Page 64 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Wait here,” she instructed her maid. Then she turned to the nearest secretary and spoke with an imperious accent. “Please show me to Mr. Camden’s office.”

“Er, um, is Mr. Camden expecting you?”

She didn’t want to be mean to the man, but a certain level of boldness was required. “If he were expecting me, he would be waiting out here.”

“Oh. Of course.” To which the man glanced awkwardly at his fellow workers, as if to say what should I do? Mari didn’t allow them to answer.

“Direct me to his office now.”

Her tone made him leap out from behind his desk with a “Yes, ma’am.” Then he led her to an unimposing door in a row of unimposing doors. How disappointing for Mr. Camden, she thought.

“I’ll announce myself,” she said before her escort could knock. “Good day, sir.”

He flushed at being so clearly dismissed while she rapped loudly on the door, then turned the knob.

She sailed through the room as if she had a right, only to be stopped short at the cluttered disaster that was this tiny space. Books, papers, and ink bottles choked every surface. Or at least what she could see from the fitful light that made it through the very dirty window. And in the middle of it all, behind a small desk, sat Mr. Camden, hunched in obvious misery, one hand wrapped around a bottle of gin.

“I said no one—” His words cut off as his red-rimmed eyes caught sight of her. “Miss Powel?”

“Oh, goodness.” She glanced behind her. Yes, the secretary was still standing there, his mouth even more gaping than before. “I believe you have work to occupy yourself?” she said tartly.

The man flushed a dark red. She shut the door on him. Then she turned to face Mr. Camden, who was scrambling to his feet, knocking over a stack of papers as he did so.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, then cursed again as he tripped over another stack. He righted himself before giving her a critical frown. “Ladies do not visit a gentleman’s place of business.”

“Gentlemen do not become gin-soaked in the middle of the afternoon,” she responded.

He pushed out his lower lip. “What a man does is his own affair.”

She wanted to say something churlish, but she held her tongue. Obviously, the man was more upset by Lord Rossgrove’s defection than he’d let on. That was chivalrous of him to protect her feelings when she’d been the one to muck it up.

So she felt very warm toward Mr. Camden as she stepped over a pile of books and took hold of his hands. “I am terribly sorry about Lord Rossgrove. I came to…to see how you fared.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but a noxious burp came out instead. He flushed crimson, then covered his lips. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered behind his hand.

“It’s all right. I do that sometimes as well.”

He reached beside him and grabbed a jug of water hidden behind a tall bookcase. He poured himself a drink then swallowed it in loud, steady gulps. Mari waited patiently, wondering how she could turn the conversation to where she wanted. She also wondered where she could sit. Meanwhile, Mr. Camden finished his glass, set it down with a click, and then turned to her with a compressed smile.

“That should do it,” he said overly loud. “I’m fit to be seen.” He straightened his waistcoat, then gave her a cheerful smile. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss Powel?”

How to answer that? She reached for his hands again. She wanted him to caress her like Peter had so she could compare the two experiences. She wanted a kiss, but it would be too bold to ask for that. So she smiled and stayed with her first lie.

“I came to see how you fared.”

“I’ve been laid low, as you see.” He gestured wanly toward the bottle of gin. “Even tea taken with my mum failed to cheer me up.”

“Oh dear.” She knew that tea with his mother was one of his most cherished rituals. “Was she horribly disappointed?”

“She was. She took to her smelling salts three times, I’m afraid. Seeing her set so low was what brought me back here and…” Again, he gestured to the bottle. Or he might have been reaching for it and checked the motion. It was hard to tell.

“Three times,” she echoed feebly. “But do you forgive me?” she asked. “I’ve heard it said that Lord Rossgrove is…well, somewhat of an ass.”

His eyes widened, and he drew back. “You must not say such things! Not of so great a man!”

“Oh,” she said, dismay pooling in her belly. This was not going at all as she’d planned. “But surely if he doesn’t see how perfect you are for his plans, if he doesn’t recognize—”

“All is not lost yet.” He grabbed her hand and patted it overly hard. “He may still come around. Women say such silly things sometimes. He’ll realize that soon enough. I shall write him a letter tomorrow. Something that apologizes for you. Love is such an unpredictable thing, you know. Sometimes a man cannot control whom he marries.”