As Rich as a Rogue (2 page)

“This is a difficult decision, but I believe I must say what comes first to mind. Lady Illston, forgive the impertinence please.” Then he leaned over and slowly brushed the hair away from her ear.

The woman giggled as he made a show of whispering in her ear. And when he was done, she gasped, and her eyes were round with shock. “Oh my, Lord Whitly. Oh my, indeed!”

“Not a word, or the game's up. You can do that, can you not, Lady Illston?”

“Oh my, yes. Oh my, of course.”

Good Lord, he'd reduced the woman to a babbling idiot. Just what had he said? Lady Illston's color was up, and her eyes were bright. “Just a moment,” Mari said. “If I am to be the center of gossip again, I should like the forfeit to be worth it.”

“An apology isn't enough?” Lord Whitly asked.

What Mari wanted was a great deal more specific than words. She lifted her chin and said her fantasy in detail. After all, she'd been dreaming it for six years now.

“I want you on one knee, my lord, with flowers in your hand and the apology on your lips. And you will not get up from that position until you make me believe you are sincere.”

“Oh, brilliant!” cried Dim #7. The man had joined the group during that last pronouncement. “He'll be there for a week.”

Yes, he would, and that would be her revenge.

She looked at Lord Whitly and knew a moment's triumph. After all, no man would open himself up to such a forfeit. He'd be humiliated and possibly physically damaged. But instead of crying off, he bowed his head.

“I accept. But I shall add to your forfeit then as well.”

“Am I to be on bended knee?”

“Certainly not. You will allow me a kiss.”

She shook her head. “I cannot!” she cried.

“Oh, but you can,” returned Lady Illston. “I am the judge, and I declare that a kiss will be proper. No one shall think the worse of you for it.”

Of all the idiotic things to say. “You cannot promise that, Lady Illston.”

“I can,” she said. Then she looked to the crowd. “Come, come, don't you agree? This kiss will be perfectly proper. Lady Castlereigh? Lady Jersey?”

No. No, it couldn't be. This wager couldn't already have garnered the attention of two of the exalted patronesses of Almack's. And yet, while she stared, the press of bodies separated to reveal those two ladies plus a third. Lady Cowper, also a patroness of Almack's. If the three of them agreed, then everyone else must perforce follow.

“My ladies,” Mari began, “this is not at all proper. I cannot—”

“And yet it seems it is already done,” interrupted Lady Jersey. “Acquaint me of the particulars, if you will.”

More than one person leaped into the discussion. The details of the offense and the wager itself were recounted a dozen times. If Lord Whitly had meant to capture the attention of all of Society, he had managed it neatly.

When the recounting was done, the three patronesses looked to one another, and then Lady Castlereigh gave the verdict. “We wish to see this apology,” she said in ringing tones. “Therefore we declare it proper.”

In the general roar of approval, the parakeet declared the future.

“Winner, winner!” it cried.

“Not him,” Mari said loudly as she picked up the bird. “In the future, Greenie, that shall be my name.”

And in this way, she began her war.

It was another two hours before Mari made her way back to her family's home near Grosvenor Square. Her father never spoke the name of their street. He had the money for the best lodgings in London, but not the pedigree for a true Grosvenor location. So they resided near to it, and she found herself trudging the last steps up to their doorway while her maid chattered behind her.

“Me cousin trained his rooster to crow when he whistled a particular tune. They would go to the pub and there'd be Jeb whistling and the cock crowing an' people buying pints 'cause they never heard anything like that afore. And then I heard tell of a man who trained a rat…”

If only the woman had advice on exactly
how
to train a beast. Then, thankfully, they were at her door, which the butler threw open with rigid pomposity. The man's name was Harvey Horace, and she'd mentally dubbed him Horrid Horace because he seemed to be disdainful of everything and everyone. That, of course, was exactly why her father had hired him, so Mari knew to keep her tongue. At least his presence abruptly silenced her maid, which she counted as a benefit.

