As Rich as a Rogue

by Jade Lee

  “Oh, Baroness Burke’s hat. Well, her husband accidentally shot the swan, and since she’d just paid a great deal of money to get it set up on their pond, she thought she ought to have some use out of it.”

  “So she stuffed it and mounted it on her head?” He cast her a look, obviously waiting for her sense of humor to surface.

  “Well, yes, I suppose that is rather silly. But no more so than Lord Norman over there, dressing all in white with blue feathers. Do you know, he trails the things behind him like breadcrumbs. Says it helps people remember where he’s been.”

  Lord Whitly chuckled. “It must give the chambermaids fits trying to clean up after him.”

  “Oh no,” she answered. “It’s his tailor who curses his name. They quickly ran out of birds with blue feathers and have gone to dying the things. For the first week there were feathers everywhere, but now he’s only got a few pieces that aren’t denuded. See?” She gestured to where the baron was strutting, huge blue-dyed peacock feathers bobbing up from the back of his coat. “He’s very protective of them now.” As they watched, a young woman reached out to touch the things, and the baron jerked away. Though they couldn’t hear what was spoken, it was clear that the lady was receiving a severe dressing-down.

  “And you don’t find that funny at all?”

  Of course she did. But she hadn’t allowed herself to laugh at it in years. Six years, to be exact. “Young, unmarried ladies aren’t supposed to laugh at their elders.”

  “But how can you not?” he returned. This time he pointed to a clog of carriages. Three moving one way, a fourth and two riders heading the other. And all six were caught trying to turn a corner from opposite directions. The resulting jam-up was punctuated with “By Jove!” sniffs from one overdressed dandy, and “Ridiculous imbecile!” returned by three others.

  She chuckled. How could she not when the lone tiger in the dandy’s curricle dropped his chin on his fist and rolled his eyes. Lord Whitly snorted.

  “Dandies should not drive curricles.”

  “Not unless his tiger is a bit older than ten and can control his expression.”

  “What? Oh Lord, yes, that is funny. I was thinking that the entire mess happened because the dandy was adjusting the fall of the lace over his belly.”

  She smiled. “Is that what happened?”

  “It is.”

  They sidestepped the increasing chaos. Meanwhile, off to the right was a crowd of fashionable people surrounding Lady Illston’s newest victim. Miss Rose May was the poor maiden carrying Greenie’s massive cage.

  “Do you wish to greet them?” he asked, pointing to the grouping.

  “God no,” she answered. She’d had more than enough of Greenie lately. They turned to the right, nodding to a separate clutch of people. She noted, naturally, that everyone was decidedly more friendly to him than to her. But no one outright snubbed her, which was a relief. Still, she couldn’t help but tally the steadily shrinking number of women who treated her with warmth.

  “What has you sighing so quietly, Miss Powel?” he asked after they had passed through the worst of the congestion.

  “Was I sighing?”

  “Or your bonnet has sprung a leak.”

  She chuckled, and then abruptly quieted. How had this come about? She was on Lord Whitly’s arm and laughing. Or at least smiling. “Miss Green will accidentally forget to invite me to her ball.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl dressed all in green, my lord. The one who—”

  “Kept tittering like a mouse?”

  “Er, yes. But I was going to say the girl with the large bonnet to de-emphasize the size of her nose.”

  “Is that why I nearly poked out my eye on that huge bonnet? Because she thinks her nose is large?”

  “To be fair, it is rather large.”

  “It… Oh, yes. I suppose it is. But a bonnet doesn’t hide that.”

  “It did from you. You were too busy avoiding blindness.”

  He nodded. “Very well, I’ll grant you that. But why would you sigh over missing a silly girl’s ball?”

  “Because her mother is a grand hostess and a woman I respect. She could be a great help to me in the ton, and by extension, I could then be a great help to my husband.”

  He took a moment to digest that. She was surprised again that he seemed to truly consider her words. She’d expected him to toss her comments aside as female machinations, which was what her father called her thinking. But instead he nodded.

