As Rich as a Rogue (17 page)

“He will talk to his friends,” she said miserably. Bad enough to be the subject of gossip among the
ton
, but it upset her to know that now she would be an object of fun among Mr. Camden's subordinates. Whatever had possessed her to think this was a good idea?

Meanwhile, Mr. Camden turned back to her, his expression tight. What he had to be angry about, she didn't know. This was all his fault. What man turned kissing into an attack by an ill-bred mastiff?

“Your hair is untidy,” he said as he straightened his waistcoat.

“You made it so,” she shot back as she tried to smooth the strands down. She couldn't without a brush, but she did her best.

“No,” he countered, “it was messy when you first arrived. I noticed it right away.”

Of course he did. “I don't like pinning it so tight. It gives me a headache.”

“And I don't like wearing shirt points that stab my neck, but there are some things we do because it is appropriate.”

“You're not wearing high shirt points,” she said. “And that is nothing like spending the day with something trying to pull your scalp off your head.”

He dropped his hands onto his hips, his expression severe. “You are discomposed, Miss Powel.”

That was the final straw. The nerve of any man talking to her like a stern father when he was both a disgusting kisser and in no way affianced to her. And after weeks of careful cultivation on her part!

“And you, Mr. Camden, need not call on me ever again.” Then, just to prove the point, she pulled her list of gentlemen out of her purse, flattened it on the only clear space of his desk, and with great flourish, crossed his name out.

Number 27 no more.

Then with a huff, she spun on her heel and stomped out.

Peter got the message while he was still dressing for Lord and Lady Vinson's ball. He'd spent the day trying to ferret out the differences between his father's ledgers and Mr. Powel's statement that there had been only one middling payout from their joint investment. All it had gotten him was a headache. Now he was looking forward to an unencumbered evening with Mari. He was both anxious and excited to tell her the things he needed to share. And it turned out that both those emotions led to a state of arousal that was highly embarrassing in the presence of one's newly hired valet. But then his father's footman rushed into the room, and he had to redirect his thoughts.

“Mrs. Evans sent me, yer lordship,” the man huffed.

Mrs. Evans was his father's cook and Peter's best ally in that household. “Really?” he said, lifting his chin so his new valet could finish off the cravat. “Whatever for?”

“Said she remembered that name you'd asked for. Her cousin's cousin's nephew, she said.” The footman's expression spoke volumes about the illogic of running through London just to relay such a benign message. What it really meant was that something odd was going on at his father's household.

“Did she say more?”

“No, milord. Just that her memory being what it was, it be best if you came right away. I tried to get her to write it down, but—”

“Don't question her, man. Mrs. Evans has her own way of doing things, and neither you nor I can change that.”

The footman didn't have an answer. Didn't matter. Peter let his valet finish off the cravat, and then he pulled on his coat. He'd look damned stupid riding a horse in all this finery, but a hackney would take too long. Mrs. Evans had said to come right away.

So he flipped the footman a coin as thanks and then left. He made it to his father's back door in a frustratingly slow twenty minutes. When he slipped in the kitchen door, he could see she was ready for him. The entire kitchen area was empty except for Mrs. Evans, who was just pulling a kettle off the stove and bringing it to three teacups already laid out on a tray.

“Mrs. Evans,” he said warmly. Some of his happiest childhood memories were of the two of them sharing a bit of tea and a sweet. “I got your message.”

“Got here faster than I expected, but your boots have suffered.”

Peter looked down and sighed. He'd been quite pleased by the shine on his Hessians, but now they were mud-splattered, and somewhere he'd picked up a scuff. “Where is everyone?”

“I sent them on errands or let them dally as they want. Figured it would be best to speak to you alone.”

“It's serious, then?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she picked up the tray and smiled at a third person who'd just walked in the room. “Mrs. Osborn, just in time.”

The housekeeper? He barely knew her, but obviously the two women wanted a private word with him. “Good evening, Mrs. Osborn,” he said with a generous dip of his head.

“Lord Whitly,” she returned with a curtsy. “I thought we'd be cozier in my sitting room.”

“Excellent idea,” returned Mrs. Evans, as if this hadn't been planned. Then she led the way, with Mrs. Osborn holding open the door. A minute later, everyone was seated on rickety little chairs around a tiny table that was too small for the tea tray, but they made do.

“Well, this is lovely,” he said by way of opening.

“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 every now and then, but he'd always done it with willing servants. It sounded as if his father had gotten more aggressive. “Just 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. “What with her being in the country this Season, we're more like a bachelor household these days.”

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 household, much less 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 some 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. Either way, the facts spilled out.

“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, mind you.”

“No, milord. He talked about a mum that smelled of cherry tarts, but she was killed.” Her voice changed, her accent becoming thicker, more like a dockside worker's. “She was kilt. That's how he said it.”

“Terrible thing to see a boy so calm like that. She was kilt, and then he went to live with the others.”

Peter frowned, his apprehension growing by the second. “What others?”

“The other boys,” said Mrs. Evans, but it was the housekeeper whose gaze grew hard and her tone angry.

“And a leader. Boy calls him Silas. Don't know anything more than that.”

“I do,” came a male voice from outside the door.

