As Rich as a Rogue Read Online Free Page B

as he might a maharaja. “I see you’re in fine clothes, have excellent horseflesh, and wear a ruby on your finger. I’d say the only difference between us is the color of the stone.”
    â€œWhich is why you need to shore up the estate—”
    Peter snapped his fingers as if just remembering something. “There is one other difference.” He leaned forward on the table, doing his best to appear intimidating without outright threatening his father. “You are the Earl of Sommerfield. You hold the title and the responsibility.”
    â€œWe need the cash, Son. We need it desperately.”
    â€œWhy?”
    His father’s face turned red. If they were alone, it would be the prelude to a tirade. But they were in public, and so Peter was able to stop it.
    â€œI have the right to ask. If you want me to shore up the accounts, then I need to know why.”
    â€œRepairs on the estate,” his father bit out. Peter could tell it was hard for the man to say that much without a great deal more vitriol.
    â€œWhere has the income gone?”
    His father’s face darkened another shade. “Expenses.”
    Peter waited to see if there would be more. Six years ago, he would not have had the patience. But he’d spent the last six years as the East India Company’s taxman and had learned a great deal about patience. And about getting answers out of powerful men.
    So he waited.
    In the end, his father proved smarter than that simple ploy. He banged his hand down on the table and pushed to his feet. “If you want answers, then go read the accounts yourself. In Lincolnshire.” Then he leaned forward. “But be sure to leave notice at your bank first to allow the debts to be paid from your account.”
    Clearly his father assumed that he would balk at the real work of sorting out the estate accounts. Before India, he probably would have. But now he leaned back and allowed a nostalgic smile to soften his face. “I should like to see the fens again.” Odd how something so mundane could become so important after only a few years away.
    â€œThe money, boy.”
    He didn’t bother responding. He didn’t even look at his father, but pretended to gaze off into the distant past. In truth, he did have some lovely memories of the fens around his home. Fishing, fowling, and wenching. He kept at his pretend reminiscences for as long as it took for his father to lose patience with him.
    Not long, as it happened, and in the end, the man muttered something foul before stomping away. Peter watched his retreating back, hating that the good drink felt sour in his stomach. His father was slipping to have allowed such a curse. Always before, it had been Peter who’d left cursing and stomping at the end of one of their battles. It was rather momentous that tonight his father had departed with less than total composure.
    Peter didn’t know what to think about that. Did he worry that his father had lost stature or glory in his own nebulous win?
    He didn’t know, and so he tucked the thought away. Then he made his way to a baize table and an amiable card game among his friends. And if his mind ever wandered back to his father or the estate and its accounts, he distracted himself in the usual way: Miss Powel did indeed have a fine set of titties.

Three
    â€œWhat happened in India? I’ll wager it was a woman.”
    Peter jolted. “What?” He peered through the dark at his best friend, Ash. They were walking to their rooms after a night of cards and good brandy. Peter had been ruminating on how hard it was to stay awake until dawn and wondering if he’d reacquire the knack now that he was back in England as a man of leisure. Fortunately for him, Ash appeared to be equally unused to cards through the night, so when the man had yawned, Peter had used that excuse to end the festivities. They were now ambling down the street in companionable silence. At