Page 19 of As the Devil Dares

“Highly probable.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You should.”

His mother silently followed the back-and-forth volleys as if she were watching a tennis match.

“Well, goodness.” Mariah blinked. “I thought you were to be a clerk!”

Clenching his jaw in anger, Robert leaned forward, a cutting reply on his tongue—

“Have a tart, dear.” His mother shoved the plate beneath his nose.

He snapped back his head, nearly inhaling a strawberry. “What the—”

“Oh yes, Lord Robert.” Mariah smiled ingenuously at him. “I’ve heard how much you enjoy tarts.”

“Take several, dear.” His mother shoved the plate at him again until he had no choice but to accept the entire thing in his hands. Which meant he couldn’t lunge across the tea table and throttle the minx.

“A partnership,” Mariah prattled on. “Well, that’s quite something, I daresay. Papa’s never offered a partnership before. My! You must be truly special.” She tilted her head, deviously feigning naïve curiosity as she skillfully plunged the dagger into his belly—“And what is it, exactly, that you’ve agreed to do for my father to secure it?”

Damn her. He couldn’t answer. If Mother learned the truth, she might very well refuse to be a part of this fiasco. And without the duchess, he didn’t stand a chance of winning.

The infuriating woman knew it, too.

So he forced an unconcerned shrug. “Oh, the usual…to take care of problems that have grown far too troublesome for their own good.”

That barb certainly hit home, and her eyes darkened angrily.

The duchess blinked, completely lost in their private conversation and unable to find any clues to read the subtext.

With a smile that didn’t bother to hide his pleasure at one-upping Mariah, Robert returned the plate of tarts to the tray and leaned confidently back in his chair. “I was thrilled when he asked me to help with your season. A husband would do you wonders, Miss Winslow.”

“And you, a wife,” Mariah purred with a calculating smile, turning the conversation back on him.

“Most certainly,” his mother agreed, and far too quickly for Robert’s comfort. “I’ve been saying so myself since last winter that—”

“Plenty of time later to marry me off, Mother,” he interjected gently with as much pretense of helpfulness as he could muster in order to change the subject away from him and back to Mariah. “Today is all about Miss Winslow and making a match for her.”

“Indeed.” She turned her attention to Mariah with a happy smile, then reached for the pot to refill Mariah’s cup, not noticing the glare the hellcat shot him. His lips twitched with amusement.

“So, my dear,” his mother asked, “what skills do you possess?”

“Let’s see…” She added a dollop of honey to her cup and watched the tea thoughtfully as she stirred it. “I speak Spanish and French fluently and have completed advanced studies in mathematics and bookkeeping, along with law, politics, philosophy, the natural sciences…”

With each skill she reported, his mother’s face paled a shade lighter with distress. But Robert found the list intriguing and hid his admiration for her by raising his cup to his lips—

“And a smattering of knowledge of naval warfare.”

At that he nearly spilled his tea.

His eyes darted between the two women. His mother’s face had turned completely white at that bit of information, but as far as he could discern, Mariah had told the truth.

“Oh dear,” his mother whispered, as if Mariah had just admitted to stealing the crown jewels.

She blinked, confused. “You did say skills, ma’am.”

“I meant those belonging to young ladies in pursuit of suitable husbands.” She clarified in a hushed tone, as if Robert shouldn’t overhear, “You know…watercolors, sketching, flower arranging…”