As Rich as a Rogue

by Jade Lee

  “You sound just like your daughter.”

  “She’s an uncommonly intelligent woman.” Then he looked up. “Both my daughters are, though I never would have guessed it of Josephine at first. Mari at least thinks before she acts. Good quality in a woman.”

  “In any person, I imagine.”

  Mr. Powel finally turned to stare directly at Peter. “Is that why you want to marry her? Because she’s levelheaded?”

  Peter didn’t answer. Thanks to his father’s love of discipline, he was uncomfortable discussing anything precious to him. And India had honed that reticence into lock-jawed silence.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Powel continued, his gaze unnervingly direct. “You don’t need her dowry, not if you’re smart with what you’ve brought back from India.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Powel, when I know so little about you.”

  “Pah,” the man said with a wave. “We know a great deal about each other, I’d wager. Still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

  Peter idly picked up a sketch of a new kind of carriage. Intriguing design, obviously meant for stability, not speed. “I’d think it was obvious. You’ve made a great deal of money for my father. I’d like to invest some of my blunt.”

  Mr. Powel’s expression tightened in confusion. “If that’s what your father considers a great deal, then your title isn’t as well-heeled as I thought.”

  “He said thousands of pounds.” £3,621 to be exact, according to the ledger. And that was only the newest ledger entry.

  Mr. Powel smiled a broad grin that showed crooked teeth but made his face light with humor. “It’s humbug, son. He’s invested with me once, and the profits are growing slowly.”

  “Just the once?”

  “Still growing.”

  Peter nodded. “Interesting. He said it was in a shipment of spices from India.” That’s what the ledger recorded. Spice sales. Seventeen entries.

  “Spices, bah,” Mr. Powel said as he dropped the diary. “Too touchy, and the English palate isn’t as accepting as everyone pretends. Silk is the better investment if you can keep the vermin out of the stores.”

  Peter agreed, but he was more interested in the three thousand pounds his father had recorded. “But my father said it was spice.”

  Mr. Powel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Your father can say what he wants to whomever he wants. Earls usually do.”

  “I’d like to know more.”

  Mr. Powel turned his back. “Then talk to your father.”

  “I’d like to invest.”

  The man didn’t even pause as he pulled his chair over and settled down in front of his maps of Turkey. “I’m sorry. I have nothing available right now. Talk to me in a few months.”

  “Even if I have tens of thousands of pounds?”

  “Even so.”

  Peter crossed his arms. Flattery hadn’t worked. Appealing to the man’s greed got him nowhere. Time to start looking for a vice.

  “Perhaps I’m approaching this the wrong way,” he tried. “I’m newly returned to London, have some extra blunt you don’t seem to want. Is there a gaming hell you’d recommend?”

  “No.”

  “Haarkata Lane was a wonder, was it not?”

  The mention of India’s most infamous street of whorehouses got nothing but a sigh.

  Not the usual vices, then. “I miss Indian food. You’re right about the English palate being used to dull fare, but it seems mine has expanded in six years away. Any recommendations?”

  The man set down his map and turned to look at him. “Everyone seems to think that you’re a jolly good bloke. That’s what they say, you know. Jolly good bloke. And yet I find you remarkably irritating.”

  Whereas Peter was finding himself remarkably entertained. He’d forgotten how much fun it could be to ferret out a difficult man’s character. Most people would have revealed more by now.

  “Some people take longer to notice my good qualities.”

  The man snorted in answer, and Peter counted that as a good sign. He was laughing—after a fashion—rather than tossing Peter out on his ear. Meanwhile, Peter decided to offer one last temptation before abandoning the vices altogether. He pulled out a special box and set it on the table between them.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something I’m willing to share in the name of getting to know my future father-in-law.”

  Now Mr. Powel did set down his map to look Peter fully in the eye. “That’s a confident statement, given how often I’ve heard Mari curse your name.”

  “She is also taking a while to see my good qualities.”

  Again the snort, this time a bit louder. “She has good sense.”

  Peter only shrugged, which gave Mr. Powel time to lean forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “I won’t force her to marry you, title or no. I’ll stop her if she’s hell-bent on a bounder, and if I don’t like you, I’ll cut off her dowry too.”

  Peter shook his head. “You won’t do that. You dote on your girls, and you’ll make sure she’s provided for.” It was a guess, but a good one as the man folded his arms.

  “She’ll have what she needs in ways that will prevent any jackanapes husband from touching her money.” He lifted his chin, an angry glint in his eyes. “It can be done, you know. I can set her up without letting you have a ha’penny.”

  “I have no doubt.” He pulled out a stool and dropped onto it, setting his ankle on his knee. It wasn’t an easily defensible position. He’d never do something so awkward in India. But this was England, and he seriously doubted any of the secretaries in the corner would skewer him with a knife. So he took the casual pose and hoped he looked confident rather than arrogant.

  Apparently it was a good choice, because Mr. Powel released another snort, this one soft and appreciative. “All right, Lord Whitly.” He reached for the box. “Let’s get to know one another.”

