Page 108 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Paulette looked around. This patch of flagstones and flowers was the first London residence she’d seen on the inside.
Lovely, it was. Someone with an eye for color and balance had put forth an effort here. There, where roses made a heroic late summer burst, and there, where a patch of daisies budded tightly next to a showy phlox. Even her quiet mother would have exclaimed over this.
An outbuilding hugged the walls that hemmed everything in, this small bit of nature in a raucous city. Her mother would have loved the flowers, but she would have hated the smallness of it.
She struggled for a breath and tried to quell a dawning realization. Shewasa country woman, used to fields and byways, glens and brooks, stretches of ash hedges and thick stands of elm.
Confinement to this space would leave her permanently breathless.
A strong arm wrapped her and rolled her in to a broad chest. Bink stroked over her queue of hair cinched by a thin ribbon, where he’d lopped a full twelve inches with the scissors he’d reached for without searching—because he’d known they were in her case, because he’d poked through it himself earlier, when she wasn’t looking. Of course he had.
She’d chosen to defer the talk about that until later.
She lifted her chin and searched his face. He was as anxious as herself. That she should know him so well, that he’d help carry her troubles…
She dropped her gaze to his wide chest and blinked hard, her courage swelling.
“This house,” he still spoke in his gruff whisper, “used to be home to Lady Hackwell’s sister. The woman who lives here now was a friend to the sister and, in a manner of speaking, a friend to Lady Hackwell.” He dropped his bag and gripped both of her shoulders. “I have only ever visited the establishment on Lord Hackwell’s business. I have never been here… otherwise.”
Blood drummed in her ears. The lady must be another high-in-the-instep matron, another who would be turning cartwheels when she learned Bink was the son of an earl, and not just any earl but the anciently titled, incredibly wily, powerfully influential, Earl of Shaldon.
“Who’s there?” The voice was gruff, and when the man came out of the shadowy gangway, knife in hand, Bink whipped her around, gripping her tighter.
She peered around him and saw a tall, thin man, with a horribly scarred visage.
“Sergeant Gibson?”
Bink’s hold eased. “Rowland,” he growled.
In three strides the man was upon them, saluting, face grim, his eyes fixed on Bink.
She stepped out, and he dragged his gaze to her. He looked. Blinked. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped.
“Who’s about tonight?” Bink asked.
The man’s mouth flapped again but no sound came out.
“I haven’t mollied on you, Rowland. This is my wife and we’re in danger. Do you remember Josiah Dickson?”
Rowland’s face twisted into a gargoyle’s glare. “Aye.”
“So who’s about tonight?”
“No one, nor will there be anyone. Mrs. Townsend sent all of the ladies down to Hastings to take the sea air for a few days.”
All of the ladies.
Paulette’s brain worked through the meaning. Lady Hackwell ran a home for children, so perhaps this was a home for women who were in distress or ill. And wounded ex-soldiers.
She was not sure that would be so safe. Lady Hackwell’s philanthropic concerns could be found by Agruen and Bakeley, and as easily watched.
“Here now,” Rowland wiped the knife off on his gloves, tucked it into a sheath, and picked up a bunch of cut roses.
She realized it had been a pruning knife, though no less deadly in this man’s hands. How else had he survived the terrible wound that marred what had once been a handsome face? “Your lady’s fair exhausted. Give me your bags, and we’ll go and see Mrs. Townsend.
