The Proposition Read Online Free PDF

smirked then added, "You, too, Mr. Tremore. For I have an idea. I can see a way here for me to win back my money from my brother and then some."
    Edwina allowed herself to be sat at a table to the side of the cleanup, facing the strangest trio of men she could remember in a while. Two rich, idle young gentlemen who had little to do beyond bicker. And a robust-looking ratcatcher wearing a tablecloth.
    As a waiter walked away with their orders, Jeremy said, "Emile, I know what you were thinking—"
    "You like to think you do—"
    "You were thinking that this man was born poor and will die poor, that his poverty is in his blood. But I say it's in his speech. And I'm willing to back my opinion with a wager you will be hard-pressed to refuse." He took a breath, then leaned intently toward his brother. "I'll bet you a hundred pounds that she"— he pointed at Edwina—"can turn him"—he jabbed a finger in Mr. Tremore's direction—"into a gentleman by simply fixing the way he talks and teaching him some manners."
    Oh, my. She had to interrupt. "No, no. I appreciate your faith, but I can hardly take on such a large project—"
    "How long would it take?"
    She blinked. "I don't know. More than a fortnight, certainly. And it would be expensive—"
    "What if we covered your fees and costs?" Throwing a nasty grin at his brother, he added, "The loser, of course, would have to reimburse the winner."
    She blinked again. "I don't know." She glanced at Mr. Tremore. He was listening carefully, wary but curious.
    He was certainly an interesting case. Perfect in any number of ways. The clear pronunciation, or mispronunciation actually. He loved words. He could mimic accents. Moreover, a man who simply said what he had to say would make faster progress than one who hesitated or hedged.
    Emile Lamont tapped his long, thin fingers, then after a moment lifted an eyebrow speculatively. "We'd have to find a way to determine who had won the bet," he said.
    His brother pulled his mouth tight, till his lips whitened. "I win if he becomes a gentleman."
    "Yes, but who will decide if he is a gentleman or not? You? Her? No, no. You'd simply clean him up, dress him up, then call him a gentleman."
    "Well, we're not going to let you be the judge, if that's what you're suggesting."
    Emile Lamont shrugged, as if he had won the bet already because his brother could not find a way to validate the end result.
    "We will find an arbitrary judge, an objective third party," Jeremy protested.
    "Who? One of your friends?"
    "Well, not one of yours."
    "Mine would be more impartial, but never mind. It can't be done, and you'd cheat anyway." Emile shrugged again, losing interest.
    The bet was off.
    Then on again: "Wait—" He sat back, smiling as he tented his fingers. "I have an idea." It was a wicked idea, she could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes. "The Duke of Arles's annual ball," he announced. "It's in six weeks. If you can pass him off there as—oh, say, a viscount." He laughed. "Yes, a viscount. If you can bring him, have him stay the entire evening with everyone thinking he is a titled English lord, if no one catches on, then you have won." He laughed heartily.
    Edwina almost laughed herself. She felt light-headed all at once. The Duke of Arles was her distant cousin—though there was no love lost between them. Arles had inherited her father's estates twelve years ago, leaving her with whatever she could eke out on her own.
    Passing an imposter off at his annual ball would infuriate her cousin.
    She stared down into her teacup. Yes, it most certainly would. Why, it would make the old goat apoplectic.
    The notion took on a strange, unexpected appeal. Arles's annual ball was a hurdle she always enjoyed surmounting, though in the past she had always done so legitimately: seen girls made comfortable there who deserved to be comfortable in the presence of the duke and his friends. But passing off an imposter. Well, it was absurd, of course. And if people found out,