  “I can get you invited to the ball, if that is what you wish.”

  “How? By indicating that you wish to attend? I expect that your invitation is already resting on the front table of your residence.”

  “No doubt, but I shall only attend if you do.”

  “Which will make her even more of an enemy. Do not snub one woman in favor of another.”

  He groaned. “But I do favor another.”

  “And if you make it a choice between myself and her, then I shall lose. She is in the more powerful position, with her mother a grand hostess. If you make an ultimatum such as that, then you will declare me her enemy.”

  “But she already is, if she will not invite you to her ball.”

  “And if you draw no attention to it, then it will settle out after she finds her husband and establishes her position.”

  He looked at her and nodded slowly. “And you care because you are looking ahead. To what her mother can do for your husband.”

  “That is how this game is played.” And now they came to the crux of what she wanted to know. “I would consider you, my lord. I would think of you as a possible husband, except you see none of this. You care for none of this. You will be an earl one day, and you have no ambition.”

  His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she saw something cross his expression that made her gasp. It was dark and powerful. Like glimpsing the heart of a thunderstorm. But then it was gone, though his words came out in a low, clipped tone. “You know nothing of my ambition.”

  She ought to take the warning of that spilt-second expression, but she’d always loved thunderstorms, and so she challenged him, trying to see if she could provoke him to explain. “Then tell me. You wish to be my husband? Then tell me not only what you want to do, but what I will do as your wife.” She tightened her grip. “Do you not understand? Do you not see what I need?”

  “Work,” he said, clearly shocked. “You want to work.”

  “And you want to play.”

  “No.” He turned to her. “What I want is something a great deal more significant.”

  She waited. It was a clash of wills between them right there in the middle of Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. They faced each other, brows drawn together, eyes flashing. She did not soften, and neither did he. If anything, he grew stronger, bolder, and his words came out like the crack of lightning, even though they were spoken low enough not to be overheard.

  “I will show you.” He spoke it like a challenge, and she was startled to find herself rising to the bait. “Tomorrow night, can you escape your chaperones?”

  Without the least bit of effort. She might be an unmarried virgin, but her parents trusted to her good sense. Which would be severely lacking if she went out at night alone with this man. “What do you mean to do?”

  He smiled. “Trust me.”

  And God help her, she did.

  “Midnight,” she said. “Meet me at Lady Stokes’s masquerade.”

  Twelve

  The next morning was rushed, even more so because she’d spent the night wondering what Lord Whitly could possibly want to show her. Not to mention a few highly inappropriate dreams that left her restless and achy in places best not mentioned. Worse, they weren’t technically dreams, since she’d been awake when those imaginings had wandered into her thoughts and refused to leave.

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nbsp; She felt as though she’d barely closed her eyes when her maid woke her with the message that Mr. Camden was waiting for her downstairs. He’d arrived two hours early for her meeting with Lord Rossgrove, insisting she be escorted. He also insisted that he was being helpful when he inspected her gown, her hair, even her shoes before he pronounced them acceptable. Well, almost acceptable, as she’d chosen a softer, less headache-creating hairstyle. He wanted her to change it to her usual severe style, but she refused, saying that she could not be clever with Lord Rossgrove while suffering from a migraine.

  Naturally, Mr. Camden was nervous at her word “clever,” but she refused to be swayed. Lord Whitly had somehow induced her to become bolder with her statements, and she was loathe to give that up, even for an meeting as important as this. She was a clever girl, and Lord Rossgrove needed to understand that if they were to work together in support of Mr. Camden’s career.

  So they left an hour before the appointed time, her maid serving as a bored chaperone. All three rode in her father’s carriage because it was more richly appointed than anything Mr. Camden could afford. And then, after all the pomp and anxiety, Lord Rossgrove kept them waiting in his front hallway. They weren’t even shown into a parlor but left sitting on a bench.

