The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 2

  Heavens. His hair stuck out in tufts and his neck cloth had crumpled, and as he brushed his hands, his gaze pinned her again.

  Her cheeks burned. He’d locked on her eyes, not her bosom or her backside, but he might as well still be gripping her bottom the way heat poured through her—now what would he think to do?

  And who was he? A gentleman, on this road that ran right by the Earl of Shaldon’s estate.

  He might be a villager. Or one of the Earl’s men. Either way, he might cause her trouble.

  She steadied herself and took the box. “Go and get the gentleman’s hat and coat, Mabel.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you, sir, for your help. I hope we’ve not held you up too long.” Clutching the case, she charged up the slope.

  A fine horse was tied to the back of the cart, where Mrs. Everly still sat grumbling.

  “We’ll be off.” Paulette opened the cart’s box and swapped the writing case for a satchel, setting the bag next to Mabel in back.

  “But that’s the bag with my medicinals,” Mrs. Everly said. “If it flies off—”

  “Then you sit in back and hold it,” Paulette said.

  “It’s a great view from the back, missus,” Mabel said grinning.

  The man’s scent wafted her way, his big hands untying his horse.

  He smiled at her.

  “Well, then,” she said, moving away. “Please don’t let us hold you any further.”

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  The warmth in his voice promised nothing but trouble, and the last thing she needed was a meddling man poking around in her business.

  “No.” She walked around checking the lines and gave Horace a final stroke on his long patient nose. “We’ll be on our way soon.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  Mrs. Everly opened her mouth, and Paulette shot her a glare. “We’re visiting friends.” She hoisted herself into the seat. “Not a syllable,” she hissed to her companions, then said as pleasantly as she could muster, “We don’t require an escort, for we could easily walk to our destination if we have need.”

  Next to her, Mrs. Everly groaned.

  “And we’ve already interrupted your journey,” Paulette added.

  He pulled his horse next to her. “I’m not in such a hurry I can’t offer escort.”

  Her teeth chattered, even as her face burned. She was in a hurry, and she’d wasted a great deal of time. And she didn’t know who he might know. He might know the man she was visiting. He might know Mr. Cummings, the dog cart’s owner, and no friend to the man at Paulette’s destination. She didn’t want her journey talked of, not now. And she didn’t want this man telling tales about fondling her backside.

  He leveled a long look at her, eyes glittering in the sharp light like the Baltic amber earrings she’d seen on a visiting lady at services one Easter Sunday.

  Perhaps their circumstances called for an introduction, but it was wiser to remain anonymous. And he hadn’t offered his name either.

  She held herself tight on a shiver. No, she had no need for niceties. She had serious business ahead.

  He tipped his hat. “Very well, miss. I shall go ahead then, and flush out any highwaymen who are likely to bother you ladies.”

  “Foolish girl,” Mrs. Everly said. “A gentleman’s protection is not to be dismissed so readily.”

  “If he is a gentleman,” Paulette said, watching his departing back. “And highwaymen won’t bother three poor women like us. And what could one man do against an armed attacker?”

  “That man could do something,” Mabel said. “I’d wager he has a pistol somewhere or a knife stuck in one of them boots. Aye, and those hands could make great big fists. And, that jaw—he could crack chestnuts with it. The man can take a punch, and give back in kind. And strong. The way he—”

  “Leave it.”

  Mabel’s shoulders were shaking. She would think it was funny, but dear God—Mrs. Everly didn’t need to hear the details of her mauling. The whole county would know.

  She set Horace in motion.

  “Did you get his name, Polly?” Mabel asked.

  Mabel found something attractive in almost every man. Her maid needed to find a husband, instead of flirting with every stable boy, shop man, and farmer she met.

  “He’s no-one I want to know, Mabel.”

  “He looks prosperous enough,” Mrs. Everly said. “And he did seem interested.”

  Mrs. Everly hadn’t been much inclined to the idea of Paulette marrying, at least not until her own sister’s husband had passed a few weeks before.

