As Rich as a Rogue (3 page)

“Very well, I shall be brief.”

Thank God.

“I need to know if you intend to see to your responsibilities.”

A dark pink tip with a large rose circle around it. “Er…yes, of course I do. Uh…do you mean the finding of a wife?”

“Do you mistake me for your mother? The women are her concern. If you die without issue, your brother is perfectly capable of taking the reins when you fail.”

Yes, his brother was more than willing to take up the reins. Though they'd have to find the miscreant first. At the moment, Lucius was campaigning somewhere…er…somewhere else. “Just where is Lucius at the moment?”

His father waved the question away. “Not here.”

Obviously. Peter made a mental note to ask his mother. Disgraceful that he'd lost track, but then the military never kept the family well informed.

“If you're not here to demand I take a wife—”

“Hardly.”

“Then what responsibilities do you wish me to pursue?”

“The estate! Bloody hell, it's like talking to a noddy. The title needs more funds. We're desperately lacking in improvements, and the canal isn't working as it ought. All that costs money, and if it's to be your land someday, you ought to see to its maintenance.”

“But it's not mine now, Father. And I've already sent you all the money I could. That was, if you recall, the reason I went to India in the first place.” It wasn't the only reason, but his father didn't need to know that.

“Don't mistake me for one of your lackwit friends. You've come back from India a nabob. It's all anyone can talk about. You and that dratted Welsh girl and her silly bird.”

“You cannot believe what they say.”

His father straightened up to his full height, which was impressive enough, though he was still sitting down. “Of course I can! You've fine clothes on your back, an emerald on your finger, and prime horseflesh that made the trip with you.”

That was, in fact, about all he'd come back from India with, but no one knew that. And he meant to keep it that way for a good long time. “I mean to breed her, Father.”

“Exactly. And you can't do that without money.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, forced reluctantly to study his father as he might a maharaja. “I see you're in fine clothes, have excellent horseflesh, and wear a ruby on your finger. I'd say the only difference between us is the color of the stone.”

“Which is why you need to shore up the estate—”

Peter snapped his fingers as if just remembering something. “There is one other difference.” He leaned forward on the table, doing his best to appear intimidating without outright threatening his father. “You are the Earl of Sommerfield. You hold the title and the responsibility.”

“We need the cash, Son. We need it desperately.”

“Why?”

His father's face turned red. If they were alone, it would be the prelude to a tirade. But they were in public, and so Peter was able to stop it.

“I have the right to ask. If you want me to shore up the accounts, then I need to know why.”

“Repairs on the estate,” his father bit out. Peter could tell it was hard for the man to say that much without a great deal more vitriol.

“Where has the income gone?”

His father's face darkened another shade. “Expenses.”

Peter waited to see if there would be more. Six years ago, he would not have had the patience. But he'd spent the last six years as the East India Company's taxman and had learned a great deal about patience. And about getting answers out of powerful men.

So he waited.

In the end, his father proved smarter than that simple ploy. He banged his hand down on the table and pushed to his feet. “If you want answers, then go read the accounts yourself. In Lincolnshire.” Then he leaned forward. “But be sure to leave notice at your bank first to allow the debts to be paid from your account.”

Clearly his father assumed that he would balk at the real work of sorting out the estate accounts. Before India, he probably would have. But now he leaned back and allowed a nostalgic smile to soften his face. “I should like to see the fens again.” Odd how something so mundane could become so important after only a few years away.

“The money, boy.”

He didn't bother responding. He didn't even look at his father, but pretended to gaze off into the distant past. In truth, he did have some lovely memories of the fens around his home. Fishing, fowling, and wenching. He kept at his pretend reminiscences for as long as it took for his father to lose patience with him.

Not long, as it happened, and in the end, the man muttered something foul before stomping away. Peter watched his retreating back, hating that the good drink felt sour in his stomach. His father was slipping to have allowed such a curse. Always before, it had been Peter who'd left cursing and stomping at the end of one of their battles. It was rather momentous that tonight his father had departed with less than total composure.

