As Rich as a Rogue (28 page)

“Are you heartsick or bored? I can't tell.”

Peter glared at his best friend, not wanting to be cajoled out of his foul mood. It took ten seconds before Ash got the hint and looked away.

They were disembarking from a hackney outside Lady Illston's ball. Tonight was the big moment when he would have Greenie say the words they'd been practicing for weeks now. Or rather Greenie and the butler had, but either way, the words were his. He just wasn't sure he should have the bird say them.

“It's not over, Peter,” Ash said in a low voice. “It all depends on the women.”

Not on
women
. It all depended on
Mari
, and despite everything they'd done together, he was not at all sure where her heart lay. Worse, he wasn't even sure if he should allow her to choose him. No, that wasn't true. He knew that the best thing for her to do would be to give him the cut direct. She should wash her hands of his whole benighted family, then find an honorable baron somewhere and put that bastard on the political path to glory. But the very idea made him want to retch.

Instead, he plastered on a bland expression that exactly resembled bored. He'd perfected it as a child when his father railed at him and he'd had no defense. He'd used it this morning when the man had been so shocked by his arrest—at his son's own hand—that he'd given Peter his back. Hard to do when being led out of his own home under guard, but he'd managed it.

And then Peter had used it over and over throughout the day. He'd worn it while the Prince Regent threatened to confiscate every inch of land his family owned. It had felt etched on his face when he'd gone for something to eat at his club, and the hatred aimed at him had been a palpable force in the room. And he'd put it on when he'd read Mari's note, pleading with him to meet her at tonight's ball if he couldn't manage earlier.

He hadn't managed it. He'd been too busy managing visits from his father's creditors. How the bloody hell had the man staved them off until now? No wonder he'd turned to thieving. It seemed the earl owed money to the whole of London.

Which was when he'd enlisted Ash's help. Together they'd figured out how to dance around his father's debts, but it would take every penny he had—or was likely to get—for years. In truth, his only option was Mr. Powel's offer of employment, but he couldn't even be sure that opportunity was still available. After all, Peter had grossly underestimated the reaction of the
ton
. He'd been so naive, thinking that they would understand what it cost a son to turn in his own father for thieving. Instead, they hailed him as a traitor to his own set and damned him to his face.

Bloody hell, was England truly this corrupt? Were the men in power that angry at having their faults exposed? Did no one see that the only way to have a strong nation was to make the bad ones pay, no matter who they were?

“Damn it, Peter, listen to me!” Ash said as he gripped Peter's arm. They were steps away from joining the line into the ballroom, but his friend halted him while still in the shadows. “It's the women who make the difference in this sort of thing. If they think you're a noble man fighting against evil, then their husbands will have no choice but to follow along.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's the men who control the purse strings. The men who will never do business with me again.” Even so small a hope as breeding horses looked like a pipe dream now. His horse and his name were tainted with the same brush.

Ash shook his head. “The women control Society. They have a great deal more power than you imagine. And Miss Powel has more influence than you guess.” Ash huffed out a breath. “Just marry the girl. Her dowry—”

“I won't marry her out of desperation.” He said that firmly. Loud enough for others to hear him and turn in their direction. Loud enough, perhaps, for him to believe his own words. Because he very much feared that he would buckle under pressure. That he would let the woman rescue him, though she felt so little for him. And then his lands might be saved, but his bed would be a cold one. And the bright future he envisioned would feel dreary.

He turned away from Ash and stepped into line like a man facing a court martial. And as he had done a thousand times already this day, he reviewed what might happen this evening. What exact thoughts might be twisting in Mari's head.

First off, she would approach this logically, as she did everything. She would think through the costs and benefits of an alliance with him. She would see that just about any honest husband was better than a disgraced future earl. That whatever ambition she wanted—and Mari had a great many ambitions—would be better served by one such as the lackluster Mr. Camden than by Peter.

And from that basis, she would make a public display of turning him down tonight. That was, after all, what she'd planned back when they'd first made this ridiculous wager on a parakeet's words.

Ash stepped in beside him. He greeted a few people, smiled at those who would respond. Mostly, he stood beside him in a show of staunch support, and Peter couldn't be more grateful. The man was the truest friend he could ever hope for.

The line inched forward.

At least his humiliation tonight would have a good audience.

Then a strange thing happened. Mrs. and Mr. Bailey greeted him, as did their three daughters. Cits, all of them, but they exchanged pleasantries with him as if he weren't a pariah.

Two feet farther up in line, and Lady Sylvia, daughter of the Earl of Crawford, flashed him a flirtatious look from behind her fan. Her father, naturally, was nowhere in sight. That man was an intimate of his own father and had already cursed the day Peter was born. But Lady Sylvia first, then her good friend Miss Koch did their best to encourage him from a distance. It was enough to make the young men in their environs give him a startled nod, especially as Lady Eleanor joined their party.

He glanced at Ash for explanation, but the man was doing the pretty with Lady Cowper. Peter knew better than to risk a harsh set-down from a patroness of Almack's, so he kept his face turned forward and stopped his hands from clenching nervously in his pockets. And so it continued until he at last made it into the ballroom.

Lady Illston greeted him with a dry kiss, a sympathetic pat to his wrist, and all the warmth that was lacking from her husband, his former associate at the East India Company. That man barely shook his hand before grumbling at him.

“Thought India taught men subtlety, but you seem to have learned the reverse.”

“On the contrary, my lord,” Peter answered with the same words he'd given Prinny. “India taught me that unchecked power is an evil thing. If men are not to pay for their crimes, then anarchy is a sure result.”

“There's payment, boy, and then there's public spectacle.” Then he turned his back on Peter to give his hand to Ash.

