The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 8

  Hot liquid coursed down the wrong pipe and Bink choked, his face flaming, while he sought to bottle the ire threatening to burst.

  Bakeley. Bakeley had shared information as if it were fact, as if he could bloody well step into the Spy Lord’s shoes and run another man’s life.

  Not this man. He set his glass down carefully. “No.”

  “No?” Hackwell’s eyes narrowed. “I understood it to be your father’s wish, this marriage. His ward, is she?”

  “Wishes and facts are not the same thing.”

  “So the new Earl of Shaldon…your brother…is mistaken?”

  “He most certainly is.”

  “I see.” He walked around the low table. Scratched his head. Stopped in front of Bink. “If that is so, tell me then, Gibson, why did the parish read the first banns yesterday?”

  Bink swore a stream of oaths.

  “Such language, Mr. Gibson.” Lady Hackwell swept into the room.

  “Bink has had a shock, my dear.”

  She looked at Bink quizzically. “I ran into Mrs. Bradley and she told me about your guest. And I believe her chaise has just arrived. And Mrs. Bradley and I have decided to move her into the yellow chamber near my rooms. I’m afraid there were too many male guests near the room you selected for her. Though I know you didn’t know about our visitors. Steven has brought along some possible votes.”

  His face heated up again. “You will know best, your Ladyship.”

  She looked a question to her husband, and he shrugged.

  “Bink says he has no wish to marry. I believe he may wish to stay in my employment as steward, rather than run his own estate and stand for the Commons as my political ally.”

  Standing for Commons? That was a wrinkle. They’d never discussed any such thing.

  He cursed—inwardly this time, in deference to Lady Hackwell. Hackwell’s mention of the Commons was just a ploy. Just more aristocratic managing.

  Hackwell blocked the way to Bink’s inner chamber, and her Ladyship, her dinner gown flowing over the new heir growing inside her, made an imposing barrier to the corridor door.

  A bead of sweat chose that moment to slide down his neck, and he took a step to the window and opened it.

  He’d had enough. He’d served enough. “This is as good a time as any to mention, I’m taking a post in India. I’ve already put up the money. With Maharashtra destroyed last year—”

  Hackwell made a noise low in the back of his throat.

  His wife laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Oh, Bink. Dear, Bink. You are free to go to India, or China or the Americas, if that is what you wish. You are free, but you are also part of our family, and like a brother to Steven, and an uncle to the boys and our daughter, and your leaving will never be what any of us wish.” She beamed him a smile, radiating the calm she’d applied to the houseful of misbegotten urchins she’d taken in before her marriage. “To have you take your place in a great house with a wife and children, and to ally with Steven in helping the poor, oh…well, we must find our happiness where we will.”

  She patted Hackwell’s arm, and he laid a hand over hers, the affection between them unmistakable. Hackwell had come to embrace his new life only because he’d found happiness with her. It was not something Bink ever expected to find for himself, not while he was too poor to be naught but a hired man.

  A memory of his mother flashed through his mind.

  No. ‘T’was not only the money at issue. A wife needed care, protection.

  She smiled and rubbed her stomach. “I believe I shall tell the cook dinner will be delayed. As I said, Steven has brought some important guests home with us. You will join us at dinner, Mr. Gibson.” She dropped a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “And I’m going right now to make your Miss Heardwyn welcome.”

  Paulette was unprepared for the phalanx of staff that practically levitated her into the great house, up the stairs and across the threshold of a glowing, golden room. Someone had opened a window, and the breeze blowing in carried with it the fragrance of grass and a hint of the rain that had followed them for part of their journey.

  A bathing tub had been set up, and a team of young housemaids were already filling it.

  While Mabel helped her with her spencer and bonnet, the grey-haired housekeeper directed the footmen and grooms. They settled her trunks onto the carpet, and a tea tray on the table in front of the windows.

  A tall, dark-haired woman in an elegant, wine-colored gown was the last to sweep in. All the staff curtsied or bowed, and she smiled, her gaze landing on Paulette.

  Who curtsied also.

  “Miss Heardwyn.” The tall lady advanced on Paulette, bringing with her the essence of lavender, her dress rustling over a swollen belly.

