Page 113 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
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.