All in all, it wasn't a bad reproach. Given the kind of vehement condemnation he'd received throughout the day, it was barely a slap on the wrist. He would have to think longer on that, but the moment he turned away from his host, he saw her.

Mari.

Mari, with her hair barely restrained and in a gown of brilliant color. It even sported both embroidery
and
lace.

Now there was a gown fit for the Wayward Welsh. And by all appearances, she wore it proudly. Her chin was lifted, her eyes flashed in the candlelight, and there was a flush of color in her cheeks. She'd never looked more beautiful to him.

“You should talk to her before the big parakeet display,” Ash murmured in his ear.

Peter took one step before he realized the futility of it. She was surrounded on all sides. “She's come into her own,” he said, both pleased and dismayed. It was clear she'd finally found her purpose and was grasping it with both hands. He couldn't be prouder of her, even if it was in service of his set-down.

“I can clear the space,” Ash said, “but you have to move quickly. Make your case. There's still time—”

“You do understand how marriage to me would only diminish her standing in the eyes of the
ton
.”

“You do see that she'd never be the center of attention and wearing that stunning gown without you.”

Very true. But that only meant she
had
needed him. Not that she still did. Or that she loved him.

“Too late,” Ash grumbled. “The Greek chorus of old biddies has moved in.”

It was true. The dowager ladies who had so put him in his place weeks ago had risen en masse as soon as they'd spotted him. He feared they were coming to give him the cut direct in a coordinated display. That or pelt him with their canes. But instead, they'd all abandoned their seats to circle Mari, as if she were in danger from him.

“Well, I'll be…” Ash said with a low whistle. “She's even got the dowagers stirred up.”

“To do what?” Peter asked, keeping a wary eye on the placement of those canes.

“Damned if I know,” Ash returned. “This is Mari's show.”

And it was, he realized. Every bit of it was arrayed for her. The dowagers standing in support. Lady Illston's ball attended by the entire
ton
. Even the parakeet was there, he now saw, perched in its heavy cage right by Mari's shoulder.

“What say we go get something to drink?” Ash suggested. “Brandy?”

“Excellent notion,” he agreed, though he couldn't manage to tear his eyes away from Mari. She hadn't seen him yet, being too absorbed by the dowagers as they clucked about her. If only she would look up. If only she would see him, he might have a clue from her reaction what her thoughts might be. But every time she started to turn in his direction, someone stepped in the way, and her view was blocked.

“Hmm,” Ash muttered. “It might not be the best idea to venture toward the bar just yet.”

“What?” Peter asked.

Then when Ash didn't answer, he forced himself to look.

As was typical, the men were gathered around the heavier spirits. Lots of men clutched into loose groupings of politicals, financials, and the sports mad. The first knot was the most overtly hostile to Peter, and unfortunately, the nearest to the drink. The sports mad Corinthians were distracted. Probably someone had bested someone else in a race, and so the affairs of the nation—or of an earl and his son—faded in importance. It was that middle group of the moneyed people that Peter watched, but they seemed not to notice him at all. No dark glowers or nods of encouragement. “I don't need to run that gauntlet just now,” Peter said dully. He looked back to Mari, and then felt the gut punch.

She'd seen him.

Her gaze was trained on him, and when someone dared to step between them, she impatiently pushed the lady aside.

Peter felt himself drawn forward. He knew he couldn't get through the press of ladies, but he needed to speak to her. He needed to touch her skin one last time.

So he walked to her just as she maneuvered around the most planted of the dowagers. And they met in the middle—almost close enough to touch—and stood there looking.

“Peter, I was looking for you all day.”

“You could not have found me. I have been at the banks.” Three of them, to be exact.

“I hoped you would come here.”

“I would not miss it. We had…” He glanced at Greenie, waiting like bored royalty as one girl after another tried to speak with him. “You deserve your moment of triumph.”

“Triumph!” she said, clearly startled. “I've only managed to teach the creature ‘sodding day,' and we both know that was not my intent.”

His lips quirked at that. “Never fear. Lady Illston's butler has managed it. Just offer him some apple. He'll perform.”

“I don't care about that.” Her gaze searched his face. “How are you faring?”

He gestured about him without looking. “You see here only a tenth of the reaction. The news of my poverty is out. Prinny threatens to take Sommerfield by way of punishment.” Unable to stop himself, he took hold of her gloved hands and held on. “I vastly misjudged Society's reaction.”

“I doubt you misjudged it. You likely gave no thought to it at all.”

Too true. That was where they were different. If he'd only thought to consult her, she could have predicted this to a T.

“But how are
you
?” she asked.

Wretched without you.
“I shall be glad to get this done with, I suppose. I will have to return to Sommerfield if the prince allows me to keep it.”

“Will he?”

“If I pay my father's debts, fines, and add in a gift of thanks to Prinny for his compassion.”

She winced. “Do you have it?”

He shook his head. “Not even if I were the nabob everyone thought.” Then he looked her in the eye and flat-out lied. “Not even with your dowry.”

There. He'd said it. This was the statement she'd need to wash her hands of him. To realize that hitching herself to his boat was disaster for certain.

“Oh dear,” she said, and he heard the death knell of his dreams in her tone.

But he couldn't end it like that. He couldn't let her think that any part of him still pursued her for her money. Some perverse part of his nature forced him to explain.

“That wasn't my plan, Mari. It was never my hope.”

“I know. You wanted to build a utopia.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he shook his head. “But not like you think. I wanted a base. A solid place that would be our home.”

“Sommerfield.”

Damnation, why couldn't he ever find the right words? “Not just a place, Mari, but a financial base. A peaceful base. Someplace you could return home to whenever you needed rest.”

She frowned at him. “Return to? But it would be my home.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but don't you see? All those other men want you to be their support. They want you to dress their arms, hostess their tables, enhance their careers.”