The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 22

  She was treated to the same warm smile and curtsy, which settled her ire but inspired a new problem. To curtsy or bow, she wasn’t sure, and the momentary confusion put her more out of place.

  “Mrs. Townsend, may I introduce my wife, Paulette.”

  Mrs. Townsend took her hand and poured all of her formidable charm over it, scattering the jealousy. The lady oozed compassion. She must be a highly skilled nurse for the residents here. Her dress was odd, but she’d heard it said town ladies were given to scandalous décolletage.

  Bink had stayed away from the house, only visiting on Lord Hackwell’s business, for propriety’s sake. The one man here was too scarred to be a threat to the shelter’s residents, but a man like her husband, well, rumors would start.

  “So lovely you are, even playing a boy, gentlemen would be smitten. And I can see there is a story here, one you may not wish to share, and that is all right. The ladies are gone and we are all having a little holiday here also, just me, Rowland, the cook and Trish. I’m afraid it will be bread, soup and cold meat tonight, some sweet punch with our dinner that we can fortify with a good brandy, if you wish, or perhaps you would prefer ale, Sergeant Gibson? Meanwhile, I have a wholly unoccupied room. One of the girls left last week to be married, imagine? Come along and you can refresh yourselves before dinner. I’ll have water sent up.”

  Mrs. Townsend was already out the door, and Bink’s hand was on Paulette’s elbow, so she went.

  “I don’t have a proper dress for dinner, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Townsend smiled. “We are all at our leisure here. But if you are more comfortable in a dress, I believe I can assist you.”

  They went up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor.

  How many ladies actually lived here, Paulette wondered. There were multiple doors. The rooms must be as small as a nun’s cell.

  Mrs. Townsend opened the door and swept into a room. Red curtains drenched the window and wide bed. The chair was upholstered in red, the carpeting red. The mantelpiece had been painted a dark burgundy.

  There was so much red the room was on fire.

  When she looked up, Mrs. Townsend was staring at her. Bink wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  “You didn’t explain, Sergeant Gibson?”

  Fear spiked through her, as hot as the flames of this room. Her hands started to numb. She took a step back.

  He grabbed her hand. “No, Paulette. You’ll not be confined here, and you’ve no reason to fear Betty Townsend. We’ll only stay the one night, visit the solicitor, and then go on to Hackwell House or somewhere else safe. What Betty means is…what I didn’t tell you is, this is a…a…”

  “A brothel.” Mrs. Townsend’s voice was kind and held no shame. “I do not deny it. And I do not lock young women up against their will. Trish will be up in a moment.” She nodded and closed the door on her way out.

  Paulette plopped on the chair. A brothel. Her husband had brought her to a brothel to keep her safe. The feeling returned to her hands and she rubbed at her eyes. His words raced through her mind. He had been here twice, and only on Lord Hackwell’s business.

  Her eyes started to tear and a laugh bubbled up in her, and soon she was both laughing and crying. Strong arms came around her, lifted her out of the chair and cradled her.

  “Paulette, Paulette, do not cry love.”

  She felt his lips on her forehead, and eyes, and hands. “Oh, Bink, Sergeant Gibson.” More laughter, peals of it, uncontrollable like her tears. “A whorehouse. You brought your wife to a whorehouse.”

  “You are laughing and crying.”

  “Yes.” She snorted.

  He tightened his embrace. “It was the best I could think of. I’d hoped to sneak up the back stairs to an attic room, but it’s even better no one was here. The servants are used to keeping secrets, and Rowland is a good man in a fight.”

  “Did you bring a clean neck cloth?”

  His grin lit up his face. He unwound the loosely tied cloth and handed it to her.

  She blew her nose and took a deep sniff of the cloth. It was damp, and the smell of his sweat made her yearn for him. She turned her lips to the thick cords of his now bare neck.

  His back stiffened, and though her bottom bumped his hard arousal, she sensed his wariness. She was starting to know him. The maid would arrive soon. Plus, he was exhausted. She put a hand on his fall.

