Page 76 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“A moment,” Peter growled as he drew out a tarnished silver flask. He stared at it a long moment, quietly rubbing his hand over the dented side. Then he grimly put it in his pocket.

“You’re robbing him?” Rimbury gaped.

Mari had a similar thought. Whyever would he want such a battered thing, for all that it was silver? Peter didn’t answer, but merely continued turning out the man’s pockets. He found a purse, weighed it quickly in his hand before tossing it over his shoulder.

Mari spun. She hadn’t even realized the tavern owner was standing there, his eyes glowering and his hands clenched into fists.

“For your trouble,” Peter said. “With my apology.”

“I can’t take ’is money. He’ll kill me,” the tavern keeper said.

“Tell him I stole it.”

The man chewed a moment, then nodded. Meanwhile, Rimbury was crouching down beside Peter, his hand going to the flask. Peter passed it over, likely because it freed up his other hand. Then the air was split by a low curse from Lord Rimbury.

Peter didn’t respond, but his expression became more grim.

“What?” Mari pressed.

“I’ll answer your questions,” Peter said quietly as he ushered her out the door. “But let’s get away from here first.”

At last. They were thinking exactly the same thing at the same moment. It was almost enough to urge her into an impetuous kiss.

She didn’t. Not with Lord Rimbury watching through his rapidly swelling eyes. But she did touch Peter’s arm, intending to thank him. Before she could get out a word, she saw his face.

Fury.

Peter was flat-out furious. With her.

“Oh dear,” she breathed.

“Just so,” he agreed.

Chapter Eighteen

One of the first things Peter learned in India was how to prioritize emergencies. Wounds first. Crazy women second.

Now that they’d run six blocks away from the docks, nearly knocking over Robin where he hovered anxiously by the tavern, Peter was able to grab hold of his best friend and see exactly what kind of damage he’d suffered.

“I’m bloody fine,” muttered Ash as he wiped at his lip. It was bleeding sluggishly, but in all other aspects, he seemed normal. Better than normal, in fact, as he flashed Peter a grin. “I haven’t had a good row in ages. God, I love London.”

“You’re soft in the head,” Peter answered, though reassured by his friend’s cheerful answer. “Are your ears ringing? You’re limping a bit. Is that—”

“Bugger off.” He glanced significantly over at Mari. “And exactly how did you come to be here, and dressed like that, no less?”

Peter didn’t give her a chance to answer. Just the sound of her voice distorted his focus. “She jumped on the back of your hackney,” he ground out, “then bartered for the clothes.”

“Really?” Ash said, his eyebrows going up. “That’s surprising.”

It was bloody brilliant, especially since in ten minutes she’d learned more than he’d discovered in hours. But that didn’t change the fact that she was a gently reared woman with no ability to defend herself. She’d wandered through the docks without protection and had joined in a brawl. And she’d been the one to deliver the final blow!

He didn’t know whether to kiss her for being brave or throttle her for being reckless. So rather than give voice to the riot of emotions inside him, he kept a firm arm wrapped around her waist and focused on the others.

But that didn’t stop her from talking.

“I’m experimenting with waywardness,” she said primly.

“Hmmm,” returned Ash. “I’m not sure that was the kind of waywardness Peter meant to inspire.”