  He popped open the lid to see a box of the finest hashish in England. It might even have been the only hashish in England, but Peter wasn’t going to keep it hidden. A tool was only good if one used it, and he considered hashish one of the best in his arsenal.

  Mr. Powel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he lifted the box closer. He pinched the substance, feeling the consistency and quality of the product like a true connoisseur.

  “I’ve had better,” he mused.

  “But not in years, I’ll wager.”

  Mr. Powel flashed a rueful grin. “Not since India. Do you have more?”

  Peter shook his head. “This is the last of it, though I could probably get more.”

  “So could I, but I don’t.”

  Peter could guess the reason, but he waited for the man to elaborate.

  “I’ve seen people destroyed by this.”

  “Hashish? Or opium?”

  “Both, though opium’s done the most damage.”

  That was Peter’s belief as well.

  Mr. Powel set the box back on the table, but he didn’t shut the lid. “Do you eat it or smoke it?”

  Peter had done both, but he pulled out a pipe. “Only if you wish, sir. I have no interest in seeing you destroyed.”

  The man chuckled. A fine improvement from the earlier snorts. “So you mean to loosen my tongue this way.”

  “I’ve never heard of you drinking to excess. You barely gamble, and the tarts have never met you. By all accounts, you are an upstanding family man.” He didn’t add the sneering word “businessman” that so often accompanied that description. “But every man has a vice. I’d like to see how deeply yours runs.”

  “Not that deeply. Even when the hashish was plentiful, I tried it only a few times.” He arched his brow. “What about you?”

  “There’s a knack to pretending to smoke. You can’t completely prevent its effects, bu
t it does keep a man sharper than the others.”

  Mr. Powel nodded. “Smoked a lot, did you?”

  “The maharajas did. I pretended.” His expression tightened. He didn’t mean it to, but sometimes old memories fought to come out no matter how he schooled his expression. “It saved my life on many occasions.”

  “Now there’s a tale I should like to hear.”

  Peter shook his head. “Not today.” Then he decided to try honesty. “It doesn’t haunt me as it does some men, but I don’t want to look behind me. I am attending to the future. And your daughter.”

  The man waited a moment to see if Peter would bow to the pressure caused by an expectant silence. He didn’t. So in the end, Mr. Powel stood up, snapping the box closed with a quick flick of his wrist.

  “Very well, my lord, I believe I should like to introduce you to a chef trained in all the best Indian dishes.”

  Peter matched the man’s movements, pushing to his feet. “The best dishes?”

  “Tamed considerably for the weakened English palate.”

  “Not too considerably, I hope.”

  The man grinned. “He’ll burn your tongue if you want.”

  That was something to get Peter’s attention. Meanwhile, Mr. Powel was laying it on thick, tempting him with every Indian delight he’d thought he’d never miss.

  “He’s just finished a new batch of bangla as well. Took him years to perfect the brew.”

  “Bangla” was a single word to describe a multitude of alcoholic drinks, some vile, some delightful. “I’m intrigued,” he said truthfully.

  “Then we’ll see about your hashish and your tens of thousands of pounds.”

  So the man did have a streak of greed. Well, that was true of the best businessmen, and Peter would not fault him for it.

  “There’s only one condition,” the man continued, throwing words out as if they were no more important than a comment on the weather.

  “Yes?” Peter asked, doing his best to appear equally casual.

  “I need to know your vice as well.” Then his eyes became piercingly direct. “You’re moderate with your money, haven’t been to the whores or spent much time in the gaming hells. Your superiors speak in glowing terms, and the maharajas curse you as a white demon who eats their young.”

  Repulsive. “I have never eaten anyone’s young. I got what was due to the company and England. No more, no less.”

  “I know. That makes you remarkable. But where in all that is your vice?”

  “That’s easy, sir. I have a potentially unhealthy obsession with your daughter.”

  The words hung in the space between them, filling the air while Mr. Powel studied him and he returned the regard. It felt like the mutual call of “en garde!” before a fencing match.

  “Very well,” Mr. Powel finally said. “The stakes are high, then. Impress me, and I’ll not stop my daughter from marrying you, should she wish it. But what shall I get in return?”

  “Tens of thousands of pounds for investment.”

  Mr. Powel shook his head. “I will not sell her to anyone.”

  Good. Peter hadn’t meant it that way anyway. “A titled son-in-law, then.”

  “Pah. You titles are always tripping about here and there. I turned one away just yesterday.”

  It was likely a lie. Peter knew Mr. Powel did indeed have a lust for the peerage. But maybe not for just his daughter. “You have a son, do you not?” He already knew the answer.

  “He’s on his grand tour.”

  “And there is something you want from me. For your son.” It wasn’t a question, and Mr. Powel didn’t treat it as one. Instead, he grinned and turned to his row of secretaries.

  “Mr. Harper, please draw up the usual marriage contract for Lord Whitly. We’ll see what he thinks of it.”

  It would be a disaster, no doubt. Fortunately, he knew a man with an excellent head for contracts, who actually enjoyed the things. Meanwhile, he decided to taunt his adversary, who likely enjoyed a good negotiation as much as Peter did.

  “Impressed so easily? Is your daughter mine, then?”

