Page 43 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

She took a moment to allow the idea to sink in. Or perhaps what she needed to understand was the way Mr. Camden was staring at her, as if the character of a color was common sense. “What does he think of jonquil?” she ventured, not expecting an answer. She was trying to make a joke.

“Jonquil would be most unwise, Miss Powel. Most unwise indeed.”

Good God. He wanted her to wear brown. Or black. Or perhaps a shroud.

Chapter Ten

It was generally considered crass to speak to a woman’s father while still hard from kissing the daughter. Unfortunately, given the amount of lust Miss Powel inspired, Peter would be unlikely to find a time when he was not achingly ready to plant himself between her thighs. Which meant there was no point in delaying.

If only he could find the damned man.

Mr. Powel did not frequent the usual gathering places of gentlemen. He’d been seen at White’s, Brooks’s, Watier’s, and Boodle’s, but as a guest and without any predictability. There was a coffeehouse near the docks that he sometimes enjoyed, and every man of means wandered through a gaming hell or three at some point. But no one could predict when or where the man would appear, except to say that he had an office on Cowper’s Row.

An office like a solicitor or a banker. Very bourgeois. So it was that Peter tromped up the steps into Mr. Powel’s London office and found himself struck dumb.

He had been in many offices in his life. The headmaster’s office at school burned dark in his memory, as did his father’s ponderous edifice of dark wood and condescending tomes. But he’d also found happiness in his messy corner of East India employees. He’d cooled his heels by enormous, ornate desks in India, and once sat scribbling for two days next to an elephants’ watering hole. But this place—this vast space of Mr. Powel’s office—was as near to heaven as Peter had ever imagined.

Mr. Powel’s place of business took up an entire floor of the modest building. Whereas most offices had walls, this space was an open room filled with desks, all covered in paper. Three secretaries sat shoved into the farthest corner. They were near a window, so the hunched men had light. But the rest of the floor was crammed with tables covered in sketches, notes, and a treasure trove of maps.

And in the center of it, like a maestro conducting his orchestra, stood Mr. Powel. Or rather, he walked, muttered, and inspected, moving from one spot to another, pulling out a map, making notes in correspondence, and occasionally tugging at his hair.

“Is it teatime already?” Mr. Powel said as he set down a well-worn diary. He pulled out his pocket watch. “No, it’s not.” He looked up, his amber eyes narrowing. “And you are not the tea girl.”

“No, I am not.” Peter sketched a quick bow. “Peter George Norwood, Lord Whitly, at your service.”

“I know who you are. You’re Sommerfield’s heir, and the gentleman who waltzes, trains parakeets, and tosses my daughter off her horse.”

Peter felt his lips twitch in a smile. “I definitely waltz, am middling at best with birds, and sadly, I was too slow to catch her. I did nothing to knock her off her seat.”

“Then what caused it? She’s not a gel who falls off her horse.”

Very true, but Peter had no wish to talk so quickly of marriage. Not when Mari’s heart was so unreadable. Peter came here to learn her father’s character, which currently appeared more unpredictable than his wealthy cit image suggested.

“You’ll have to ask her that,” he answered genially. “She wouldn’t explain it to me.” Then he wandered to the closest corner, one devoted to waterways. He saw maps of canals, seas, and oceans, with sharp lines used by sailors to navigate. Lolling lopsided in the middle of the mess sat a model of a sailing vessel such as a boy might fashion. Three others that looked meticulous in construction sat in a neat row behind. He waved a genial hand at the top map and started with flattery.

“This looks very impressive. I probably can’t understand half of it. Have you plans for something exciting?”

The man frowned, clearly not swayed by flattery. “I always have plans. Ideas at a minimum. Only a dolt has nothing in his head.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “You were in India. What do you know of the caravan routes?”

“Inside or out of India?”

“Out.”

“Very little, I’m afraid.” Peter picked up the farthest model boat. “I traveled extensively inside the country, but only took the usual sailing route out.”

Mr. Powel joined him at the table, his thumb holding a page in another diary. It showed a rough sketch of Turkey, bisected with a jagged red line. Presumably the route the diarist took through that country.

“You were a taxman, as I recall,” Mr. Powel said. “Pulling rubies out of maharajas.”

Emeralds more often, but he wasn’t about to argue. Neither would he elaborate.

Mr. Powel leaned against the table, his expression pensive. “I worked shipping during my time in India,” he said bluntly. “Messy business, cutthroats everywhere, but I learned the value of transport.” He rubbed at a smudge on his hand. “Can’t make a profit if you can’t get the goods to market.”

Peter nodded, then wandered to the next corner. The left wall was covered by the roads of England, drawn in a precise hand, while the right was dedicated to the Continent. Both were covered with smudge marks, as if traced repeatedly with a dirty finger. “So that’s what this is? New routes to get Indian goods to market?” If Powel succeeded, that would be a treasure beyond price, but the risks were enormous. He peered around the table. There were stacks of books that looked like more journals and travel records.

“It’s one of my notions,” Mr. Powel hedged.

A serious one, obviously. Peter’s eye caught on a map of the English canal system. “You have a great many excellent notions, at least according to my father.”