As Rich as a Rogue (11 page)

“Mr. Camden?” She frowned as she pushed through his words. “Lord Rossgrove would like you to wed before he supports you to his nephew's seat?”

“Yes, yes, that is it exactly.” He swallowed. “And, you see, in a man so attuned to the subtle rules of Society, he had some few suggestions as to whom that lady might be.”

Oh dear. That she understood very easily. “And…” She hesitated. Did she push the point? Demand to know her situation, or play the shrinking violet? Two weeks ago, she would have chosen modesty. But having spent the last week being battered about by Lord Whitly, she was sick to death of being diffident. So she lifted her chin. “Was I on Lord Rossgrove's list?”

He swallowed. “Sadly, no, Miss Powel.”

“Then I'm sorry, Mr. Camden, I cannot see Lord Rossgrove in a kindly light.”

“Of course not, of course not.” Then he bit his lip. “I told him of your many fine qualities and my deep respect for your person. He did of course refer to what he called your wayward Welsh ways, but I assured him that you have grown past such nonsense and are now a most respected and quiet woman.”

“I do try, Mr. Camden.”

“Yes, yes, and so I told him. Though he had heard about the wager, you see, with the parrot. That made it more difficult to convince him.”

Of course it did, and here was yet another difficulty she laid at Lord Whitly's feet. “But did you convince him?”

He flashed her a slow smile, one filled with canny understanding. “I am pleased to tell you that he was impressed by my determination. He could see that my affections were firmly engaged.”

They were? “I am gratified to hear that, Mr. Camden.”

“And so, Miss Powel, he would like to meet you.”

She stared at him, her mind whirling. “Meet me?”

“Yes,” he said. His eyes grew serious as his excitement drained away. He reached forward and took her hand, drawing it tight to his heart. “I should like very much to marry you, Miss Powel. I believe you and I suit extraordinarily well.”

“I—” she began, but he did not allow her to continue.

“We have a shared vision, you see. I believe you would make an excellent wife and mother to my aspirations. But none of that can come to fruition, none of our hopes can appear unless you pass muster with Lord Rossgrove.”

“I see,” she said, her voice quiet. “And if I do not?”

“Then I will have no choice but to end our association. Please understand, I have a great personal liking for you, but without Lord Rossgrove's support, my aspirations might as well be wishes on a falling star.”

“But surely he's not your only option.”

“He is the one here now. And if you cannot manage his approval, then you are not the helpmeet I need.”

She exhaled slowly. He was right.

“I mean no disrespect, Miss Powel.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Is there a time and place for this inspection?”

He didn't even wince at the word she used. “He has invited you to call on him for tea tomorrow.”

“Me?” she said. “Won't you be there?”

“No. Indeed, he was quite specific upon that point. You may bring your maid and no other.”

She nodded. She had wanted to begin establishing herself as an asset to a husband with aspirations. Apparently God had seen fit to test her even before she wore an engagement ring. “I won't disappoint you,” she said firmly.

“Good, good,” he said as he resumed walking. “And if I might be so bold, pray do not wear pink.”

She jolted. “What? Whyever not?”

He gave her a pitying look. “Because the color is flippant.”

She took a moment to allow the idea to sink in. Or perhaps what she needed to understand was the way Mr. Camden was staring at her, as if the character of a color was common sense. “What does he think of jonquil?” she ventured, not expecting an answer. She was simply trying to make a joke as a way to diffuse her nerves.

“Jonquil would be most unwise, Miss Powel. Most unwise indeed.”

It's generally considered crass to speak to a woman's father while still hard from kissing his daughter. Unfortunately, given the amount of lust Miss Powel inspired, Peter would be unlikely to find a time when he was not achingly ready to plant himself between her thighs. Which meant there was no point in delaying his discussion with her father. If only he could find the damned man.

Mr. Powel did not frequent the usual gathering places of gentlemen. He'd certainly been seen at White's, Brooks's, Watier's, and Boodle's, but usually as a guest and without any predictability. There was a coffeehouse near the docks that he sometimes enjoyed, and every gentleman wandered through a gaming hell or three at some point. But in general, no one could predict when or where the man would appear, except to say that he had an office on Cowper's Row.

An office like a solicitor or a banker, very bourgeois. So it was that Peter tromped up the steps into Mr. Powel's London office and found himself struck dumb.

He had been in many offices in his life. The headmaster's office at school burned dark in his memory, as did his father's ponderous edifice of dark wood and condescending tomes. But he'd also found happiness in his messy corner of the office he'd shared with a half dozen other East India employees. He'd cooled his heels by enormous, ornate desks in India, and once sat scribbling for two days next to an elephants' watering hole. But this place—this vast space of Mr. Powel's office—was as near to heaven as Peter had ever imagined.

Mr. Powel's place of business took up an entire floor of the modest building. Whereas most offices had doors and walls, this space had none of those things. It was an imposing place of desks, all covered in paper. Three secretaries sat shoved into the farthest corner. Fortunately it was near a window, so the hunched men at least had light. But the rest of the floor was filled with tables covered in sketches, notes, and a treasure trove of maps.

