Page 7 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“I know, but—”

“Tut. Don’t interrupt. We have a great deal to discuss.”

Mari nodded. “Your plan to turn this to my favor.” She waited, her breath held. Lady Eleanor was a precise woman who would not begin until the perfect moment. But after two minutes of silence, Mari ran out of patience.

“Lady Eleanor—”

“My plan is to listen. To you.”

Mari stilled. Listen to her? No one ever listened to her, and that was rather annoying. The novelty of the experience had her at a loss. “Well?” prompted Lady Eleanor. “Tell me everything.”

“Oh. Of course. Well, I was carrying that stupid bird, when he said—”

“Not that! I already know all about that.”

Mari huffed out a breath. “It only just happened.”

“Nevertheless.” Eleanor scooted forward on her seat. “I want to know—exactly—what Lord Whitly said to you six years ago.”

*

Peter George Norwood, Lord Whitly, couldn’t stop grinning, despite the afternoon’s bizarre encounter with Miss Powel. Her bad temper was a minor blight on the marvelous joy of being back in England. And not just England, but a gaming hell, surrounded by genial fellows and eating solid English fare. Or more accurately, drinking the brandy.

He took his time with his drink, rolling it around on his tongue, allowing the aroma to sink into his nostrils while the liquid bathed his teeth. God, how he’d missed it. Too bad the food wasn’t as delightful. Sadly, he’d gotten used to Indian spices burning his palate, making English fare seem bland.

“Blast it, Whitly, give us a hint what you’re going to teach the bird,” said one of his companions, a man who needed money and was trying to get it in all the wrong ways.

“He can’t do it. Wouldn’t be sporting,” countered the youngest of his dinner guests, a youth who simply needed time to grow before embarking on a career.

“I’m not going to help him,” argued the first. “I’m going to wager on whether he’ll manage it. Some things are harder for a bird to say than others.”

The youth huffed out a breath. “That’s not sporting either! We’ve all got bets down. Book at White’s has three pages of them.”

Four other voices broke in, all with an opinion as to what was sporting and what was not. Peter hid his smile behind his drink. Only in England did they have such conversations, and he loved every heated word. Gentleman’s honor, a sporting wager, even the good-natured way they discussed cheating—it all amounted to jolly fun without fear of bloodshed.

Child’s play, and he adored it.

It was, in fact, a large reason why he’d come home. The other, of course, was the aged, gloomy fellow sitting across from him, listening to the debate. It was all dark, brooding looks from his father, the Earl of Sommerfield, who preferred serious debate while directing affairs of state.

The earl had sent a summons an hour before dinner. Peter considered it ill manners to cancel a dinner engagement already arranged, so he’d invited his father here, fully expecting a refusal. He was stunned speechless when the earl stomped into the dining room of this barely reputable gaming hell.

“Welcome back to England’s crowning jewel, my lord,” said an elegant voice at his elbow.

Peter turned to see a stranger with a warm smile on a common face. The gentleman was dressed well enough, with expensive fabrics and a clean shirt.

“I assume you mean London, not this particular hell.” Peter smiled because he thought it polite to return expressions in equal measure.

“Of course, of course.” The large man bowed. “Mr. Bernard Drew, my lord, at your service.”

Ah, the new owner of this establishment. Rumor had it that he was the brother of the Duchess of Bucklynde. “Whenever you wish to play, I shall be happy to extend you a line of credit—”

“Off with you,” interrupted the earl. “My son needs no credit, and certainly not from the likes of you. Thieves and sharps, every one of you.” Then he glared around at Peter’s companions until one by one, everyone grew uncomfortable.

Peter sighed. His father did know how to sour a room. “Get my friends some more of this excellent drink,” he said to Mr. Drew, ignoring his father’s huff of disdain. Then he turned to his companions. “Pick a table. I will join you soon.”

The younger set disappeared with alacrity. Only one lingered. His oldest friend, Ash, cocked an eyebrow behind the earl’s back. Peter shrugged, then gestured his friend away. This confrontation with his father was unavoidable, so he might as well get it over with. Besides, he’d figured out in his adolescence how to survive it. He thought about ladies’ breasts until the whole mess was over. And Miss Powel had nice ripe ones, likely with pert tips of a lovely color. Would they be pink or more dusky brown? He could drown out his father for hours, contemplating the possibilities.

“I cannot understand what you find amusing in those numbskulls.”