of the people who comprised Polite Society, it could very possibly start a string of expulsions, ending only God knew where.

A picture of Jane Fitzsimmons's face flashed before his eyes. He thought of how she'd looked the previous day, standing in her rented drawing room, matching him word for word, shout for shout, insult for insult; fists on hips, an angry blush on her cheeks, her breasts heaving as she raged at him. He and his friends had hurt her, and somewhere in his jaded heart, he felt embarrassed and sorry that she'd seen him at his worst and been treated so horribly in his presence.

As his hand hesitated while reaching for the latch on the gate, the front door opened. Phillip walked on casually, to disappear in the shadows, then turn to watch the scene play out behind him. Miss Fitzsimmons stood silhouetted in the doorway by the lamp she was holding, saying good-byes to Mrs. Carew and two other companions who appeared to be going out for the evening. She watched until their coach pulled away, then closed the door.

Phillip stood for a long time, wondering what to do. Miss Fitzsimmons appeared to be home alone, perhaps without even a maid for company, so there'd never be a better time to speak frankly with her. A light appeared in an upstairs room, most likely the drawing room where they'd met the previous day.

Without thinking further, he once again approached the gate, opened it quietly and walked to the door. He didnat know if she'd answer so late in the evening, and if she di and saw him standing there, she'd very likely refuse to let him in. In the darkness, he reached for the knob and turned it. The door opened. She hadn't bothered to lock it after her friends departed.

"Silly country girl," he whispered as he stepped into the darkened foyer. If nothing else came of this night, at least he'd take the opportunity to explain to Miss Fitzsimmons some of the dangers of living in the city.

Letting his eyes adjust to the shadows, he stood for a few minutes. As he suspected, there were no noises coming from the back of the house. There were either no servants in the rented abode or they'd already retired for the evening. He could see a speck of light under the door to the drawing room. Shedding his wet hat and gloves, he laid them on a small table, then started up the stairs. The fires had been banked for the evening, and the place was freezing.

At the top of the stairs, he waited outside the drawing room, listening for sounds. Not hearing any, he quietly opened the door a crack and peeked in. A single lamp burned, and a cozy fire in the small hearth warmed the room. Miss Fitzsimmons was standing at one of the windows, obviously deep in thought, peering out into the rainy night.

In the time he'd been outside pondering his next move, she'd changed from her evening dress and was wrapped in her nightclothes. A thin robe, with the tie cinched tightly at the middle, accented her slim waist and the gentle flair of her hips. Her shoes were gone, replaced by a pair of heavy, wool socks. Her beautiful chestnut hair fell loose and long down her back and just brushed the tops of her hips. In the firelight, it gave off red and gold highlights. He could just make out her profile, the furrowed brow, the way her teeth worried her bottom lip. She looked so lovely, so forlorn and vulnerable, that he had to restrain himself from rushing across the room to take her in his arms.

Not wanting to frighten her, he stepped fully into the room so that she'd see him when she turned around. "If I had a coin in my pocket," he said softly, "I'd say: a penny for your thoughts"a"he held his hands in a gesture of peace, palms outa""but since I haven't a coin, I guess I can't say it."

"Lord Wessington."

"Hello, Miss Fitzsimmons."

"Hello." Jane supposed she should have been shocked to see him standing there, but she wasn't. He had so fully occupied her mind for the past few hours, it was almost as if she'd conjured him up.

In the shadows cast by the fire, he looked dark and dangerous. His hair, wet from the rain, had been slicked back with his hand, and a few wayward locks dangled in disarray over his forehead. Although he was clean shaven, the angles of his face seemed sharper and more defined. The rain had soaked through whatever outer garments he'd been wearing, and the cloth of his shirt was molded tightly across his shoulders and the upper part of his chest. His tall, broad form filled up too much of the small room.

His tie was gone, a few buttons were undone and the shirt's sleeves rolled back, much as they had been the afternoon she'd stopped by his home for that disastrous visit; she was given the same view of the dark hair that swirled across his chest and forearms. Jane couldn't believe how her fingertips tingled, wondering what it would be like to touch some of it with her hands. Would it feel silky soft? Harsh and springy? She shook off the thoughts. He was too handsome for his own good, really, but the arrogant rogue certainly knew it.

"May I join you?" Phillip asked, gesturing toward the fire. "It's dreadfully cold out in the hall. I'm letting out all your warm air."

Realizing that he was studying her as intensely as she was studying him, she reached for the lapels of her robe and pulled the front tightly over her chest, hoping to cover every inch of her nightgown. "You shouldn't be here, sir. I'm not dressed. This is highly improper."

He smiled and took a step farther into the room, closing the door. "There's no one to know, and I won't tell if you won't."

"Mrs. Carew could come down at any moment."

"I was standing out on the street I saw her leave."

"Oh ..." She was unused to letting a man see her in such a state of undress. Her own father had never seen her without her shoes on, and here she was in front of this stranger wearing hardly anything at all. "Still, even though she's not here, I can't let you stay. It's terribly inappropriate."

"I'm soaked to the bone. Would you cast me back out onto the wet streets without a chance to warm myself?"

"No, I don't suppose I would. I haven't a servant about, but I could fix you some hot tea. Would you care for some?"

"No. Just let me stand by the fire for a few minutes."

