Page 67 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“It’s not fancy enough for you, I’m sure,” said the housekeeper. “But we enjoy a comfortable chat every now and then.”

“Indeed we do,” agreed Mrs. Evans.

Peter opened his mouth to comment, but the ladies went on as if he weren’t there. “Why, just yesterday we were talking, weren’t we? About how I found little Betsy crying her eyes out.”

“Terrible thing. Seems she must have tripped in the back parlor. Was bruised something awful.”

Then both women looked directly at him. Was it his turn to talk now? “Something awful?” he echoed dumbly.

“Yes. The back parlor is where your father likes to read his paper. He does it when the maids come to dust, you know. Says he likes looking at something pretty.”

Oh hell. He knew his father enjoyed a little pinch and tickle with a lively maid, but he’d always done it with willing servants. It sounded as if his father had gotten more aggressive. “How badly was Betsy hurt?”

“Oh, not bad at all,” Mrs. Osborn reassured him. “Just a bump and a scare, but she won’t go in to dust again. Not with the earl there.”

“No,” he agreed. “No, she shouldn’t. Have you mentioned this to my mother?”

“Lawks no,” said Mrs. Osborn with a laugh, though the humor didn’t reach her eyes. “She retired to the country a few days back, so we’re more like a bachelor household now.”

A bachelor household. Which meant his father was getting wilder with his mother away. Hell. “Tell me about the footmen employed here. Good men?”

“Yes, milord,” both women said together.

That was something.

Then Mrs. Osborn set down her teacup with a small sigh. “But we’ve only the two, and they’re young. Not very large, neither.”

And his father was a large, imposing man. “I’ll send around two more.” He eyed the women. “You’ll see that they’re incorporated into the household?” He’d make sure they knew their job was to protect the women staff from his father. Bloody hell, this was awful.

“That would be easy as pie,” Mrs. Evans said with a relieved smile.

“Is there more I should know?” he asked, his mind already slipping to Mari. He had a courtship to continue.

“Just that we had an odd visitor not more than an hour ago,” Mrs. Evans said.

“Oh yes,” continued Mrs. Osborn. “The boy. Comes by now and again. Can’t be more than ten, dirty, and always has a message for his lordship.”

“A message for my father?” He couldn’t imagine the earl allowing a filthy child into his presence.

“Yes, my lord,” said Mrs. Evans, picking up the tale. “Lives near the docks, as far as I can tell. Always starving, and his eyes are going hard, if you know what I mean. But not completely. Not yet. I make sure to have some food for him, poor thing, and I’ve earned a bit of his trust from that.”

The housekeeper poured herself more tea. “Comes in, speaks to his lordship, and then leaves. Unless we can distract him with a bite to eat.”

“Is it always the same boy?” Peter asked.

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Evans.

“But he’s the right boy,” said Mrs. Osborn. “The right one to speak to, if you had some tarts for him. Best to catch him before he sees the earl.”

“And some good stew. That boy likes my stew.”

“Everyone likes your stew,” said Peter, though his mind was on this child. “Do you know where he goes?”

The ladies shook their heads but then began giving him details, as if they’d just remembered them.

“His name is Tie because he’s good with knots—”

“But I think it’s really Tyler. And he wasn’t always living like this.”