Page 55 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Mari had no idea how to respond to that, so she said nothing, merely tilted her head as if she were listening intently to him or perhaps a bird twittering outside. It was a favorite pose of Lady Eleanor’s.

It worked beautifully because Lord Rossgrove stumbled back into speech.

“You’re above average pretty, know how to keep your tongue, and it appears you’ve surprised my butler. That’s rare indeed.”

Again, she made no response, but it didn’t work as well this time. His expression tightened, and his next words came out like the snap of a whip.

“Most ladies would be thankful for the compliment.”

Power, she reminded herself. Pretend to the Queen’s own power. Or at least Lady Eleanor’s. “Compliment?” she said sweetly. “My apologies. It sounded more like a list of attributes, such as I might note the color of your furnishings or the large numbers in your ledger.”

He looked down as if surprised to see the tallies open before him. Then he smoothly closed the book. If he’d snapped it shut, she would have thought—possibly—it had been a mistake to leave them where she might see them. But the way he moved was too calculated a gesture. Which meant he had intended her to be impressed by the figures there.

She wasn’t. Her father had equally grand numbers in his account book. So she smiled blandly at him and waited for tea. And again, he was the one who spoke.

“It was gauche of me to allow you to see that, but now that you have, let me be blunt. I am a wealthy man of great influence.” He preened at that, and she knew that Lord Whitly had pegged him exactly. He gloried in his power and the wealth that brought him more power. “I believe I should like to exert myself on Mr. Camden’s behalf.”

“I’m sure he will be most grateful.”

“He ought to be.” Then the man smiled at her, though the expression never touched his eyes. “How grateful are you?”

She arched a brow. She was becoming quite good at Lady Eleanor’s expressions. “Why would I be grateful for consideration shown to Mr. Camden? There is no connection between us, no reason that his fortunes will affect mine one way or another.”

Lord Rossgrove was surprised by that. “There is no understanding between you two?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then why are you here?” Now the man began to show his true colors. He was irritated with her, but no more than she was with him.

“I am here,” she said tartly, “because you invited me, and I was curious. Plus, I believe your political interests and Mr. Camden’s are aligned. He seemed to wish that we meet during this meeting, and because I bear him good will, I agreed to call upon you this day.” Then she unfolded her hands and waved vaguely in his direction. “Was there some reason you wished to speak with me?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, there was a quiet knock at the door. Fletcher, she assumed, with the tea tray.

Lord Rossgrove grimaced then grabbed his bell, ringing it with a loud clang. How obnoxious. He could simply have said enter, but he had to ring that thing as if calling sheep to their pen.

The door opened, and Fletcher stepped inside with a tray. He moved ponderously to the table and set the thing down with the stiff air of an octogenarian.

“Oh, be done with it, man,” snapped Lord Rossgrove, clearly out of temper.

Fletcher straightened in shock. It took him a moment to recover—slightly longer this time than before—then bowed and departed with alacrity. Meanwhile, Mari began to see the appeal of obnoxious butlers. One had a great deal of fun discomfiting them.

She waited until the doors shut before reaching for the tea service. “Shall I pour?”

She was assuming the role of hostess, much as Lady Eleanor had done at Mari’s home. Lord Rossgrove nodded, his eyes narrowed as he revised his opinion of her. For the better, she hoped.

“Cream, my lord?”

“Sugar only,” he answered. “One spoonful.”

She served him, then herself. And she allowed only the tiniest portion to wet her lips. She wasn’t thirsty. The tea had been a statement, not a need. So they sipped, looking at each other over the rims of the delicate cups. Then Lord Rossgrove spoke, his words casual as he caught her completely by surprise.

“Tell me of Lord Whitly. What do you make of him?”

“What?” Damnation, why would the mention of his name make her heart beat in a frenzy?

“Lord Whitly. He’s shown you marked attention, waltzing and the like. You have some silly wager going about a bird. And he threw you off your horse?”

Gossip. Was her every action to be forever bandied about? “Lord Whitly is…” She couldn’t bring herself to say friend. “Someone I’ve known for many years. He’s recently returned from India and—”