Page 9 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“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 nerve. But he’d spent the last six years as the East India Company’s taxman and had learned a great deal about the benefits of boldness. 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. “You want answers? Go read the accounts yourself. In Lincolnshire.” Then he leaned forward. “But be sure to leave notice at your bank first. The debts will 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 not now. He leaned back as a nostalgic smile softened his face. “I should like to see the fens again.” Odd how something so mundane could become so important to him.

“The money, boy.”

He didn’t bother responding. He pretended to gaze off into the distant past. He did have some lovely memories of the fens around his home. Fishing, fowling, and wenching. His father quickly lost patience with him.

The earl 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 at the end of one of their battles. How momentous that tonight his father had lost his composure first.

Should he worry that his father had lost stature or glory in his own nebulous win?

Peter didn’t know, and so he tucked the thought away as he meandered 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 breasts.

Chapter Three

“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 an evening of cards and good brandy. And though he knew exactly what Ash was asking, 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. 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 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 how many times Peter had been called to account by his father. The last time 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.”