As Rich as a Rogue (23 page)

“But I will be the perfect bride for that. Mama, I could help him be political. He doesn't understand Society the way I do. I would be an elegant hostess, and maybe I could assist with his speeches.”

Her mother nodded, her expression troubled. “You would do well at all those things, but that's not love.”

“I didn't love Mr. Camden either, but I was planning to marry him.” And he certainly didn't kiss her the way Peter did. Or make her heart flutter and her body hunger.

“Mr. Camden was never my choice for you,” her mother said, disapproval in every word.

“Well, that hardly matters, as I've decided on Lord Whitly.” Mari punctuated her comment by presenting her back to her mother. Someone had to button up the gown without the maid there. Her mother obliged, her fingers swift and sure. But as the silence stretched, Mari ended up searching her mother's troubled expression in the mirror.

“I thought you'd like him,” she finally said.

“It's not about him,” her mother said. “Not exactly. I cannot understand all your lists and plans. I helped you with them, but I've never understood the necessity.”

She knew this. It had always been so since her earliest days. It was her father who planned, jotted, and thought things through. She'd learned it from him.

Her mother finished buttoning the gown and then pressed a tender kiss to Mari's cheek. “I want you to fall in love.”

“I am in love,” she said. “With Peter.” She spoke it firmly, because that was how she always stated things she wanted. It was a form of willing it into existence, and it sometimes worked. Either way, it was for her mother's benefit. Mama was the one who cared about love. Mari needed to be useful, and Peter was the perfect husband for that. Especially since he knew all sorts of fun ways to enjoy being wayward as well.

Their life together would be perfect.

Which was when she finally figured out who had bothered her father's ledger. She had no proof, of course. Nothing but the certain understanding that Peter had told her he was an accomplished thief. And he'd had notations from Papa's ledger in his bedroom. She'd seen it clearly and now knew what they meant.

Her breath froze in her chest.

The man was more clever than she'd even imagined. And he hadn't exactly been telling her the truth, had he? Add that to the realization that perhaps he wasn't as wealthy as everyone thought, and a number of difficult questions arose.

“Where are you going?” her mother demanded. “You haven't even put on shoes!”

Mari didn't stop. She had to ask Peter her questions. Why had he broken into the house to look at her father's ledger? What was he talking to Tie about? How did Silas fit in?

If she was going to help him, she needed to know the answers to those questions. And at the end of that she had one more question. Did he mean to marry her because he saw her value? Because she could help him with what he wanted in his life? Or because he needed her dowry?

And if it was the latter, if the only reason he'd courted and seduced her was because he needed her money, well, then…then…

She would hate him forever. Because she was done with proving herself to stupid, blind, idiotic men. And even after everything that had happened, the top of her husband requirements remained the same: Absolutely no fortune hunters.

Mari stormed down the stairs with her mother scrambling after her. It was an unseemly thing for them both to do, but she had no interest in moderating her behavior. Or she didn't until she saw Horace with his ear pressed to the library door.

It was the last straw. Why had she spent the bulk of her life constantly controlling herself when even the butler felt it necessary to flout convention?

“Get away from that door!” she snapped.

Horace straightened with a startled gasp, and she glared at him.

“Mari, really!” cried her mother as she came up beside her. “There is no need to take out your temper on the staff.”

“On the contrary, Mama, there is every reason. The man is a snoop and a snob. If you choose to tolerate such uncouth behavior, then that is your choice. But I shall unleash my temper on him every time I see him act in a way that does not fit with the character of this house.”

Her mother sighed and dropped her hands on her hips. “Darling, I thought you understood that your father prefers an obnoxious butler.”

“He's supposed to be obnoxious to everyone else!”

“Well, who is Lord Whitly but someone
else
?”

How to answer that one? Mari certainly couldn't say he was the man she intended to marry. Not when she suspected she would try to claw his eyes out in the next few moments. So she chose to glare at Horace and speak in chilly tones.

“You will not listen to me,” she said coldly. Then she realized exactly what she had said and huffed out a frustrated breath. “To my conversations,” she amended.

“And how shall I stop myself, miss?” he intoned in the coldest, most pompous manner. “Shall I block my ears? Muzzle your suitors? Or perhaps you prefer I lock the back doors to all urchins speaking your name when they knock in the middle of the night?”

Well, he had a point, especially given what he'd seen this morning. She was hardly one to be throwing stones regarding proper behavior, but it didn't matter. She would be damned if she allowed their own servant to intimidate her. Also, she figured if she could vanquish this particular dragon, then facing Peter would be that much easier.

So she drew herself up to her full height, which left her still staring upward at the damned man. Papa also liked tall butlers, more's the pity. But when she spoke, she said each word in a clipped and imperious tone.