  She’d been with Paulette as companion and chaperone since shortly after Paulette’s mother’s death. Shaldon’s heir, Lord Bakeley, had sent his poor relation to Ferndale Cottage, in lieu of inviting her to reside at Cransdall after her husband’s death.

  If the lady wanted to keep the small pension Bakeley paid her, she’d stay until Paulette married. And after that…well, Mrs. Everly would have been homeless again. Except that now she’d have a home with her widowed sister.

  Paulette was of age now, but she hadn’t had the heart to kick the older woman out. And, not to mention, if she were to do that, she might find her own self evicted from Ferndale Cottage, since it was one of Lord Shaldon’s properties.

  Blast it all, she needed her own money.

  “Whether he’s interested is neither here nor there.” She flicked the reins for Horace to move faster. “Because I am not.”

  She would reach Cransdall soon and put all thoughts of the tall stranger behind her. With any luck, she’d never see him again.

  Bink listened for the faint thuds and scrapes, the rattles and crunches behind him. The girl might be a shrew, but he’d go to her aid, if need be. This road was desolate, just the way the owner wanted it, and he wouldn’t leave three women alone, at least not until he reached his own destination.

  She had no man in her life, surely, to set off all alone like that.

  Unless she was running away.

  No. She might run with the maid, but not with the old windbag. He would have to ask Bakeley about her.

  Soon enough a stone wall ran beside him, its layer of thick moss going grey in the dimming light. An ornate opening rose from the vegetation, the iron gates thrown open and surprisingly unguarded. The old Spy Lord truly had given up.

  Two wheel ruts sliced turning lines in the damp verge. There’d been traffic along here recently. Most likely a physician had been called.

  Bink halted and took a long breath. Lavender trickled into his senses. He grasped the reins with prickling hands, took deep breaths against the squeeze in his chest, and swallowed a laugh. He’d never been a swooner, not even after a battle. He was a man, a great stupid lout of one and thirty, not that bloody hopeful boy who’d passed here before, all wound up inside.

  The faint rattle of wheels still reached him from much further back, out of sight. If the ladies weren’t locals, there’d be an inn in the village, and if not, they could turn back and seek shelter at Cransdall. In fact, he’d send one of the grooms to make sure of it.

  He tapped his mount’s side and followed the wheel tracks through the opening.

  The lane leveled, and when he came round a bend, lights shone from every main floor window of the long, sprawling mansion. Cransdall Hall looked as though a dance was afoot, not a dying.

  Though the quiet told the true tale. The reverential hush about the place was broken only by the slap of his mount’s hooves on the graveled drive. A footman stepped soundlessly out onto the porch and a groom slipped out from somewhere.

  Noise broke the silence, and Bink craned his neck. A carriage was creaking up the lane. Had there been someone else behind the ladies?

  He bit back an oath. Well, why not? Some other poor bastard had likely been summoned by Shaldon, for whatever final sorry-saying the great lord required to wedge open the pearly gates.

  This other by-blow had taken the guilt offering and equipped himself with wheels.

&
nbsp; Bink could have taken his employer’s coach. The Earl of Hackwell would not have minded. But a man could think clearer on horseback.

  Not that his mind was any less muddled now, not when it came to Shaldon. This final summons was one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ignore. And unless he was too late, he and the man would at long last meet.

  And what the devil did Shaldon really want?

  He waved off the groom and turned his mount toward the massive stables where he’d played with his half-brother that long-ago summer. It would buy him more time to settle his thoughts.

  Except that his thoughts only stirred up more. Nothing had changed in this well-kept environ. A long row of ornate stalls stretched endlessly to house the family’s famous prize-winning cattle.

  Grooms rushed up quietly, as though he was the bloody master himself. He spoke just as quietly, giving instructions for his horse, and for the ladies on the road.

  Moments later, a lanky young footman found him. “Mr. Gibson, Lord Bakeley says to hurry.” The footman took his bag and led him to the house.