  Mr. Powel’s answer was a laugh. Not just a simple chuckle, but a belly laugh that grew until the man was wiping tears from his eyes. Peter might have been insulted, except there was such good humor in the sound that he was hard-pressed not to join in.

  But in the end, the man sobered enough to speak. “Keep your hashish, my lord. I think I shall be vastly entertained without it.”

  “I am very willing to share,” he responded.

  “You should throw it in the fire. You’ll need all your wits to fence with me, and I am nothing compared to what Mari will put you through.”

  Peter pretended to consider that. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. In the end, he took the box and walked over to the row of secretaries, setting it down in front of Mr. Harper. “My gift to you,” he said. “To smoke or eat, as you will. I suggest trying it with this afternoon’s tea.”

  “At home,” growled Mr. Powel. “And do not report for work until your head has cleared.”

  Peter shrugged as if to say, as you wish. But then he winked at the row of wide-eyed young men. “There’s enough to share with your friends.” And not so much that it would harm them even if they smoked the entire box. “Just think kindly of me when we have occasion to cross paths.”

  Then he took the time to greet each man, memorizing their names and mannerisms. A great deal could be learned from young secretaries who had reason to be grateful.

  Mr. Powel watched the entire proceeding with an amused air. He likely understood what Peter was doing and apparently approved, since he didn’t stop it. Or perhaps he trusted to the good sense of his men.

  Then it was on to the next steps in this negotiation: a genial meal, some spicy bangla, and whatever hints he could learn about Mari.

  Eleven

  Mari glowered at the bright sunshine as she clomped her way up the steps to her home. From now on, she would remember never, ever to rise early, because it completely disordered her day. It was barely past teatime, and she already felt like a wet rag hung out to dry. The bruises from this morning’s fall ached liked the devil, she had a headache from a terrible session with Greenie, made worse from sitting fruitlessly at Lady Eleanor’s salon. She’d wanted to get a single private moment to ask the woman about Lord Rossgrove, but had been unable to manage the feat. And now the blasted sun chose to shine bright and hot right in her eyes. All she wanted to do was be on her bed and cover her eyes with a lemon cloth, but…what the devil was that noise? Was her father singing? In the middle of the day?

  Horace pulled open the door for her, his expression so pained as to immediately brighten her mood. Then she heard another masculine voice join her father’s. It was deeper and richer, and was surprisingly sweet to hear. And she knew just whose it was, especially since the words were spoken in Hindi.

  “Lord Whitly?” she asked Horace, her expression turning as sour as the butler’s. Then it hit her. Lord Whitly was talking to her father. About their marriage. It had to be, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not if Whitly got her father to pressure her before she brought Mr. Camden up to scratch.

  “Yes, Miss Powel,” Horace answered. “In the dining room for a late luncheon.”

  “Oh, oh no.”

  Luncheon? It was past tea. Didn’t matter. They were here, and from the sounds of it, they were having too good a time with each other. As if to underline the thought, her father abruptly burst out laughing. It was a big sound that boomed through the house and usually made her smile. This time, it made her grind her teeth in frustration.

  And then, the other realization hit her. “Cook finished the newest batch of bangla this morning, didn’t he?”

  “Precisely,” Horace intoned. She looked to their disapproving butler and immediately resolved to make sure the u
nderstaff got half the current batch. Why should she be the only one with upset plans? Watching Horace trying to control a too-jolly crew would make the day marginally better. Meanwhile, she decided to grab for her nearest ally.

  “Please ask Mama—”

  “Your mother is currently making calls.”

  Of course she was. If the men weren’t right now discussing her future, Mari would be out the door as well. “Very well,” she said as she stripped out of her hat and gloves. “I shall…” Her voice trailed away. Her father had stopped crooning and left the tune to Lord Whitly. Lord, he had an exceptional voice.

  It was slow and filled with tenderness. She didn’t know enough Hindi to understand the words, but Lord Whitly’s voice infused it with pain. Slow, melancholic longing that called to her in a way she couldn’t understand. Mesmerized, she walked to the dining room but did not enter. She stood in the doorway, her eyes filling with tears for no reason at all.

  She blinked them away. She was not a watering pot and knew how to get her emotions under control. So she focused on the way Lord Whitly lounged in his seat, stretching his legs out before him as his head dropped against the back of the chair. His hand was on his chest, and his eyes had slid closed. Clearly inebriated, and yet his song continued.

  Her father saw her. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright, but he didn’t do more than acknowledge her with a nod. He too was caught up in the ballad, if that indeed was the term for so beautiful a tune.

  Then it was done. Lord Whitly exhaled the last note on a sigh and opened his eyes. He wasn’t looking at her, but at her father, and when he spoke, his words were gravelly with emotion.

  “There. Now you have it.”

  Her father planted his chin on his hand. “What?”

  “The best thing I brought back from India. That song.”

  “Ah. And did you learn it from a beautiful woman?”

  Lord Whitly smiled, the expression nostalgic. “I did.”

  Mari found her mood souring, and she pushed off the doorjamb. Good God, had she really been lolling against the doorway like a lazy chambermaid? She moved into the room, making sure her steps were crisp and her words even more so.