Page 87 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
When the world spins out of control, trust a bastard. Their world was never under control, so they know how to navigateit.
“Really, Bram,” Dickydrawled. “Your manners have become deplorable. One does not swear in front of a lady.”
What lady?he nearly snapped. But losing his temper had never helped anything. “How did you get in here?”
“Your landlady let us in.” Dicky flicked a dismissive finger. “Not much of a butler, but sweet enough. The tea was good.” He gestured to the full tea service set out before them.
“I’ve told you,” Clarissa cut in, her voice tart. “In his situation, he has to make do. You can’t expect proper servants from…oh. Well, you know.”
From a bastard. Bloody hell. He looked at the rear of the house where his landlady lived. He occupied a set of rooms upstairs. She’d probably retired for the night—it was past dark—but these two idiots could still muck thing up.
He glared at them, sitting primly in bedraggled clothing as if this were a proper social visit. They’d obviously been caught in a downpour and had their clothing dry on their bodies. Clarissa’s hair was beyond repair, though she’d tied up the locks with sad bits of ribbon. The only things still pristine were her sapphires. They sparkled bright on her neck, though she’d lost an earbob. And as he watched, she fondled the stones again.
Nervous habit, that. She ought to stop. But then Dicky would have to stop caressing the enormous belly of…
“What the devil is that?”
Clarissa clucked her tongue at his language, while Dicky held up an enormous clock. It was a shepherdess with three fat sheep.
“Good God, did you put the money in that?”
“Shhh!” Dicky hissed. “The crockery broke. Can’t trust anything made by a Scot. So we got this instead. And Clary had the idea to dress the part. See how her bonnet matches?” He gestured to an enormous bonnet on a side table. Clarissa obliged by putting it on and batting her eyes. It might have worked if she didn’t look like a drowned rat.
“I was a shepherdess at a masquerade once, and everyone said I was the prettiest one there,” she said.
“Most definitely,” agreed Dicky. “And that’s how we got the idea, you see.”
Oh no. No, no, no. He did not want to know the plan. But Dicky kept talking, and Bram couldn’t stop him.
“We tried the boat, you see. Even got on the little one to row out to the big one, but Clary was so nervous, and her stomach was tetchy.”
“I don’t like boats,” she sniffed.
“Yes, well, the rower was terrible and Clary was clutching at my hand, but I was holding the crockery. Then there was this wave—”
“At least seven feet tall!”
“Undoubtedly! And I dropped the crockery—”
“It broke. All those pieces and the coins and the notes—”
“Flying everywhere, and Clary and me trying to grab them.”
“And the sailors—”
“It’s terrible hard to get decent folk, you know. And sailors are the worst lot.”
“Terrible thieves.”
“We got some of it, you see.”
“But the wave came and—”
“Blasted sailor was more interested in my money than rowing the boat.”
“And… And…” Apparently, Clarissa could barely pull herself together enough to voice the last of it. So Bram did it for her, though it was only a guess.
“Capsized, did you?”
