Page 68 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“No, milord. He talked about a mum that smelled of cherry tarts, but she was killed.” Her voice changed, her accent becoming thicker, more like a dockside worker’s. “She was kilt. That’s how he said it.”

“Terrible thing to see a boy so calm like that. She was kilt, and then he went to live with the others.”

Peter frowned, his apprehension growing by the second. “What others?”

“The other boys,” said Mrs. Evans, but it was the housekeeper whose gaze grew hard and her tone angry.

“And a leader. Boy calls him Silas. Don’t know anything more than that.”

“I do,” came a male voice from outside the door.

All three of them started, but Mrs. Osborn rapidly grimaced. “Come on in, Robin. You got ears like a cat.”

Mrs. Evans sniffed. “Especially when he presses them against doors.”

The door opened, and a young footman appeared. His eyes were green, and his ears were large, but what Peter noticed most was his sheepish grin. “I know where to find Silas, milord,” he said, ducking his head. “Tavern near the docks. Named the Striking Eel.”

“And how do you know that?”

The footman didn’t answer, but Mrs. Evans tsked. “You followed him, didn’t ye? That other time. With the bigger boy.”

Robin lifted his chin. “I didn’t like what he said to Daisy.”

A maid of all work, and apparently the boy was sweet on her. Well, he’d take what information he could. “And he’s there most nights?”

“Don’t know. He was that night.”

“Very well,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Thank you all for a very educational tea, but I’ve got an appointment—”

“But it’s happening soon,” interrupted Mrs. Evans.

Peter froze. “What is?”

“Whatever they’re planning!” She looked like she wanted to thump him on the forehead. “I’m not a woman who gossips. I been with this house since I was younger than Daisy, and it ain’t right what’s been going on. This is a fine family, and I won’t have the maids being hurt or thieves at my table.”

He slowly sat back down. “Thieves, Mrs. Evans?”

“He’s grouchy as a bear until one of them boys comes around.” She referred to his father.

“And then he’s nervous afterward, but there’s a look in his eyes,” added Mrs. Osborn.

“That’s when he goes for the maids,” added Robin. “Like he’s excited and can’t keep it inside.”

“And then there’s money to pay for new livery,” said Mrs. Osborn quietly.

“And for good beef,” said Mrs. Evans.

“And his tailor,” added Robin.

Peter was silent. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to think it of his father, but part of him wasn’t surprised. The earl had certain standards, and he wasn’t about to let things slip just because of a bad crop or three.

“Tonight?” he asked quietly. “You’re sure—”

“Whatever’s to be done has to be done quickly,” pressed Mrs. Evans. The other two nodded gravely.

There was no questioning the seriousness of their expressions or the risk they were taking to tell him what they suspected. As the eldest son, it was up to him to make sure his father wasn’t doing something stupid with the maids or…anything else.

This was England, for God’s sake. Corruption shouldn’t run rampant here. Certainly not in his own family. He sighed and grabbed a piece of paper from Mrs. Osborn’s desk and hastily scrawled a note for Mari. Then he handed it to Robin.