Peter didn't know what to think about that. Did he worry that his father had lost stature or glory in his own nebulous win?

He didn't know, and so he tucked the thought away. Then he made his way to a baize table and an amiable card game among his friends. And if his mind ever wandered back to his father or the estate and its accounts, he distracted himself in the usual way: Miss Powel did indeed have a fine set of titties.

“What happened in India? I'll wager it was a woman.”

Peter jolted. “What?” He peered through the dark at his best friend, Ash. They were walking to their rooms after a night of cards and good brandy. Peter had been ruminating on how hard it was to stay awake until dawn and wondering if he'd reacquire the knack now that he was back in England as a man of leisure. Fortunately for him, Ash appeared to be equally unused to cards through the night, so when the man had yawned, Peter had used that excuse to end the festivities. They were now ambling down the street in companionable silence. At least they were until Ash's sudden question. And even though he knew exactly what his friend was talking about, he decided to play stupid.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said.

“You've changed,” his friend returned. “Significantly, I'd wager. That had to have happened in India. Probably a scheming Indian beauty.”

“Don't be daft. It's been six years. Of course I've changed.” He huffed. “I've got gray hairs.”

“Horrible,” Ash said, and he wasn't being sarcastic. He also wasn't leaving the topic alone. “You must have run afoul of someone in India.”

Scores of someones, and only half of them were women. “It had nothing to do with the women,” he said. “At least not any more than men.”

“Seduced, were you?”

“Yes, thank God. Only thing that made the place bearable.”

“Huh.” Ash kicked at a stone, sending it skittering down the street. “I miss scheming, seducing, soiled women.” Then he gave a happy sigh. “Thank God I'm back in London where I can be accosted on a daily basis.”

“Shall I put the word out? That you're in the market for—”

Ash waved him to silence. “Too expensive, and in more than just money.” Then he returned to probing into Peter's wounds. “I saw the earl leaving in a rage. What did you say to him?”

Peter smiled, though the pull of his lips felt tight. “I asked him to explain his spending.”

Ash chuckled. “That's rich, coming from you.”

True enough. Ash knew better than most exactly how many times Peter had been called to account by his father. The last had been the day before he'd left for India.

“Were you asking about Lady Charmante? She's known to be expensive.”

“Who the devil is that?”

“Your father's latest paramour. I thought you knew.”

The last thing he wanted to think about was his father's newest mistress. “I've only been back a few days.”

“Huh.” Ash sighed, as if in longing, but a moment later, he was back to asking questions. “So what did the earl say? Before he stormed out.”

“You've got a lot of questions.”

“I've stored them up.”

Peter chuckled, then answered, “He said if I cared so much, I should go read the ledgers.”

“Of course he did. So what are you going to do now?”

Peter paused to curse. He'd stepped in a pile of dog shit. That's what came from thinking about his father. “I'm going to read the ledgers. What did you think was next?”

“Truly?” The man looked genuinely surprised. “Jolly good.”

“You didn't think I'd do it? I've always been decent with ciphering. I ought to be able to sort out the basics.” More than the basics. His superior in the East India Company had taught him everything about proper and improper accounting. Maharajas were known for sitting on a pot of emeralds while claiming starvation. They weren't lying. Their people were starving, and their lands often struggled, but the maharajas themselves were living to excess in everything.

“Of course you could do it, I just…” Ash shrugged. “Well, as I said, you've changed.”

“I looked at the ledgers when I was younger, too. Just had to do it without my father's knowledge.”

“I know, but—”

“He says he needs money. My money to shore up the estate.”

Ash's lips pursed. “Do you have it?”

Not even close. He had enough for a comfortable living in a village somewhere, but not to shore up Sommerfield. “I want to know why he doesn't.”

“Ah. Well, if you need a hand, I've done nothing but look at account books these last years.”

Peter smiled, but he could see the lines of strain around his friend's eyes and mouth. He'd noted it earlier when they were at cards. He'd thought it was about the man's wretched luck at the table tonight, but now it appeared there was more.