  “Yes,” he said and tipped her back, nuzzling her neck and sending her into fresh giggles.

  A knock on the door made him lift her.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, “I’m sure they are used to it.”

  “Come in.” He smacked a kiss on her forehead, set her on her feet, and went to the door, where he took the two steaming buckets of water from the scrawny maid.

  He poured water into the basin, and the maid returned moments later with linens and a dress made of fine figured muslin.

  “Thank you, Trish.” He pressed a coin into the maid’s hand. She mumbled a thanks and left without ever making eye contact with either of them.

  Paulette stripped off her jacket. “You know her name.”

  “Only through Lady Hackwell. She got Trish the position here.” He pulled out the hem of her shirt, yanked it over her head, and then went to work on her cloth bindings. “Let’s set these girls free, shall we?”

  That bud of desire melted, oozing toward her middle.

  “Betty won’t care about your breasts stretching your coat during dinner.”

  “Or that dress she sent up? I spot a chemise but no stays. And I wonder if it will be cut quite as low as the one she was wearing.”

  “Then we’ll stuff the cloth in the bodice to cover you. I won’t have another man ogling my wife.”

  “Perhaps I should have stuffed some stays into my writing case.”

  He grunted as the binding slipped away and turned her to face him. The band of gold in his eyes narrowed as he did his own ogling, and she felt that heat all the way to the spot between her legs.

  “Thank goodness. They are unharmed.” His eyes lifted to hers. “Why is that lap desk so important to you?”

  While his eyes held hers, his finger touched her breast and circled it. She closed her eyes and let the sensation wash through her.

  “We have time before dinner, I think.”

  “Why, love? Why the lap desk?”

  She could almost not think. She was tired and hungry and so needy she felt she would burst. And it was not a secret. There were no secrets with him.

  Well, almost no secrets. She hadn’t told him Jock’s stories of the treasure.

  “Your father sent it to you,” he prompted.

  Her eyes shot open. He remembered everything.

  “Yes. He made it for me. It arrived after the news of his death, after Jock’s arrival. It was his last gift to me. I almost lost it to Cummings, and Spellen could have taken it when he searched my room. I feel like I must keep it with me close by.”

  His hand stilled. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  There it was in his eyes, the determination she’d seen with Cummings and Bakeley. In this state, she’d have trouble seducing him before dinner.

  And anyway, he’d reminded her of something. “You’ve already done that, haven’t you, Mr. Gibson?”

  He blinked. Smiled. Trapped her against the post of the bed, the cool wood digging into her bottom.

  “You’re right. I couldn’t fool a spy’s daughter, could I?” His wicked lips were back on her neck. “But I will have another look at it. In a bit.”

  Mrs. Nichols pulled the hat lower over her eyes, bent like the furtive boy she was pretending to be, and shuffled along the Soho street where the girl’s man kept his safe house.

  Perhaps they would circle around and return here after all. She’d scraped through every alley around and over to Berkeley Square where Hackwell House stood. The girl and her man had been too quick.

  Odd that. It wasn’t often she was spotted, but he surely had spotted her. The beast
had grown a brain since his time on the Peninsula.

  A carriage stopped and pulled her attention. There. Finally some of the others had shown up. She shuffled along, turned the corner, did a peremptory sweep and ducked around a brick townhouse.

  Josiah Dickson—Lord Agruen, she reminded herself—peered out the carriage window and raised a hand.

  A street sweeper strode from the opposite corner, crossed the road, and went up to the door. He banged with his fist on the knockerless door. Though he waited long minutes, no one answered.

  The fools. The carriage pulled off down the street. The street sweeper turned down an alley. They would try the back way, in vain.

  The house was empty now, except for a caretaker, who was too clever to answer the door. Or perhaps he’d been sent away for his safety.

  The neighbors hadn’t known who was home, but they were glad the children were gone. Many children had lived there, the neighbors said, lost children, until the lady of the house had married and moved on. It would have been a perfect safe house for the girl, except it would not have been so safe. Wherever the brute had taken her was safer, because she did not know its whereabouts, and that meant Agruen would never find it.

