Page 82 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“Oy now! Get out!”

The angry words were followed by a hard rap against the top of the carriage. And from the tone, the driver must have been doing it for a while.

Beneath her, Peter let out a soft curse. “This is too dangerous for you,” he said.

“No one will know me. Not dressed like this.”

It was true. With her hair wild and her clothing more reminiscent of a dockside tavern worker, she looked far from a pampered daughter of the elite. She saw the struggle on his face as he fought with his gentlemanly code. It really was quite sweet of him.

“I’m not leaving,” she said. “We might as well get me inside.”

That decided him. It didn’t hurt that the driver rapped on the carriage top again. “I’m coming down!” the man called.

“No!” Peter answered as he gently set her away from him. “We’re getting out.” Then he frowned at her. “I wish you had a cloak.” He shrugged out of his coat and handed it over to her. “Put that over your head as if it were going to rain.”

He waited while she did as he asked. Suddenly she was surrounded in his scent, spiced with bay rum. She pulled the sleeves of his coat against her nose. Then Peter pushed open the door.

“Thank you for your trouble,” he said as he gave the man several coins. Then he held out his hand for her.

She took it, feeling the expanse of his fingers wrap around hers. She gripped him, holding tight, while excitement popped in her blood. Then they moved together up the walkway to his bachelor rooms.

It was a simple home in a quiet boarding house, not something one would expect of the future Earl of Sommerfield. He used a key on the front door, then tiptoed up the stairs to his rooms.

“The gentleman who runs this house is a genial sort, not one to pry. But he’s got ears like a dog.”

She frowned. “Will he be angry that you’ve brought someone here?”

Peter’s lips twisted into a self-mocking smile. “Not at all, but as you’re the first female I’ve brought home, he’ll certainly take note. And I’d rather not risk even that.”

She smiled, inordinately pleased that she was the first to breach his inner sanctum. She didn’t intend to waste the opportunity. So while he lit a brace of candles, she walked deeper inside and tried to absorb everything.

Her first glance told her the place was a mess.

Her second refined the mess into papers.

And once there was light, she saw an organized mess of research. It looked very much like her father’s office, except in a smaller place and with vastly different interests.

“Agriculture,” she said as she picked up one pamphlet. “Politics,” she said as another sheaf discussed the latest foreign policy debate.

“Tariffs,” he corrected.

Same thing to her uneducated mind.

“Accounts,” she said as she made it to another stack with an open ledger sitting on top of a pile of correspondence. There were other notes as well. A hastily scrawled list of items with numbers and dates going back two years. She picked it up, something burning hard in her mind, but she couldn’t place it. There was something unusual about the words. Canal. Sheep. Wheat. Not unusual words, but they meant something.

Beside the words and numbers were endless notations. Large numbers divided three ways, four ways, as much as seven ways, with differing permutations and additions. Most were scratched out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as she held up the pages.

He had been busy cleaning up. Setting stacks of papers aside as he cleared space on a chair. But at her question, dismay rippled through his features.

“I’m looking for evidence of a crime.”

Well, that was intriguing. She looked back at the paper, but he gently pulled it out of her hand and set it aside. “What crime?”

“Theft. Fraud. I’m not exactly sure. Maybe nothing.”

She looked into his eyes. “You don’t think that, though.”