As Rich as a Rogue (22 page)

“Come to the library,” her father answered, his voice gruff.

Mama didn't even bother getting to her feet, but Mari moved forward, only to be stopped by her father's glare.

“I will call when I am ready to speak to you.”

She glared right back, but she knew better than to press the point when he was in this mood. Her father was not generally mercurial, but when he became angry, everyone in the household stayed away. She was still trying to decide what to do, when Peter spoke to the boy.

“Tie, if you have finished eating, would you come with us? This concerns you.”

The boy nodded, his eyes round as he hopped up from his seat.

“A ten-year-old boy gets to join you, but I—”

Peter touched her lips. His finger was large, but still gentle. Generally, she would have had no trouble speaking past his gesture, but the intimacy of what he did shocked her into silence. Certainly he had the right to touch her so openly, but it was still an announcement nonetheless. He'd effectively told everyone in the room that a proposal was imminent. And if there were any doubts, his next words made everything clear.

“I told you I would speak with your father today.”

He had. She just hadn't expected it to be fifteen minutes after she'd snuck in the kitchen door.

“I should be there. This concerns me.” Much more than it did the boy.

“Do you recall how you told me the dowagers would never dance the waltz?”

She nodded. “I won the wager.”

“Because you know Society much better than I. Women's Society.” He glanced at her father, who was watching them with a steady gaze. “In this, I am better equipped to handle the discussions of men.”

“That was a ballroom game.”

“And this is our future together. I will take care with it.”

She wanted to say no! She wanted to stamp her foot like a child and then continue to stomp her feet right into the library. But she knew her father, and he would not tolerate such outright disobedience. The servants were watching, most especially Horrid Horace. She already appeared a scapegrace; she had no wish to compound that with a useless display of temper. Nevertheless, it grated on her to give way.

“Call me quickly,” she finally said.

“Of course,” he agreed. Then he gestured to Tie to precede him as the men trotted out of the kitchen to the library. Even Horace went, presumably to open the library door then stand with his ear pressed to it once the others were inside.

“Come along, Mari,” her mother said with a sigh. “You can explain it all to me as Cook heats water for a bath. You cannot spend the day smelling like a tavern.”

She knew she was beaten, so she nodded. It would be good to get out of this annoying corset. At least in her own clothing she'd be able to bellow with a full breath if her father became unreasonable later.

“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 better than most the need to do something wild and idiotic at times. And if Mari could gain insight into her father's worries, then it would be that much easier to handle him later.

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 watch both of them carefully without appearing threatening or even more than a genial buffoon. Fortunately, Mr. Powel was not an idiot and could be generally counted on to sit back and allow Peter to play out his hand, while keeping his own close to his heart. It was the way of a skilled negotiator.

So 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 generally filthy appearance.

Perfect.

Peter relaxed and 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 at all hours 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. Naturally, it was Mari's father who'd discovered that he wasn't the nabob everyone thought. But again, there was no need to discuss this before the boy.

“You've been woken in the middle of the night by some strange things, sir, but I have been awake all night trying to protect your daughter. She and I both 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 a fool or worse. 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 controlled himself.

“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. “Of course.” He looked to the child. “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 was skilled at talking kindly to people, servants and urchins included. He must save all his ire for suitors. Though clearly, his patience wasn't of long standing.

“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 extras in my pockets.”

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

Cricket was older, then. Probably the bully in charge of the youngest ones.

“She'll make more tomorrow. You can sleep in the kitchen until they're done, then take some back to Cricket.” It was a lie. Peter was never letting this child go back to the likes of Silas, but Tie wouldn't believe or trust that right now. These children lived on bartering—or what they could steal—and so that's what Peter would do. He just hadn't gotten to what he wanted in return.

The boy's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he set the tarts away from him with obvious reluctance. “Why?” was all he said.

“Because I need to know something from you.” He arched a brow. “Tell me about what you do with my father.”

“I don't do nothing with 'im. He's a bleeding earl.”

Peter didn't argue. An older child—or a harder one—wouldn't say anything. But Tie was still young enough to be manipulated. “You carry messages, right? Can you read them?”

“Course not!”

“And what's important is written down, right? That's why they send you. Because you can't read it.” Peter shook his head. “They must think you're too stupid to understand.”

“No,” interrupted Mr. Powel. “That can't be right. Even I can see that this boy knows more than he says.”

Peter nodded, pleased with the help from Mari's father. “I think so too. I think he knows the plan even if he can't read a single word.”

“I ain't saying. Not for a couple of tarts.”

Mr. Powel made a dismissive sound. “What do you want for it?”

Peter winced. That was the tactic of a wealthy man. Whatever nonsense came out of the boy's mouth, Mr. Powel could probably afford it. But Peter didn't bargain from a place of weakness.

“It's not worth more than a few pennies,” Peter said with a grumble. “I'm just angry at my father for cutting me out.” His eyes narrowed on the boy. “Unless you want to help me. I'll give you a piece of what I get.”

The boy lifted his chin. He'd responded with a slight nod at the idea of a betraying father. And now he was clearly making calculations in his head. “What do you mean to do?”

“Nothing drastic,” he lied. “Just watch. Say nothing now. Then I'll get my fair share from my father after it's done. And you can have a couple of quid just for telling me the when and where of it.”

The boy sat there, chewing on his lip as he thought. A moment. Two. Damn it, the boy wasn't going to bite. And then Mr. Powel dropped his chin on his hand with a loud huff.

“He doesn't know anything. Best go get Cricket. He probably read the notes.”

“He cain't read any more'n I can!” the boy cried. “And he don't know the plan, 'cause he didn't see the pictures. I did.”