  A new greenhouse graced the back garden area, but not much else had changed. An elm they’d once climbed looked larger, its limbs now beyond the reach of his longer adult arms.

  Bakeley had followed him up that tree. At that age, Shaldon’s heir had had a devil in him that no amount of canings could stop, possibly because Lady Shaldon promptly sacked those who didn’t spare the rod to her first-born. She’d been a practical woman, tolerant of the male species, with an iron will that carried her blithely through running the Shaldon empire, and bringing the next generation to heel. His lordship himself visited when the demands of state allowed him to take time off to plant a seed, and then he was off again to save the world from the Corsican.

  All that cultivation had given Shaldon two little lords and one little lady. And at least one lowly bastard, but of course Bink had come along well before her ladyship.

  He followed the footman into a familiar side entrance, down a corridor, and into the grand entry hall with its marble floor and ornate wainscoting.

  And caught his breath. There, in the great hall, was the woman herself, Lady Shaldon. A life-sized portrait, exquisitely crafted, brought her vibrantly to life.

  Servants moved about in hushed voices, and his guide cleared his throat. He ignored the man.

  The portrait must have been taken some years after his visit. She looked older, her smiling eyes plagued by some worry.

  “Sir,” the footman said. “Lord Bakeley—”

  He nodded and turned away. He’d find time to study the portrait later. Perhaps get the name of the artist for Hackwell, who wanted his wife and infant daughter painted.

  Bink followed the servant up the stairs. At the landing, he heard the grand front door open. A woman squawked, another quietly calmed her, and the servants fluttered around two figures, plucking garments from them.

  Gripping the railing, he peered down.

  His ladies from the lane had arrived. The dark, wee one with the plump bottom and sharp tongue took a step, and a footman moved in on her. Bink felt the tension all the way up these stairs, his hands clenching the polished wood more firmly.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, and the servant backed away. Bink let out a breath.

  “I will see him now.” The demand echoed through the hallowed hall, as though she were a daughter of the house.

  “But, Polly, why not shake the dust off and freshen up first?” Her maid had emerged from the huddle of servants.

  “No. I must speak with him. Before…” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.

  Before he dies, Bink finished her thought.

  Her sharp gaze moved to the staircase, her chin lifting, her scrutiny traveling up and up, sending a prickle through his spine.

  She spotted him and locked gazes.

  Fierce warmth uncoiled in him. Prickly, she was that. Defiant. And damned pretty.

  And she most definitely had the look of the Peninsula about her.

  In the course of his travels, Shaldon might’ve once been in Spain.

  The thought washed over him like a snow shower they’d endured one Iberian winter. Stand down, man. This one wasn’t beddable.

  She was his sister.

  Chapter 2

  The big red-haired man at the top of the stairs finally turned away, and Paulette remembered to breathe.

  “Close your mouth,” Mabel whispered.

  She clamped her mouth shut, praying the pounding she heard in her own ears would be inaudible to the others, or at least attributed to the quick journey and impending grief.

  He was here, blast it, and who the devil was he? And why was he visiting the bedside of Lord Shaldon?

  And why was she acting as silly as Mabel?

  A shiver went through her. From this vantage point he loomed like a giant. And this time, he’d made a thorough inspection of her person. But he’d caught himself at the end and put back all of her clothing.

  She shook her head. This was all Mabel’s fault, planting the seed that had set Paulette stewing about him for the last part of the journey. Well-dressed he was, in quality cloth, with a frock coat well fitted on those shoulders which—her heart skipped another beat—were quite the most massive she’d ever seen. Even bigger than the smith’s.

  But no tradesman she knew of wore that sort of clothing. Perhaps he was a solicitor or surgeon. Yes, that would explain it.

  She took in another sharp breath. Perhaps he was some friend of Shaldon’s, someone who had served the Earl as her papa had.

  The ancient housekeeper came out to greet them and soothe Mrs. Everly’s grumblings.

  Mrs. Everly would calm soon enough when Paulette packed her off to her sister. If travel by dog cart was offensive, well, lucky for everyone, Mrs. Everly, wasn’t making the return trip.

