Page 47 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Tens of thousands of pounds for investment.”

Mr. Powel shook his head. “I will not sell her to anyone.”

Good. Peter hadn’t meant it that way anyway. “A titled son-in-law, then.”

“Pah. You titles are always tripping about me. I turned one away just yesterday.”

That was a lie. Peter knew Mr. Powel did indeed lust for the peerage. But maybe not for just his daughter. “You have a son, do you not?” He already knew the answer.

“He’s on his grand tour.”

“Then there is something you want from me. For your son.” It wasn’t a question, and Mr. Powel didn’t treat it as one. Instead, he grinned and turned to his row of secretaries.

“Mr. Harper, please draw up the usual marriage contract for Lord Whitly. We’ll see what he thinks of it.”

It would be a disaster, no doubt. Fortunately, he knew a man with an excellent head for contracts. Meanwhile, Peter decided to taunt his adversary, who likely enjoyed a good negotiation as much as Peter did.

“Impressed so easily? Is your daughter mine, then?”

Mr. Powel’s answer was a laugh. Not just a simple chuckle, but a belly laugh that grew until the man was wiping tears from his eyes. Peter might have been insulted, except there was such good humor in the sound that he was hard-pressed not to join in.

Eventually, the man sobered. “Keep your hashish, my lord. I think I shall be vastly entertained without it.”

“I am very willing to share,” he responded.

“You should throw it in the fire. You’ll need all your wits to fence with me, and I am nothing compared to what Mari will put you through.”

Peter nodded, then took the box to the row of secretaries, setting it down in front of Mr. Harper. “My gift to you,” he said. “To smoke or eat, as you will. I suggest trying it with this afternoon’s tea.”

“At home,” growled Mr. Powel. “And do not report for work until your head has cleared.”

Peter winked at the row of wide-eyed young men. “There’s enough to share with your friends.” And not so much that it would harm them even if they smoked the entire box. “Just think kindly of me when we cross paths.”

He took the time to greet each man, memorizing their names and mannerisms. A great deal could be learned from young secretaries who had reason to be grateful.

Mr. Powel watched with an amused air. He likely understood what Peter was doing and approved, since he didn’t stop it. Or perhaps he trusted to the good sense of his men.

Then it was on to the next steps in this negotiation: a genial meal, some spicy bangla, and whatever hints he could learn about Mari.

Chapter Eleven

Mari glowered at the bright sunshine as she clomped her way up the steps to her home. From now on, she would never, ever rise early. It completely disordered her day. It was barely past teatime, and she already felt like a wet rag. The bruises from this morning’s fall ached like the devil, she had a headache from a terrible session with Greenie, made worse from sitting fruitlessly at Lady Eleanor’s salon. She’d wanted to get a private moment to ask the woman about Lord Rossgrove, but had been unable to manage the feat. And now the blasted sun chose to shine bright and hot right in her eyes. All she wanted to do was be on her bed with a lemon cloth over her eyes—

What the devil was that noise? Was her father singing? In the middle of the day?

Horace pulled open the door, his expression so pained as to immediately brighten her mood. Then another masculine voice joined her father’s. It was deeper, richer, and surprisingly sweet. She knew just whose it was, especially since the words were spoken in Hindi.

“Lord Whitly?” she asked Horace, her expression turning as sour as the butler’s.

Then it hit her. Lord Whitly was talking to her father. About their marriage. It had to be, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not until she brought Mr. Camden up to scratch.

“Yes,” Horace answered. “In the dining room for a late luncheon.”

Luncheon? It was past tea. Didn’t matter. They were here, and from the sounds of it, they were having too good a time. As if to underline the thought, her father abruptly burst out laughing. It was a big sound that boomed through the house and usually made her smile. This time, she ground her teeth in frustration.

“Cook finished the newest batch of bangla, didn’t he?”

“Precisely,” Horace intoned. She looked at their disapproving butler and resolved to give the understaff whatever was left. Why should she be the only one with upset plans? Watching Horace trying to control a too-jolly crew would make the day marginally better. Meanwhile, she needed to gather her nearest ally.