Page 11 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

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 ten seconds to realize the truth, and then suddenly Ash gripped his arm and jerked him to a stop.

“Damnation, man, you’ve only been back a few days. You haven’t 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 her?”

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 that a few gentlemen stopped to listen and 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.

“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. 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 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 sniffled from a cold.”

“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. I found out what they needed most, got it, and then bargained for what I wanted.”