Page 10 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

He did not want to think about his father’s newest mistress. “I’ve only been back a few days.”

“Huh.” Ash sighed, as if in longing, but a moment later, he was back to asking questions. “So what did the earl say? Before he stormed out.”

“You’ve got a lot of questions.”

“I’ve stored them up.”

Peter chuckled. “He said if I cared so much, I should go read the ledgers.”

“Of course he did. So what are you going to do now?”

Peter paused to curse. He’d stepped in a pile of dog shit. That was what came from thinking about his father. “I’m going to read the ledgers. What did you think was next?”

“Truly?” The man looked genuinely surprised. “Jolly good.”

“You didn’t think I’d do it? I’ve always been decent with ciphering. I ought to be able to sort out the basics.” More than the basics. His superior in the East India Company had taught him everything about proper and improper accounting. Maharajas were known for sitting on a pot of emeralds while claiming starvation. They weren’t lying. Their people were starving, and their lands often struggled, but the maharajas themselves were living to excess in everything.

“Of course, you could do it, I just…” Ash shrugged. “Well, as I said, you’ve changed.”

“I looked at the ledgers when I was younger, too. Just had to do it without my father’s knowledge.”

“I know, but—”

“He says he needs money. My money to shore up the estate.”

Ash’s lips pursed. “Do you have it?”

Not even close. He had enough for a comfortable living in a village somewhere, but not to shore up Sommerfield. “I want to know why he doesn’t.”

“Ah. Well, if you need a hand, I’ve done nothing but look at account books these last years.”

Peter had noted the lines of strain around his friend’s eyes and mouth. He’d thought it was about the man’s wretched luck at the table tonight, but now it appeared there was more.

“I thought your lands were improving. That’s what you said in your last letter.”

“They were. Looked like we were coming around. I’d even begun to hope for the best.” The man laced his words with mournful accents. As if he should have known that disaster lurked around the corner.

“You? Hopeful?” Peter teased, but underneath his light tone was worry. The one thing his friend needed most was something to believe in. Six years ago, it had been the power of his own body and mind to effect his change in fortune. Apparently that hadn’t worked, because once again Ash was rudderless.

“I’ll never believe again, I assure you. We had a bad crop. That was hard enough, but a damned disease hit us in the fall.”

During harvest. Bad time for people to be ill. “Dead?”

“Many. Mostly the old and very young.”

“That’s hard.”

He nodded. “My hands are still cramped from bringing in the crop. If it were a bumper year, I’d be permanently stooped from the labor.” Then he stopped long enough to arch his back and stretch his shoulders. “Thank God I’m back here, where a man doesn’t have to hunch unless it’s over a willing woman.”

Peter chuckled as they continued their slow amble. He nodded to a few men and smiled at a few tarts. He smiled, but declined their offers. Their breasts simply didn’t compare to the ones he’d been dreaming about since this afternoon in Hyde Park. And while his mind was pleasantly fogged, a quiet realization slipped in. Ash hadn’t been to a Season in years. Claimed it was too expensive, but he was here now. That hadn’t struck Peter as unusual until this moment.

“You’re looking for an heiress.”

His friend nodded. “Got an eye on Miss Powel. I take it you object.”

Peter frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You growled at me.”