Page 69 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“You will give this to Miss Mari Powel and no other.” He fished out his invitation from his pocket and gave it to the footman as well. Then he looked to all three. “I owe you a great debt. You have my gratitude.”

Mrs. Evans pulled out a wrapped piece of linen. “Give this to the boy. That’ll calm him. Maybe get him to talk.”

Cherry tarts. He’d know the smell anywhere. “If these can’t, then nothing will,” he said.

Mrs. Evans colored prettily. “And there’s another for you to eat while you change clothes.”

He looked down, belatedly realizing what he was wearing. He couldn’t go dockside looking like this. Not unless he wanted to get coshed on the head. He had the right clothing in his rooms, but it would delay him even longer.

“Best you go slowly there,” Robin said. “Or wait for me.”

Peter frowned. “How familiar are you with this tavern?”

Robin shook his head. “I’m not. But I grew up near the docks, milord. I know a few things. That’s a rough place.”

Peter considered it, but decided not to risk the footman. “Just get that message to Miss Powel. I’ll be careful.”

And armed.

Robin bowed quickly and left. Peter departed a minute later, his thoughts grim. He’d been anticipating a night of seduction, and now he’d be skulking about as if he were still in India. At least he could take comfort in the fact that Mari was safely away from the danger he’d be facing tonight.

*

Mari’s smile was becoming strained. Even Lord Rimbury noticed, though he declined to comment beyond asking if she had the headache. But her huff of disgust after the supper buffet pushed him to a more direct question.

“Did he finally arrive?” he asked as he peered around the milling throng of guests.

No. “Whomever do you mean?” she asked, her tone sweet.

He cast her an arch look. “You’ve alternated between clenching your teeth at your dance partners and glaring at the doorway. It must be Peter. You only get that furious tick when he’s nearby.”

“But he’s not nearby,” she said tartly as she once again glared at the door.

“Which vexes you to no end,” he said as he lifted her gloved hand to his arm. “Tell me why.” It wasn’t a command. More a charming wheedle.

She groaned in answer. Everything was so confusing with her being wayward, and Mr. Camden being awful. She wanted to talk to someone. She wanted to experiment. She wanted out of her damned boring gowns. This one was a smoky blue that could have been interesting if it had the tiniest bit of decoration.

But the gentleman she wanted to discuss, experiment, and undress with wasn’t here. And that made her want to scream. Which wasn’t Lord Rimbury’s fault, so she smiled and started to make up some excuse.

“My lord, Miss Powel,” came a pompous tone from their right.

They turned to find two footmen standing awkwardly beside them. The one with the pompous tone wore the livery of the household. The other wore the colors of the Earl of Sommerfield. She and Lord Rimbury exchanged a concerned look. “Is something amiss?” Lord Rimbury said.

“No, my lord,” the pompous one said.

“I have a message,” said the other. “For Miss Powel. His lordship said to hand it to her and only her.”

That was surprising. And attracting notice. “Very well. You may give it to me.”

The young man did, and she quickly ripped open the missive. It was written on coarse paper in a bold hand.

I am unavoidably detained. I pray you will forgive me. I hope I may be allowed to call on you tomorrow.

—W

“Is Lord Whitly unwell?”

It wasn’t appropriate to question the man in the middle of a ballroom, but she couldn’t stop herself. Besides, most of the guests were still at the supper buffet.