Page 5 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

She shook her head. “I cannot!” she cried.

“Oh, but you can,” returned Lady Illston. “I am the judge, and I declare that a kiss will be proper. No one shall think the worse of you for it.”

Of all the idiotic things to say. “You cannot promise that, Lady Illston.”

“I can,” she said. Then she looked to the crowd. “Come, come, don’t you agree? This kiss will be perfectly proper. Lady Castlereigh? Lady Jersey?”

No. No, it couldn’t be. This wager couldn’t already have attracted the attention of two patronesses of Almack’s. And yet, to her horror, the press of bodies separated to reveal those two ladies plus a third. Lady Cowper, also a patroness of Almack’s. If the three of them agreed, then everyone else must follow.

“My ladies,” Mari began, “I apologize. This wager is not proper—”

“And yet it seems it is already done,” interrupted Lady Jersey. “Acquaint me of the particulars.”

Several people leaped into the discussion. The details of the offense and the wager were recounted a dozen times. Damnation, Lord Whitly had caught the attention of all of Society. And he’d put her directly in the middle of it.

When the recounting was done, the three patronesses looked to one another. Lady Castlereigh gave the verdict. “We wish to see this apology,” she said in ringing tones. “Therefore, we declare it proper.”

In the general roar of approval, the parakeet declared the future.

“Winner, winner!” it cried.

“Not him,” Mari said loudly as she picked up the bird. “In the future, Greenie, that shall be my name.”

And in this way, she began her war.

Chapter Two

Two hours later, Mari finally made her way back to her family’s home near Grosvenor Square. Her father never spoke the name of their street. He had the money for the best lodgings in London, but not the pedigree for a true Grosvenor location. So they resided “near to Grosvenor,” and she hated every step as she trudged up to their doorway. Trailing a step behind, her maid chattered incessantly.

“Me cousin trained his rooster to crow when he whistled a particular tune. They would go to the pub and there’d be Jeb whistling and the cock crowing an’ people buying pints ’cause they never heard anything like that afore. And then I heard tell of a man who trained a rat…”

If only the woman had advice on exactly how to train a blasted bird. She was about to say as much when their butler pulled open the door with rigid pomposity. The man’s name was Harvey Horace, but she’d mentally dubbed him Horrid Horace. He disdained everything and everyone. Which was the exact reason her father had hired him. At least his presence silenced her maid.

“Good afternoon, Horace,” she said as she stripped off her hat and gloves. Her arms felt like soggy linen after lugging around that parakeet cage. But she lay her headache directly at Lord Whitly’s feet.

“I’m going to rest, Horace. Please let me know when Papa returns.” She would have to tell him that she’d become the center of gossip again. He was desperate to fit into the elite for all the money it would bring to his business ventures. But he couldn’t do that if his daughter was constantly getting into scrapes.

Meanwhile, Horace sniffed twice before speaking. “Lady Eleanor and Mr. Niles Camden await you in the front parlor.”

She froze, her foot halfway suspended and aimed toward her bedroom. “They’re here?” she asked needlessly. The last man she wanted to see was a would-be suitor.

“Front parlor.”

She felt her cheeks color at his haughty tone even though she was the mistress and he the servant. “Very well. Have you sent in tea already?”

“Naturally.” The word was filled with insult that she dared ask.

“I’ll go in.” She took a moment to smooth her hair. “Do ask Mama to join us when she returns.”

She followed Horace as he led her the three steps to the parlor, then paused to steady herself while Horace threw open the door and announced her. Bastard couldn’t even wait until she exhaled.

Inside the room, Mr. Camden leaped to his feet. Lady Eleanor rose as she always did: with grace and style.

“I’m so sorry you had to wait,” she said, slipping into her best manners. “I trust Horace has seen to your comfort?”

“Most definitely,” Mr. Camden answered. “Excellent man.” He beamed at the butler before executing his bow to her.

“We’ve been quite comfortable,” Lady Eleanor said as the two women held hands and smiled at each other. Eleanor was a true lady, the daughter of a duke, and as perfect a woman as Mari could ever aspire to be. And yet inside, Mari longed for the wild starts of her sister, the enthusiastic embraces, and the way Josephine used to grab her hands and twirl her around. When was the last time someone had touched her, skin to skin?