Page 46 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

That was Peter’s belief as well.

Mr. Powel set the box back on the table, but he didn’t shut the lid. “Do you eat it or smoke it?”

Peter had done both, but he pulled out a pipe. “Only if you wish, sir. I have no interest in seeing you destroyed.”

The man chuckled. A fine improvement from the earlier snorts. “So you mean to loosen my tongue this way.”

“I’ve never heard of you drinking to excess. You barely gamble, and the tarts have never met you. By all accounts, you are an upstanding family man.” He didn’t add the sneering word “businessman” that so often accompanied that description. “But every man has a vice. I’d like to see how deeply yours runs.”

“Not that deeply. Even when the hashish was plentiful, I tried it only a few times.” He arched his brow. “What about you?”

“There’s a knack to pretending to smoke. You can’t completely prevent its effects, but it does keep a man sharper than the others.”

Mr. Powel nodded. “Smoked a lot, did you?”

“The maharajas did. I pretended.” His expression tightened. He didn’t mean it to, but sometimes old memories fought to come out no matter how he schooled his expression. “It saved my life on many occasions.”

“Now there’s a tale I should like to hear.”

Peter shook his head. “Not today.” Then he decided to try honesty. “It doesn’t haunt me as it does some men, but I don’t want to look behind me. I am attending to the future. And your daughter.”

The man waited a moment to see if Peter would bow to the pressure caused by an expectant silence. He didn’t. So in the end, Mr. Powel stood up and snapped the box closed with a quick flick of his wrist.

“Very well, my lord, I believe I should like to introduce you to a chef trained in all the best Indian dishes.”

Peter matched the man’s movements, pushing to his feet. “The best dishes?”

“Tamed considerably for the weakened English palate.”

“Not too considerably, I hope.”

The man grinned. “He’ll burn your tongue if you want.”

That got Peter’s attention. Especially when Mr. Powel started laying it on thick, tempting him with every Indian delight he’d thought he’d never miss.

“He just finished a new batch of bangla. Took him years to perfect the brew.”

“Bangla” was a single word to describe a multitude of alcoholic drinks, some vile, some delightful. “I’m intrigued,” he said truthfully.

“Then we’ll see about your hashish and your tens of thousands of pounds.”

So the man did have a streak of greed. Well, that was true of the best businessmen, and Peter would not fault him for it.

“One condition,” the man continued.

“Yes?” Peter asked, doing his best to appear casual.

“I need to know your vice as well.” His eyes became piercingly direct. “You’re moderate with your money, haven’t been to the whores or spent much time in the gaming hells. Your superiors speak in glowing terms, and the maharajas curse you as a white demon who eats their young.”

Repulsive. “I have never eaten anyone’s young. I got what was due to the company and England. No more, no less.”

“I know. That makes you remarkable. But where in all that is your vice?”

“That’s easy, sir. I am obsessed with your daughter.”

The words hung in the air between them. It felt like the mutual call of “en garde!” before a fencing match.

“Very well,” Mr. Powel finally said. “The stakes are high, then. Impress me, and I’ll not stop my daughter from marrying you, should she wish it. But what do I get in return?”