Page 45 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Perhaps I’m approaching this the wrong way,” he tried. “I’m newly returned to London, and 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 dull. Any recommendations?”

The man set down his map. “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 irritating.”

Whereas Peter was 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 see 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 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 sat, 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 doubted any of the secretaries would skewer him. So he took the casual pose and hoped he looked confident rather than arrogant.

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.”