Page 101 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“No.” He might as well tell it all. They’d figure it out soon enough, but for her sake, he explained it fully. “My father recorded money as coming from you. Large sums on specific dates.”

“Not from me, he didn’t. He hasn’t made more than a few hundred pounds with me.”

So Peter had surmised. “I had to be sure.”

Now it was Mari’s turn to be confused. “But why would the earl say that? Why would he give the credit to my father?”

He didn’t answer at first. He saw her father look down at the rolled map of London and realize what young Tie had just told them. The Earl of Sommerfield was using a gang of boys to rob people. Most specifically, large chests of money coming from boats newly docked. At some point, those captains had to take the money from the ship to a London bank. The money was moved under guard, under cover of darkness, or some other scheme.

According to Tie, the earl learned the method and time of transfer, gave that information through Tie to Silas, and then waited for his cut of the robbery.

“Bloody hell…” her father murmured.

“Just so. My father robs people.” Peter’s voice was harsh, the words cutting. “But he can’t record the income as a robbery, so it’s written as profits from your father.”

“Oh dear,” her mother whispered as she dropped onto the settee. “Oh, you poor dear.” Her gaze was hopping between Peter and Mari. Peter’s eyes were on Mari’s as she put the pieces together.

“You thought my father was the thief,” she said slowly. “You thought it was his idea, his scheme.”

Mr. Powel’s head snapped up. Obviously, he hadn’t considered that aspect, but Mari had. Her mind was lightning fast.

“Yes,” Peter said. “It’s a hard thing to believe one’s father is a thief. I was looking for a different explanation.”

“So you looked to mine. You thought everything we have, all the money my father’s made has been…that he stole it.” It wasn’t a question, but Peter answered it anyway.

“I needed to know the truth.” After all, it made sense that Mr. Powel might be a brilliant thief, disguising his income as profits from myriad business ventures. The maharajas did it all the time, paying off debts before using bandits to steal the money back.

“One last question,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the still room. “That day in the park when we met. You’d only been back in England a day or so, and yet you declared yourself to me immediately. I was so angry that I barely thought about it at the time, but you singled me out within days of landing.”

“Yes. I knew I wanted you. I could barely believe my luck that you hadn’t been grabbed by someone else.”

She took a breath. “You wanted me.”

“Yes.”

“Because of my dowry.”

He sighed. He wasn’t a man who spent time examining his emotions. She had always burned bright in his mind. Meeting her in the park that day had shown him that she was everything he remembered and a thousand things more. “Because you are smart and prickly and beautiful. Because you speak your mind, and I like what you say.” Because whenever he looked at her, he wanted her. And because he dreamed of the life they could have.

“It’s because I’m an heiress, isn’t it? How empty are your pockets, really?”

He could lie. God knew, he wanted to. He had come back from India with enough to keep him in a comfortable albeit simple life. Adding in his title and the family lands, he should have been a prince among men.

But one long, agonizing week with his father’s ledgers, and he knew the truth. He didn’t have enough to cover the expenses at Sommerfield, much less affect any improvements. His entire family fortune was gone, and worse, his father had turned to banditry to maintain the illusion of great wealth.

He looked at his hands. “You would be more secure financially with Ash.”

She dropped down to sit beside her mother. “So you are nothing more than a clever fortune hunter.”

“I am a great deal more than that,” he snapped. Except he wasn’t. Every fortune hunter had dreams; every single one wanted the life they envisioned after the dowry was settled into their coffers. Just because she shone brighter in his mind than any coin, just because he ached for her—well, that made him the best of a bad lot. “I want you, Mari.” And I have had you.

Those words echoed in his mind. He could say them aloud. What decent man would have her then—heiress or not—if they knew she was no longer a virgin?

But he couldn’t force her. As desperate as he was, he couldn’t taint what they’d shared last night. It would destroy what little affection she still had for him. So he dropped to his knees before her.

Never had he thought to humble himself this way before a woman, but he did it easily. He took her face in his hands and searched her gaze. He saw fury in her eyes. Nothing so lackluster as pain from Mari Powel.

“You love me,” he said firmly, willing it to be so. She would not have gone to his bed if she did not. “The circumstances of how and why your heart found me are not important. You love me, and we will be happy together.”