  Tomorrow, when the man, or if she was really so stubborn, the both of them, traveled to the City to see the so-called solicitor, that was where they would be picked up. If he came alone, he would lead back to her. The solicitor was the key. There would the real danger be.

  She turned on her worn boot, with its flapping sole and spotted a lone horseman, moving languidly through the afternoon traffic.

  Shrewd eyes, as dark as his hair, like Paul’s had been, a spy’s eyes. She shuffled on, not meeting the gaze that swept back and forth over the street like the sweeper’s broom.

  So Kincaid was here, and all the players were in place.

  When the maid set the dishes out, Bink struggled not to dive in like a soldier on a battle break. He clenched his hand upon the table and waited, shutting out old memories of similar times, when he was starving and exhausted and there was still more of the war to be fought.

  Betty had set up a round table in a small conservatory that was likely her private space. Green plants lined the walls. There was even a lemon bush sending a sweet fragrance to fill the room.

  Among the many hard things about being a whore, living with all the violent colors required to portray a woman’s professional stature would be one of the worst. This green must soothe all that passion.

  “We are grateful to you for taking us in.”

  Paulette had directed her comment to both Betty and Rowland, who he’d guessed had become more than just Betty’s strong arm.

  Friend? Lover? Perhaps partner?

  It was possible the man had the financial resources for the last. Bink had found him in London, leasing his rooms.

  Rowland’s return home to his family in Staffordshire had been troubled, and living every day scaring the wits out of the neighborhood children, tiresome.

  His mind immediately went to work calculating whether Rowland and Betty could be trusted. A month ago he would have said yes. Now he was undecided.

  “You are hungry, I think, Sergeant Gibson, Mrs. Gibson.” Betty passed a platter of ham around. “Dig in then.”

  Rowland laughed. “Like old times, is it not, Gib?”

  Paulette quirked a pretty eyebrow at him. She’d given up on a coiffure and left her shortened hair to spill over her shoulders. The few bits of sun they’d encountered had lifted a freckle or two on her skin, nowhere near as many as he had, but sure enough proof that whoever her parents were, she was no purebred Spaniard. She looked young and far too innocent for these dinner companions.

  A blush rose on her cheeks. Betty’s lips pressed, squashing a smile.

  “We never had many meals this good, as I recall,” Bink said. “I shall not forget your hospitality, Mrs. Townsend.”

  “Call me Betty.” She passed the bread around.

  “Betty and I have talked, Gib, Mrs. Gibson. We stand ready to help you with your troubles.”

  “You may call me Paulette. And that is very kind.” Her eyes shimmered and she quickly looked down.

  Sentimental, was his bride. She’d never be a spy, but she would be his, if he had to tup her five times a day to convince her.

  “We would not cause you trouble,” Bink said.

  “You may trust us,” Betty said. “We hear many things. See many things. And we can be discreet. You know that I think.”

  Aye. He did.

  Betty had proven herself by a good deed done for Lord and Lady Hackwell, a secret she’d revealed only after a soul-searching agony. And Rowland, of course, he’d been in the troop when they’d found out Josiah Dickson’s villainy.

  “Do you know of the Marquess of Agruen?” Paulette asked.

  Betty and Rowland exchanged a look. Rowland’s mouth firmed and he said “Josiah Dickson.”

  “He’s after something I supposedly have or will receive. I can’t imagine what, except that…” She bit her lip and looked at Bink.

  “Paulette’s father died on the Continent working for Shaldon. She was a ward of Lord Shaldon.”

  “Shaldon. I see.” Betty rested her chin on her locked hands. “Your mother is not living?”

  “She’s deceased also. I didn’t see my father more than a few times. I don’t truly remember him.” Paulette cleared her throat and took a sip of punch.

  “I’ve heard of Agruen,” Betty said. “You understand, I do not gossip. However, if he’s after you to do you harm, I will share.”

  Rowland nodded, and Betty went on.