“Good afternoon, Horace,” she said as she stripped off her hat and gloves. Her arms felt like soggy linen, they were so heavy from lugging around that parakeet cage. Worse, the rest of the encounter in the park had given her a screaming headache.

“I'm going to take a rest, Horace. Please let me know when Papa returns.” She would have to tell him that his daughter had become the center of gossip again, and she was not relishing the conversation. He was desperate to fit into the elite, for all the money and power it would bring to his business ventures. But he couldn't do that if his daughter was constantly getting into scrapes.

Meanwhile, Horace sniffed twice before speaking. “Lady Eleanor and Mr. Niles Camden await you at your earliest convenience.”

She froze, her foot halfway suspended and definitely aimed toward her bedroom. “They're here?” she asked needlessly.

“In the front parlor.” He spoke with such hauteur that she felt stupid she hadn't deduced her guests' location.

“Oh. Very well. Have you sent in tea already?”

“Naturally.” The word was so disdainful, it was obvious she'd insulted him by asking.

She bit her lip. “I'll go in.” She took a moment to smooth her hair. “Do ask Mama to join us when she returns.”

She hurried forward as fast as she could manage without running, took a breath to steady herself, and was just starting her exhale when Horace threw open the door and announced her. Mr. Camden was on his feet quickly enough. Lady Eleanor rose as she always did: with grace and style.

“I'm so sorry you had to wait,” she said, slipping into her best manners. “I trust Horace has seen to your comfort?”

“Most definitely,” Mr. Camden answered. “Excellent man.” He beamed at the butler before executing his bow to her.

“We've been quite comfortable,” was Lady Eleanor's response as the two women held hands and smiled at each other. Eleanor was a true lady, the daughter of a duke, and as perfect a woman as Mari could ever aspire to be. And yet, part of her longed for the wild starts of her sister, the overly enthusiastic embraces, the way Josephine used to grab her hands and twirl her around. When was the last time someone actually touched her, skin to skin?

All those thoughts flashed through her mind in a moment of longing. But they were tucked neatly away by the time she sat down, her hands folded demurely in her lap. “Such a delight to see you this afternoon,” she said, praying it would be true.

“You're looking lovely today,” Mr. Camden said, “if a bit windswept. The spring wind is terribly chafing. I do hope your bonnet didn't suffer a mishap.”

By which he meant she was flushed and untidy. Fortunately, she was saved from making an apology by Lady Eleanor.

“We heard about the wager.”

“Already?” The word was out before Mari could stop it. It had only just happened.

“Of course,” Mr. Camden snapped. “Not even lightning runs faster than gossip.”

Something not literally true, obviously, but she was feeling too guilty to quibble. “The Ladies Jersey and Castlereigh, and even Lady Cowper, have declared the wager to be proper.”

“Proper!” Mr. Camden said as he shoved to his feet. “I heard about it from Mama, who heard it from her maid. Apparently the servants are all aghast about it.”

An hour and a half from Hyde Park to the servants. That must be some sort of record.

“I tried to stop it,” she said. “I truly did.”

“But it got away from you,” Lady Eleanor said sympathetically. “These things take on a life of their own.”

Mr. Camden's voice was disapproving. “But these things don't happen on their own. Something started it.”

“Lord Whitly started it,” Mari said grumpily, though inside she knew that wasn't precisely correct. He'd started it nearly six years ago. Today's event, however, was created by her own unruly tongue. “Surely it won't be anything more than a two-day wonder.” It was a false hope, and everyone knew it.

“It will be the wonder of the Season,” Mr. Camden said. “Betting on a bird. I thought you had more sense.”

“So did I, truth be told,” she said wearily.

At which point, Mr. Camden returned to his seat. His expression was doleful, his attitude one of great sadness. “I thought we were coming to an understanding, you and I. I had hoped to make our connection stronger in due course.”

“Yes,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone modestly sweet. “That was my hope as well.”

