Page 97 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

“I wished to help Lord Whitly,” she said primly. That was her refrain when she did something untoward: she was trying to be useful. They accepted it because it was often true. They knew how much she fretted with endless days of doing nothing.

“Lord Whitly is investigating something important,” she continued. “And you know that men have no idea how to get information out of women. I had to help or watch him flounder.”

“You mean you had to prove how valuable you can be.” Her mother’s hard stare met hers in the mirror, and she had the grace to flush.

“I…I like him, Mama. We’re going to get married.”

Her mother exhaled slowly, her expression narrowing as she studied Mari’s face. “I can’t quarrel with his pedigree, though your father said he discovered something disturbing.”

Mari paused after pulling on a clean shift. “What do you mean, disturbing?”

“I don’t know the details. He doesn’t think the man is as rich as everyone believes. And your father doesn’t like the earl at all.”

“Lord Whitly doesn’t care much for his father either. But not wealthy? Everyone says he’s a nabob.”

Mama waved that comment aside. “Everyone says you’re wayward. What has that to do with the truth?”

A very great deal, given what she’d done this night. “Would you hand me my gown please?” she asked by way of distraction.

Her mother stood, picked up the rose gown, and pursed her lips. A moment later, she substituted it with a pale peach one so boring as to be virtually nonexistent. “This one is more demure.”

Of course it was. “I’m tired of demure. I’ve learned that people will talk no matter what I do. So I might as well do as I please.”

“After you’re married,” her mother said tartly. “Until then, you will act as a proper lady and not wander through the docks in someone else’s clothing.”

Mari wanted to argue, but she could see that this was not the time. For all that her mother was acting calm, there was a heavy note of anger beneath. A justifiable one.

“Of course, Mama,” she said as she took the hated gown and began the tedious process of unbuttoning it before putting it on. They’d dismissed her maid in favor of frank talk. “Now tell me why Papa thinks his ledger has been touched. I thought the maids had been trained better.”

“They have,” her mother said with a wave of her fingers. “None of the staff would dare touch it, if they even knew where it was. It’s just one of your father’s wild starts. You know how he can be.”

She did, but this was not something her father ever confused. On some things he was meticulous, and his ledger was at the top of that list. “But, Mama—”

“Do you love him?”

“What?” She froze just before stepping into her gown. She understood the question. She even knew that Mama was asking about her feelings toward Lord Whitly, not her father. But still, the question did not make sense.

She pointed to the list of suitors she kept on her dressing table. “Mama, you helped me write that list.”

“I know.”

“And Lord Whitly far outranks anyone on there.”

“But you hated him. He’s the one who named you wayward.”

Mari shrugged, surprised that she could dismiss six years of fury. “He meant it as a kindness.”

“Don’t be silly—”

“And perhaps it wasn’t completely his fault.”

“Oh?” her mother challenged.

Mari sighed. She was anxious to find out what the men were discussing, but there hadn’t been enough time for them to finish. So she might as well have this out with her mother now. The problem was that she had only recently worked her mind around it.

“He was discouraging that blighter Fitzhugh from pursuing me. That’s why he said it in the first place. He had no idea the label would become popular. He certainly didn’t mean to make me completely boring for the last six years.”

“No, that was your doing.”