  No wonder she seemed to glow.

  She inclined her head and her smile warmed more. “I’m Lady Hackwell. You are most welcome here. And this is your maid?” She looked at Mabel and smiled. Mabel dropped in another awkward curtsy, tongue-tied.

  “This is Mabel, er, Brown, my lady.”

  Mabel flushed. In this great house, she must transform from maid-of-all-work to lady’s maid and go by her surname.

  “Well, Mabel Brown, Mrs. Bradley will see to your dinner and lodging. No doubt you will want to help Miss Heardwyn settle in first and prepare for dinner.”

  “I—”

  “Oh please, you must join us, Miss Heardwyn. Mrs. Bradley, see that she has what she needs to get ready.”

  Paulette let out a breath. “I’m afraid I may not have an appropriate dinner dress.”

  Lady Hackwell’s eyes swept over her. “Dressed just as you are would be appropriate in our home, Miss Heardwyn. We do have a few guests, but no one so high in the instep they would worry about a pretty young woman’s gown after a long day of travel.” She took Paulette’s hand and squeezed it. “We are dining tonight with one other lady, and three of my husband’s parliamentary associates. We are all out of balance. Do join us.” The door shut on the last male servant, and Mrs. Bradley ushered all but one maid out of the room.

  Her ladyship beckoned the maid. “Jenny, come and get me when Miss Heardwyn is ready so she and I can go down together. I will be in the nursery.” She squeezed Paulette’s hand once more, and left.

  “Oh, she was very nice,” Mabel whispered.

  The young servant smiled. “’Elp you with your baff, miss?”

  “Excuse me?” Help you with your bath. “Oh. Yes. Jenny, is it?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Shall I shake out the blue dress, Pol…miss?” Mabel asked. “Or do you wish to wear the brown for mourning Lord Shaldon?”

  The blue dress was her finest, though it had been made over from one of her mother’s for her visit to Cransdall years earlier.

  She wouldn’t wear her newest dress, the brown she’d made last spring from Mrs. Everly’s left-over yardage. Nor would she mourn for Lord Shaldon, the insufferable man.

  “The blue will have to do.” She reached around, fumbling for her gown’s ties, and Mabel came over to help.

  Mabel was right—Lady Hackwell was all friendliness and welcome. This chamber was just as warm and cheerful, all of it shining bright and spanking clean. It needed an abundance of servants to keep a place of this sort.

  She took in a breath. And to have such a finely-clad steward. Hackwell must be quite wealthy. Mr. Gibson didn’t wish to leave, so perhaps he knew something about the Earl’s promised Little Norwick. It wouldn’t be as grand as this. Perhaps no grander than Ferndale Cottage.

  And perhaps he wished to remain because Lord Hackwell was as congenial as his lady.

  Yes, indeed, Mr. Gibson’s situation here was good. No wonder he didn’t want to trade this for a living that perhaps needed more care than four thousand a year could provide.

  While Mabel slipped out of the room to press the blue gown, Jenny helped Paulette settle into the bone-soothing water.

  “Shall I brush out yer ‘air, miss?”

  “Yes, th
ank you, Jenny.” She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth for the hair pulling to come, but the girl’s first strokes were gentle, tentative.

  “Just give it a good tug,” Paulette said. “Else we’ll be here all night with my rat’s nest.”

  “No, miss, yer curls are lovely.”

  “And require firmness. Don’t worry, Mabel bashes me every night with that brush all the while complaining how heavy it is.”

  Jenny chuckled. “T’is a lovely hairbrush.”

  “My mother’s.” Another thing rescued by Mr. Gibson.

  “Lucky you are to ‘ave it,” Jenny said.

  The hint of wistfulness made Paulette turn. “Jenny, your accent is not from this area, is it?”

  The girl’s hand paused. “I’m from town, miss.”

  “From London? However did you wind up in the country?”

  “Her ladyship. She 'elped me. There are a bunch of us ‘ere she ‘elped, though I been with her the longest, almost a year now.”

  “She hired you?”

  “Not right off. She found me and brought me home. She was Miss ‘Arris then. And then Lady Cathmore took me to the house in Sussex.”

