Page 54 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

The next morning was rushed, even more so because she’d spent the night wondering what Lord Whitly could possibly want to show her. Add to that a few highly inappropriate dreams that left her restless and achy. Worse, they weren’t technically dreams, since she’d been awake when those imaginings had wandered into her thoughts and refused to leave.

She felt as though she’d barely closed her eyes when her maid woke her with the message that Mr. Camden was waiting for her downstairs. He’d arrived two hours early for her meeting with Lord Rossgrove, insisting she be escorted. He also insisted that he was being helpful when he inspected her gown, her hair, even her shoes before he pronounced them acceptable. Well, almost acceptable, as she’d chosen a softer, less headache-creating hairstyle. He wanted her to change it to her usual severe style, but she refused, saying that she could not be clever with Lord Rossgrove while suffering from a migraine.

Naturally, Mr. Camden was nervous at her word “clever,” but she refused to be swayed. Since Lord Whitly’s return, she’d somehow become bolder, and she was loathe to give that up. She was a clever girl. Lord Rossgrove needed to understand that if they were to work together in support of Mr. Camden’s career.

So they left an hour before the appointed time, her maid serving as a bored chaperone. All three rode in her father’s carriage because it was more richly appointed than anything Mr. Camden could afford. And then, after all the pomp and anxiety, they sat waiting in Lord Rossgrove’s front hallway.

Not even shown into a parlor, but left sitting on a bench.

It was a calculated move, she was sure, meant to show that they were petitioners for favor. Mr. Camden kept murmuring how gracious the man was to see them in his home. Obviously, he didn’t understand the tactic, and frankly, his ignorance was irritating. Worse, no matter how much she reassured him that he had no need to hover, Mr. Camden would not leave.

An hour later, she patted his hand. “Never fear. I know what I am about,” she said softly, hoping it wasn’t a lie. She had been thinking hard about how to handle this interview. Lord Whitly’s comment that she had no power rankled. If the only thing Lord Rossgrove respected was power, she would pull it on like a cloak.

A smart man would not be fooled. A petty man would resent her for it. Either way, she would learn what kind of man Lord Rossgrove was. But to do it, she had to out-pompous the butler and out-power Lord Rossgrove.

An hour later, the aging butler chose to speak.

“Lord Rossgrove condescends to allow you into his library. Mind you do not touch, eat, or drink anything. You may sit if he offers it, but you must stand if he does not. And do not under any circumstances approach him closer than ten feet. That is the width of the desk plus the chairs. Do you understand? If he allows you to sit, you will claim the one farthest away. And you will show appropriate gratitude if that happy event should occur.”

Show appropriate gratitude? That was the last straw. She arched her brow and gestured to her hat and gloves, which rested neatly on the table appointed for such things.

“And you are not to touch my hat or gloves, sir, unless I specifically bid you to. If you should detect so much as a smudge on the silk, then you are allowed to clean it quickly with a brush—no bleach, for that would mark you as a fool—and I expect you to understand that I show you great favor in permitting such a thing. Normally, only my most trusted maid would be given such a task.”

Mr. Camden gasped in horror, but Mari did not waver. To her distinct pleasure, the man stiffened in rigid outrage before bowing to show grudging respect.

One point to her. On to the next confrontation.

The butler walked with achingly slow steps to the library. He opened the door, announced her, then withdrew. She proceeded immediately to the chair closest to Lord Rossgrove’s desk, where she waited, her brow arched, for him to stand, the way any gentleman would in the presence of a lady.

He didn’t stand. In fact, he remained hunched over a ledger, which he perused with the intensity of a miser over a stack of coins. It was pretense, she was sure. He was merely waiting to see if she would sit, thereby accepting his rudeness to her as if she were a servant.

She did not.

In the end, he looked up, pretended to be surprised, and pushed to his feet.

“Miss Powel, please do sit down.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She made sure her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat delicately as she sat.

Lord Rossgrove frowned. “Are you well, Miss Powel?”

“Merely a dry throat, my lord. London can be so dusty.” By saying this, she pointed out that his butler had not served her tea, and he heard the underlying criticism clearly.

“Didn’t Fletcher serve you? Bother the man.” Lord Rossgrove grabbed a bell and rang it with a loud clang. The butler appeared before the sound stopped echoing.

“My lord?”

“Bring Miss Powel some tea,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

Fletcher, poor man, forgot himself so much he let his mouth open in shock. But he recovered and quickly withdrew.

Point two in her favor. It appeared that the trappings of power were working for her.

She settled into a relaxed position and smiled blandly at Lord Rossgrove, doing her best to imitate Lady Eleanor in body, speech, and attitude. At this moment, Eleanor would wait for the gentleman to take control of the conversation, and then she might or might not deign to respond.

Lord Rossgrove mirrored her relaxed position and extended it, going so far as to let his head loll against the wing of his enormous chair. He was a tall gentleman with graying hair and large teeth, but his dress and attitude were restrained. Odd that so severe a man would have so wild a nephew, but young men didn’t always follow the examples of their elders.

“I can see why Mr. Camden favors you,” he said finally, his voice slow and his lips pinched tight.