  “He’s pockets to let, they say. The money his wife brought is gone. Yes, he keeps up appearances, but he owes every shopkeeper around. They only provide custom because of the title. And, here is the puzzle, no one knows precisely why. He doesn’t gamble much more than other lords. He doesn’t collect art or buy the best horses. His home and his estate are said to be in disrepair. Though there is one other thing. He’s not…forgive me, but you’re a married lady now so I will say this, he’s not allowed into any of the better establishments like this because of his…predilections. I suppose finding a house to accommodate his tastes might be more expensive.”

  Paulette’s mouth dropped.

  Rowland’s gaze flitted from her to Bink.

  “Worse than his heavy hand?” Bink asked.

  Betty shrugged. “He left a girl unable to walk. Is that not bad enough?”

  Bink’s head pounded with the memories. “He might have been French, the way he treated the Spanish locals.”

  “’T’would have been better had he died on the Peninsula,” Rowland said.

  “What was he doing in Spain?” Paulette asked in a tight voice. “Was he a soldier?”

  “No,” Bink said. “He was attached to the Embassy or such.”

  She stirred her fork in the dish, and lifted her gaze to him. “A spy?”

  “He’d have been carrying information, like everyone else, that’s a certainty.” For which side was in doubt.

  Paulette nodded. “I suppose he’ll have a man watching the solicitor’s office and will be waiting for us there.”

  “Must you go there?” Betty asked. “Cannot the solicitor come to you?”

  Hope registered in Paulette’s eyes. He hated to dash it. “He’ll no doubt be followed himself.”

  Paulette sat impossibly straighter, her hands fisted at each side of her plate. “We’ll go there. Once we receive what we’re due, we can perhaps leave by a back way.”

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it. The back way would be watched also.

  “I’ll send a message to Hackwell House on the off chance the Major is there.”

  On the off chance Bakeley had been lying and Hackwell was not off ferrying Annabelle out to the country, but was ensconced in his own home preparing to do battle in Parliament.

  “And we can summon runners from the solicitor’s office to help,” he added.

/>   “It’s not a bad plan, Gib. Will you but wait for a day, I’ll get some of the boys to come along.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” Paulette said. “I want this settled. I want to know what he le-eft for me that is causing so much trouble.”

  “Do you have something to wear,” Betty asked.

  Rowland winked at him and he grinned into his napkin. Leave it to women to worry about what to wear.

  Paulette colored deeply and her chin set. “I can dress as a boy, or wear this. We traveled quite lightly.”

  “It’s a lovely dress, but I think I can arrange a better disguise.” Betty snapped her fingers. “And a veil. You must wear a veil. There is a hackney stand on the corner. We’ll bring one round and send you both along in that.”

  “They’ll recognize Gibson here, all right,” Rowland said. “No way to hide a museum pillar with a crown of red gold.”

  Betty sent him a frank and assessing gaze. “Can you dissemble, Mr. Gibson?”

  “He can,” Paulette said.

  “I have a wig left by a barrister—”

  “No wigs.”

  “Are you sure? I promise it is free of vermin. You might be a barrister accompanying a client—”

  “No wigs, Betty.”

  She sighed.

  “The man has said no wigs.” Rowland’s good eye crinkled. “It must be some blackening then.”

  Paulette giggled and covered her mouth at his glare.

  “It’s foolish. I’ll pull my hat down low.”

  “Perhaps it won’t matter. Perhaps they’ll know you anyway, dark haired or not. In any case, I’d wait until morning to color the hair, to preserve the sheets, you know. You may sleep on the idea, Gibson, and decide in the morning.”

  She rang a bell, and Trish delivered fruit and cheese and scurried out.

  Betty toyed with her raspberries. “In any case, I believe Rowland and I should accompany you.”

  “I agree,” Rowland said.

  Unease turned his stomach. Not over a lack of trust, he decided, but the danger to them.

  Paulette caught his eye. “We wouldn’t take advantage of your kindness to endanger you,” she said.

  Betty went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I know a bit about the legal world. It’s not unheard of for ladies in my profession to seek the assistance of a solicitor. And perhaps, a carriage bearing two veiled ladies will be more easily disregarded.”