  It was a calculated move, she was sure, meant to show that they were petitioners for favor. Mr. Camden kept murmuring how gracious the man was to see them in his home. Obviously, he didn’t understand the tactic, and frankly, his ignorance was becoming an irritant. Worse, no matter how much she reassured him that he had no need to hover, Mr. Camden would not leave.

  Thankfully, after half an hour cooling their heels, Mr. Camden managed to restrain his anxiety long enough to sit down. In gratitude, Mari patted his hand and smiled.

  “Never fear. I know what I am about,” she said softly, hoping it wasn’t a lie. She had been thinking hard about how to handle this interview. Lord Whitly’s comment that she had no power rankled. If the only thing Lord Rossgrove respected was power, she would pull on the trappings of it like a cloak. A smart man would not be fooled by such things. A petty man would resent her for it. Either way, she was determined to figure out exactly what kind of man Lord Rossgrove was, and for that, she had to out-pompous the butler and out-power Lord Rossgrove.

  It would be a challenge indeed, but she relished the chance to try.

  “Lord Rossgrove condescends to admit you into the library. Mind you do not touch, eat, or drink anything. You may sit if he offers it, but you must stand if he does not. And do not under any circumstances approach him closer than ten feet. That is the width of the desk plus the chairs. Do you understand? If he allows you to sit, you will claim the one farthest away. And you will show appropriate gratitude if that happy event should occur.”

  It was that last comment that was the tipping point. She arched her brow and gestured to her hat and gloves, which rested neatly on the table appointed for such things.

  “And you are not to touch my hat or gloves, sir, unless I specifically bid you to. If you should detect so much as a smudge on the silk, then you are allowed to clean it quickly with a brush—no bleach, for that would mark you as a fool—and I expect you to understand that I show you great favor in permitting such a thing. Normally only my most trusted maid would be given such a task.”

  Mr. Camden gasped in horror, but Mari did not waver. To her distinct pleasure, the man stiffened in rigid outrage before bowing to show grudging respect. It was gone a moment later when he walked her with achingly slow steps to the library. He quietly opened the door, announced her, then silently withdrew. She didn’t hesitate but proceeded to the chair closest to Lord Rossgrove’s desk, where she waited, her brow arched, for him to stand, the way any gentleman would in the presence of a lady.

  He didn’t stand. In fact, he remained hunched over a ledger, which he perused with the intensity of a miser over a stack of coins. It was pretense, she was sure. He was merely waiting to see if she would sit, thereby accepting his rudeness to her as if she were a servant.

  She did not.

  In the end, he looked up, pretended to be surprised, and pushed to his feet.

  “Miss Powel, please do sit down.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She made sure her voice was hoarse, and she cleared her throat delicately as she sat.

  Lord Rossgrove frowned. “Are you well, Miss Powel?”

  “Merely a dry throat, my lord. London can be so dusty.” By saying this, she pointed out that his butler had not served her tea, and he heard the underlying criticism clearly.

  “Didn’t Fletcher serve you? Bother the man.” Lord Rossgrove grabbed a bell and rang it in a loud clang. The butler appeared before the sound stopped echoing.

  “My lord?”

  “Bring Miss Powel some tea,” he said. “And be quick about it.”

  Fletcher, poor man, forgot himself so much as to drop his mouth open in shock. But he recovered and quickly withdrew.

  Excellent. It appeared that the trappings of power were working for her. So she settled into a relaxed position and smiled blandly at Lord Rossgrove, doing her best to imitate Lady Eleanor in body, speech, and attitude. At the moment, Eleanor would wait for the gentleman to take control of the conversation, and then she might or might not deign to respond.

  Meanwhile, Lord Rossgrove mirrored her relaxed position and extended it, going so far as to let his head loll against the wing of his enormous desk chair. He was a tall gentleman with graying hair and large teeth, but his dress and attitude were restrained. Odd that so severe a man would have so wild a nephew, but young men didn’t always follow the examples of their elders.