“I thought your lands were improving. That's what you said in your last letter.”

“They were. Looked like we were coming around. I'd even begun to hope for the best.” The man laced his words with mournful accents. As if he should have known that disaster lurked around the corner.

“You? Hopeful?” Peter teased, but underneath his light tone was worry. The one thing his friend needed most of all was something to believe in. Six years ago it had been the power of his own body and mind to effect his change in fortune. Apparently that hadn't worked, because once again Ash was rudderless.

“I'll never believe again, I assure you. We had a bad crop. That was hard enough, but a damned disease hit us in the fall.”

During harvest. Bad time for people to be ill. “Dead?”

“Many. Mostly the old and very young.”

“That's hard.”

He nodded. “My hands are still cramped from bringing in the crop. If it were a bumper year, I'd be permanently stooped from the labor.” Then he stopped long enough to arch his back and stretch his shoulders. “Thank God I'm back here, where a man doesn't have to hunch unless it's over a willing woman.”

Peter chuckled as they continued their slow amble. He nodded to a few men and smiled at a few tarts who came their way. He smiled, but declined their offers. Their titties simply didn't compare to the ones he'd been dreaming about since his afternoon in Hyde Park. And while his mind was pleasantly fogged, a quiet realization slipped in. Ash hadn't been to a Season in years. Claimed it was too expensive, but he was here now. That hadn't struck Peter as unusual until just this moment.

“You're looking for an heiress.”

His friend nodded. “Got an eye to Miss Powel.” Then his step hitched before he resumed at a slower pace. “I take it you object.”

Peter frowned. “I didn't say anything.”

“You growled at me.”

Had he? “I…I was clearing my throat,” he lied.

Ash sighed, the sound coming from deep inside. “So it's true then. You've come home to marry.”

No sense in denying it. “I have.”

“And you want Miss Powel.”

“I haven't decided.” Another lie, and Ash knew it.

“What phrase are you going to teach that bird?”

He didn't have to say a thing. For all that they'd been apart for six years, Ash knew him best of all. It took the man all of ten seconds to realize the truth, and then suddenly Ash gripped his arm and jerked him to a stop, speaking in a low tone.

“Damnation, man, you've only been back a few days. You haven't even had a look around, and you certainly can't have selected a bride.”

“You want her,” Peter pointed out. “Isn't that good enough?”

“No, it bloody well isn't. Why her? And when? When could you possibly have decided on this course?”

Six years ago, to be exact, but he didn't tell his friend that. He didn't need to, because Ash started cursing, loud and fluently. So well, in fact, that a few gentlemen stopped to listen and even clapped when he was done.

“You've gotten better at that,” Peter said.

“I've had practice.”

“I can do it in a dozen languages now.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “You make those words up.”

“Used to. Don't now.” And perhaps that was the heart of how he'd changed. He was now everything he'd pretended to be before. Ash was the choleric one, his moods swinging between delight and despair. Peter was the affable fool, or so people said. They both knew the truth was far more complicated than that. And in the end, they began walking again, the silence returning to a comfortable place.

“So what happened in India? What were you doing while I was digging ditches and learning how to shear sheep?”

“The usual. Horse races, card games, pistol matches. Oh, and I learned how to throw knives.”

“Whatever for?”

To save his life. And it had on more than one occasion. “It was fun to learn.”

“Keep your secrets if you must, but it's not healthy, you know. Causes an ague.”

“To keep secrets?”

“Absolutely. Had a cousin who would never say boo to anyone. Always doing things nobody understood. Then one day, dead from an ague. That's what comes from keeping everything held off behind a blank smile and an empty stare. All those thoughts twist around themselves until you die.”

Peter laughed, but when his best friend in the world gave him a hard stare, he relented. He said what he'd told no one, and he used the simplest terms he could find. “I was a taxman, Ash. I got money out of wealthy, powerful men who didn't want to pay. It was difficult work, often violent, and all done with a smile.” He grunted. “Turns out I was perfect for the work.”