And in the center of it, like a maestro conducting his orchestra, stood Mr. Powel. Or rather, he walked, muttered, and inspected, moving from one spot to another, pulling out a map, making notes in correspondence, and occasionally tugging at his hair.

“Is it teatime already?” Mr. Powel said as he set down a well-worn diary. He pulled out his pocket watch absently, but then abruptly glared at it. “No. No, it's not.” Then he looked up, his amber eyes widening in surprise. “And you are not the tea girl.”

“No, I am not.” Peter sketched a quick bow. “Peter George Norwood, Lord Whitly, at your service.”

“I know who you are. You're Sommerfield's heir, and the gentleman who waltzes, trains parakeets, and tosses my daughter off her horse.”

Peter felt his lips twitch in a smile. “I definitely waltz, am middling at best with birds, and sadly, I was simply too slow to catch her. I did nothing to knock her off her seat.”

“Then what caused it? She's not a gel who simply falls off her horse.”

Very true, but Peter had no wish to talk so quickly of marriage. Not when Mari's heart was so unreadable. What Peter came here to discover was the character of her father, which at the moment appeared more unpredictable than his wealthy cit image would suggest.

“I'm afraid you'll have to ask her that. She wouldn't explain it to me either.” Then he wandered to the closest corner, clearly devoted to waterways. He saw maps of canals, seas, and oceans, with sharp lines as used by sailors to navigate. Lolling lopsided in the middle of the table sat a model of some sort of sailing vessel such as a boy might fashion, but there were three others that looked meticulous in construction in a neat row behind. He waved a genial hand at the top map and decided to start with flattery. “This looks very impressive. I probably couldn't understand half of it. Have you plans for something exciting?”

The man frowned, clearly not easily swayed by flattery. “I always have plans. Ideas at a minimum. Only a dolt has nothing in his head.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “You were in India. What do you know of the caravan routes?”

“Inside or out of India?”

“Out.”

“Very little, I'm afraid.” Peter picked up the farthest model boat. “I traveled extensively inside the country, but only took the usual sailing route out.”

Mr. Powel joined him at the table, his thumb holding a page in another diary. It showed a rough sketch of Turkey, bisected with a jagged red line. Presumably the route the diarist took through that country.

“You were a taxman, as I recall,” Mr. Powel said. “Pulling rubies out of the maharajas.”

Emeralds more often, but he wasn't about to argue. Neither was he going to elaborate.

Meanwhile, Mr. Powel leaned against the table, his expression turning pensive. “I worked shipping during my time in India,” he said bluntly. “Messy business, cutthroats everywhere, but I learned the value of transport.” He rubbed absently at a smudge on his hand. “Can't make a profit if you can't get the goods to market.”

Peter nodded, then wandered to the next corner. The left wall was covered by the roads of England, drawn in a precise hand, while the right was dedicated to the Continent. Both were covered with smudge marks, as if traced repeatedly with a dirty finger. “So that's what this is? New routes to get Indian goods to market?” If Powel succeeded, that would be a treasure beyond price, but the risks were enormous. He peered around the table. There were stacks of books that looked to be more journals and travel records.

“It's one of my notions,” Mr. Powel hedged.

A serious one, obviously. Peter started to wander to the next table, his eye catching on a map of the English canal system. “You seem to have a great many excellent notions, at least according to my father.”

Mr. Powel didn't answer. His gaze was alternating between Peter and a larger map of Turkey, this one not nearly as specific as the one in the diary.

“He says you have the Midas touch.”

“Your father exaggerates,” muttered Mr. Powel, his attention centered on rooting through another set of papers beneath the map of Turkey.

Peter paused, watching the man intently, wondering how best to approach this unusual man. “Don't stare. It's rude,” Mr. Powel admonished, all without lifting his gaze from his papers.

“You sound just like your daughter.”

“She's an uncommonly intelligent woman.” Then he looked up. “Both my daughters are, though I never would have guessed it of Josephine at first. Mari at least thinks before she acts. Good quality in a woman.”

“In any person, I imagine.”

Mr. Powel finally turned to stare directly at Peter. “Is that why you want to marry her? Because she's levelheaded?”

Peter didn't answer. Thanks to his father's love of discipline, he was uncomfortable discussing anything precious to him. And India had honed that reticence into lock-jawed silence.

Meanwhile, Mr. Powel continued, his gaze unnervingly direct. “You don't need her dowry, not if you're smart with what you've brought back from India.”

“You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Powel, when I know so little about you.”

“Pah,” the man said with a wave. “We know a great deal about each other, I'd wager. Still doesn't tell me why you're here.”

Peter idly picked up a sketch of a new kind of carriage. Intriguing design, obviously meant for stability, not speed. “I'd think it was obvious. You've made a great deal of money for my father. I'd like to invest some of my blunt.”

Mr. Powel's expression tightened in confusion. “If that's what your father considers a great deal, then your title isn't as well-heeled as I thought.”

“He said thousands of pounds.” £3,621 to be exact, according to the ledger. And that was only the newest ledger entry.

