Page 8 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Good humor,” he answered blithely. “But we are alone now. What do you wish to say?”

“Alone!” the earl spat. “In this place?”

“We are as private as we would have been at White’s. More so, since it is quieter there. Things are more easily overheard. Or I could visit you at home Thursday noon. I offered that in my note.”

“Thursday! As if I don’t know that trick. Come Thursday, you would delay until Sunday.”

That had not been his intention, but there’d been a time when he’d used that trick. “Well, we are here now, Father. What do you want to say?” Miss Powel’s breasts would be full, round peaches and smell sweet. He couldn’t wait to feel them puckering in his hands.

“Very well, I shall be brief.”

Thank God.

“Do you intend to see to your responsibilities?”

A dark pink tip with a large rose circle around it. “Er…yes, of course I do. Uh…do you mean the finding of a wife?”

“Do you mistake me for your mother? The women are her concern. If you die without issue, your brother is perfectly capable of taking the reins when you fail.”

Yes, his brother was more than willing to take up the reins. Though they’d have to find the miscreant first. At the moment, Lucius was campaigning…somewhere. “Where is Lucius?”

His father waved the question away. “Not here.”

Obviously. Peter made a mental note to ask his mother. It was disgraceful that he’d lost track, but then, the military never kept the family well informed.

“If you’re not here to demand I take a wife—”

“Hardly.”

“Then what responsibilities should I pursue?”

“The estate! Bloody hell, it’s like talking to a noddy. The title needs more funds. We’re desperately lacking in improvements, and the canal isn’t working. All of that costs money, and if it’s to be your land someday, you must see to its maintenance.”

“But it’s not mine now, Father. And I’ve already sent you all the money I could. That was, if you recall, the reason I went to India in the first place.” It wasn’t the only reason, but his father didn’t need to know that.

“Don’t mistake me for one of your lackwit friends. You’ve come back from India a nabob. It’s all anyone can talk about. You, that dratted Welsh girl, and her silly bird.”

“You cannot believe what they say.”

His father snorted. “Of course, I can! You’ve fine clothes on your back, an emerald on your finger, and prime horseflesh that made the trip with you.”

That was, in fact, everything he had, but no one knew that. And he meant to keep it that way. “I mean to breed her, Father.”

“Exactly. And you can’t do that without money.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, forced to study his father as he might a maharaja. “I see you’re in fine clothes, have excellent horseflesh, and wear a ruby on your finger. I’d say the only difference between us is the color of the stone.”

“Which is why you need to shore up the estate—”

Peter snapped his fingers as if just remembering something. “There is one other difference.” He leaned forward, doing his best to appear intimidating. “You are the Earl of Sommerfield. You hold the title and the responsibility.”

“We need the cash, son. We need it desperately.”

“Why?”

His father’s face turned red. If they had been alone, it would have been the prelude to a tirade. But they were in public, so Peter was able to stop it.

“I have the right to ask. If you want me to shore up the accounts, then I need to know why.”