“I will tell you what you must do to avoid my ill temper, Horace. You must act in every way as someone who is kind. Kind to dirty street children, nervous suitors, and yes, even imperious lords who do not deserve such forgiveness. And then, sir, I will forgive you for failing to be kind to me.”

It was a great deal more than she ever wanted to say to anyone, much less their obnoxious butler. But the words tumbled out, raw and clear. And while he gaped at her, she swept past him and pulled open the door to the library.

“Papa,” she said loudly as she glared at Lord Whitly where he looked at a map of London. The boy, Tie, stood between him and her father and was pointing with a dirty finger at a single intersection. “I do hope you said nothing sensitive. There was at least one ear pressed to the door.”

Her father looked up and frowned at the butler. “Damn it, Horace, I pay you to listen at
her
doorway, not mine.”

“Papa!” Mari cried, but her father was still talking to Horace.

“Take young Tie here for his bath. He'll be staying with us for a few days. I'm making you personally responsible for his actions while he's here. He's to be clean and well fed throughout, is not to leave the house under any circumstances, and…” He glanced over at her mother. “What do you think, shall we teach him to read?”

“Of course we should teach him to read. If he's been of service to us, then we should help him in return.”

Their butler had no chance to respond as her father kept talking. “An excellent suggestion. Horace, see to it personally, would you?”

Which was when poor Horace finally found his voice. “Teach him to read how, sir?”

“Kindly, Mr. Horace,” Mari said somewhat gleefully. “There are books in the nursery that will help. And while you're at it, you might remember it was only an accident of birth that kept either one of us from this child's fate.”

To which Horace drew up to his full height. “I was no
accident
of birth. My family has served in great houses for generations.”

“Then be charitable to those who weren't so lucky by seeing to his bath and his education.” And with that, she pressed the boy's hand into his and shut the door on them both.

There. One dragon slain, at least temporarily. But now it was time to face the larger, more difficult one: Lord Whitly. And with both her parents in attendance.

* * *

The minute Mari burst through the door of her father's office, Peter knew she'd cause trouble. After all, she was a virgin who'd just had a grand adventure—her first bar fight, followed by her first sexual experience. Overwhelming for anyone, but she was a woman prone to grand schemes and elaborate rationalizations. Given the upset of this morning, she'd had just enough time to get it all wrong without enough time to realize she was making mountains out of molehills.

Which made it doubly bad that they were about to discuss things in front of her parents. He had to get her out of here now.

“Lord Whitly,” she began.

Oh hell. She was in high dudgeon, making his name sound half summons, half curse.

Maybe he could derail her with a compliment. “Miss Powel, how lovely you look. I always appreciate it when your hair is left to curl more naturally.” He counted himself especially clever, since that comment couldn't fail to remind her of the glorious way he'd worshiped her hair—and her body—not more than a few hours ago.

“My hair?” She blinked and ran a hand through the riotous locks. “Thank you.”

Wonderful. The compliment worked. For about ten seconds. Then she frowned at him. “I have a question.”

“Excellent,” he said as he rolled up the map of London and passed it to her. “Perhaps we could go for a stroll in the park. I should be happy to discuss whatever you like there.” Away from the too-intelligent gazes of her parents.

“No, my lord, it is something they should hear.”

Damnation, she was being stubborn. “The marriage settlement has not been determined.”

“Nor will it be until we—”

“Mari, we have both been awake through the night. Can this not wait until a more settled time?” After they'd both slept. After they'd had time to think things through. After she was past the overwrought emotions that were clearly upsetting her reason.

“Did you read my father's ledger?”

Oh. Blast and damnation. Far from getting things all wrong in her head, the brilliant woman had worked it all out right.

He glanced at her father, seeing the man's expression shocked to the core. Fortunately, his wife was of a more gullible sort. The woman threw up her hands in clear disgust.

“Mari, what a thing to say! Your father was just imagining it.”

“I was not,” the man growled. Then he took a step closer to his daughter. “Why would you ask this? Do you have any evidence?”

She pressed her mouth closed and shook her head. But her eyes were burning with unshed tears as she looked at him.

“Well,” her mother exclaimed, “I can see you are one of those women who become irrational after staying awake all night. Young lady, I insist that you head straight for your bed.”

Mari rolled her eyes. “I am not twelve years old.”

“You can't just accuse people of—”

“He was a thief in India. He told me so. A very good one, adept at getting into places he was not supposed to go.”

Her father huffed. “That means he
can
get in, not that he
did
.”

“I told him, Papa. I told him where you kept your ledger.”

“What?”

“I told him,” she said in a low whisper. “And I am so very sorry about that.”

Peter pinched the space between his brows. Damn it, this was not the way he meant to explain things to her. And certainly not with this audience.