  “Paulette, you must retire.” Mrs. Everly’s voice finally intruded. “They’ll bring a tray to your room. You must refresh yourself and change before you see his lordship. You must make a respectable—”

  “No.” She’d been bullied, and ignored, and talked down to enough. Lord Shaldon had not answered any one of her many letters, except to dodge and offer platitudes through some man of business. He was not allowed to go to his death without answering some questions.

  She marched to the staircase, and Mrs. Everly moaned.

  Footsteps scurried, and a maid, as small as herself, came up beside her.

  Paulette kept walking, eying the girl. She was far too tiny to stop an unruly lady. If they wished to stop her, they would need to set the footman on her, and they wouldn’t dare.

  “If you will not show me the way to his lordship’s chamber,” she said to the maid, “I’ll find it myself.”

  Though it had been years since her only visit, she had a memory of Cransdall’s layout. All she need do was follow the halls until she stumbled over a train of hushed servants moving in and out of his lordship’s sickroom.

  “Yes, miss. I’ve no doubt you would be able to,” the maid whispered. “Lord Bakeley and the doctor are with his lordship, and his other son has just arrived. His daughter has been notified but I’m not sure she’ll reach here in time.”

  Paulette stopped. “Charles is here?”

  She’d met Charley, Shaldon’s younger son, on her disastrous visit, and like Bakeley he’d taken a brotherly pity on her. Not enough pity to write to her or to make the few hours’ ride to visit her when he was in the country. The last she’d heard, Charley was in Egypt, or Paris, or Vienna, or some other exciting environ following in his father’s footsteps.

  The maid’s eyes went wide and her pale cheeks bloomed pink, a wholly English rosiness that Paulette could never hope to achieve.

  The girl ducked her head, probably realizing she had overstepped, imparting information that was too much like gossip.

  “Miss, I’m new here. I don’t know the brother’s name, but he’s just gone up the stairs ahead of us.
”

  Paulette’s skin buzzed. The man she’d met on the road had just gone up the stairs. The flaming-haired giant who’d ogled her was not one of Shaldon’s operatives, nor was he a solicitor, or physician, or a respectable gentleman. He was Shaldon’s son, but not a son she’d ever heard about.

  He must be, he had to be, a by-blow.

  She felt her face heat and then a niggling chill swept through her. Perhaps Shaldon had others. Perhaps…

  No. No, no, no. She was the beloved daughter of Paul and Sela Heardwyn. She picked up her skirts and continued on.

  The footman delivered Bink to the sickroom door and vanished. Before he could knock, the door flew open.

  James Everly, Viscount Bakeley, eldest legitimate son and heir of the Earl of Shaldon, nodded back at him. A grin split his face, quickly squashed into a somber expression. “Hello, brother,” he said.

  That flashing grin was the Bakeley he’d known the summer he’d spent at Cransdall so many years ago.

  Bakeley, the man, had grown into his mother’s son—stable, a good steward of the vast family holdings and wealth, a conventional lord. Not a sneaking, swindling, lying spy. Boring, almost. They’d run into each other in London months earlier, re-establishing the thin fraternal tie. Not so thin that Bakeley hadn’t hinted at some frustration with Shaldon since the Earl’s return to Cransdall.

  Bakeley had managed the estate since his mother’s untimely death years earlier, and he’d done a damn fine job of it from what Bink could see. During their chats, Bakeley had mentioned some investments that had soured, some bad years due to weather. And of course, the troubles of the post-war economy. Shaldon, who’d spent his life letting others manage his riches while he managed the world, thought the estate should be doing better.

  Of the many emotions roiling in Bakeley right now, one had to be relief that the badgering would soon end.

  He pounded Bink’s shoulder. “You’re still bigger than me.”

  “And I can still take you, if you keep pounding on me.”

  He launched a soft jab at Bink’s other shoulder. “We’ll have a mill when this is over, what say you?”