All three of them started, but Mrs. Osborn rapidly grimaced. “Come on in, Robin. Got ears like a cat, that one.”

Mrs. Evans sniffed. “Especially when he presses them against doors.”

The door opened, and a young footman appeared. His eyes were a wide green, and his ears were large in his long face, but what Peter noticed most was his sheepish grin. “I know where to find Silas, milord,” he said, ducking his head. “Tavern near the docks. Named the Striking Eel.”

“And how do you know that?”

The footman didn't answer, but Mrs. Evans huffed out a breath. “You followed him, didn't ye? That other time. With the bigger boy.”

Robin lifted his chin. “I didn't like what he said to Daisy.”

A maid of all work, and apparently the boy was sweet on her. Well, he'd take what information he could. “And he's there most nights?”

“Don't know. He was that night.”

“Very well,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Thank you all for a very educational tea, but I've got an appointment—”

“But it's happening soon,” interrupted Mrs. Evans.

Peter froze. “What is?”

“Whatever they're planning!” she huffed out in an irritated voice, and Peter had the distinct impression that she would have thumped him on the forehead if he were within reach. “I'm not a woman who gossips, my lord. I been with this house since I was younger than Daisy, and it ain't right what's been going on. This is a fine family, and I won't have the maids being hurt or thieves at my table.”

He slowly sat back down. “Thieves, Mrs. Evans?”

“He's grouchy as a bear until one of them boys comes around.” By which Peter guessed she meant his father.

“And then he's nervous afterward, but there's a look in his eyes,” added Mrs. Osborne.

“That's when he goes for the maids,” added Robin. “Like he's excited and can't keep it inside.”

“And then there's money to pay for new livery,” said Mrs. Osborne quietly.

“And for good beef,” said Mrs. Evans.

“And his tailor,” added Robin.

Peter was silent. Bloody hell, he didn't want to think it of his father, but part of him wasn't surprised. The earl had certain standards, and he wasn't about to let things slip just because of a bad crop or three.

“Tonight?” he asked quietly. “You're sure—”

“Whatever's to be done has to be done quickly,” pressed Mrs. Evans. The other two nodded gravely.

There was no questioning the seriousness of their expressions or the risk they were taking to tell him what they suspected. As the eldest son, it was up to him to make sure his father wasn't doing something stupid with the maids or…anything else.

This was England, for God's sake. Corruption shouldn't run rampant here. Certainly not in his own family. He sighed and grabbed a piece of paper from Mrs. Osborne's desk and hastily scrawled a note for Mari. Then he handed it to Robin.

“You will give this to Miss Mari Powel and no other.” He fished out his invitation from his pocket and gave it to the footman as well. Then he looked to all three. “I owe you a great debt. You have my gratitude.”

Mrs. Evans pulled out a wrapped piece of linen. “Give this to the boy. That'll calm him. Maybe get him to talk.”

Cherry tarts. He'd know the smell anywhere. “If these can't, then nothing will,” he said.

Mrs. Evans colored prettily. “And there's another for you to eat while you change clothes.”

He looked down, belatedly realizing what he was wearing. He couldn't possibly go dockside looking like this. Not unless he wanted to get coshed on the head. Fortunately, he had exactly the right type of clothing to wear, but it would delay him even longer before heading to the Striking Eel.

“Best you go slowly there,” Robin said. “Or wait for me.”

Peter frowned. “How familiar are you with this tavern?”

Robin shook his head. “I'm not. But I grew up near the docks, milord. I know a few things. That's a rough place.”

Peter thought about it but decided not to risk the footman. “Just get that message to Miss Powel. I'll be careful.” And armed.

Robin bowed quickly and left. Peter departed barely a minute behind him, his thoughts grim. He'd been anticipating a night of seduction, and now he'd be skulking about as if he were still in India. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Mari was safely away from the danger he'd be facing tonight.

* * *

Mari's smile was becoming strained. She very much feared it looked more like a grimace of irritation rather than the welcoming smile of an unwed maiden. Even Lord Rimbury noticed, though he declined to comment beyond asking if she had the headache. But her huff of disgust after the supper buffet pushed him to a more direct question.

“Did he finally arrive?” he asked as he peered around the milling throng of guests.

No. “Whomever do you mean?” she asked, her tone sweet. Or at least trying to be sweet.

He cast her an arch look. “You've alternated between clenching your teeth at your dance partners and glaring at the doorway. It must be Peter. You only get that furious tick in your eye when he's nearby.”

“But he's not nearby,” she said tartly as she once again glared at the door.

“Which vexes you to no end,” he said as he lifted her gloved hand to his arm. “Tell me why.” It wasn't so much a command as a charming wheedle. Everything was so confusing right then, with her being wayward, and Mr. Camden being so awful. She wanted to talk to someone. She wanted to experiment. She wanted out of her damned boring gowns. This one was a smoky blue that could have been interesting if it had the tiniest bit of decoration.

But the gentleman she wanted to discuss, experiment, and undress with wasn't here. And she was hard put not to scream in frustration. Which wasn't Lord Rimbury's fault, so she smiled and started to make up some excuse. Except for all that he played the fop, the man was much too perceptive. “I'm afraid—”

“My lord, Miss Powel,” came a pompous tone from their right.