Page 114 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Something momentous had happened.

That was Mari’s first thought the next morning when her maid pulled the curtains and flooded the room in morning sunlight. The woman knew not to do that. Which meant something untoward had occurred.

But given that Mari hadn’t snuck back into the house until a couple of hours before dawn, she had trouble caring. Let the world go hang for a bit. She was sleepy and happy from everything she and Peter had done. She couldn’t wait to get married and be able to do that in their own bed whenever they wanted.

Then Ginny tsked, and Mari was forced to roll over.

“What?” she said, not even bothering to hide her irritation.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but you ’ave a caller. An early caller.”

Mari frowned. “What time is it?”

“Nine twenty o’ the clock, miss.”

Nine twenty? She shoved the hair out of her eyes. “Who is it?”

“It’s Lady Eleanor. And she’s mighty anxious—oh, milady!” Ginny made a hasty curtsy while someone burst through her bedroom door. Someone dressed to perfection, with a smooth brow, elegantly coiffed hair, and as much of a frown of worry on her face as Eleanor would allow herself.

“Still abed, you poor dear,” the lady said.

Sympathy from Eleanor? This couldn’t be good. Gathering her strength, Mari shoved herself into a semi-upright position and looked at her maid. “Bring us tea, please. Strong.”

“An excellent notion,” Eleanor said with a serene smile. “And then together we’ll make sure you’re in your best looks for tonight.”

Tonight was hours away, and Eleanor had never taken a personal hand in her grooming before. Mari closed her eyes and steeled her spine.

“What happened?” Had the government fallen? Had rioters taken to the streets? Was London riddled with disease? She could think of nothing else that would bring such a dramatic morning visit.

“Of course, you haven’t heard,” Eleanor said as she settled herself pristinely on Mari’s dresser chair. She started to speak, but then stopped herself, looking unusually awkward.

Panic tightened Mari’s throat. “Has someone died?” She couldn’t even bring herself to say Peter’s name aloud.

“Dead? No, not that. Though…” She shook her head. “I suppose some might prefer it. They definitely wish it so.”

“What? Make sense.”

Eleanor nodded, then tilted her head at a precise angle so one curl draped enchantingly across her cheek. It was a practiced pose, one that conveyed consternation without wrinkling the face. “Please try to stay calm. It’s about Lord Whitly. Rest assured that we will find you another husband. I have not lost faith yet.”

“I don’t want another husband. Eleanor, I—”

Her bedroom door burst open again, this time with her mother in her best day gown as she rushed forward to press kisses to Mari’s cheeks. “Never mind about anything today, Mari. We shall go shopping for some new gowns. Ones like you want, with dots or lines on them. Perhaps even some embroidery on a ruffle. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“No, Mama, that would not be nice!” Well, of course it would, but that was not the point. She gripped her mother’s arms and forcibly sat her down on the bed. “What has happened to Lord Whitly?”

“Um, nothing, my dear,” her mother said as she twitched her eyes to Ginny, who had followed her in with the tea tray. “Let’s wait and discuss this after you’ve had something soothing.”

She knew better than to argue. She waited with ill-disguised impatience as a small table was set to hold tea for three. Eleanor presided over it from the dressing-table chair. Meanwhile, Mari straightened up to a fully seated position.

Except that motion pulled at a few of her sore muscles, creating a sharp twinge followed by a dull ache. She knew how she’d gotten those pains. She wanted to be alone to fully savor the feelings, uncomfortable though they were. But she was not alone, and something had happened to Peter. So she waited, taking a moment to scrub her face with a cloth from the water basin.

“You should not be so vigorous in your ablutions,” chided Eleanor. “It’s detrimental to your skin.”

So was getting slapped for choosing the wrong moment to pick at her, but Mari kept her tongue—and her hand—in check. Meanwhile, Mama began unplaiting Mari’s hair to brush out the locks. The door finally closed behind the maid, Mari grabbed her mother’s hand to still it, and spoke very clearly.

“Tell me what has happened.”