“Pictures, eh?” Mr. Powel said. Then he leaned back in his seat. “Well, that's interesting, but I have no more time for this.” He pulled out a pound sterling and set it on the desk. “You'll get this now, boy, if you tell us everything. Pictures and all. And then you'll stay in my kitchen and take a bath until we've found out if what you say is true.”

“And then wot?” the boy challenged.

And then the boy would be shipped off to Sommerfield to a new life, because the one he had here wouldn't last long. But Peter couldn't say that out loud. “Then I give you another quid as your share.”

“My share oughta be bigger!”

Peter shook his head. He needed to stay firm to maintain the child's respect. So he kept his glare hard as he held out Mr. Powel's quid.

“Do you want this or not?”

Of course the child wanted it. It was more money than he'd touched in his entire life. He gave in with little grace and a great deal of grumbling, but Peter recognized the swagger for hidden glee. The child pocketed the coin, then set out with much gesturing and dramatic embellishes to tell the plan. Better yet, he was able to describe in great detail all the previous robberies orchestrated by the Earl of Sommerfield.

And wasn't that a grim realization? His own father was a thief. And not a common one, but a man who orchestrated the movements of children like Tie, all to his own benefit. What the hell was he going to do about that? And more worrisome, what was Mari's father going to do now that he knew?

* * *

Mari toweled off her hair and shoved a few pins in. There was no time for even a simple braid, but if she let it dry untamed, she'd spend the rest of the week fighting it. Or perhaps she was very focused on her hair as a way to avoid her mother's too-wise glare.

“You chose to leave the ball just like that? Mari, imagine what could have happened to you.”

“I wished to be of help to Lord Whitly,” she said primly. That was always her refrain with her parents when she did something untoward: she was trying to be useful. They accepted it because it was often true. They knew how much she fretted with endless days of doing nothing. It just happened that on this night, she'd been more concerned about finding Peter and doing other things than being useful.

“Lord Whitly is investigating something important,” she continued. “And you know how men have no idea how to get information out of women or children. I had to help or watch him flounder.”

“You mean you had to prove to him how valuable you can be.” Her mother's hard stare met hers in the mirror, and she had the grace to flush.

“I…I like him, Mama. We're going to get married.”

Her mother exhaled slowly, her expression narrowing as she studied Mari's face. “I can't quarrel with his pedigree, though your father said he found out something disturbing.”

Mari paused as she settled a clean shift in place. “What do you mean, disturbing?”

“I don't know the details. He doesn't think the man is as rich as everyone believes. And your father doesn't like the earl at all.”

“Oh. Well, Lord Whitly doesn't seem to care much for his father either. But not wealthy? Everyone says he's a nabob.”

Mama waved that comment aside. “Everyone says you're wayward. What has that to do with the truth?”

A very great deal, given what she'd done this night. “Would you hand me my gown please?” she asked by way of distraction.

Her mother stood, picked up the rose gown, and pursed her lips. A moment later, she'd substituted it with a pale peach one so boring as to be virtually nonexistent. “This one is more demure.”

Of course it was. “I'm tired of demure. I've learned that people will talk no matter what I do. So I might as well act as I please.”

“Do that after you're married,” her mother said tartly. “Until then, you will act as a proper lady and not wander through the docks in someone else's clothing.”

Mari wanted to argue, but she could see that this was not the time. For all that her mother was acting calm and logical, there was still a heavy note of anger beneath. Mari had acted much beyond the pale, and she would do well to mitigate that damage.

“Of course, Mama,” she said as she took the hated gown and began the tedious process of unbuttoning it before putting it on. They'd dismissed her maid in favor of frank talk, which meant that the silly parts of dressing would have to be accomplished by themselves. “Now tell me why Papa thinks his ledger has been touched. I thought the maids have been trained better.”

“They have,” her mother said with a wave of her fingers. “None of the staff would dare so much as dust the thing, if they even knew where it was. It's just one of your father's wild starts. You know how he can be.”

She did, but this was not something her father confused. On some things he was meticulous, and his ledger was at the top of that list. “But, Mama—”

“Do you love him?”

“What?” She'd just been about to step into her gown, but at her mother's words, she looked up in confusion. It wasn't that she didn't understand the question. She even knew that Mama was asking about her feelings toward Lord Whitly, not her father. But still, the question simply didn't make sense.

She looked to the list of suitors she kept on her dressing table. “Mama, you helped me write that list.”

“I know.”

“And Lord Whitly far outranks anyone on there.”

“But you hated him. He's the one who named you wayward.”

Mari shrugged, surprised that she could dismiss six years of fury so easily. “He meant it as a kindness.”

“Don't be silly—”

“And perhaps it wasn't completely his fault.”

“Oh?” her mother challenged.

Mari sighed. She was anxious to get downstairs and find out what the men were discussing, but she knew she'd end up cooling her heels in the hallway and appearing crass in front of Horace. So she might as well have this out with her mother now. The difficulty was that she'd only now come around to understanding it herself.

“He was discouraging that blighter Fitzhugh from pursuing me. That's why he said it in the first place. He had no idea the label would become so popular. He certainly didn't mean to make me completely boring for the last six years.”

“No, that was your doing.”

“And yours,” she said with a tinge of reproach. After all, her mother had just handed her a bland peach gown that was demure.

“Very well, perhaps I can forgive him for his blunder. And I did encourage your efforts to become more refined.”

More boring.

“But, darling, what about Lord Whitly the man?”

Mari frowned, then started ticking off attributes on her fingers. “He's titled, wealthy—”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe wealthy,” she amended. “He's handsome, and, Mama, he has this most glorious plan. It's quite idealistic, but I shall be able to help him bring it about. He values justice and responsible leadership. I think with my help, he could become eloquent when he enters the House of Lords.”

“I don't think he needs your help to rule Sommerfield in a fair manner or take his place in the Lords.”