“Violent? But you're a terrible shot.”

“I'm an acceptable shot.” Better than acceptable now. “And an excellent fighter. Especially with knives.”

Ash drew up in horror. “You beat the money out of them? I don't believe it. You got weepy when that kitten died.”

“
You
bawled. I was simply trying to show you a moderate example.”

“Bollocks. Tell me the truth, did you really beat them?”

Peter tried to laugh, but the sound came out strained. “I got the money any way I could, Ash. I found out what they needed most, got it, and then bargained for what I wanted.”

Ash's eyes narrowed. “You've always been uncommonly good at that.”

Peter shrugged. If he had an unusual talent, it was the ability to see exactly what a person needed most. It was an internal knowing. A stupid parlor trick he'd played with as a boy, but in India, the talent had been refined to a sharp blade, and if he could use that knowledge to force someone to live up to their responsibilities…well, then he did it without regret or guilt.

“What happened?” Ash pressed again. “Exactly.”

Peter looked back at his friend. “The same thing that happened to you, exactly. We survived the best way we could.”

Ash accepted that in his usual manner. He frowned and glared. A dark expression that had lost its effectiveness on Peter by the time they were nine. Eventually, Ash released a huff of annoyance, and they resumed walking. Turned out it was the best choice the man could have made, because a few minutes later, Peter added one more thing.

“I came home to end all that, you know. No more violence. No more nonsense. Just good brandy, hearty beef stew, and an English rose in my bed.”

“She's Welsh.”

“Near enough.”

“And she really doesn't like you.” Ash chuckled then. A slow roll of sound that worried Peter more than all the man's glowers and frowns.

“What's so funny?”

“You really don't know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Just how powerfully that woman despises you.”

He hadn't the foggiest. “Whatever did I do?”

His friend's grin grew wider. “I don't think I'm going to suspend my pursuit of the wealthy Miss Powel.”

“Just a minute—”

“But I'm not going to court her either.”

This time Peter knew it when he growled. Bloody hell, when had he started making that noise? “Just what do you intend, then?” His voice was hard and low.

“I'm going to stand her friend. As you blunder your way about her heart, I will stand by and offer her a safe shoulder to cry on.”

“I sincerely doubt she'd cry. More like beat me about the ears with her reticule.”

Ash snorted. “Perhaps six years ago, but you've been gone a while, and the situation has changed.”

Yes, he'd noticed that. The vibrant, powerful woman he remembered now wore boring dresses and severe hair. “Who has been advising her? It appears they're trying to destroy everything good about her looks.”

His friend frowned. “That was all the talk a fortnight ago. It's Lady Eleanor.”

Peter turned forcefully toward his friend. “Eleanor's never been vicious, and she's always had excellent taste. Why would she dress Miss Powel like a sack of wet oatmeal?”

“That's overstating the case, don't you think?”

Peter arched a brow.

Eventually his friend shrugged. “Oatmeal is perhaps close to the mark, but she's nothing like that.”

“I know she's not!” Peter huffed. “I want to know what happened that she's acting as if she has no more flash than weak potage.”

His friend opened his mouth to speak, but his words stopped, and his face took on a quizzical look. “Eleanor has just started to sponsor her, but I think she has always appeared as you see her now. There was no discussion of a change in appearance.”

Peter shook his head. “I don't like it.”

“I don't imagine she cares what you think,” the man answered, which only served to irritate Peter. He knew she had no regard for his thoughts. She'd already made that abundantly clear. But why was she dressing herself to such disadvantage?

“Something must have happened,” he deduced. “Something damaging made her want to hide herself away. And don't try to tell me it was that insult she thinks I gave her. That's a distraction from the real problem.” The very idea of someone hurting her made him want to growl again.

“Excellent.” Ash clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we'll see whom the lady wants. I'd thought there'd be no contest between your wealth and my lack thereof. Our titles are relatively equal, thank Heaven, but I see now that it won't be about money. Lord knows she's got plenty of it.”