“But this kind of behavior makes a man wonder if he will be the butt of gossip for the rest of his life.”

Mari felt her hands clench, and since she couldn't very well grab her skirts and make telltale wrinkles, she untangled her fingers and allowed her hands to fall to her sides, where she clutched the seat of her chair. The hard wood cut painfully into her palms, but that was all to the better. And as she took a deep breath to control herself, she repeated the mantra she'd begun six years ago.
All Whitly's fault. All Whitly's fault.

Which is when Lady Eleanor came to her rescue. Thank God, because Mari wasn't sure what the proper response was to a situation like this. Did she collapse into vapors? Start crying like an imbecile? Or simply sit there and allow everyone to chastise her? She could live through it if only she knew what the proper reaction was supposed to be. Trust Lady Eleanor to show her what one was to do.

“Well, Mr. Camden, I certainly see that you are in a difficult position.”

“Too right—”

“But it's not irredeemable.
Any
attention can be turned to the good. It just takes a skillful hand.”

By which she meant hers. And frankly, Mari was grateful for any assistance. “You know how to turn it to advantage then?” she asked Lady Eleanor.

“Of course. But that is not something to discuss in mixed company.” Lady Eleanor rose to her feet, forcing Mr. Camden to stand as well. “Pray give it some time, Mr. Camden. You'd be surprised what a little notoriety can do for a woman.”

Mari feared that he would argue the point. It was clear he wanted to. But eventually his intelligence won out. He exhaled in resignation and then nodded.

“People say the Exchange is difficult to understand, and yet it follows understandable rules. I find Society much more confusing.”

“As do we all, Mr. Camden,” Lady Eleanor said. Then she waited with her hands folded and a polite smile fastened to her face as he took his leave.

Mari waited until the front door closed behind him before turning to Lady Eleanor with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I don't know what to say at times like these. He's furious, and rightly so.”

Eleanor settled back onto her seat, her skirt perfectly smooth, her expression serene. “That is what your father paid me to do. I am here to smooth the way for you this Season—”

“I know, but—”

“Tut. Don't interrupt, because we have a great deal to discuss, you and I.”

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 waiting, Mari ran out of patience.

“Lady Eleanor—”

“My plan is simply to listen. To you.”

Mari stilled. Listen to her? No one ever listened to her, and it 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 rather 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 dinner fare wasn't nearly as delightful. Sadly, the food seemed more bland than he remembered. Or he'd simply gotten used to Indian spices burning his palate. Either way, he was enjoying his drink.

“Blast it, Whitly, surely you can give us a hint as to what you're going to teach the bird,” said one of his companions, a man who needed money and was going about getting 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 with the stupid bird,” 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. Damned 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, whose preference was for serious political debate and directing affairs of state. He'd foregone his usual brandy and cigars to meet with his son.

The earl had sent a summons an hour before dinner. Peter considered it the height of 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 had 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 the face of a man he'd never met. The gentleman was dressed well enough, with expensive fabrics and a clean shirt, plus he wore a warm smile on his rather common face.

“I assume you mean London, not this particular hell,” Peter returned. “It's pleasant enough, but not quite a jewel.” Peter smiled because he thought it rude not to return an expression 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 particular 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, they grew uncomfortable.

Peter sighed. His father knew how to sour a room faster than anyone he'd ever known. Best try to make amends now, so Peter gestured to Mr. Drew. “Get my friends some more of this excellent drink,” he said, 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 merely shrugged, then reluctantly gestured his friend away. The 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' titties 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.”

“Good humor,” he answered blithely. “But we are alone now. What is it that you wished 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 more easily overheard. Or I could attend you Thursday noon. I believe 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 he couldn't deny there'd been a time when he'd used that trick often. “Well, we are here now, Father. What did you wish to say?” Miss Powel's titties would be full, round peaches and smell sweet. He couldn't wait to feel them puckering in his hands.