Page 164 of Pride: The Rogue
“You can,” her big sister said, firmly folding Livian’s palm around the key. “And you will. Your heart has been broken, but I do believe—”
Whatever hopeful insight her sister intended to give was interrupted by shouting somewhere belowstairs—Bram and Fowler’s voice; furious as Livian had never heard them.
There came a long silence, so long that Livian wondered if she’d merely imagined the always-unamiable pair’s raised voices.
Except, there it came again, a second time—this time, louder, but not Bram and Fowler this time, rather, Malcom’s shout.
“What in blazes?” Verity whispered.
And the tender exchange between them cut short, Livian and Verity took off running.
Chapter 27
After a wild-goose chase all over the Southeast of England, Latimer arrived at the Earl of Maxwell’s Kent estate, dusty, sweaty, bearded, tired, and all out of patience.
The pair of enormous, burly old men who opened the double-white doors, eyed Latimer suspiciously.
Latimer sized them up. One fellow reached a soaring seven feet in height, his partner, mere inches shy of that would be the last barrier between Latimer and Livian.
That’s fine and good. Having come to her, prepared to move mountains for Livian, it appeared he’d have to do just that.
When neither man made a move to admit Latimer, or for that matter, speak, Latimer fished a calling card from his jacket. “Good morning,” he began. “I’ve—”
“Not usual to get visitors here, Bram,” the bigger of the giants interrupted.
Bram scratched his bald pate. “He’s not one of the fancy sorts, Fowler,” his partner acknowledged. “There is that.”
The strange pair studied Latimer.
Based on their size and rough edges, he’d automatically taken them for threats. It became increasingly apparent they were anything but.
Having identified the fellow known as Bram as the one in greater control, Latimer opted to give him the calling card. “I’ve come to request a meeting with Miss Lovelace.”
The servant peered intently at the scrap in his fingers. “Hmm?” he asked distractedly.
Ah, the fellow could not read. He’d been illiterate once, too. The majority of those born in the streets never learned the skill on account there wasn’t a need.
“Lachlan Latimer,” he introduced himself. “To see Miss Lovelace,” he repeated.
The unconventional pair narrowed their eyes on Latimer.
Both men frowned at the same time.
“No one comes here and gets to see Miss Lovelace without going through the earl first.” Bram flicked the card at Latimer, and the rectangular scrap bounced from his chest and hit the floor.
“They sure don’t,” Bram’s associate reiterated. Looking squarely at Latimer, Fowler cracked his knuckles.
Latimer stared down at the piece between them and resisted the urge to sigh. It appeared he’d have to move mountains for Livian, after all. Given he’d climb into the pits of hell and battle Satan himself, taking on the Earl of Maxwell’s big servants would be a minor skirmish.
Bram took a step nearer Latimer for the first time, using his height to intimidate—or at least, trying to, anyway. It’d certainly be deterrent enough for any other man.
“What business you got with Miss Lovelace, anyway?” Bram asked suspiciously.
“Ah, but it is hardly my place to share personal details pertaining to Miss Lovelace with—”
“Uncles,” Fowler piped in. “We’re the lass’s uncles.”
Uncles.
