As Rich as a Rogue Read Online Free

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    Peter George Norwood, Lord Whitly, couldn’t stop grinning, despite the afternoon’s rather bizarre encounter with Miss Powel. Her bad temper was a minor blight on the marvelous joy of being back in England. And not just England, but a gaming hell, surrounded by genial fellows and eating solid English fare. Or more accurately, drinking the brandy. He took his time with his drink, rolling it around on his tongue, allowing the aroma to sink into his nostrils while the liquid bathed his teeth.
    God, how he’d missed it. Too bad the dinner fare wasn’t nearly as delightful. Sadly, the food seemed more bland than he remembered. Or he’d simply gotten used to Indian spices burning his palate. Either way, he was enjoying his drink.
    â€œBlast it, Whitly, surely you can give us a hint as to what you’re going to teach the bird,” said one of his companions, a man who needed money and was going about getting it in all the wrong ways.
    â€œHe can’t do it. Wouldn’t be sporting,” countered the youngest of his dinner guests, a youth who simply needed time to grow before embarking on a career.
    â€œI’m not going to help him with the stupid bird,” argued the first. “I’m going to wager on whether he’ll manage it. Some things are harder for a bird to say than others.”
    The youth huffed out a breath. “That’s not sporting either! We’ve all got bets down. Damned book at White’s has three pages of them.”
    Four other voices broke in, all with an opinion as to what was sporting and what was not. Peter hid his smile behind his drink. Only in England did they have such conversations, and he loved every heated word. Gentleman’s honor, a sporting wager, even the good-natured way they discussed cheating—it all amounted to jolly fun without fear of bloodshed.
    Child’s play, and he adored it.
    It was, in fact, a large reason why he’d come home. The other, of course, was the aged, gloomy fellow sitting across from him, listening to the debate. It was all dark, brooding looks from his father, the Earl of Sommerfield, whose preference was for serious political debate and directing affairs of state. He’d foregone his usual brandy and cigars to meet with his son.
    The earl had sent a summons an hour before dinner. Peter considered it the height of ill manners to cancel a dinner engagement already arranged, so he’d invited his father here, fully expecting a refusal. He was stunned speechless when the earl had stomped into the dining room of this barely reputable gaming hell.
    â€œWelcome back to England’s crowning jewel, my lord,” said an elegant voice at his elbow.
    Peter turned to see the face of a man he’d never met. The gentleman was dressed well enough, with expensive fabrics and a clean shirt, plus he wore a warm smile on his rather common face.
    â€œI assume you mean London, not this particular hell,” Peter returned. “It’s pleasant enough, but not quite a jewel.” Peter smiled because he thought it rude not to return an expression in equal measure.
    â€œOf course, of course.” The large man bowed. “Mr. Bernard Drew, my lord, at your service.”
    Ah, the new owner of this particular establishment. Rumor had it that he was the brother of the Duchess of Bucklynde. “Whenever you wish to play, I shall be happy to extend you a line of credit—”
    â€œOff with you,” interrupted the earl. “My son needs no credit, and certainly not from the likes of you. Thieves and sharps, every one of you.” Then he glared around at Peter’s companions until one by one, they grew uncomfortable.
    Peter sighed. His father knew how to sour a room faster than anyone he’d ever known. Best try to make amends now, so Peter gestured to Mr. Drew. “Get my friends some more of this excellent drink,” he said, ignoring his father’s huff of disdain. Then