  “I can see why Mr. Camden favors you,” he said finally, his voice slow and his lips pinched tight.

  Mari had no idea how to respond to that, so she said nothing, merely arching her brow and tilting her head slightly as if she were listening intently to him or perhaps a bird twittering outside. It was a favorite pose of Lady Eleanor’s. It worked beautifully, because Lord Rossgrove stumbled back into speech.

  “You’re above average pretty, know how to keep your tongue, and it appears you’ve surprised my butler. That’s rare indeed.”

  Again she made no response, but it didn’t work as well this time. His expression tightened, and his next words came out like the snap of a whip.

  “Most ladies would be thankful for the compliment.”

  Power, she reminded herself. Pretend to the Queen’s own power. Or at least Lady Eleanor’s. “Compliment?” she said sweetly. “My apologies. It sounded more like a list of attributes, such as I might note the color of your furnishings or the large numbers in your ledger.”

  He looked down as if surprised to see the tallies open before him. Then he smoothly closed the book. If he’d snapped it shut, she would have thought—possibly—it had been a mistake to leave them where she might see them. But the way he moved was too calculated a gesture. Which meant he had intended her to be impressed by the figures there.

  She wasn’t. After all, her father had equally grand numbers in his account book. So she smiled blandly at him and waited for tea. And again, he was the one who spoke.

  “It was gauche of me to allow you to see that, but now that you have, let me be blunt. I am a wealthy man of great influence.” He preened a bit at that, and she knew that Lord Whitly had pegged him exactly. He gloried in his power and the wealth that brought him more power. “I believe I should like to exert myself on Mr. Camden’s behalf.”

  “I’m sure he will be most grateful.”

  “He ought to be.” Then the man smiled at her, though the expression never touched his eyes. “How grateful are you?”

  She arched a brow. She was becoming quite good at Lady Eleanor’s expressions. “Why would I be grateful for consideration shown to Mr. Camden? There is no connection between us, no reason that his fortunes will affect mine one way or another.”
r />   Lord Rossgrove was surprised by that. “There is no understanding between you two?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then why are you here?” Now the man began to show his true colors. He was irritated with her, but no more than she was with him.

  “I am here,” she said tartly, “because you invited me, and I was curious. Plus, I believe your political interests and Mr. Camden’s are aligned. He seemed to wish this meeting, and because I bear him good will, I agreed to call upon you this day.” Then she unfolded her hands and waved vaguely in his direction. “Was there some reason you wished to speak with me?”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment, there was a quiet knock at the door. Fletcher, she assumed, with the tea tray.

  Lord Rossgrove grimaced then grabbed his bell, ringing it with a loud clang. How obnoxious. He could simply have said enter, but he had to ring that thing as if it he were calling in sheep to their pen.

  The door opened, and Fletcher stepped ponderously inside with a tray. He moved slowly to the table and set the thing down with the stiff airs of an octogenarian.

  “Oh, be done with it, man,” snapped Lord Rossgrove, clearly out of temper.

  Fletcher straightened in shock. It took him a moment to recover—slightly longer this time than before—but then bowed and departed with alacrity. Meanwhile, Mari began to see the appeal of obnoxious butlers. One had a great deal of fun discomfiting them.

  She waited until the doors shut before reaching for the tea service. “Shall I pour?”

  She was assuming the role of hostess, much as Lady Eleanor had done at Mari’s home. Lord Rossgrove nodded, his eyes narrowed as he clearly revised his opinion of her. For the better, she hoped.

  “Cream, my lord?”

  “Sugar only,” he answered. “One spoonful.”

  She served him, then herself. And she allowed only the tiniest portion to wet her lips. After all, she wasn’t thirsty. The tea had been a statement, not a need. So they sipped, looking at each other over the rims of the delicate cups. Then Lord Rossgrove spoke, his words casual as he caught her completely by surprise.