“Even so,” her mother continued, “that is not evidence, and you know it.”

Mari nodded, her gaze still centered on him. “I don't have to prove it,” she said clearly. “I just have to ask him, and he'll tell me. Did you steal into the house and look at my father's ledger, recording things that you have no right to know?”

How to answer that except with the truth? “Yes.” He wanted to say more. Hell, there were a thousand different explanations, but when it came time to voice them, the words crowded each other out. All he could see was the clear pain in her face. “Mari, I needed to know. I took nothing but the information, and I haven't shared that with anyone.”

“Why?” she said, her voice a rasp.

“And how?” demanded her father.

That was the easiest thing of all. He'd been here as a guest enough times to know the lay of the land. Easy enough to wait until the staff was occupied below stairs while the family was out for the evening. But rather than explain that, he simply shrugged. “I learned to be an accomplished visitor in India, amusing when called upon and absent when out of mind.”

“Because you were digging around where you didn't belong,” her father said.

“Yes.”

“In my ledgers.” Her father leaned forward, his expression angry. “Did you think I was lying about her dowry?”

“No.” He might as well tell it all. They'd figure it out soon enough, because he'd already told them the basics, but for her sake, he would explain it fully. “My father recorded money as coming from you. Large sums on specific dates.”

“Not from me, he didn't. He hasn't made more than a few hundred pounds with me.”

So Peter had surmised. “I had to be sure.”

Now it was Mari's turn to be confused. “But why would the earl say that? Why would he give the credit to my father?”

He didn't answer at first. He saw her father look down at the rolled map of London and realize what young Tie had just told them. The Earl of Sommerfield was using a gang of boys to rob people. Most specifically, large chests of money coming from boats newly docked. At some point, those captains had to take the money from the ship to a London bank. The money was moved under guard, under cover of darkness, or some other scheme.

According to Tie, the earl learned the method and time of transfer, gave that information through Tie to Silas, and then waited for his cut of the robbery.

“My father robs people.” Peter's voice was harsh, the words cutting. “But he can't record the income as a robbery, so it's written as profits from your father.”

“Oh dear,” her mother whispered as she half collapsed onto the settee. “Oh, you poor dear.” Her gaze was hopping between Peter and Mari. Peter's eyes were on Mari's as she put the pieces together.

“You thought my father was the thief,” she said slowly. “You thought it was his idea, his scheme.”

Mr. Powel's head snapped up at that. Obviously, he hadn't even considered that aspect, but Mari had. Her mind was lightning fast.

“Yes,” Peter said. “It's a hard thing to believe one's father is a thief. I was looking for a different explanation.”

“So you looked to mine. You thought everything we have, all the money my father's made has been…that he stole it.” It wasn't a question, but Peter answered it anyway.

“I needed to know the truth.” After all, it made sense that Mr. Powel was a brilliant thief, disguising his income as profits from a myriad business ventures. The maharajas did it all the time, paying off debts before using bandits to steal the money back.

“One last question,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the still room. “That day in the park when we met. You'd only been back in England a day or so, and yet you declared yourself to me immediately. I was so angry at you that I barely thought about it at the time, but you singled me out within days of landing.”

“Yes. I knew I wanted you. I could barely believe my luck that you hadn't been snatched by someone else in the years that I was away.”

She took a breath. “You wanted me.”

“Yes.”

“Because of my dowry.”

He swallowed. He wasn't a man who spent time lingering in examination of his emotions. She had always burned bright in his mind, and meeting her in the park that day had shown him that she was everything he remembered and a thousand things more. “Because you are smart and prickly and beautiful. Because you speak your mind, and I like what you say.” Because whenever he looked at her, he wanted her. And because he dreamed of the life they could have.

“It's because I'm an heiress, isn't it? How empty are your pockets, really?”

He could lie. God knew, he wanted to. He had come back from India with enough to keep him in a comfortable albeit simple life. Adding in his title and the family lands, he should have been a prince among men.

But one long, agonizing week with his father's ledgers, and he knew the truth. He didn't have enough to cover the expenses at Sommerfield, much less effect any improvements. His entire family fortune was gone, and worse, his father had turned to banditry to maintain the illusion of great wealth.

He sighed and looked at his hands. “You would be more secure financially with Ash, Lord Rimbury.”

He heard her sigh as she dropped down to sit beside her mother. “So you are nothing more than a clever fortune hunter.”

“I am a great deal more than that,” he snapped. Except he wasn't. Every fortune hunter had dreams; every single one wanted the life they envisioned after the dowry was settled into their coffers. Just because she shone brighter in his mind than any coin, just because he ached for her with a desperation that went well beyond her money—well, that just said he was the best of a bad lot. “I want you, Mari.”
And I have had you.