  “You worked for Lady Cathmore?”

  “No, miss. It were…was…” She cleared her throat. “The house in Sussex is an orphan home or such as are like orphans, miss, one with good food and no beatings. Both their ladyships run it.”

  She picked up the toweling and helped Paulette to stand. “Miss ‘Arris had a houseful of us, but when her friend Miss Montagu married Lord Cathmore, he made her move all of us to the country.”

  “From London to the country? Did you like that?”

  “Well, I liked living with Miss ‘Arris sure enough, and I liked the country too. Both places the food was better than what the pieman could sell and much more regular, and she made sure we had lessons.”

  “Not as exciting as the city.”

  “I’d trade a clean bed and regular meals for that excitement any day, miss.”

  Paulette met Lady Hackwell at the stair landing and they descended together.

  “How lovely you look,” Lady Hackwell said.

  Her face heated. Only Mabel bothered with compliments. No one else ever noticed her, except to criticize.

  She nodded her thanks. “Jenny told me about your home for orphans.”

  “She’s one of our successes.”

  “She’s a very good girl. Are both of her parents deceased?”

  They had reached the last stair. Lady Hackwell took Paulette’s hand and tucked it in the crook of her elbow, sending a rush of warmth to her eyes. The unexpected intimacy felt almost maternal, not that Paulette’s mother had been much of an example of tenderness.

  “They are both living, as far as we know. Her father was transported a few years ago, and her mother… cannot provide a home.”

  Paulette thought of her vicar, who did so much for the poor, to the detriment of his own family at times. Shame pricked her warmly. His inclination to doing without had been another reason for turning him down. “The parish cannot help her?”

  “My dear, London is awash with the poor, far more than any parish can provide for. It’s one of the reasons our guests are here,” she whispered. “My husband is trying to convince members of parliament to do something constructive for a change.” She pushed open a grand door. “We are here,” she announced.

  All conversation stopped, while the gentlemen rose. Paulette’s cheeks flamed. All of them were richly dressed for this country dinner.

  “Are the children well?” a woman asked.

  “Yes, and thank you for waiting.” Lady Hackwell apologized, taking the blame that should have been Paulette’s. It had been, after all, her bathing and changing that had delayed dinner. A splash of color drew her eyes to the woman who’d spoken, a fashionably-dressed matron who looked to be Mrs. Everly’s age.

  But as her gaze roamed the room it froze on a pair of arresting brown eyes, sending her heart into a relieved flutter.

  Mr. Gibson was here, dressed for dinner. Dressed like the son of an earl. He towered over all the other gentlemen, even the very tall Lord Hackwell, who greeted her as cordially as his wife had.

  She barely registered the rest of the names—Lord Shurley, Lord and Lady Tepping, and a fair-haired boy of about twelve or perhaps older, Lord Hackwell’s brother, Thomas.

  Perhaps this would be a less formal affair.

  Lord Hackwell took her arm and turned her to where Mr. Gibson had joined a new arrival, a man with his back to her whose dark hair was streaked with grey. She saw the man’s head move and Mr. Gibson’s eyes flare.

  And then he turned, and Paulette’s stomach sank. This man she knew.

  Chapter 8

  Lord Agruen.

  Mr. Gibson said something to Agruen, inciting the sardonic smile that signaled Agruen was up to no good.

  The abominable trickster. The malignant teller of tales. The thief.

  So she would not have to go to London to find him. She could take up her unfinished business right here.

  Lord Hackwell led her over to him, into the cloud of his nauseating odor, part perfume, part something noxious.

  “Miss Heardwyn, so happy to see you again,” Agruen said. “The lady and I have met at Cransdall, as a matter of fact. And I understand the old man finally keeled over. My condolences on the loss of your guardian, Miss Heardwyn.”

  “Ah, there is Grey,” Lord Hackwell said.

  A man tottered in on a cane he was far too young to need. Where one of his arms should have been, his sleeve had been folded and pinned.

  “Gibson,” Lord Hackwell said.

  Mr. Gibson set his feet moving. He swung by the boy, Thomas, and urged him over to assist the maimed man.

