Page 95 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“I will tell you about the tavern fight,” she said as they headed up the stairs, “if you will explain about Papa’s ledger.”

The deal was struck. She knew she could explain things to her mother’s satisfaction. Mama understood the need to do something wild sometimes. And if Mari could gain insight into her father’s worries, then it would be that much easier to handle him later.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Peter didn’t like speaking to the boy in front of Mari’s father, but he’d faced thornier problems. The trick would be to appear a genial buffoon. Fortunately, Mr. Powel was not an idiot and could be counted on to allow Peter to play out his hand while keeping his own close to his heart. It was the way of a skilled negotiator.

They stepped into the library, shut the door behind them, and found their seats. Mr. Powel even gestured for Tie to settle in the dark leather, despite his grubby clothing and filthy appearance.

Perfect.

Peter began making friends with the boy.

“Your name is Tie, isn’t it? Do you know who I am?”

“No, sir.”

“He’s the bloody heir to the Earl of Sommerfield,” snapped Mr. Powel, “and I want to know what you were doing out all night with my daughter!”

Both Peter and Tie jolted at the man’s explosive tone. Apparently, his negotiating skills disappeared when confronted with a threat to his daughter.

“Sir,” Peter began slowly, “there is no reason to discuss the marriage contract in front of young Tie here.”

“And there will be no marriage if this is how you treat her! I’ve been asking about you. Learned an interesting tidbit about your time in the East India Company.”

Well, he’d known his financial state wouldn’t stay secret for long. It was no surprise that Mari’s father had discovered he wasn’t the nabob everyone thought. But again, there was no need to discuss this before the boy.

“You’ve been woken tonight by some strange things, sir, but I have been awake all night trying to protect your daughter. She and I went to a lot of trouble to bring this young man here, and I’m very interested in hearing what he has to say. Aren’t you?”

And right here was the test of Mr. Powel. If the man chose temper instead of information, then he was an undisciplined fool. If he controlled himself to hear what was happening, then Peter would be inclined to trust the man. He waited, his expression as neutral as possible while the man visibly cooled his temper.

“She’s my daughter, man,” he said with a huff. “The sensible one.”

“She is still sensible, sir. Just too restricted.” The man opened his mouth to argue, but Peter held up his hand. “We can discuss her choices later, sir.”

“The boy,” Mr. Powel said with a grudging acknowledgment. “Tie’s your name? Do you have a last one?”

“Williams.”

“Tie Williams. Good name.”

Peter could see that the boy had never considered his name good or otherwise.

“I want to thank you, young man,” Mr. Powel continued. “You came when my daughter asked you to. That was considerate of you. Decent thing to do, and all that.”

Tie didn’t know how to answer. Neither did Peter. Obviously Mr. Powel knew how to talk kindly to people, servants and urchins included.

“So go ahead, Tie. Tell Lord Whitly whatever you need to.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he shot Peter a panicked look. “I—I—”

He had no idea what to say, so Peter gave him a warm smile as he clapped his hand on his forehead. “I completely forgot.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarts his father’s cook had given him. “Mrs. Evans had these for you. Said you like them.”

He gave the boy the tarts. Dropped the packet into the child’s lap, and watched him look at them with round, hungry eyes.

“Go ahead. I know how good they are. I used to sit at the table and eat until my belly burst. And then, when she wasn’t looking, I’d stuff extra in my pockets.”

Tie nodded. “Cricket likes ’em. He lets me sleep with the blanket if I get ’im one.”