"If you like." He walked to the hearth, holding his palms out to absorb the heat of the flames, and he was perfectly silhouetted by the firelight. He was a beautiful male specimen. Much different from her beloved blond-haired, blue-eyed Gregory, but beautiful nonetheless. ' 'Whatever are you doing walking about on such a night? Didnat your mother ever tell you you'd catch your death out in weather like this?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Actually she never had the chance. She died when I was a babe. And your mother? Is that what she would say to me?"

"Perhaps. If she were still with us, but she died when I was a young girl."

For a long, silent moment, they stared at each other. As it was their first communication of private information, this small exchange hovered in the air, taking on significant meaning in the dark and quiet house. Jane broke the moment first, walking to the sideboard and rifling through the contents.

"I don't drink spirits myself"a"she poured some amber liquid into a glassa"' 'but I believe this is a French brandy. It should take the edge off." She held it out, and he reached to accept it, their fingers brushing as the container passed from one hand to the other. Phillip's hands were cold, and Jane's were warm, and each had the strange sensation of wanting to wrap theirs around the other's, he to absorb some of her warmth, she to share some of hers.

He downed the contents of the glass in a quick swallow, then held it out while she poured him another. This one he sipped. "Thank you. It does help very much."

Because he was staring down at her so intensely, Jane walked over to the window and rested her hip against the sill. Wessington followed, leaning against the wall with one hand and sipping from the glass held with the other while he stared out at the quiet street. "You were lost in thought when I stepped into the room. What were you thinking about?"

Jane hesitated momentarily, wondering if she should lie, but quickly realized it was time to speak frankly. "I was thinking about you."

"And what were you thinking about me?"

"I was trying to decide what I would say to you if I could convince Master Thumberton to arrange another appointment between us."

"What had you decided would be appropriate?"

Jane worked one of her toes back and forth across the floor. "Oh, I suppose something about how sorry I was for the things I'd said to you. About your family and your home and your friends."

"Are you sorry?"

She shrugged, and a corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. "Not really, but I probably would have made the apology anyway."

Phillip chuckled. "You have an interesting style, Miss Fitzsimmons. And what else were you going to say, if Thumberton could have arranged this meeting?"

"I was preparing to do a bit of groveling."

"I can't imagine that you're very good at it."

"I'm horrible, but I was going to start practicing."

"Pride's a bitter tonic to swallow, isn't it?"

"Yes. I hate it."

He chuckled again, and the sound di something to her insides that she didnat like very much.

"And you, milord, if you could have found me at home alone in my drawing room, what were you thinking you'd say to me?"

"Oh, I suppose something about how sorry I was about the things you witnessed in my home and about how you were treated there."

"Are you sorry?"

"Actually, yes, I am. I'm very sorry." Phillip turned from the window to face her, his dark eyes sincere and intense in the dim shadows. "I hope you'll accept my sincerest apologies."

"I do, sir. Thank you. And I hope you'll accept mine. For coming there uninvited and for behaving as I di later on. I'm sorry."

"Accepted." He took a final sip of the searing liquid and set the glass on the sill. Leaning a shoulder against the wall, he folded his arms across his chest. "You never di tell me why you stopped by."

"It just seemed like a good idea. I have to make such a life-altering decision in such a short amount of time, and I didnat trust myself to do it simply through the short meetings Master Thumberton had scheduled for me here. I decided to do a little investigating on my own. It seemed a wise choice at the time, but. . ."

"Not later."

"Well, let's just say I didnat stop by anyone else's house."

"And how di your other interviews go?" Phillip was fairly certain they hadn't gone well.

"Quite badly, actually. That's why I have another meeting scheduled with Master Thumberton tomorrow morning. My friend, Elizabeth, convinced me that he is a decent sort of man, and if he is so taken with you, you must have some redeeming qualities. I was planning to ask him what they are." She didnat like the way he hovered so closely by her side, watching and studying her, his eyes so intense they seemed to be able to read her very thoughts. She turned her gaze to the fire. "What do you suppose he'd say?"

"Oh, probably some hogwash about how I'm a man with a decent heart and high moral standards, but because of the life I've led and the things that have happened to me, my stronger attributes are well hidden."

"Would he be right? Are you a man with a decent heart and high moral standards?"

Phillip paused for a moment, wondering if he should lie, but eventually deciding that it was time only for the truth. "No, I don't think so."

Jane was startled by the admission. She lifted her gaze to his once more and saw the twinkle of mischief in it. "Do you have any redeeming qualities?"

As Phillip pondered the question, he ran a hand through his damp hair, then sat next to her on the windowsill. "Not a one, I'm afraid." The admission might have been funny if it hadn't been too true.

"You're being too hard on yourself. There must be something."

"No, I think you had it right in the beginning. I'm a bit of a scoundrel and a cad. I drink and gamble and carouse. I've never worked a day in my life. I have no hobbies or interests. I'm simply the first and only son of a titled family. Not much was ever expected of me except that I would be just that: the first and only son. I'm frightfully good at enjoying all my position entails. I try to make the most of it."

"So you're a little bit spoiled, are you?"

"Perhaps more than a little bit."

His smile now was genuine, and Jane couldn't believe the things he was admitting. She'd never talked so candidly with a man in her life. "And you insist on having everything your own way?"

"All the time."

"And the entire focus of your day is to enjoy yourself?" Jane didnat need to look at him to know he was nodding in agreement. They both continued to stare at the fire, but he chuckled. That twinkle in his eye was back.

"Of course, if I had a little more money, I'd enjoy myself a great deal more. It's the dickens trying to make do without. I don't have the slightest idea how to go about it."