  Agruen’s low chuckle unnerved her. “Hackwell. Dinner with your steward, a child, and the child’s crippled tutor? One would think we were in America.”

  Lord Hackwell smiled. “Grey, a hero of Waterloo, is missing an arm and part of a foot, but his brain is a lively one, and his hearing is perfect. And I must say, Agruen, all of our male guests are the direct progeny of exalted earls, well, except for Grey. And, of course, yourself. We shall give you credit though for being the grandson of a marquess. Will you excuse me?” He bowed to Paulette and walked off.

  Agruen chuckled. “Well, I’ve been put in my place.” His gaze swept over her. “But the progeny of earls? I smell juicy gossip, Miss Heardwyn. You must fill me in.”

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Was your father a younger son, then?” He was of course, and she knew it. He’d mentioned it during one of their walks in the garden at Cransdall. Both his uncle and his cousin had fortuitously died, bequeathing him the marquisate. His wife had died also, soon after receiving her coronet and bestowing her dowry.

  His look became shrewd. “I suppose Shaldon has settled some money upon you?”

  A chill went up her spine. Agruen’s wife was gone and he might be seeking a replacement, and surely a big purse would be required. “I am still as poor as a church mouse. Come, everyone is going into dinner.”

  Bink looked down at the berries ladled with sauce on his plate. He really had no appetite. Listening to Agruen converse with his hostess and Lord Tepping had reminded him how tedious polite conversation was, all gloves-on one-upmanship. Worse had been the tense, silent interplay between Agruen and Paulette. Agruen was looking for an opening to attack, and just as assuredly, Paulette was parrying him without saying a word.

  That business Bakeley had talked about was still between them.

  “You look glum,” Thomas whispered. “Do you not like her then?”

  Bink cast the boy a quelling look. “How is your Latin coming along?”

  Thomas’s lips went through a series of movements that in other circumstances would have made Bink laugh. They finally settled into a disgusted line.

  Across the table from Bink, Grey watched his charge with a neutral expression, finally catching the boy’
s eye.

  “I am doing well, sir,” Thomas said.

  Miss Heardwyn, seated across from Thomas, leaned forward. “Do you enjoy it?”

  To her left, Agruen sniggered. “Who could possibly enjoy Latin, right, boy? Miss Heardwyn, if you had been educated, you would know that.”

  The ass. Seating Paulette next to Agruen was not a good thing. The man had all but insulted her when she’d entered the room earlier. He’d been very close to getting a taste of Bink’s knuckles.

  Now Miss Heardwyn colored deeply. Her eyes flashed a warning of Iberian retribution and she dropped her gaze, drawing a shade on the war going on inside her.

  Lady Hackwell’s chat with Lord Tepping went quiet.

  Was Paulette educated? Like most genteel ladies, probably not. He’d been running so hard from the idea of marrying her, he’d also avoided all routine polite conversation. He knew a lot about her circumstances, but very little about her. Certainly she acted the lady. Someone had trained her that much.

  “I am enjoying Latin, Miss,” Thomas said, and Bink felt a rush of pride in the boy. “Thank you for asking. Captain Grey makes it ever so interesting. We are studying The Gallic Wars by Julius Caesar.”

  Agruen smiled sardonically. “I say, Miss Heardwyn, I have been set in my place once again tonight by a Beauverde.”

  She raised her eyes and sent Thomas a half-smile.

  Bink’s heart lifted. “I myself would have enjoyed Latin and Greek more if it hadn’t been taught with such liberal administrations of the cane.”

  That won him a smile of his own, one he couldn’t help returning.

  “You see, Ensign Beauverde,” Grey said, “you are fortunate to have a one-armed tutor who applies his cane to a more practical use.”

  Thomas’s lips quirked. Grey had conferred rank on the boy the day he moved into the Hackwell household. Grey wasn’t smiling, but humor lurked under the thick layer of matter-of-factness.

  Bink had found Grey through a network of wounded ex-soldiers, moldering in London. The bookish fifth or sixth younger son of a baron, he’d been a sensible, steady officer with a reputation for fairness, and a knack for turning his unit of Wellington’s scum of the earth into a fighting force. He was the perfect man to take a boy from the streets and turn him into a gentleman.