Page 44 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Mr. Powel didn’t answer. His gaze was alternating between Peter and a larger map of Turkey, this one not nearly as specific as the one in the diary.

“He says you have the Midas touch,” Peter continued.

“Your father exaggerates,” muttered Mr. Powel as he rooted through another set of papers beneath the map of Turkey.

Peter paused, watching the man intently, wondering how best to approach this unusual man.

“Don’t stare. It’s rude,” Mr. Powel admonished without lifting his gaze from his papers.

“You sound like your daughter.”

“She’s an uncommonly intelligent woman.” Then he looked up. “Both my daughters are, though I never would have guessed it of Josephine. Mari thinks before she acts. Good quality in a woman.”

“In any person, I imagine.”

Mr. Powel finally turned to stare directly at Peter. “Is that why you want to marry her? Because she’s levelheaded?”

Peter didn’t answer. He’d learned early to keep quiet about anything he valued. India had honed that reticence into lock-jawed silence.

Meanwhile, Mr. Powel continued, his gaze unnervingly direct. “You don’t need her dowry, not if you’re smart with what you’ve brought back from India.”

“You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Powel, when I know so little about you.”

“Pah,” the man said with a wave. “We know a great deal about each other, I’d wager. Still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

Peter picked up a sketch of a new kind of carriage. Intriguing design, obviously meant for stability, not speed. “I’d think it was obvious. You’ve made a great deal of money for my father. I’d like to invest some of my blunt.”

Mr. Powel’s brows rose. “If that’s what your father considers a great deal, then your title isn’t as well-heeled as I thought.”

“He said thousands of pounds.” £3,621 to be exact, according to the ledger. And that was only the newest ledger entry.

Mr. Powel smiled a broad grin that showed crooked teeth but made his face light with humor. “It’s humbug, son. He’s invested with me once, and the profits are growing slowly.”

“Just the once?”

“Still growing.”

Peter nodded. “Interesting. He said it was in a shipment of spices from India.” That’s what the ledger recorded. Spice sales. Seventeen entries.

“Spices, bah,” Mr. Powel said as he dropped the diary. “Too touchy, and the English palate isn’t as accepting as everyone pretends. Silk is the better investment if you can keep the vermin out of the stores.”

Peter agreed, but he was more interested in the three thousand pounds his father had recorded. “But my father said it was spice.”

Mr. Powel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Your father can say what he wants to whomever he wants. Earls usually do.”

“I’d like to know more.”

Mr. Powel turned his back. “Then talk to your father.”

“I’d like to invest.”

The man didn’t even pause as he pulled his chair over and settled down in front of his maps of Turkey. “I’m sorry. I have nothing available right now. Talk to me in a few months.”

“Even if I have tens of thousands of pounds?”

“Even so.”

Peter crossed his arms. Flattery hadn’t worked. Appealing to the man’s greed got him nowhere. Time to start looking for a vice.