Page 66 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

Of course he did. “I don’t like pinning it so tight. It gives me a headache.”

“And I don’t like wearing shirt points that stab my neck, but there are some things we do because it is appropriate.”

“You’re not wearing high shirt points,” she said. “And that is nothing like spending the day with something trying to pull your scalp off your head.”

He dropped his hands onto his hips, his expression severe. “You are discomposed, Miss Powel.”

That was the final straw. The nerve of any man talking to her like a stern father when he was both a disgusting kisser and in no way affianced to her. And after weeks of careful cultivation on her part!

“And you, Mr. Camden, need not call on me again.” Then, just to prove the point, she pulled her list of gentlemen out of her purse, flattened it on the only clear space of his desk, and with great flourish, crossed his name out.

Number 27 no more.

Then with a huff, she spun on her heel and stomped out.

Chapter Fifteen

Peter got the message while he was dressing for the Vinson’s ball. He’d spent the day trying to ferret out the differences between his father’s ledgers and Mr. Powel’s statement that there had been only one middling payout from their joint venture.

It gave him a blistering headache.

Now he was looking forward to an unencumbered evening with Mari. He was both anxious and excited to tell her the truth. Which left him in an embarrassing state of arousal in front of his newly hired valet. But then his father’s footman rushed into the room, and he had to redirect his thoughts.

“Mrs. Evans sent me, yer lordship,” the man huffed.

Mrs. Evans was his father’s cook and Peter’s best ally in that household. “Really?” he said, lifting his chin so his valet could finish tying the cravat. “Whatever for?”

“She remembered that name you’d asked for. Her cousin’s cousin’s nephew, she said. But she didn’t give me the name.” The footman clearly thought it crazy to run through London just to relay something so stupid.

“Did she say more?”

“No, milord. Just that her memory being what it was, it be best if you came right away. I tried to get her to write it down, but—”

“Don’t question her, man. Mrs. Evans has her own way of doing things.”

The footman didn’t have an answer. Didn’t matter. Peter pulled on his coat. He’d look damned stupid riding a horse in all this finery, but a hackney would take too long. Mrs. Evans had said to come right away.

He flipped the footman a coin as thanks, then left. He made it to his father’s back door in a frustratingly slow twenty minutes. When he slipped in the kitchen door, he could see she’d prepared. The entire kitchen area was empty except for Mrs. Evans, who was just pulling a kettle off the stove and bringing it over to fill three teacups already laid out on a tray.

“Mrs. Evans,” he said warmly. Some of his happiest childhood memories were of the two of them sharing a bit of tea and a sweet. “I got your message.”

“Got here faster than I expected, but your boots have suffered.”

Peter looked down and sighed. He’d been pleased by the shine on his Hessians, but now they were mud-splattered. “Where is everyone?”

“On errands or dallying elsewhere. Figured it would be best to speak to you alone.”

“It’s serious, then?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the tray and smiled at a third person who’d just walked in the room. “Mrs. Osborn, just in time.”

The housekeeper? He barely knew her, but obviously the two women wanted a private word with him. “Good evening, Mrs. Osborn,” he said with a generous dip of his head.

“Lord Whitly,” she returned with a curtsy. “I thought we’d be cozier in my sitting room.”

“Excellent idea,” returned Mrs. Evans, as if this hadn’t been planned. Then she led the way, with Mrs. Osborn holding open the door. A minute later, everyone was seated on rickety chairs around a tiny table that was too small for the tea tray, but they made do.

“Well, this is lovely,” he said by way of opening.