Mr. Powel smiled a broad grin that showed crooked teeth but made his face light with humor. “It's humbug, son. He's invested with me once, and the profits are growing slowly.”

“Just the once?”

“Still growing.”

Peter nodded. “Interesting. He said it was in a shipment of spices from India.” That's what the ledger recorded. Spice sales. Seventeen entries.

“Spices, bah,” Mr. Powel said as he dropped the diary. “Too touchy, and the English palate isn't as accepting as everyone pretends. Silk is the better investment if you can keep the vermin out of the stores.”

Peter agreed, but he was more interested in the three thousand pounds his father had recorded. “But my father said it was spice.”

Mr. Powel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Your father can say what he wants to whomever he wants. Earls usually do.”

“I'd like to know more.”

Mr. Powel turned his back. “Then talk to your father.”

“I'd like to invest.”

The man didn't even pause as he pulled his chair over and settled down in front of his maps of Turkey. “I'm sorry. I have nothing available right now. Talk to me in a few months.”

“Even if I have tens of thousands of pounds?”

“Even so.”

Peter crossed his arms. Flattery hadn't worked. Appealing to the man's greed got him nowhere. Time to start looking for a vice.

“Perhaps I'm approaching this the wrong way,” he tried. “I'm newly returned to London, have some extra blunt you don't seem to want. Is there a gaming hell you'd recommend?”

“No.”

“Haarkata Lane was a wonder, was it not?”

The mention of India's most infamous street of whorehouses got nothing but a sigh.

Not the usual vices, then. “I miss Indian food. You're right about the English palate being used to dull fare, but it seems mine has expanded in six years away. Any recommendations?”

The man set down his map and turned to look at him. “Everyone seems to think that you're a jolly good bloke. That's what they say, you know. Jolly good bloke. And yet I find you remarkably irritating.”

Whereas Peter was finding himself remarkably entertained. He'd forgotten how much fun it could be to ferret out a difficult man's character. Most people would have revealed more by now.

“Some people take longer to notice my good qualities.”

The man snorted in answer, and Peter counted that as a good sign. He was laughing—after a fashion—rather than tossing Peter out on his ear. Meanwhile, Peter decided to offer one last temptation before abandoning the vices altogether. He pulled out a special box and set it on the table between them.

“What's that?”

“Something I'm willing to share in the name of getting to know my future father-in-law.”

Now Mr. Powel did set down his map to look Peter fully in the eye. “That's a confident statement, given how often I've heard Mari curse your name.”

“She is also taking a while to see my good qualities.”

Again the snort, this time a bit louder. “She has good sense.”

Peter only shrugged, which gave Mr. Powel time to lean forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “I won't force her to marry you, title or no. I'll stop her if she's hell-bent on a bounder, and if I don't like you, I'll cut off her dowry too.”

Peter shook his head. “You won't do that. You dote on your girls, and you'll make sure she's provided for.” It was a guess, but a good one as the man folded his arms.

“She'll have what she needs in ways that will prevent any jackanapes husband from touching her money.” He lifted his chin, an angry glint in his eyes. “It can be done, you know. I can set her up without letting you have a ha'penny.”

“I have no doubt.” He pulled out a stool and dropped onto it, setting his ankle on his knee. It wasn't an easily defensible position. He'd never do something so awkward in India. But this was England, and he seriously doubted any of the secretaries in the corner would skewer him with a knife. So he took the casual pose and hoped he looked confident rather than arrogant.

Apparently it was a good choice, because Mr. Powel released another snort, this one soft and appreciative. “All right, Lord Whitly.” He reached for the box. “Let's get to know one another.”

He popped open the lid to see a box of the finest hashish in England. It might even have been the only hashish in England, but Peter wasn't going to keep it hidden. A tool was only good if one used it, and he considered hashish one of the best in his arsenal.

Mr. Powel's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he lifted the box closer. He pinched the substance, feeling the consistency and quality of the product like a true connoisseur.

“I've had better,” he mused.

“But not in years, I'll wager.”

Mr. Powel flashed a rueful grin. “Not since India. Do you have more?”

Peter shook his head. “This is the last of it, though I could probably get more.”

“So could I, but I don't.”

Peter could guess the reason, but he waited for the man to elaborate.

“I've seen people destroyed by this.”

“Hashish? Or opium?”

“Both, though opium's done the most damage.”

That was Peter's belief as well.

Mr. Powel set the box back on the table, but he didn't shut the lid. “Do you eat it or smoke it?”

Peter had done both, but he pulled out a pipe. “Only if you wish, sir. I have no interest in seeing you destroyed.”

The man chuckled. A fine improvement from the earlier snorts. “So you mean to loosen my tongue this way.”

“I've never heard of you drinking to excess. You barely gamble, and the tarts have never met you. By all accounts, you are an upstanding family man.” He didn't add the sneering word “businessman” that so often accompanied that description. “But every man has a vice. I'd like to see how deeply yours runs.”

“Not that deeply. Even when the hashish was plentiful, I tried it only a few times.” He arched his brow. “What about you?”